Giles Babcock (one_of_twelve) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-09-30 21:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | giles babcock |
Who: Giles Babcock
When: September 27
Where: Babcock's neighborhood.
What: Going mental.
Rating/Warning: Some allusions to gore and genocide.
Status: Complete.
Kirsty was working, and Babcock couldn't sleep. The dark didn't bring any rest; it energized him. It lifted him up and transformed him into something else entirely. Every single second he stayed in bed, it felt like another chain clasped around his chest holding him down.
Like in the dreams. In the dreams, there were chains. There were needles that slid into his flesh and then the virus swept through his body. It swallowed his heart, it infected his brain. It created the hunger within him, an endless hunger that would devour the world and every single day Babcock was failing to care about the world. He cared about Kirsty, Kasumi, himself, but those people out there? The people in the cities, in the towns? In the villages and neighbourhoods, in the jungles and the deserts? In the labs, the schools, the hospitals, the prisons....they stopped looking like people very quickly. They looked like bags of meat suspended on hooks; soft, red, pulsing with warmth.
Babcock stood up from the bed, walking barefoot through the darkened house. He missed Kirsty when she was away, but a Detective didn’t exactly stick to a fixed schedule. Giles reached the backdoor, and Duke lifted his head from where he was sleeping with some lazy interest, but then put his head back down. Babcock stepped into the back garden, listening to the sounds of the night: cats, traffic, voices, sirens. But the more he listened, the more he heard: he heard the coyote three yards away shuffling through the bushes. And he heard the next door’s neighbours arguing about their supposed infidelities and he knew them both to be correct, since the night before he’d heard a whispered conversation via telephone, and the week before that he heard a woman who was not the man’s wife bouncing away on their marriage bed. But they weren’t matters to concern himself with, just…the squeak and squeal of bags of meat.
Giles looked upward at the moon, and carefully crouched. It wasn’t a conscious decision: he allowed instinct to completely enfold him, and within the next few seconds he was far above the house in the cold air. The lights below held a dull glow, and then he was falling toward someone else’s back garden. He landed for less than a second and he was off again, and then he was bounding through the night: every bit the monster parents warned their children about. He would tower over the earth and take what he wanted, for he was above them just as an ancient king was above a slave. That was what he was: a viral king.
No, not a king. He was nothing as human as a king, or as crude as a ‘viral’.
He was a Vampire God.
Babcock knew, simply knew, that he could create more like himself. In the moment when he ripped his mother’s head from her body, he’d known that he could create others like himself, his loves, his friends, his brothers, his sisters.
His Many.