Solo The Science of Killing

[Matthew]

25th of Winter, 513 AV.
Graphic Gore

The Doctor had been kind enough to let him use the leftover body. It had somehow been completely drained of blood, and Matthew could only find a few puncture wounds on the cold pale carcass. He had no idea how the Doctor had done it. Some part of him was interested, but he instinctively knew it was best not to indulge the Doctor with too many morbid questions. He loved them too much.

He had been left alone with the body. Matthew wondered if the Doctor expected him to do something with it. Their relationship would probably not last that long. The Doctor seemed to think that Matthew would turn into him, but unless something changed in Matthew's mind, then that would not be the case. He hoped the Doctor wouldn't discard him though. He liked being here. He liked learning. Lifting a single finger, he traced it down the throat of the carcass in front of him, feeling the bulge of the adam's apple beneath his finger tip. The skin was cool to the touch. It felt like wet wood. It was stiff, without life. The eyes were dull, without shine. The body hung limp, without resistance. It was all very surreal. Death was such a surreal thing. Matthew sighed, blue eyes tracing the corpse top to bottom. It seemed to be secured enough. A thick rope had been looped around it's neck and attached to the ceiling, causing the body to look as if it had been the victim of a hanging. That was not the case. Matthew just needed it to be upright.

He felt oddly numb when it came to this. He wondered if that was okay. If he was okay. He remembered the tone in Kaie's voice when she had asked him why he chose his path, and the look of frustration in Razkar's eyes at some of the things that slipped from Matthew's lips. They were all things that confused him, but distantly he knew. Somewhere deep inside, he knew. He knew the problem was the fact that it confused him.

Empathy, they called it. He lacked it. Or he dampened it. He wasn't emotionless, but something else. He wasn't so sure what it was yet. Perhaps he was just different. That wasn't a bad thing.

He considered the sack of meat in front of him, tilting his head. That is all it was to him, now. It was a sack of meat. It was skin and hair carrying organs and blo- well, it had once had blood. It wasn't like the inside of the Doctor's office needed any further blood staining it, so this choice of a corpse was one as good as any. Breathing out and in, oddly aware of the air flowing back and forth between his lips, he glanced around the office to see what he could find. He was looking for objects that would help him kill. He needed to learn to defend himself, but in Sunberth, he had come to the conclusion that the best route would the lethal one. He found no joy in a fight, no passion in a spar. It was all a cold science to him. If his life was threatened, then if he could not escape or convince them otherwise, he would have to kill them. If he had to kill them, he wanted to do it as quickly and effectively as possible. It was the safest method. He had bought a rusty dagger in town, not quite concerned with the quality of the blade until he figured out to use it. For now he just tossed it back and forth between his hands, getting used to the feel of it in his fingers, getting used to the weight of it on his arms. He switched between a few slashing motions at the air and a few stabbing ones, testing out the blade. It felt awkward. It probably would feel awkward for awhile. He sat it down for the moment, moving on. He had to learn how to dissect this body with his bare hands and base instinct.

He knew medicine, he knew how to pleasure the mortal body. He was intimate with the way the body worked. He could pretend like it was surgery. It was a science. He blurred his hand toward the nearest shiny object, fingers latching onto a cup. He blinked, and his brain went into overdrive, gears clicking and blurring.

Not sharp, blunt. Shatter glass upon edge, spin glass in hand to have the longest sharp edge extending out. Find target. Don't hesitate, find lethal target.

Matthew blinked yet again, hesitating.

Find it now, or you die.

Matthew lunged, thrusting with the makeshift weapon.

Kidneys. Large nerve that branches off of the spinal cord. Curves around the side, comes close to the skin near the kidneys. Puncturing wound, then drag. Stab kidney, cut nerve.

Fat dripped from the wound, yellowed and gelatinous. He stared at it, then glanced up at the wound, tugging his makeshift blade from it. It wasn't deep enough. The fat corpse had taken the blow, and he had only cleaved excess weight. He scowled, shaking his hand, noticing dots of red mixed in with the fat. It hadn't been perfectly drained, interesting to know. He tossed the broken glass to the side, gnawing his lower lip. The beautiful harlot glanced around, eyes glimmering with thought. Approach it like a science, Matthew. The Science of Killing.

[Matthew]

The glass was tossed to the side, shattering on the floor as Matthew crossed his arms, observing the hanging body in front of him. Bits and pieces of fat sometimes fell from the wound he had created, and sometimes a bit of blood slipped out as well. He had originally thought that fat was usually one big chunk, so he was a bit confused as to why it was dropping in smaller bits. Perhaps he had sliced some off whenever he had attacked. Fat was a new angle to consider when attacking someone though, and he considered it happily. He was already learning so much from this little experiment of his. If someone was fat, while you could likely wound them, makeshift weapons would probably only go so far before the fat provided too much of a barrier. Where were some locations that weren't as protected by fat, that would still result in a fatal blow? Perhaps he couldn't always count on the blow being fatal. Perhaps it could be something that would eventually be fatal, like a wound to a major blood pathway that would result in the opponent bleeding out within moments. He circled the hanging corpse, blue eyes picking it apart. Fat was on the stomach, protecting a lot of the vital organs that could be found there. Fat was also on the chest, protecting the heart. The back had fat, and the sides had fat. Nothing too incredible, but enough to get in his way.

