Chapter Text
[ hyp·o·crite ] • noun
/ˈhipəˌkrit/
─ a person who indulges in hypocrisy.
Middle English: from Old French ypocrite, via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek hupokritēs 'actor', from hupokrinesthai
The metalline tang of the post-duel air was heavy with the scent of ozone and cooling blood. You stood amidst the wreckage, one hand clamped firm over the jagged wound in your chest, feeling the hot pulse of life trying to escape between your fingers.
Suddenly, the communicator nestled against your collarbone hummed quietly with an incoming call. You tapped the blood-exchanging device with a trembling finger, activating the link.
"Yo! How are you holding up, gorgeous?" a deep, familiar voice rumbled in your ear.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the urge to spit on his arrogance, despite you wanted to. "Is there something important? I'm a bit... occupied."
The man on the other end let out a low, resonant laugh. "I'm recruiting a new kid. If your mission is complete, why don't you head back and give him a warm welcome?" a brief silence followed, and you could practically hear the dimpled, mischievous grin stretching across his face when he added; "I guarantee you'll like this one."
"Really...?" skepticism coated your tongue like ash, though you knew his track record. The strays he dragged in were usually worth the effort, if nothing else. "I'll be back in a few days. I still want to enjoy some time alone in the wastes."
"A few days? Aw, come on..." He sounded mock-disappointed, his voice dipping into a childish whine.
You were seconds away from severing the connection when he dropped the hook─the one he knew you couldn't resist.
"He's a Sphereite, by the way."
You stumbled, your knees buckling. You hit the stone wall hard, using it to keep yourself upright as the world tilted. "What?" you hissed.
"I found him in No Man's Land," he added, his voice dropping into a low, tantalizing edge. "Alive, and he's got quite the bite."
Your grip on your wound tightened, the pain forgotten. A child from the heavens, breathing the air of the dirt.
Oh, say no more.
the sinner crawled from hell's belly,
ravenous, teeth aimed at the throat of the sky,
threatening to bite the clouds
until they bled dawn.