For all the terror, the dread and the sensation of hopelessness his extranormal presence cast, it was the Stranger's visage, the cocktail of colors he wore and the cracked, runny layer of white clown makeup on his face that were his greatest weapons in psychological warfare. His green hair stringy and unkempt, his eyes black and featureless like dark tunnels designed to unsettle as his gaze, unblinking and unemotional, fell only on the man he dubbed "Chief", Evander Slade. One arm stretched beyond the limits of human biology, squeezing the life out of one of the Force's officers like a boa constrictor with it's prey, the Connoisseur simply stared, doing all he could to exploit the power of existential affirmation.
Doing all he could for the Chief to stare back into the eyes of he who sought to murder his colleague, for the Chief to meet his gaze and find no recognition of separateness or humanity, for him to find no face and no person, to shake his identity and strip away his sense of control. The makeup, the thick black rims round his eyes, the sloppily painted Glasgow smile that stretched from ear to ear, they were made in design. To form a mask. One that'd work with his esoteric presence and conjure unsettling terror in the minds of those who stared back at him. The Connoisseur's expression was blank, empty and numb, communicating and leaving his intentions, be they good or not, ambiguous. The brains of those who stared into his eyes wouldn't know how to react. They'd grow unsure as to which response best fit the stimuli the eyes fed them. Some parts of their brains would respond with fear, while others won't - and their brains would not why.
Here, now, as the Stranger held the Chief's gaze, he sought not to instill the typical fear response, no. Instead, the Connoisseur sought to instill feelings of uneasiness, of terror. For between the mountains of safety and danger, lied a valley of creepiness where the limits of trust and knowledge and security are simply not quite clear.
A car had been driven into him, it's bumper crashing hard into his torso and laying waste to his ribs courtesy of a quick-thinking detective's driving. With every breath, every single expansion of his lungs, the Connoisseur's chest was swarmed with hot grip of pain. His ribs were broken and his toe had been shot by the Chief moments prior. He'd lost his big toe, stripped of his balance and his ability to move normally. And now? His ribs were broken, his breathing was impaired, and his lungs and heart were more vulnerable to blunt force trauma. And as the car sped, it's engine roaring, the Stranger was on the verge of being run over. But he was quick to act, using his complete control over his own physiology to freely manipulate his own body structure, molding himself into a paper thin and flat monstrosity that slid under the car as it sped away. The concrete pavement on his back, he'd finally noticed it. His arm was no longer coiled round his victim and the Force'd been given a moment of reprieve.
Contorting and twisting his own body, the sound of creaking wood following his grotesque machinations of his own body as he lengthened his legs and arms and shrunk his torso, moving it's vital organs to elsewhere on his body. Resembling something of a makeshift spider, he was slow, lumbering forward, his long legs keeping him at a freakish 13 feet tall. He was bruised and bleeding, yet his eyes never left the Chief's. The car collision had dealt him more damage than he'd expected. If he was to continue, he could not revert to his previous humanoid body structure. One leg limped as he dragged himself forward, the Connoisseur's expression never changing as he focused on one word his foe had echoed time and again in their conflict. "Clown", he rasped, "Funny you mention that, Chief. Yeah... yeah I'm dressed as a clown. I have the makeup on", he deadpanned, "And yet, what kind of clown makes people feel miserable? Clowns, they're meant to elicit joy. I suppose you could say I don't make any sense".
"But see.. I do. I, Chief.. am a reflection of all of you. Of how truly ******* insane humanity is", the Stranger asserted, the pitch of his voice never wavering, his raspy monotone ever-present. "Humanity has a cognitive bias", he continued, drawing closer, "Illusory superiority. You like to think so highly of your positive qualities but you never acknowledge your negative ones. No.. of course you're the center of creation, of course the world revolves around you but... our negative qualities are always there. That darkness in the corner of our psyches. That part of you that wishes you could throw away the badge, steal from a bank and never be held accountable. That part of you that secretly wishes you could cheat on your wife and never be found out.. yeah. We all have it. But we don't acknowledge it. We.. reject an intrinsic part of ourselves and create these incomplete psychological apparatuses held back by what you all call morals", he almost grinned.
"But you and your potpourri of pathetic over there, you all take it a step further. You throw on badges and make a living out of defending these morals. You reinforce the status quo of people thinking only of their positive qualities. I may look like a clown, Chief.. but I recognize that the presence of injustice means there is no justice. That having to create laws and law enforcement to enforce them means there are no morals. Humanity, your society.. is just a ******* joke. And yet.. here you stand, staring down the barrel of a gun in the name of all that is good. That to me, Chief, is a clown". Ah but just then, a shock-wave rippled through the air, cutting all tension and all dread as it shattered the glass on buildings, shook windows, made the ground tremble and violently blasted the Stranger across the battlefield with an explosion of heat and sound. He was injured now. His body littered with open wounds and broken bones. He could not continue.
"I"LL KILL YOU!", he heard roared at him by an emerald she-beast. Groggy yet his features still held in earnest, the Connoisseur deadpanned, "Would you be surprised if I said you won't?", he asked, struggling to his feet, his long legs trembling before, in a last ditch effort, he spun round, flinging chunks of his own flesh in the form of large albino leeches that'd latch onto the flesh of every Force officer in the battlefield and suck out their bodily fluids, leaving dried and dead husks in their wake. But he could do nothing more, now in his condition, not as his legs could barely support him. Blood dripping, his respiratory system failing, the Connoisseur again altered his body structure, shrinking and thinning himself as he slid through the grates of a storm drain, escaping.