Phillip Wolfe | Phobos (inclinedfear) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-10-12 07:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | ares, phobos |
Just Walk Away
Who: Phobos/Rylee and Ares/Samuel
What: Phobos pays a visit to his daddy’s meat-suit and gun play ensues!
Where: Samuel’s apartment
When: 12th of October, in the evening
Warnings: Language and some Violence
It had been Rylee who had approached the apartment door, but it had been someone else entirely who knocked. The man standing outside of Samuel’s apartment looked like Rylee. He still had the blond hair and blue eyes of the man who had quickly become friends with Samuel himself. But it wasn’t the timid Rylee at all. The creature that inhabited the body was meaner, quicker, and much less caring.
Phobos had finally broken free. It wasn’t just dreams nor a gentle push of his powers. No, he was in complete control of the mortal body now. If only he had enough power to force the mortal’s physical appearance to change and his powers to be all at hand. Still, Phobos would gladly take what he could get, and this was more than he had been able to do for years.
Knocking loudly on Samuel’s door, Phobos rolled his head to the side, looking intently at the door and waiting for it to open as the smallest hint of a smirk appeared on his lips. He was impatient for this meeting, impatient to see his father, but that was all considering if his father could appear.
The apartment’s owner had not been expecting company, and if the creature he hosted had any such plans, he had not shared them. With a curious expression and a half-gone glass of whiskey in his hand Samuel answered the door, starting to let it swing wide upon his first glance at the boy. (Man, he corrected himself, and wondered from whence the thought had come.) But as he took a second look, and then a third, he began to wonder what exactly Rylee had gotten himself into, and his formerly warm welcome came to an abrupt halt. There was a new glint in his eyes, something hungry and sharp Samuel had not seen there before. It felt familiar somehow, right in a way he could not readily explain. All the same, it gave him pause, and for a time Samuel found himself frozen in a rare moment of uncertain inaction.
“Fuck’s wrong with you Eckholm?” he asked, speaking up at last. He gestured toward his friend with the glass still cradled in his callused hand, whiskey sloshing against the tumbler’s wall. “You look like you got into some bad acid.”
Phobos slowly began to smile before lifting his head, nose in the air, and taking a determined step forward. Without being asked, he slipped around Samuel and into his apartment. “Finally I get to come out and you’re here,” Phobos said with a sneer. “I’d rather it was my father.” He paused at the counter of the kitchen, picking at its edge as he rolled his head to the side once more and looked at Samuel.
“This child adores you, you realize. He looks to you for advice and trusts you so very much.” Phobos paused, gently holding his own chin between finger and thumb as he thought. “I suppose it’s a good thing. It allows me to be here in front of you, right now. Maybe it will make things easier.” Slowly, the devilish smile began to appear on what had formerly been Rylee’s face.
The furrow in Samuel’s brow had by this point deepened considerably. What had begun as an amusing intermission in his night - a night quite well spent, up to now, parked in front of a marathon of Clint Eastwood films, the sounds of Pale Rider drifting to them from the living room - was rapidly turning into a real nuisance. With a low growl he shoved the door closed, somewhat satisfied by its loud slam.
“If this is what you’re like when you get laid,” Samuel said, “go back to being celibate.”
He skulked into the kitchen, reaching for his ever-present bottle of whiskey. Brighid’s bottle of high end Jameson, a gift given him nearly a year before, lay well out of arm’s reach, on the topmost of Samuel’s private top shelves: It was not to be served to most guests (at least those whom Samuel had not seen, or did not care to see, naked), least of all those who already appeared to be drunk upon their arrival at his not so humble home. His stash of quite normal and ordinary Jameson would suffice, Samuel thought, at least for the time being; he procured the chilled bottle and an extra tumbler, pouring a glass for his friend.
“So what’s got you talking in riddles, kiddo?” he asked, handing him the glass. “Seriously, are you high?”
Phobos rolled his eyes and snatched the glass from Samuel. Staring at him he gave a shake of his head. “You’ve disappointed me,” he grumbled before tossing back the liquid and tossing the glass over his shoulder; he made no reaction as it broke on the floor. Mouth agape, Samuel let slip an unmistakable sound of disapproval, some mixture of sigh and growl. Phobos slowly leaned forward until he was awkwardly close to Samuel, staring directly into his eyes. “Come now, I know my father is in there. I see him swimming behind your eyes.”
Pushing back he looked Samuel over. “The last body I was in was always high. What is it that you call them? A fucking hippie? Every time I came into power my entire being would be dampened and sluggish.” He frowned, thinking of that horrendous period. What a horrible body to be placed in; however with this body... he grinned. “Your ‘kiddo’s’ body is fit, don’t you think? He’s healthy and strong and probably the closest looking mortal to my original form.” Phobos looked down at himself then back at Samuel again.
