I could see myself taking a swing at him ;) maybe with a bat or some spiked boxing gloves... For variety, ya'know?
Classique's forum posts
Erykah Badu on the radio to his right.
"Oh what a day/what a day/ what day"
His leather clad, terror assistant hands a katana to his left.
Behind Classique, nothing but the thin air of anticipation propelling him.
"Oh on 'n on and on n' on"
In front of him, the target. A lizardy lackey of a metahuman. An easy lick degrading the city's brand of evil.
A pact of evil that inspires greater heroes. Devil-work that means something. The darkness that would soon consume this lizard in the name of karamatic prosperity.
"Most intellects do not believe in God/but the fear just the same"
Classique extended his fingers, readying a telekinetic shot to blast the crook's top back...
But then there was the boy. The Spider-vigilante that leaped into the fray and knocked the meta on his back.
Classique drinks in the boy's combat form. He's wild, bubbling with energy and chatty. Classique mutters he's proud to be doing more than just clean up tonight. Finally, he shoots at the lizard-man anyways and dashes at the boy, with sword in hand. Striking silently between the beats of Badu's existential crooning. (@orb-weaver)
The hero regains consciousness in one of the black holes of NYC
The interrogator starts in a hush, "You know who I am, yes?"
Barking through blood soaked lips, the hogtied hero responds, "Yeah, Classique. The son of a bitch who just made the biggest mistake of his life."
Classique laughs. Licks his lips flamboyantly and motions for his assistant in black to hand over the machete. Between Class and his prey, lies around seven feet of bloodtrail on the wooden floor. A preview of the savage artist's sadistic methods. A taunt breaks heavy air, "H'okay then... This is the biggest mistake of my life? Can't wait to see how much better things get from here..."
Next Classique starts to peel away at his three piece suit. The hero shouts throughout. Classique knows full well that his stripping was in order to persevere the pristineness of the suit for the Gala he has to appear at later this evening, but the hero assumes much worse.
The hero assumes this demon has no barriers.
He assumes Classique is a monster of the most heinous fashions.
The hero assumes there has to be some way out, so eventually he begins to bargain. Facing Classique from below his machete and nearly nude glee, the first offer, "Is it money you want?"
Then, the first swing of the blade. Ripping through the hero's right bicep. There was screaming, and then, another offer, "Is it f*cking information then?!?"
The next swing, a left shoulder splitter, "It's not about WHAT ya know, It's about who ya know" Classique clarifies.
Fighting blood loss with feint words, the hero cries, "You want me to send a message? Sh*t! What is it?"
Classique elbow nudges his assistant and she grins. He grins. He tells her," I knew he'd get it." and turns back to the hero, wiping some of the blood off their cheek while announcing, "There's gonna be a gala tonight. You know; models, paparazzi, art and all that. And I just want you to... Ya'know... Invite your super-friends. I mean people might need protection... people might like to see the real stars there... Can you do that for me?"
"Yes! F*ck. Just untie me... I'll invite the whole damned Hall of Justice!"
"Oh, now that's the spirit!" Classique shouts before pecking the hero on the cheek and knocking them out again. Class cuts his messenger loose and the assistant patches them up. Then the avant garde assassin's disappears.
Eru models his latest piece after a woman, knowing this will keep him from killing her. Eru, equal parts sociopath and artist, finds this method of therapy as direct confrontation to his more predatory instinct. Like applying a nicotine patch to his ill mind finely tuned with mutant abilities to carry out brutal hits.
He has clear memories of his parents asking God why he'd bundle so much potential for destruction in one child. Their faces, as recalled, were always painted sour.
He is, metaphorical terms, already dead. Devoid of that which pumps affection out a human heart or buzzes around true compassion in the whispers of an idle mind. So this woman: a starkly pain, honestly unfit and entirely complacent denizel of Gothic City represents so much of what he lacks, that she had to be captured in paint.
Isn't it odd how one can apply so much time and effort into the vain of self care, yet no one ever really changes? To be so invested in momentary satisfaction, that they lose sight of what true change would even look like?
