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regrettablewritings · 4 years

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Preference: What Strange Being Are They? II

Characters: Victor Stone, Harley Quinn, Erik the Phantom, Nevada Ramirez, **Surprise Character**

Victor Stone - Simulacrum

The proper term, as he saw it, was simulacrum: An image or representation of someone or something. That was the more proper term. But in Victor’s mind, ordealed and pulled every which way but up, it meant something just as contorted as his form had become: An imitation of something else that may or may not have ever even existed. A collection of broken pieces, cobbled together to look like something familiar, all the while lacking in its qualities enough to make it abundantly clear that no, this was no longer what someone knew. Or maybe they never knew him to begin with.

In layman’s terms, Frankenstein’s monster.

Then again, he supposed the term “cyborg” was not entirely incorrect. There were, after all, traces of his organic self still present, albeit restricted to the face. But there was almost a sense of struggle in that title to him. A sense of denial. Simulacrum might have hurt, but at least, to him, it was honest.

But Silas Stone preferred to call him his son. And Victor called that ignorantly optimistic. After all: What sort of father drags his son back from the cusp of a peaceful passing, utilizing otherworldly means to reassemble him nerve by metallic nerve until he no longer resembled the boy he remembered himself being? A father too driven, Victor decided. One whose own dreams and memories had become a simulacra in and of themselves: They became so distorted, that they no longer resembled reason or reality.

And as far as Victor was concerned, he’d paid the price.

He kept to himself, reserving night time as the only time he could wander the streets of Gotham to himself — but just barely. There was only so much hiding a flimsy hoodie from his time at Gotham U could provide. But still: Technically speaking, he was safe. Monstrous, perhaps, but safe. Safe from wandering eyes, safe from judgement over what he’d lost and since become, safe from . . . Well, life. He was perfectly content living a simulation of life, in fact.

But what he wasn’t prepared or safe from was that fateful night he met you, unafraid and completely real. Well, if anything, you were real curious . . .

Harley Quinn - Succubus

Nobody talks about what happens when you starve a succubus. Mainly because the belief is that the only way to starve a succubus is to deny her, ahem, intimacy. And while this certainly wasn’t an untruth in most cases, the case that was Harley Quinn was a rather . . . unconventional one. Well, as unconventional as anything concerning a succubus could be.

For one, she had adapted her needs to better suit her environment. She had to: If she relied solely on just physical intimacy alone, she would have died long, long ago. After all, The One That Shan’t Be Named seemed to make it a point of starving her of all the resources she could possibly siphon energy from. Eventually, it came to a point where she simply had to learn how to consume energy from other means: Attention; the glances of lustful men and women; affections. Little, teeny, tiny sources that paled in comparison to the full-course meal she might’ve gotten before. But it was better than starving, and she needed to get by in this world however she could.

Not only because she quite liked some bits and pieces of this side of the veil, but also because in the end, she simply wasn’t as powerful as she once was. She still carried some of her paranormal traits with her (minor dream-walking, enhanced agility, etc), but it definitely wasn’t enough to drag her back to whence she came. Not that she wanted to.

She’d become rather fond of the den of sin that was Gotham City. And, to her own surprise, she had become rather fond of you, the poor newbie that foolishly agreed to her Craigslist ad for a new roommate. But then again, she was far more than old enough to know better; why be shocked? After all, you were so, so warm when compared to every other person she’d endured in such close proximity in the past. Much sweeter, much more . . . Deliciously innocent . . .

Erik the Phantom - Fossegrim

Fossegrims are, at least when compared to most other water spirits, rather on the benevolent side. They weren’t like sirens, using their musical gifts to lure people in to a watery grave -- at least, not normally. It was that they much preferred to enchant without malicious intent, plucking at their harp strings or sliding bows across their fiddles to produce ensorcelling sounds of the wind in the forest, the chorus of rushing water resonating in every note. It was just simply not in their nature to be especially malevolent.

At their worst, they were very particular: Even at their most agreeable, there was always a caveat of sorts.

If a fossegrim were to agree to live with a human partner, for example, he needed to have free and regular contact with a water source, lest he grow dire. And if a fossegrim were to offer his tutelage for the fiddle to someone, they would need to participate in a very particular ritual that included stolen mutton, a white he-goat, and a lot of Thursdays.

(And even if one were to succeed at this, they would be faced with a most . . . unorthodox means of being “trained”. Once again, nothing done in malice, but surely there had to be a cleaner way.)

Erik personally did not stick as strictly to these circumstances as others of his kind might -- really, he saw little point in it. After all: Who would come wandering in a watery cavern, and searching for a fossegrim’s teachings, no less! No, he had grown used to his solitude, if bitterly so. He told himself that he was more than happy to live out his naturally long life, secluded, playing beautiful pieces that would remain suffocated beneath whatever structure had gone up above his cove. He almost dared to think it a pity . . . Until one day, a visitor arrived.

