MADE OF POISON — open, krieger's funeral

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    ミTAGS && she hates this.


    she hates how the sun crests the treetops, reflecting beams of oranges off his metallic hide. she hates how still he looks on that flat slab of rock they've rested him on, and how barren the to-be tomb looks ahead of him. she hates how his eyes, once a beautiful electric blue that flickered with challenge, are now as dull and as dark as coal, faded against his rustic features. she hates the smell the rosemary gives off, the scent thickly peppering his corpse in a week attempt to cover up the heavy musk of death and decay. she hates how all it took to bring down this son of a bitch, this war veteran that fought tooth and nail, this god damned puzzle of a man, was a few leaky pipes. she hates how it reminds her how fragile life really is.


    chicagocrimes knows she's got to do this— without any close friends or relatives, the duty of arranging his funeral immediately falls onto her shoulders— but the truth of the matter is the fact that she doesnt want to. this isn't krieger. this isn't the fucker that's been at her throat for the last two years. this isn't the friend she never really knew she had until very recently. no, this is just a fucking hollow shell of nuts and bolts, a mockery of him and everything he ever meant to her, a pale imitation, and she hates it. she wants nothing to do with it and yet she's got everything to do with it. her throat tightens."krieger, you better quit dicking around and come back already." god damn it, a paw rubs at her vision to catch the drops of clarity puddling in her gaze.


    people file into the spacial clearing, the sound of paws both small and broad hitting her widened ears and she forces her to twist her body toward them. what's expected of her, she's not sure. chica has only ever held one of these once in her life and that gathering was private, in the comfort of family where tears fell freely. here she'll be speaking to a mixed crowd and the thought of breaking down in the eyes of the public again unnerves her. lilac-toned attentions shift toward not-krieger, resting on the sullen face and, a few inches down, the quick-stitch job done on his throat. for a fleeting moment she wishes she had flowers— even if it's not him, she'd like for it to look pretty when it's bedded down into it's tomb.

    YOU LIVE IN MY HEAD WITHOUT A DOUBT —

    Who was this? Hype did not know, but they were apparently dead. He didn't count on it for long however, the dead in this world didn't like to stay dead. It was irksome for the angelic being, after all, is job was to expunge the world's evils. His job was endless if the immoral creatures could just come back to life. Those assholes at the gates better do their jobs better, he was pissed to see souls escaping from the so-called eternal afterlives. Earth based purgatory was different, that was something he couldn't complain about since no one watched over it. Padding over to the solemn gathering, his molten gaze flickering from the unusually muted Chica to the hollow corpse. They must have meant something to the ghost girl, after all, she was usually rambunctious and as full of life as a dead person could be. "SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS," the pale somali would offer, his head bowed alongside the others.