Eru plays with the concept of understanding the model's complacency as she smiles in front of him. He could have easily taken a high resolution photograph of her to muse over for this portrait, but he had hoped in some abstract way, that having her so close by would perhaps ease his process of understanding.
Eru smiles a lot. Especially when he thinks some bloodshed or paparazzi is about to bring him closer to bliss, however, these glimpses of emotion are the same types of fuckary that drove prospectors to their graves with fools gold.
The piece comes together nicely, and the unwavering attention the model pays to her poses suggests she is enjoying the moment. She enjoys seeing how Eru utilizes the blue scale to reflect her skin in mood light, the way he applies layers upon layers to replicate the natural springs of her larger eyes, and the care he takes in painting the textures of her outfit.
She sees herself coming together in beautifully natural flare upon his canvas, yet he keeps coming back to the mouth.
He keeps trying to get the curves of her lips right. The wrinkles of the flesh. He wants to capture the warmth of her grin upon these cool blues, but it just isn't coming together. No matter how he mixes the palette or strokes the brush, he simply cannot match her emotion. He knows at a certain point, this painting may not save him from killing her after all.
Their eyes meet for a moment. Huh, he groans as he drops the brush and begins to imitate the shape of a gun with this right hand.
Just then, fate brought his assistant to his side, kissing him on the cheek and offering drinks. Eru gives a moment pause to consider how much clean up would be involved in killing the model and this witness. He shrugs. Finally, Eru takes a drink and goes back to the faking game.
On the grassy edge of the Bludstone, what most locals would refer to as "Over there", a blindfolded jazz band plays to the execution of two fine heroes.
The White Whacker himself, Classique, dances to their tune. He is buoyant, excited, and humming. He is the exact opposite of everything seen in the two hogtied vigilantes.
These vigilantes have names. They have powers and people depending on them too, but one of the unfortunately common phenomenons of living the hard life is seeing the lights snuffed out before they ever really got to shine. Darkness Expands Quicker and those all morals, musings and poetic justices fall short of humankind's tendency to bend towards chaos.
Witness:
Classique's shuffle does not cease as he asks the older of the two heroes for any last words.
She begins to speak with chords of steal, "If your trying to send a message, this is too far-"
BANG! With his fingers outstretched like a gun and friction smoke billowing off of his finger tips, Classique took a pot shot at the hero's sidekick. the boy coughs up blood which leads to a sudden shock of chill throughout his entire being. "Popshot caught'em right in eye... Yeesh", Classique coyly laments.
One of the blindfolded saxophone players clumsily cease their jazz. Classique barks at them to continue on. They do. Everyone knows there will be punishment for that interruption later.
Now, the hero is fighting her emotions. Classique hates, this. He hates when people deny him the reactions he feels he deserves. So to get her to open up, he shoots the boy down. Several times. Riddling him in monsterous display. "Now THAT, darling, that was too far wouldn't you agree?" he guffaws as she breaks out in a shouting rage.
Dancing. Crying. Music. Blood. All of it flows freely now. Classique's, latest dark piece comes together at last.
He leans in close to the hero. She is obviously remiss to listen, but compelled to through the all-absorbing madness that surrounds her. He's quiet yet boyish with his words, "I'm about to let you go, okay? Yay, right? And—well—after that, I suppose you could try to have your vengeance right here, right now, hell you may even beat me this time. But if I'm being honest with you, if I win, the next place I put you won't be as comfortable as this field. I might bring the band, but they'll be paying a different tune. Something more... Somber? Anyways, here's my suggestion... Be gone. Flee to the light and tell all of your magnificent friends about our encounter today. Come at me with a goddamned army. Spread the joy why not?... Sit on it for a second while I untie you."
The hero is free. The villain is satisfied. She picks up the deceased. The two forces stare off. Jazz soaks up the tension. They part ways.
As Classique watches her retreat, he wonders if she will gather forces against him and help bend the world towards his chaos.
Log in to comment