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KENOS IC CONTACT
© TESSISAMESS
[ Communion with Silco is like being doused in cold, polluted water. It feels like taking a breath is difficult, like there's fingers around your throat, pain all over. The water is too-slick like it's almost more pollutants than water, and the water crashes against you, inescapable, even if you were to somehow find the ability to breathe, there is still no escape from the sickening undertow. Somewhere, perhaps deeper in the water, or something else, is a simmering, vile hatred, resentment, and it feels like it should be hot enough to make the water around you boil, even if it's almost too-placid, and too cold. Like all of this hatred is buried deep. Then again, the fact that it feels so close means it must burn so hot. ]
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The office was bleak, a touch too-cold, and while there was a lounging area, two couches set in another section for deals and the like, a few paintings and sparse local plants were all that tried to infuse a personality into it. Things that were selected to look right, half like the room were staged for company, more than it was staged for Silco. The man was pretense mostly, after all, and what artwork he did like, he kept very hidden.
Well, except for that ashtray, maybe.
He stood, and stamped out that foul, vile smelling cigar into it, and tipped his head toward the area that was clearly set up for deals or negotiations. Another, glass, ashtray was pristine, clearly he'd entertained nobody today. ]
Just in time, then. Sit. It will be easier if you do not pass out.
[ He stood for the moment, however, eyeing him. ]
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A minor inconvenience, really, in the grand scheme.
Matt eyes up the couches, picking the one he thinks is more likely to be comfortable. And he sits. Spine straight, shoulders hanging loose. Matt draws in a breath, holds it for a short count. Lets it out. ]
On that subject ... or a related one, I guess. [ His gaze flicks to Silco. ] I would like to cast a little spell on myself. Localized anesthetic, effectively.
[ Relaxation techniques are well and good, but even the quasi-magical ones don't have much on actual magic. ]
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I can take care of it.
[ He said, shortly. He even started to pull off a glove, to reveal a graying, almost desiccated appearing hand. One that had been lost, and replaced with something that performed just fine, but it certainly didn't look healthy. The stringy gaps in it β it looked in places like his face, patches of skin missing, to reveal corrupted muscle underneath β seemed to shimmer in dim light, as if shimmer ran in its veins. ]
Shimmer can do that, without the nasty little side-effects of the drug we serve downstairs.
[ A tight, sarcastic smile. ] No offense, but spells in my vicinity put me on edge.
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In the meditative frame of mind he's cultivated, information can reach him without the pain or clinging he might experience normally. He notices his feelings and lets them go. So as Silco removes one glove, revealing the hand underneath--with its gaps and withering, its fungal glimmer--Matt's eyebrows arch. And he thinks, This doesn't seem like a good idea.
It just doesn't sink in the way it normally might. The facts exist independently of him. That's Silco's hand. This is a bad idea. ]
Whatever this is ... doesn't exactly comfort me, [ Matt notes. ] But if it works to dull pain, and side effects are limited ...
Is it addictive?
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Silco wasn't exactly a master fighter as it was. He needed everything he had. ]
It can be.
[ He admitted, bluntly. ] I control the dosage, the effects, and generally with Shard-bearers, I have not sought to make them addicted. An addicted individual with powers is... messy.
And I have plenty of those downstairs.
[ He admitted.
He didn't exactly want Matt to be addicted to his touch (help) as it was. ] It will also not give you the rest of the effects. The strength, the speed, the... mental additions.
Simply the adrenaline rush necessary to weather the pain.
[ Silco didn't say "trust me", but he thought that Matt might understand: he's simply being up front with his conditions. Iff Matt didn't like it, he certainly didn't have to feed him. ]
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Maybe it's stupid to feel better when Silco admits that he could create something addictive. There's a lack of salesmanship in the gesture that makes everything that follows feel more believable. Matt supposes a savvy person could wield exactly that psychological effect for the purposes of deception, but at a certain point, you have to make an educated leap. ]
Okay. [ A nod. ] What you're describing sounds acceptable to me. [ Matt takes another slow breath, steady. He may be getting pharmacological aid here, but he's still going to try to pull his weight. ] Whenever you're ready, then.
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Silco's methods weren't meant to work for people who did not speak his language, and he had none of the fear or need to make peace that he did with the Pilties, to change. He was all of his worst qualities here, so it's always surprising when someone actually responds to it properly.
His lips twitched, and he reached out with that graying, corrupted hand. ]
Very well.
[ Matt will feel it, the moment he makes contact. Silco wears gloves for several reasons β less than he had before Sebastian had tried to eat his soul β but when his skin makes contact with Matt, he will feel it, that electric jolt, like placing his hand on the third rail, and feeling all of the power, none of the pain. He'll jerk, because your body must when infused with so much Adrenaline, but Silco's hand grasps Matt's wrist, and holds it still.
That's it. There's no bulking of his body, but Matt, if he looks to the window, will notice violet in his eyes. No haze, no strength, no speed. But the tightening of Silco's hand on his wrist will feel...distant. As if it's through batting, instead of desiccated flesh on flesh. ]
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He draws in another deep breath. His eyes skitter off Silco's face rather than meeting his gaze, landing on the objects arranged on his shelves. The artificial arm grabs his attention this time; it seems to echo his own physical detachment, his high-flying mental precision. He wonders if Nebula's okay.