And you came bearing a gift: Not a he-goat, nor stolen mutton. You hadn’t come bearing meat of any kind at all! All you carried with you as you clumsily paddled your small boat was a ring: An heirloom, old and dingy, but precious nonetheless. It was all you could offer him that equated to your desire to learn by his hand.

It perplexed the fossegrim. But it also filled him with something . . . warm. Bright, even. Pride. After all, who was he to disappoint such a humble, obedient student. . .?

Nevada Ramirez - Vampire

Vampires: Creatures of fear and woe. They lurked in the shadows, the particulars of their lore transforming about as much as they themselves could. Feeding off the fears of the common folk, draining their energy while all the while enticing their prey closer and closer still.

The transformation fit Nevada like a glove.

And, like a fashionable, leather glove befitting as his aesthetic, he wore it all with style. And perhaps a bit too much glee. Vampires, as it turned out, weren’t just day-dwelling bloodsuckers after all: The great thing about living in a city so varied as New York was that it allowed for evolution and strange mixes to occur. Nevada lucked out: He’d been vampirically sired by a strain that could eat human food, go out in daylight, weren’t effected by crucifixes, and didn’t require an invitation to enter a goddamn building.

The catches, unfortunately, were as followed: Food no longer tasted as vibrant; he could go about his day but with powers limited so drastically that he may as well have been another lowly-ass mortal; bullets were still a big no-no (unless he was the one shooting ‘em); and whether he liked it or not, he still required blood to properly get by. And as disappointed by the food situation as he was, he considered that of the blood a proportionate gain: Blood, Nevada found out, was far more varied when spiced with hormones.

His club made for a perfect den, a place where prey of all sorts could walk in, gyrate themselves into a frenzy, then come crawling over to him (the most minimum of efforts on the part of his pheromones) and offer to him their bodies without even knowing the true nature of what he wanted of them. And for a while, it worked like a charm.

Until Nevada realized he’d never quite had a taste of you, yet. You, with your wide and innocent eyes, cheeks burning whenever you saw him staring at you from the VIP section.

Sure, excitement from arousal was tasty. But the undead gang leader couldn’t help but wonder what the taste of excitement from nervousness tasted like . . .

Lucifer Morningstar - Human

They are without particularly long lives. They are born helpless and remain so much longer than most creatures on Earth do. And yet, it is amazing and strange how much humans can pack into their lives.

Take, for example, one Lucifer Morningstar: He’d changed his name from [Redacted] to better suit the image he wanted, which was that of a walking spectacle. And if his name weren’t enough, everything else he did surely was: The wealth he accrued through mysterious means; the successful nightclub on the LA strip that he owned; an immortal bed life; and a tapestry of connections he’d made by pulling favors. All topped with a devilishly handsome face to boot!

If Lucifer ever had a goal, it was to live it up and/or go to Hell in a hand basket trying.

Which was probably why he wasn’t one to shy away from hosting a little large get-together at Lux for Halloween. And by get-together, Lucifer clarified on social media: They would, in fact, be holding a seance and summoning. After all, what sexier way to embrace the taboo of darkness than to play around with the veil as though it were part of a dress-up game? It was too good an opportunity to miss out on, as any good attention-whore businessperson would tell you.

Unfortunately, for as lucky as Lucifer tended to be, he still bore upon his shoulders multiple flaws. Human flaws. Such as the flaw of not exactly doing research and providing a thorough vetting process when it came to hiring the “performer” who would be commencing the seance and summoning.

This was LA, after all: He probably could just pluck any rando off the street and get a good show out of it. He wasn’t even sure where he pulled this rando from (chances were, he was buzzed and/or high while doing so), but he couldn’t argue with the results of a crowd bewildered by the surprisingly realistic smoke effects and lights flickering. Though he had to admit: They could’ve put you in better demonic makeup for when the lights settled and you stood there, having suddenly “appeared” in the previously-drawn pentagram.

Still, you were cute enough: He supposed if he played his cards right, flirted with you in the usual Lucifer way, then perhaps his Halloween night might be filled with many tricks and treats yet! So he found himself perplexed when you continued to act confused and thrown off, even after the “performer” had finished their routine and left.

Wait, weren’t you supposed to be with them? How did you even get in here? Why do you keep asking how you got here, or if you got stuck in another person’s Hell, or -- . . . Oh. Oh, shit.

As a human, Lucifer was intent on filling his life to the brim with as much story and experiences as possible. But sometimes, there are just some things humans -- even ones like Lucifer -- shouldn’t dabble with . . .

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