((OOC: sorry! My introduction posts are always painfully long! I like to get a feel of my character with them and it is kind of related! ^^')<br/><br/><a class="postlink" href="http://i54.tinypic.com/1zqu6gn.jpg">[ img ]</a><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-style: italic">Four weeks earlier...</span></span><br/><br/>The city was nail dirt.<br/><br/>A strange but fair statement, a conclusion from a man with perhaps too much time on his unwashed hands and a mind for relating imagery.<br/>Perhaps he's on a tube train squashed into plastic-worn fabric seats, sandwiched between vibrant throngs of urban cattle, studying the the dead skin and dust caught from cuticle to groove in a bid to avoid eye contact with his fellow travelers. Perhaps he is a gardener marveling over the line of his shovel at mother natures ability to build, even in small nooks and crannies, in comparison to his fellow species's dire attempts, justifying never entering the rat race. Perhaps he's trapped in a small, un-air-conditioned apartment room with twelve other sweating men preaching Spanish cultist bullshit to one another, none of which are handing out orange juice or investing in good lighting or incense that was anything other than Instant-headache flavour and can think of nothing better to do than chew on his stolen fingernails and theorise his surroundings thus;<br/><br/>Between the flesh of the earth and the plate of the atmosphere sits a collection of colourless buildings and ugly architecture they call Clayline City. The place is like any other human habitat; a fucking eyesore. A huge, radiation fuelled neon spiderâ€™s nest, held aloft with black, stained structures, bowing and bending in the breeze, sinking into submission from their own weighty bulk.<br/>The stink of melancholy and aging violence churn forever through the asphalt like it leaks from the windows, crying tears of buzzing light from every orifice. By day it looks black and dull against the natural beauty and serving the planet no real purpose other than to breed millions of small organisms that alone were harmless, yet as a whole caused more harm and illness than good. They called them 'people'. It progressively grew agitating skin and clogging up all breathing space.<br/><br/>Just like nail dirt.<br/><br/>Moloch was the latter of the list.<br/><br/>He didn't mind the City, it was sincerely beautiful in a terrible kind of way, a lot of good bands were born in her belly and his last human skin had family there. Aryn Plainwalker. Sweet girl, apparently, superb exorcist, made orchestrating their meeting a little more gratifying. That's why he was here, in the small room in a small apartment in Clayline City mid July, the daemon had a long lost cousin of a brothers once-removed-on-his-rabbits-side-or-something step daughter to meet.<br/><br/>So complicated! Wouldn't things be so much easier if humans bred like the nail bacteria they resembled instead!<br/><br/>He perched against the back wall of the room, watching the small group of white haired, Hispanic young men back and forth their own interpretations of ancient text between themselves. The debate was heated, it usually was with cultists. Passion and extremism were in the job description and a thick skull was an essential piece of kit to match. To get anywhere you needed balls enough to march down the stairs to your family one day and announce, 'Ma, Pa... cheers for the upbringing and all, but I'm doing Satans bidding now,' these were the kind of people that would bash your head in with a rock for mispronouncing 'sherbet'.<br/><br/>Moloch, or 'Liver' as they knew him, didn't keep with the conversation, he was waiting for the main show as it were smoking his thieved lungs rotten and chewing "his" fingers until they got around to finally summoning Babel. The process was slow, tedious, like watching the person next to you struggle with a word search where you've solved it ages ago, it would be too socially awkward to lean over and whisper the answer...<br/>--Goddamn, it was roasty toasty! How pissed off would they be if he escaped out into the breeze for five...?<br/>Moloch knew the text off by heart, after all it had come from his era, Babel had even been his lover for the short time they were both joyriding human flesh. Those were much happier days...<br/><br/>A long set of benches had been joined together in the mid with a length of duct tape like someone had let Dr Frankenstein (only of dead furniture rather than dead bodies) loose. There was a body on the haphazard podium, a chloroform subdued boy, only a thin sheet to cover him, no older than sixteen, dark hair curling out over his runway strip nose, Babels symbol branded on the skin of his cheek and probably thigh too if Moloch knew his ex's worship any...