“Oh, come on now. Don’t play dumb or look confused, Samuel. You and Rylee have been figuring it out. Actually, you’ve been much further along than he has been. You know exactly what’s going on.”
Samuel’s sneer had long since matched Phobos’ own, but with those words it faded into something else entirely. There was no mistaking the boy’s meaning, and no way to address it without seeming utterly mad. Without a single glance away he set his glass aside, not raising a hand to his friend, though the squaring of his shoulders and the straightening of his spine showed he had little compunction about doing so should the need arise. He started to speak Rylee’s name, but something stirring deep within him told him no help would come from that closed road. And so, true to form, where there was no clear course of action at his disposal Samuel chose bravado. Aggression was good, he thought, drawing it around him like a blanket, close and tight as a second skin. It hid well enough Samuel’s growing certainty that what this thing in Rylee’s skin said was all completely, utterly true.
“Whatever the fuck you’re talking about, kid, you don’t come in any man’s house and disrespect him to his fuckin’ face.” He leaned in, closing what little distance remained between them. “And you damn straight don’t do it to me.” His hand raised between them, one hard finger jabbing into Rylee’s chest. “You break one more fuckin’ thing in this house and you an’ me are gonna have a problem.”
“My, my, so easily you become angry,” Phobos cooed as he leaned forward, allowing Samuel’s finger to continue pressing against Rylee’s firm chest. “Would you really hurt this body? Your friend would be so sad if he woke with a broken nose and discovered you were the one who broke it.”
Slowly, Phobos smiled and looked over Samuel’s expression. “You know, maybe this is what I need to get my father to appear. Maybe...if I keep angering you...Ares will come through. But remember, Samuel, that whatever you may do to this body will affect your friend.” Quirking his head to the side, Phobos reached for the bottle of whiskey that Samuel had been pouring drinks from and quickly threw it across the room. It shattered against a wall, the whiskey splattering and trailing down to the floor. “Come on, Father, come out and play.”
“What the fuck, Ekholm?” Samuel shouted, punctuating the demand - made a question only by the grace of a slight upward lilt in his tone - with a sharp, hard shove. What fleeting thoughts he may have had of Charlie, of Lia, of Rylee himself, did little to stop him. The second shove came harder than the first, pushing Rylee-who-wasn’t back onto broken glass, setting it crunching beneath his heels. It was disconcerting to hear this insanity from an ordinarily quite grounded friend’s lips; it was worse to feel himself agreeing, believing, behaving just as he was bid. But it was too easy a thing to simply react, to feel that old, familiar drive welling up within him, pushing him ever on.
“You want to fucking play, huh?” Yes, he heard, a distant voice echoing through every fibre of his being. His arms shot out again, pushing Rylee farther back onto the shattered glass, sliding their feet through the puddle of liquor. “Snap out of it before you make me do something I regret.”
“I am not, Ekholm,” Phobos snapped in Samuel’s face as he leaned back against the whiskey covered wall. “I am not Rylee! I am not- what is it that the little brunette calls him? Ryry. What a ridiculous name.”
Reaching up, he gripped Samuel’s shoulders and pushed him away before swinging him around, twisting their position so that Samuel was now pinned to the wall. With a repetitive shove, harsh and strong, Phobos leaned closer to Samuel’s face and breathed heavily for a moment before another smirk appeared. Samuel drew a deep breath a hair’s breadth away, exhaling on a ragged sigh, forcing out the muted pain radiating through his back. “Come now, Enyalios. Stop being stubborn and let yourself slip away.”
Grabbing Samuel’s chin he forced Rylee’s friend to look at him as he whispered lowly, “You know exactly who is inhabiting this body. You know this isn’t your friend. Let my father come out to play... just this once. You’d love it. The wars, the fighting, the blood and tears. Come on now, mortal, let yourself be taken over. I demand it!”
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” he growled, rough fingers curling white-knuckle tight around Rylee’s arms. He managed to pull the boy’s hand from his chin, thankfully removing at least that chiding, humiliating gesture. But the body before him was stronger than it had been, and a great deal more determined than its true owner would have been in the same circumstances.
Anger was an unsuitable word for what coursed through Samuel’s body. Rage seemed closer, but still did not cut to the heart of the matter. It was bad enough that his friend would barge into his space and provoke him so deliberately, but it was far, far worse that Samuel knew this was truly not his friend. He did not want to say the word, that name he knew well from his own dreams, from the books he and Rylee had frequently referenced. And yet it came to his lips all the same, in a voice not entirely his own.
“Phobos,” Ares said, and grinned.
