Re: In-person: Zee/John
[Zee's tricks sent a trickle down his spine like warm water. That was good magic, the kind that made your hair stand up without scalding. An inexperienced or unskilled magic user would blast with everything they had or barely make a whisper when they proudly announced a spell. Zee had an enviable, quiet level of control, long practice and good genes.
He listened to the story of a life he had never led and waited for the shitty act, the bad mistake, the thing done wrong. When it came to him, there was always one to find. He'd never clapped eyes on Pandora's Box, though he'd been in this dirty business too long to really think it was just a metaphorical object. He knew better than most what evils you could lock in boxes. He'd put his innocence in one when he was ten, and never touched the blasted thing again.
The dragon bloomed and faded on his skin, and when she proclaimed that they were obsessed with one another, he smiled, knowing, because that fit. When she said she had banished his best friend to hell, he pressed his lips together, thoughtful, acquiescent. Yes. Yes, that did sound like him.
There was nothing of note on the inside of his wrist, no scars and no tattoos. He'd spent his fair share of time in institutions, drugged off his tits and wishing for death, but he'd never had the courage or the cowardice to make the cut. There was no history there but her magic marker drawing, washing away after a moment or two in the air, leaving nothing.
The only thing that really seemed to stir him was toward the end of her story, her mention of the Syndicate, of the concentration camp and the group of them all, the best of the best in the realm of manipulating magic, all locked up and siphoned like taps to make superheroes. He pulled his lip back in real disgust, sitting up and polishing off his cigarette.] Of course I did. [He stamped the cigarette out on the edge of her incense burner, tipping it neatly against the side when he was done. He didn't even have to hear the details to know why he would have left for the final showdown, or to guess why he would have made his escape from the concentration camp and then left everybody else to fend for themselves.
Newcastle. When he got a group of people together and they all got fucked, all he could think of was Newcastle, and then his head turned inside out and all he wanted to do was go find the bottom of some hellhole and close the lid after him.
Fuck ups aside, Zee's hard shudder was enough to make him lean in again. He slid his hand up her arm, pulling that sleeve back for himself, getting a good hard look at her double-headed dragon. Her skin was warm, and the ink stretched a little as he returned her favor by running his flat thumb carefully over the lines.]
I've never been much one for cults. [He sought out magic in the tattoo, and, satisfied to find none, he looked at her.] But I remember being young and stupid enough to think running around with a few partners in crime was a good idea. If I hadn't been stupid, I would have known one is enough. Maybe two. [He shifted, dropping her sleeve back. His hand rested there, stroking her with his thumb. The image of her locked up in a lab somewhere getting drained made him want to set somebody on fire a little. Just a bit, though.] I was never there at your fight, but I could be yet. And I'd still leave, knowing your story.