Matt counts as he breathes, words rising from the depths of his brain: As Day and Night are not afraid, nor ever suffer loss or harm--
He can't tell if it's some distorting quality of the glass here. But in the window, he sees his pupils blown wide, an unfamiliar purple coloring his irises. ]
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[ He says, and it's firm, but soft. Spoken into the soft silence of his office, where the only sounds shared between them are breaths, and Matt's gasps. His hand is a manacle of iron around his wrist, but as soon as Silco sees that the shimmer has taken hold β he does not waste time. He does not hesitate, he only leaned forward, and twisted the wrist to offer veins to his mouth.
It does not hurt this time, well β as much β as Matt will still feel the pinpricks, against his wrist, and the puncture does ache, but it is distant. Like the delayed reaction between when pain starts, and when it blossoms never seems to complete itself, and Silco drinks.
Because as dismissive as he was, he is hungry, and he had not attended to those needs as well as he should have. Losing Sebastian's servitude came with more disadvantages than just his safety. It came with a disadvantage to his meal plan too. This is a welcome change, to have someone willing to donate, and in exchange for entering his club as the price?
It's a hell of a cover charge, but he accepts it. ]
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He has his reasons for offering what he's offering. Not that he was lying about what he told Silco. But it represents perhaps the tip of the iceberg of motivation. Just underneath "be able to visit Draumahol without getting randomly attacked" is fear--of the pain, of not knowing when it'll come, of all the predatory men Matt's proven powerless to stop. At least this way, he has some control over the manner in which he gets eaten.
A layer down, there's a more altruistic concern. A starving vampire is a dangerous one, for himself and the people around him. Matt didn't think Silco would want to hear you're clearly out of control, so he kept that one to himself.
Past that point ... things get hard to explain. A piece of Matt can't help believing that all wants are worth honoring, especially one as unvarnished as hunger. What could be more honest than communicating on this level? He cherishes a faint, stupid hope that his blood will prove persuasive, infusing some leniency or kindness into Silco that he currently lacks.
And at last, bone-deepest-down, he thinks Quetzalcoatl would approve of this. Of the sacrifice, the spilling of lifeblood for the person who least deserves it. If gods are made by their believers, maybe an act like this will plant the seed of another her, someplace. He hopes. ]
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Nor really any of the rest, because Silco would have refuted each and every one of them in order, with careful, modulated anger, because he was always angry, but who could blame him, given the circumstances he was in, the hatred he felt, and the reasons for it? Well, most could, but he would have been seen as slightly more likable if he'd been open and honest with such reasons. No, though, Silco was a creature whose secrets and obfuscations would and always did end in his own downfall, and would have, were his world to continue.
The blood flooded into his mouth, and he drank. There was no sound from him, no pleasure, no hunger. It was eerily silent, two eyes remained open β one blinked occasionally β the other eerily still, not searching for every exit like a hunted animal like he usually did. It was fixed on the prey in front of him, on the food.
It hung for several minutes in the air, Silco's eerie silence, not even the sound of a beast feasting, just a silent, cruel creature that took what he could, especially when it was easy, and offered.
Finally, he let go, and pulled a kerchief from his pocket, using it on his own mouth, before pocketing it. He didn't offer Matt one. (Rude.) ]
Not too much, I hope. I'd prefer to leave you to be able to stand and walk out of here on your own.
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Apart from Communion misfires.
The time that passes doesn't feel silent to Matt. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears, the dim pulse of pain too compelling, his breathing too much hollow rush. He can't remember if Silco was this quiet last time. Then Silco's pulling away, dabbing at his mouth, and Matt considers his bleeding wrist. Why didn't he think to bring something to bandage himself with?
Something to consider for next time.
He breathes in, lets it out. Flexes his fingers. Turns his head to the left and then the right, attentive to signs of dizziness. ]
I think I'm good, [ he concludes after a moment. He's not not in pain. He's colder than he was a few minutes ago. And he has a strange feeling of guilt, or perhaps emptiness--but on the whole, this is much better than this time. He rises from the couch, a touch unsteady. ] Can I grab some water downstairs?
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And Silco, after all, had certainly done his part to scare him away from Draumahol, hadn't he?
His lips twitched, and he waved a hand, almost dismissively. ]
Get whatever you like downstairs, just don't pass out before you leave.
[ GregΓ³r, the bartender, would even offer him first aid, though he would brusquely tell him it's because he doesn't want him to bleed on the floors, and upset the boss. ]
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Mmhmm. [ Something wheels in his brain about I do my best not to pass out in clubs as a rule, but he can't make it cohere into something suitably snippy. Matt rolls his neck, finds he's still not too dizzy. Glances down at his wrist again. At last, he looks Silco's way. ]
See you next week.
[ Downstairs, he's quietly pleased to receive both water and light medical treatment from GregΓ³r. The bartender may be brusque, but it's a kind thing to offer.
Besides. Gruff sounds nice in his accent. ]