Attack. Do not think, attack. Do not hesitate, for an opponent will kill you when you pause.

Matthew's hand shot to the side, and he once more lunged out for the nearest object. When his hand came back to him, his eyes silently stared upon the dirty spoon he had grabbed. A spoon? He couldn't do anything with a spoon.

And you're dead.

He ignored the voice in his head, well aware he was dead. What could he do with a spoon? He supposed if he attacked viciously enough, he would be able to stab with the spoon. It didn't have a sharp edge, but it did have a thin edge, and that could puncture skin. Would it do enough to actually wound his opponent though? It might just provide an annoyance, and an annoyance would just make a blood-thirty opponent angry. Anger led to adrenaline, and Matthew wouldn't want a fight going on any longer than he had to.

So what was a Harlot to do?

Tactics flooded his head, thoughts and ideas shot through his mind and were quickly processed and discarded. For a brief and impulsive moment, he called upon his djed, actually using just a trickle of the magic to bring the aura of the corpse into sight. Why did he do that? Was he so determined to think? No, he had to move beyond mere thinking. He had to combine brilliant thinking with brutal instinct. He cleared his mind, calling upon basic meditation techniques, forcing his overactive mind to simply slow down. It was only then he could hear a different voice. A voice of instinct.

[Matthew]

Attack. Do not think, attack. Use everything that is available to you.

Everything?

The harlot blurred forward, leaping. He bent at knee and gathered his strength, then sprung himself forward in a single somewhat smooth motion. His hands hooked to the shoulders of the hanging corpse, and his feet lifted, catching the hips of the dead weight. The thick rope strained underneath the additional weight but held firm, Matthew clinging to the man like a monkey might cling to a tree. In a savage display he whipped his head down, opening his mouth and driving his face and teeth as far as he could into the flesh at the neck. He chomped down, white teeth digging into the flesh and puncturing it, the taste of wet iron and silky fat flooding into his mouth. It was a struggle and his jaw screamed in defiance, but finally the edges of his teeth clicked together and he twisted his head, tearing a chunk from the corpse. Staggering back as he let go of the man, he landed in a crouch, turning his head to spit the mouthful of flesh to the side. Yellow and red gunk slid from his teeth and he spit upon the ground in front of him, cleaning his mouth of the taste. They were all familar to him. He had bit his tongue and tasted his own blood, chewed his nails when he was younger and tasted skin, feasted upon a steak cooked rare and tasted raw fat. It was just a sack of meat, though it had been considerably hard to get his teeth through it. Peering at where he had bitten, he judged the chunk that was missing. He had just barely gotten to the jugular. Any more fat and he wouldn't have reached it.

Glancing down to the wound he had inflicted with the shattered glass cup, he slowly reached forward and dug his fingers in. Scooping out a loose chunk of fat, the harlot rose it to his lips and took a bit. His teeth pushed down but didn't break through, Matthew recalling how much trouble he had found it to chew through uncooked fat on a steak. No wonder it had been so hard to bite through both flesh and fat. Matthew considered the corpse again, spitting the latest substance out of his mouth. Biting would have to be a last-ditch effort. It drove him much too close to the opponent anyways.

The Harlot hummed to himself, reaching up a hand to wipe it across his mouth, finding a stray piece of flesh that had seemingly torn free from the corpse when he had bit into it. It was plucked from his lush lips and discarded, not a second thought given to just how disturbing such a thing actually was. To Matthew, this was science. To Matthew, a corpse was nothing but an empty hunk of meat. Just how disgusting his actions really were never occurred to the logical prostitute for even a tick.

[Matthew]

Matthew absentmindedly explored the back of his mouth with his tongue, finding a new substance and rolling it around behind his lips. It wasn't fat or flesh. It was actual meat. Muscle tissue, perhaps? He distantly examined it with his tongue and taste buds, seeking to identify it without actually spitting it out. It would be covered in saliva and a total mess. He didn't want to get his fingers slick with spit. Interesting, seeing that he had no problem with getting them coated in old fat. He wasn't sure how that worked.

The Harlot picked up the rusty dagger again, tossing it back and forth between his hands. Some wouldn't consider the simple holding of a weapon to be any sort of training. He would argue that point. Merely holding it in your hand, yes, that wasn't helpful at all. Rolling it around though, spinning it, tossing it, getting used to the way it felt and handled in all sorts of little different variations with the grip... those were all little details that he didn't think he could afford to overlook.

The unblinking Matthew struck out, quietly starting to go through a series of blows.

First there was an overhand slash, digging the blade down into the shoulder of the corpse. He found out that if he buried the blade too deep into the flesh, then the body would catch it and make it hard to pull out. Or was that because the blade was rusty? Really though, a dagger shouldn't be used to slash. There were variations of the dagger, one that had a slightly longer blade that most. He had seen Wrenmae use that blade. It was perhaps better suited, but the type of dagger that he had would be best for stabbing. It would be hard to block, parry, or slash. In an ideal fight, none of that would be required. No, he would just need a single stab. He altered his plan, eyes briefly blinking.