Samuel felt himself subsumed, pushed down, drowning in his own skin. Strange, then, to observe oneself as if from a great distance, fully aware of what was happening, unable to stop it. It seemed almost as if this creature within him wanted him to see, to know, to admit for the first time the truth after long years of willful denial. He watched as his body stepped closer to the boy’s, whatever anger remained in his posture now turned to something else as well; something almost proud, as if all this had gone precisely according to plan. My fuckin’ whiskey, Samuel lamented, somewhere deep within.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ares asked, though to which of them he spoke, Samuel could not be sure.
“If your vessel had continued being stubborn I think we would have ended up in quite the fight,” Phobos replied with a grin, lessening his grip on what had been Samuel’s shoulder, he gave it a pat. “Father, I would have rather seen you in your true form but this will surely do. I know I miss my own form. These teeth are so... small.”
He pushed away from Samuel, kicking at the broken glass on the floor and spinning slightly as he looked at the apartment. “That Samuel is incredibly stubborn. He just won’t let go, will he? He refuses to let you have the reins.” Kicking at a chair, Phobos grinned as it went clattering to the floor, Ares’ laughter echoing in his wake. “Father, may we have some fun? We haven’t been together in so long...we should celebrate.”
Lifting his hands, he turned on his heels again, smiling as he went and still managing a near devilish glare despite the lack of his natural fangs and fire filled eyes. He reached for the glass Samuel had been drinking from and threw it at another wall, laughing as it broke and the remnants of Samuel’s whiskey spattered.
Again Ares laughed aloud, the sound booming through the apartment, carrying to every room and the hallway beyond. His human facade may have remained intact, but in every facet of his demeanor the true self shone brightly through; Phobos saw it, timeless recognition written on his handsome face. Ares wondered if his Aphrodite, his Areia, could feel it as well, in spite of the unknown distance between them. His borrowed heart beat faster at the thought, racing unrestrained as he reached for the nearest object at hand. He found a plate, bare and unwashed remnant of a single man’s solitary dinner, and threw it violently into the other room. It shattered against the far wall, broken shards rolling, skipping merrily into the living room.
“His guns,” Ares said, already distracted, already on to the next, more interesting thing. “Find his guns. Artemis and I had a shootout on the roof. January... the full moon.” Grinning, he slipped past his son, their broad shoulders brushing as they passed. “You’d be amazed how much wild game this cramped city still has.”
Phobos immediately was at attention and with a quick nod he turned towards Samuel’s apartment. His mortal self had never adventured much further than the living room but he recalled Rylee’s memories and that Samuel did have guns. It was just a matter of where. “Do you know where he keeps them, Father?” Phobos asked as he walked away, already searching impatiently for the firearms. As he went, his arms moved about him in a swinging fashion and whatever his fists happened to come close to fell to the floor in a loud racket and sometimes a shatter. He wandered into what would be Samuel’s bedroom and paused in the doorway, wondering where the firearms were hidden, it was one of the places his Rylee kept his own guns.
“I must say, it’s taken me so very long to emerge into this world, but at least I have been able to see what this body has experienced. I know how to move in this age,” Phobos yelled to his father as he looked around the room and spotted what he assumed to be a gun safe.
“It pays to be observant,” Ares said, striding into the bedroom close behind. His hand slipped into Samuel’s pocket, fingers curling around the keyring he knew to be there. His vessel was either paranoid, eternally prepared, or some mixture of both; keys of any degree of importance were always close at his hand, if not upon his person, as he clearly did not trust them even left in the safety of his own flat. Ares found this a pleasing turn of events, not just because it meant entry to the safe would be shortly arranged. It was, after all, a comfort to know one’s host did not take foolish risks, or place his safety in the hands of others. Without further ado Ares sidled up to the safe, flipping the keys in his hand.
Inside they found no shortage of options. A number of handguns, service issue and otherwise, lay neatly on the shelves. Ammunition of nearly every calibre was found in a second safe, nestled halfway down the back wall of Samuel’s closet. Beneath the bed, in a second, flat safe, lay a twelve-gauge, prison guard-issue shotgun and two rifles. The Glock 17 they left in the bedside table’s drawer.
“What’s that they say,” Ares mused, grinning down at their find. “Pick your poison.”
Phobos made a grin with lacking fangs and stepped forward to inspect the selection before taking a rifle. He gripped it in both hands and grinned to his father before accepting an assortment of ammunition. Ares followed in short order, procuring a workhorse of a Smith & Wesson Compact .40. It was hardly showy, but he felt in its brushed steel the lives it had taken, the damage it had done. It was perfect. He knew well enough where Samuel kept his go bag; soon it was emptied, its practical and largely boring contents dumped upon the bed. After filling it with nearly every box of .40 rounds in Samuel’s possession, Ares looked up to his son, clearly ready to go.
With a spin on his heel, Phobos went back into the living area of the apartment, his eyes looking for any potential targets that would be great fun. Plates, pictures, glasses, bottles, or contraptions - anything would do.
Without a moment to waste, they quickly got to work.