InsaneJournal

Christopher Carrion didn’t feel much anger or fear these days. He rarely felt much of anything at all, so he had to have others feel for him. Luckily, that wasn’t a problem with most of the players flinging their emotions to and fro at the slightest whim. His nightmares thrived in the chaotic conditions this place provided, and he was well fed, though not entirely content. When Light told him about plotting to build a massively destructive bomb, it ignited Carrion’s temper for a brief time. He didn’t care about the “inhabitants of the realm” becoming hurt or dying from such a weapon – oh yes, he lied on that count. However, he did care about his own plans. Such interference that could hurt his chances at winning this tournament for Niflheim had to be dealt with, preferably swiftly.

 

Then Lucifer had to make an offer for a prize, which greatly motivated the Prince to deal with the wayward Niflheimer.

 

Since he rarely visited the other areas in Niflheim, he rarely saw the others. He liked to talk with Jazz and Dante occasionally (and sometimes Sal), but that was the fair limit of his face-to-face social contacts. For a time he wandered around the hallways, flanked by two six-foot-tall stitchlings, the soldiers sewn together like patchwork from the skins of human bodies (easily supplied by the Bloodmire). After putting all of the mansion’s pathways to memory, he headed to Light’s room.

 

The Nightmare Man had only two personal vendettas that he could never give up: one against his grandmother, Mater Motley, and the second against Candy Quackenbush (though she could count double herself, since she housed the soul of his Beloved). He felt nothing towards Light after his initial anger faded. Light had done nothing “wrong” per se, nor had he mistreated the Prince in any way.

 

Even so, Carrion would be able to do what he was about to do because he had done it countless times before.

 

His milky eyes studied the door over the liquid of his “fish-tank-like” apparatus. Those dead eyes appeared to glitter and flash, but only because they reflected the light of his “eels,” the manifestations of his nightmares. ‘Should I knock?’ thought Christopher with bemusement.

 

Instead, he took the doorknob and broke the locking mechanism with a strong twist. If Light was not inside, Carrion would wait. If the boy tried to run, the stitchlings would chase him down. He had no desire for a game of hide and seek (as much fun as that could be).

 

No need for pretending that this inevitable event was a mere social call, a friendly chat. No, this was business.

 

It would be midnight very soon.