The Harlot went through the motions one more time, though this time the silent ritual was quite different. This time he stuck out in precise, firm blows, valuing accuracy over speed for now. Eventually he would get better, and when he got better he might be able to be quick with it. For now, best to simply practice what he could. First was a stab to the heart, from the side. The blade was just barely long enough to reach. There was a stab to the jugular, a stab to the throat, a blade slipped between the ribs, a blade stuffed into the back. His eyes scouted out every single blow before he struck, making sure that his knife would be able to reach a vital point. If there was fat to protect the organs from his blade, then he would simply pass that particular spot over. He always went for a blow that would kill, or at least immediately severely weaken.

Eventually he had attacked all the points that he could. Like a Sahovian golem, Matthew methodically went back through all of the exact same motions. He stabbed the corpse over and over again, silently rending the insides to chunks of abused and ribboned meat. It was only after about a bell or two had passed did he realize that his blade was absolutely filthy with gore, causing him to pause and go find something to clean it with.

[Matthew]

A quick and firm swipe with a cloth was enough to clean most of the mess off, though he had to make sure not to slit open his palm while he was at it. The Harlot was soon back in front of the dead body, staring quizzically at it.

Next was more of a simple method. He practiced one thing over and over until he felt like he was about to grow completely and utterly bored, and then he switched. Now it was on to actually getting the dagger out and into position to strike. Some distant corner of his mind realized that he still had the piece of human meat in his mouth, the small niblet having been forgotten. He turned his head to the side and spit it out, no longer interested. Instead he sheathed the dagger at his side, opting to merely stick it in between his hip and his belt so that it was held in place. Then he quickly reached down, grasped the handle and pulled, trying to get the dagger out and pointed at the dangling corpse.

He nearly ripped his belt off.

It just wasn't smooth. It wasn't smooth at all. The way he had secured the dagger, the fact that it had several jagged edges that were more than happy to hook onto his clothes... it just didn't work. He could position the dagger a certain way in his belt, and if he did that then it would slide out smoothly. That was assuming that the dagger stayed in that position the whole time, though. No, if he was wanting to carry this around as a form of self-defense, then he was going to have to find some sort of sheath for it. A sheath or a buckled strap of some sort. He would have to research the matter more. He stared quietly at the dagger, spinning it lightly on his palm, making sure that he had a good handle of the weight and balance of the weapon before attempting it. He had seen certain scoundrels do this before. What was the point? They were certainly able to do it much quicker than he could, but he wasn't exactly sure that he understood the purpose. Was it just a way to show off? Or perhaps it was just a way to keep their hands occupied and keep the dagger ready to be used?

Reacting to an impulse, Matthew suddenly flipped the dagger to grab it by the hilt, and with a single smooth motion hurled it at the corpse. It hit the corpse quite nicely on the forehead, but then pathetically bounced off. The spin had brought the hilt around, and the hilt is what had ended up hitting the target in question. The target had actually been the throat, so he couldn't really say he had done well in any way. He supposed that hitting the corpse was enough of an accomplishment. He slowly strode over to where the dagger had fallen and snatched it up off the ground, examining it for damage. He wasn't sure why he went to the trouble of taking that extra step. It was a horribly dulled blade that was only managing to puncture the flesh because it had a pointed tip.

Starting to hum quietly to himself, Matthew turned back towards the corpse. This time he took a leap, pausing a moment to bend at the knee and gather his strength in his legs and then spring forward. It was a simple acrobatic technique, which was appropriate for his level of skill. He used the momentum to stab the blade deep into the forehead of the corpse, mildly impressed as he felt it puncture bone. The leap added quite a bit of power to the blow, but it was risky. He could be skewered upon whatever defense his attacker had if he was not careful. In any case, if he was attacked, there probably would not be enough distance between them to require a leap. If he was that far away, it was probably best to just turn and run.

Yawning, Matthew simply sat where he had been standing, closing his eyes and flopping back onto the floor. He had grown weary. There he would sleep, not a care in the world, trusting that the Doctor would eventually wake him.

[Ssezzkero]

Grades
Matthew

XP:

• Weapon: Dagger: +3
• Anatomy: +3
• Brawling: +3
• Tactics: +2
• Auristics: +1
• Acrobatics: +2

Lores:

• Anatomy: Location of Nerves Near the Kidneys
• Brawling: Using Shattered Glass as a Weapon
• Makeshift Weapons Are Less Lethal on Fat
• Brawling: Use Your Teeth
• Fat: Very Hard To Chew
• Biting Would Have To Be a Last-Ditch Effort
• The Taste of Human Flesh
• Dagger: Can Easily Be Stuck In A Body
• Unsheathing a Dagger
• Dagger: Too Dull To Effectively Throw

Notes: *Shivers* I should have taken your graphic warning a little more seriously... You are truly a beautiful writer! Don't forget to edit your post in the request forum as 'Graded'. PM me if you have any questions or concerns.