<br/><br/>"--Only then we use blood! Not before!" One of the boys threw a grotty hand in the air, whilst his comrade furiously gestured at the rewritten passage in their 'holy book', "THAT's<span style="font-style: italic">a sacrifice of the flesh!</span>Like the girls-- IT. COMES. AFTER. Do I gotta spell it out!?"<br/><br/>A groan rose in the back his throat, baby blues rolling back in his skull,<span style="font-style: italic">Before, boys, before...</span>Moloch stubbed his dimp out on the wall.<br/><br/>It was going to be a long day.<br/><br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">*****                       ******                        *****</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>It was gone 4 AM.<br/><br/><br/>Doors rattled in their frames, crockery on their shelves as cattish shriek split the Clayline air.<br/><br/>The street outside went suspiciously silent for a breath of a moment before a parked car flashed, alarms sobbing in shock and every dog within a three mile radius started to tell one another all about it.<br/><br/>In the apartment the boy bolted upright, pale blanket crumpling around his middle, dark fringe sucking against his slick forehead, cheeks shining with saltwater tears, the dark of blood in candlelight spattered down his chest and slathered across his lips and bubbled at his nostrils. The small crowd of cultists gathered at his 'bed' had all loomed in, fascination and fear clear on each and every face, trying to gauge the kids (or the 'sacrifices') shaken face for any daemon resemblance.<br/><br/>"Did it work Master?"<br/><br/>"Jesus! That was quick!"<br/><br/>"He doesn't have white hair..." one of them remarked dubiously from the back, a safe enough distance to afford a little bravery.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Fucking hell! Where did they pick these idiots up from!? </span>Moloch grinned, shaking his head loosely and crossing the room, towel slung over one arm. The gasping figure of the kid flailed for it gratefully, mopping himself up, burying his face.<br/><br/>Daemon takeover was a terrible ordeal to put on any body, the strain was enough to put it into a state of shock-- enough to turn a persons hair white no doubt, but it was hardly an overnight thing! Possession did a number on every cell of the human body<span style="font-style: italic">simply because</span>it seeped into every cell of the human body. Yes there were<span style="font-style: italic">other</span>ways of doing to job, one could nest in their brain, pull up a seat in their skull and become the second voice of their conscience, it was subtle, cruel, brilliant but it took years (and a four year course in neuro-anatomy) to learn...<br/><br/>THIS form of takeover, however, allowed for a tremendous amount of control and access to strength the subject may not have even been aware of, but the positives stopped there. Their own defense mechanisms would damage everything in an attempt to rid itself of the foreign influence, it would screw with everything down to cell control!<br/>Survivors of possession often reported cancer and mutation in later life, loss of limb control, early aging, but most noticeably it it stopped melanin production at the root cells or something along those lines! Molochs body (It's name was Crawley, Liver Crawley! Ahaha!) had outgrown it's last brunette strand months ago, even the stuff on his arms were white as a newborn foals belly.<br/><br/>Scared 'em till there hair went white. There. He said it.<br/><br/>As a result, since the legalisation of daemons there had been quite the fashion for bleach.... made you look like a rebel, touched by the devil and all that jazz and it was another 'club exclusive' to the cult...  no, not jackets, badges or even a light hearted red-hot-branding for initiation, what Babels boys did was usher you into a house and group dye your hair like a bunch of teenage girls.<br/>Moloch. Nearly. Pissed. Himself. Laughing. Wanted to ask, 'Jesus H, when's the chick flicks, popcorn and bitching starting then?' but a little niggle told him that perhaps his sense of humour wasn't as important as the plan...<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Anyway</span>! We're back in the grubby apartment, there was a deamon on the bed and Liver Crawley stood over him with a towel...<br/><br/>"Well now!" Crawley perched on the edge of the podium like a visitor at a hospital. He took a soft pull of his cigarette watching the smoke curl into the dim sepia air before turning his attention back to the young man, his dark eyes were devilishly bright, like over polished glass and through them, if Moloch knew his former lover any, he was speculating the murder of the little tit sat on his bed, ruining his big homecoming.<br/><br/>"How you doing old boy?"<br/><br/>A stillness swept through the room like a cold breeze. The boys eyes narrowed.