redshiftlogs | I know now what thickened the breath, what blackened the wound.

Who: Angel + Anyone who would ignore warning signs.
What: A unassuming morning, pre event.
When: Mumbles into the microphone.
Where: Agricultural Level.
Warnings: This log consists of Ange eating animals, thoughts about eating people, blood, guts and gore. So, be warned.

The sign that she leaves up is simply put:

i'm hunting, please don't come close until the screaming stops. Angel.

The fits of hunger begin to gnaw. Eating cooked meals helps. Surrounding herself with those she cares about to hang onto humanity helps. Drinking. Kissing Connor until she felt drunker than the Tequila could make her, sate the hunger for contact, connection, that she used to enforce the difference between love and hunger. The strange things Anchor brought, too, fill up the days, the weeks, so she can put it away from her.

But nothing ever kept it away forever. Eventually, she knows the shape of her thoughts - that to look at people is to crave the sensation of her teeth in their throat. That to touch them is to want to pierce their skin in the shape of her hard, black claws. She hangs suspended, holding it all inside of herself like a gut wound threatening to spill out so she can get the warning up that she needs, carve out a space to hunt, tell whoever needs to know - a simple message to anyone she has made friends with, or might be fatalistic curious enough to just follow the sound of screaming ( Kabal and Jacob she is looking at you ).

Then she goes about what is part of her, good or bad. She chases a herd of deer, until her limbs distend, long and powerful, her mane grows thick, her fur spreads further over her body as she begins to tower at some six feet of height, though she runs at times on all fours, at times on two legs. Cutting between terrified animals to single out the one deer. Running it down. Striking against the ground in heavy footfalls, gouging the dirt in the curve of her hooves. Until the animal is panting too hard, run out of the ability to run any more and -

Angel has utterly lost her mind in the hunt.

The deer goes down with a piercing scream of a bark. She tumbles, dragging it, ripping at it. It's legs kicking in the air. It's terrified eyes rolling for a way out. Panicked bleating pitching up and up, Angel leans over it like a terrible, wretched beast she is and she should always should have been and she will have her hunger, her blood, her earth and this death the way it should have been. Roll herself through her heavy bones, her own weight like the divinity she had been denied, and let it all rot.

Then there is a crack of bones, a neck snapped, the tear of skin, and it's dead. A silence after screaming as terrible as everything that follows. Filled only with the ripping of flesh from bone. The grinding of teeth as she takes into her cavernous, cave-like hollow. A being of bones, by their nature supposed to hold something together, blood and organs - soaks itself fully in the mess, to take some(one)thing elses, and call it being whole again.

In time, the rate at which she consumes, slows, blood smeared on her torn clothes and white fur, but despite that it should be repulsive to something saner mind that demands good things look healthy, bad things look sickly, she is a monster and she is restored completely. Her skin clear, her hair coming thick and black over her shoulder, the fur coat of her body a glossy white and black, her strange tattoos that pour with light like the sun through a stained glass window.

Her knees in the dirt, she watches anyone who approaches her with a maybe-humanity, star-filled eyes that take in whatever company that elects to come close with a passive recognition of who they are. Her claws grown long and distended as she licks the blood from their tips, blinking big black eyes. A satisfied sigh on her lips as she closes lips around them to take the bits of viscera from them. The danger is behind, as it were, just her tail flicking in enjoyment.

But it comes to the same, whether she should be or not, she is utterly contented. It is a glorious thing, she finds, to be wretched.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh good, she seems pretty chill. He'll just cross his arms all casual like and lean against a tree while he takes in the carnage, the whole blood and guts thing way more familiar to him than anything else this place has to offer.

"Well, of course I would, / I am a professional. / Are you feeling well?"

She shakes herself, prideful animal that she is - or has become - has always been. But she does look well. She looks better than she will be again until this day again, in a month or two. Despite the blood, despite the mess, her fur shines, sleek white and black, her eyes bright, her skin clearer. Not in that sickly way Eridium healed her perfect and dead, but flushed with life.

"I always feel better. This is what I am, and I do not have to make any excuse for it, to anyone."

It's not like Zer0's never been covered in blood and gore before. The occasional blood splatter never bothered him, though he suspects Salvador rolled around in that shit on purpose because he's a weird little gremlin.

"Good, fuck the police. / Has anyone here complained? / Or are they all chill?"

Because if they're not chill, Zer0 can always cut their heads off.

"Not here. But there were monster hunters. Bandits, in the Pandoran sense. Cultists. But not here, not here."

There is an echo in this removed way, of how she once spoke to him - I am here to help. But sharpness in that distance as her tail sweeps the ground. She watches him in that particular way, looking for that pulse, that pressure. If he runs, she'll chase, but as long as he is steady, she is steady.

"Here - they're kind, as long as I obey my own rules."

Zer0 is so goddamn steady right now, it's kind of ridiculous. Well, maybe it's ridiculous to anyone who's never been to Pandora before. Zer0's stared down things that are way scarier than Angel, just for shits and giggles. She could probably tear him limb from limb in her current state if she felt like it, but eh. This is fine.

"These people seem... nice. / Almost too nice, I would say. / But that works for you."

If anyone had a problem with Angel doing whatever it is she does now, Zer0 would probably cut them. Just sayin'.

There is a comfort to the company of killers and killed things, that way.

The blood hangs still thick in the air as much on her skin. She lifts her fingers to her lips as she goes about her task again, licking them clean in slow curls of her tongue against the hard black surface.

"That's them. So kind. Utterly unaware. They're like a flock of birds before a skag gets in the middle. All about to rip them apart."

Gross, Angel. Not super weird for someone from Pandora, but still kinda gross.

"It makes me wonder, / are they able to stop you / as you are right now?"

Could they defend themselves from a big badass monster Angel? On one hand, it would be super entertaining to watch her maul these clowns, buuut on the other hand she probably wouldn't like that, sooo.

She hums.

"I warned them. I told them all what they had to do. How to do it. They were so kind, so forgiving. They promised to save me. I don't know if they know what it means." She laughs, it shouldn't be funny, but it is. "But at least now there is you. You know. You've already done it. I'm sure we can do that dance again, if we needed to."

She watches out briefly, to the open field - that others see this place as a prison, Connor least among them, this way of being thrust without will into terrifying new places.

It isn't to her. To her: it is freedom that life had never given her. That the same Zer0 knows it now. It is freedom that exists in every breath she takes.

But yet...

"What do you suppose it is, that I can come so far, and yet it is the same. I have to be killed to stop me hurting the ones I care about?"

I know now what thickened the breath, what blackened the wound.

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