Re: Jason
Alastair was a genius when it came to the art of torture. It was what he had been branded for in Hell; it was what he lived for. Most of his kind jumped off the rack to rip each other apart because it was the only alternative away from the pain. Kill or be killed, that was the rule in Hell and the wise and, admittedly, those who were driven insane were very, very keen to follow that rule without question. Yet Alastair never had to be asked. He never had to be invited to come and play. To be quite honest, he had enjoyed where he was during his time perfectly fine. Being tortured in Hell had been pleasurable to him. It was when they realized that he enjoyed it too much that they knocked him down and told old Al that the rules were changing. He went from prey to predator easily. All it had taken was a simple word.
The cart of instruments rolled into the room first. No one had physically touched it, yet it wheeled it's way over to the wall, reversed, then straightened itself out so that it was neatly positioned. Then Al himself walked in, hardly paying the young man squirming around in his cage any mind. This wasn't new to him. He wasn't some amateur criminal looking to make a name for himself or to exact revenge. Alastair was a professional and it showed quite easily as he began to roll the sleeves of his shirt up, quietly walking across the room in his meatsuit of the week.
"My, my," he began, plucking a scalpel from the cart, "you have such a nasty mouth."