<br/><br/>"Table of meat," Moloch continued pointing to the food table in back of the room with 'gun' fingers. Pow, "gold medallions," Pow, points at the jewelry on his followers collar bone, checking them off, "and scantily clad..." the coat hanger shouldered  priest paused, breath whistling through gritted teeth, pointing finger conducting a one man orchestra as he racked brains for the kindest word for Babels female disciples, "<span style="font-style: italic">babushkas...</span>" he turned back to the boy, hand on heart in faux shock, "My, my, my Babel you old scamp! You haven't so much a ritual as you do a call charge! Ever occur to you to update it? Meat dresses are so much more kiche!"<br/><br/>A catlike grin split his features. Something filled with small pointy teeth and beguiling promises. His baby blues wandered back over the expensive ham, already licking off the honey glazing in his head. Back in his day the stuff was rubbed with salt to stop it from spoiling, these days they pumped with enough additives, chemicals and flavourings it could fuel rockets, let alone flesh!<br/>Yes! Modern food fan club!<br/>"Still," he added cheerily, crossing one leg over the other, "if that's your kink, that's your kink!"<br/>Bodies were wondrous things, they swapped refueling for a little carnal joy, made it very much a shared pleasure-- speaking of, when was the last time he'd fed his?<br/>Even better--<br/>-- His eyes strolled from the table and along the<span style="font-style: italic">babushka's</span>cheerily, body wanting more and putting in a side order through the slow warming of something slightly lower than belly--<br/><br/>"Moloch..." The noise was broken, rancid. Came from the devil boys throat like an old wind through broken sewage piping, rattling in the lungs, rasping on the back of his dry tongue. Two thick syllables, that he'd somehow split into two entities, landed on their ears wet and chill, condensation on glass. Babel was a master of sound... always had been.<br/><br/>A trill of excitement ran up Moloch's spine, "That's...the name..."<br/><br/>"What. Does. It. Want?" Babels eyes narrowed.<br/><br/>"A favour, baby," The pale haired little monster dug through his pocket and flicked out a crisp line of paper. A photograph, "Tell me, gorgeous... you're not adverse to possessing children, no?"<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">-- -------------                    -----------------                     ---------------</div><br/><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">BACK to the wonderful present day....</span></span><br/><br/>Babel had done his duty. He could hear it through the wall-- the scream that was. In all fairness you could probably hear through twenty walls...<br/><br/>He leaned against the kitchen counter chewing thoughtfully on a stick of dried spaghetti like a cowboy would wheat grass, ankles crossed lazily. He'd taken to his role swimmingly, become a family friend of sorts, just in a time to advise the Walkers to the right Bureau when-- Heavens tebetsy!--- little baby Lisa took one (possession) for the team!<br/><br/>He slunk about the workspace like a cat, making coffee and cream, almost purring as he waited. That cop, Jenkins, he wouldn't have managed to clock Moloch if you handed him a microscope, daemon radar and a whole monster manual to study from, the girl on the other hand.... Plainwalker...<br/><br/>He wasn't so sure he could slip past her just yet so he'd reached way back into the cleverer portion of his brain and feigned a dizzy spell, "Gee whizz! That poor wee bairn!" little knee's buckling in on themselves like pegs on a pop up tent and excused himself into the kitchen, out of action and out of the way.<br/><br/>There was only a speck of his being in his body, like dipping his finger in a glass of Liver Crawley, any more and the body would have burned up for raw energy, flesh bubbling and bursting like hot tar-- blood everywhere! He'd tried it before and it was a mentally damaging process.... Aryn or any of her future offspring were the only ones that could<span style="font-style: italic">really</span>contain him!<br/><br/>He held the mug at chest height, watching the little pale bubbles and dark blots of unmixed coffee mingle and spiral. Drink dancefloor! Very peaceful against those disrupting screams and gasps next door!<br/><br/>Either way, he was hoping there wasn't enough of him in Liver to scream old daemon so much as stringy little half breed clinging to skin for dear life...<br/><br/>"Jesus christ! She's fainted!!" even through the plaster the cry was clear as day. They were terrified in there...<br/><br/>One of Molochs eyebrows leaped so high it could have caught altitude sickness. Sure Babel was old but.... surely he hadn't won?!<br/><br/>Shit....<br/><br/>That wasn't the plan at all... Moloch scowled. No half measures, he'd have to step in...