it all happens in the span of a few seconds.
they’re prepared for the flame. they lurch back on graceful feet honed to predation, even if the host body is not — it skims the tip of their jaw and it festers and pops hideously, flaying just that tiny bit back to reveal the jut of bone. they’re hissing when the machete is flung upwards, but they don’t move away from this blow in particular. instead, with mind to capture the weapon in their flesh, they twist forwards to meet it. the blade sinks into the muscle of their shoulder with a generous squelch, pressing backwards with the vigor of a demon’s strength to scrape bone and catch on meat, all the way to the hilt —
the borax is the unexpected portion.
it splashes across the right side of their face, and the effect is instantaneous. they spit out an ancient flurry of language that sounds very close to a curse, wrenching backwards with machete still driven into the flesh of their shoulder. the skin stretched over the right portion of their countenance burns away in a grotesque popping all the way up to their lower eyelid, which fizzles and deposits liquid like silt down the opened pocket of their cheekbone — which is clustered with pockets of angry red flesh, crackling as if they’d just received a third degree burn.
a guttural growl from the very depths of their gut sears past the cage of their teeth, which speckle through the holes burnt into their right cheek. the flesh heals after a few moments; sizzles sickeningly as it weaves back together, as they jerk their right arm to curl around the hilt of the machete embedded in their shoulder. they pull it free with a few wiggling motions (it squelches and spills black down their shoulder, and their eyes are slanted so hideously, nefariously narrow), pull it free in a shower of ink and twist it expertly in their inky claws. after a moment, they simply flick it over their shoulder and it spears into the door in a grandiose shower of wood chips and a shriek of protesting wood.
“is that the best you can do?” their voice shrieks in a thousand discordant tones, deviating in paths upon paths until it’s a cacophonous roar that can barely be picked apart from noise — white noise, brown noise, all clustering together in a rumble that articulates at the very tail end of the snide inquiry. they snap their teeth, once, spray all manner of gore and black spittle weeping down the corners of their unpleasantly sneering maw. “did you think that would halt us? do you know what forces you trifle with? what manner of beast you thought to kill with a pigsticker and detergent?” even as they speak, their form begins to morph; untangles and collapses, reforms taller and stockier, and very much identical to the man who had just flung borax upon them (but with considerable more teeth).
＂͍̰͚̈͋̏̕͜Ｄ̻̞̳̊̾̎̉ͅＩ̧̳̠̲͒͋̓̅Ｄ̯̙̣̠̎͒͘͝ ͎̟̲̥͐̏͝͝Ｙ͉̺͎̍͊̉̉ͅＯ̮̞̙̯̎̊̈́͛Ｕ̢͇͉͖̈̀̌͠ ̜̥̭͙̅̑́͘Ｔ͕͙̙̼͆̀̓͆Ｒ͖͕̙̠̅̆͋͠Ｕ̡̺̝̙̆͌̒͘Ｌ͔̠̮͈́̿̉̚Ｙ͉̻̫͙͆̇̐̏ ̲̭̰̻͂͊̓͑Ｔ̹͉̜̖̉̌̂͠Ｈ̢̟̪͚̄̿̿̈́Ｉ͙̘̭͍͊͗̓͘Ｎ̧̧̨̲́͋̎͒Ｋ̠̼̩̺̽̓̌́ ̰̼̣́͗̾͑͜Ｙ͓̤͖͇̃͌̅̓Ｏ̢̛̻̜̜͂̆̕Ｕ͔̰͕̜̈̈́̄͝ ̺͙͉̓̎͊͘͜Ｃ͇̲͈̗̉́̚̚Ｏ̛͎͇̲̜̅̓̍Ｕ̛̥̰͖̪͐͐͑Ｌ͍̣͕͓̓̂́͘Ｄ͙̲̟̞̑̔͒͗ ̛̠̥͉͍̊́̊Ｗ̡̨̖̤̊̃̆̈Ｉ̛̹͕̼̣̓̅͘Ｎ̨̞̯̘͆̈́̽̊？̞͇̺̤̏̄͋̽＂̢͚͈̦̅̄̊̐
Everything was falling apart.
The flames had almost no effect. No, she hadn’t put her full strength behind it but there was still a feeling of defeat at the ineffectiveness of the attack. And if that had left her feeling defeated then the way he leaned into the machete, the way she could feel bone against the blade, near terrified her.
When the weapon hit wood, she moved back instantly, grapping for Leo. If she could get him out of the way— maybe he would run. That was stupid. He would never leave just like she would never leave. Her thoughts were all jumbled. Think. Think—
Oh god.
The sight of the thing’s features twisting into the features of someone she trusted so well, into someone she cared about, made her knees almost give out. But she had to do something, she couldn’t let this thing win. She refused. This was not going to be her end, not when there was so much she had now. Things that she had never thought she would have.
“Yes, I do,” she managed to say, even though to her own ears it sounded weak and timid. Putting her hand up, Mic set flames up from the ground to the roof, trying to engulf him.
Watching their reaction to the borax was satisfying, unlike their last meeting when he was half out of his wits with fear. Though he was half out of his wits now, it was a different kind of disorientation.
It did not last as long as he had hoped. He did not even have enough time (or brainpower, for that matter) to retrieve the blade when they shuffled back and shoved it back into the wall behind them. They healed far faster than he remembered, especially from being burned with flame and Grade A leviathan poison.
Their voices echoes in his head. He could hardly hear anything else. Not the squelching of skin or the thunk of the machete as it splintered against the wall. The warlock paled as he watched them transform into something so very familiar and yet oddly so. Not a reflection but a clone. It was like something out of a nightmare. A nightmare he’d had a few nights ago. No.He had to remind himself that he was not looking at a reflection. They had somehow taken his form and Leo had no idea how.
He had instinctively grabbed onto Mic’s outstretched hand, squeezing gently but with urgency. They needed to run.
No…it could die. Everything died, in the end. Mic’s flames gave him hope, and instead of pulling her away, he held his ground, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles like they did when she danced. Unlike the dance, however, he nudged energy into her, strengthening her flames, increasing their temperature. The wind kicked up and assisted the flame to warp around their unwelcome guest.
