Aware, yes, but unchecked. Erik came here for a purpose; once he's set foot on a path he doesn't stray. There have been witnesses before, and he deals with each accordingly; the steps he follows lead from one to the next as clearly as a vein to the heart. Collateral damage is both unacceptable and messy, and humans are all too easy to intimidate.
Thus it is, in fact, an alleyway into which his quarry stumbles, for the not uncommon repercussions of the speed alcohol leaves the body--it's inelegant, Erik feels, but it will do. He requires consciousness in the lives he takes (this is not psychosis; he doesn't see these men as anything but what they are--human), not sobriety. A why, and for what. For whom.
The alley itself is unremarkable, stained brick, a fire escape shimmying here and there along walls, the inevitable scatter of strewn paper and debris. That's the beauty of what Erik does, though: through his eyes and by the loose, tossing gesture his hands frame as he stands in the alley's mouth where it falls away from the streets's light, a simple fire escape can become a bludgeoning weapon. Black metal lurches down like lightning and strikes the barber (he had been Oberarzt, in the war; Erik remembers rusty puddles in wells of blinding polished steel) on the back of the neck; he sways in place, struck stupid and mind failing to process what has happened at the same sluggish rate as his body. The body that doesn't quite understand this is the part where it falls down.
He's built like bricks, and so goes the resounding thud as he crashes down among the littered refuse; Erik, by contrast, more flows than walks to the back of the alley. Mumbled gurgles bubble from numb lips; he's asking for help. More than a reasonable request, until Erik reaches down to pick him up by the collar. He had shed his jacket at the edge of the alley for a reason, for that look, the terror and understanding (and disgust, underneath; they never stop thinking that way) at the string of numbers etched crudely into his forearm. Age has warped them; it's easy to tell he was a child when they were carved in.
He murmurs, as he lifts the man off the ground, pushes him dazed and reeling toward the closest wall, movements almost gentle. Whatever he said produced a quiet shock of horror, a fumble once he's free--Erik knows he is reaching for the knife and tsks, just before it rises up of its own accord and slashes a clean line from one ear to the other.
To know where to step in order to avoid the spurt of arterial spray takes practice. Erik has that; his clothes stay neat as a pin, not a hair out of place, though he's flushed with exhilaration when he turns around.
"Was willst du?"
It's ...an interesting question to pose, as a man dies at his feet.
no subject
Thus it is, in fact, an alleyway into which his quarry stumbles, for the not uncommon repercussions of the speed alcohol leaves the body--it's inelegant, Erik feels, but it will do. He requires consciousness in the lives he takes (this is not psychosis; he doesn't see these men as anything but what they are--human), not sobriety. A why, and for what. For whom.
The alley itself is unremarkable, stained brick, a fire escape shimmying here and there along walls, the inevitable scatter of strewn paper and debris. That's the beauty of what Erik does, though: through his eyes and by the loose, tossing gesture his hands frame as he stands in the alley's mouth where it falls away from the streets's light, a simple fire escape can become a bludgeoning weapon. Black metal lurches down like lightning and strikes the barber (he had been Oberarzt, in the war; Erik remembers rusty puddles in wells of blinding polished steel) on the back of the neck; he sways in place, struck stupid and mind failing to process what has happened at the same sluggish rate as his body. The body that doesn't quite understand this is the part where it falls down.
He's built like bricks, and so goes the resounding thud as he crashes down among the littered refuse; Erik, by contrast, more flows than walks to the back of the alley. Mumbled gurgles bubble from numb lips; he's asking for help. More than a reasonable request, until Erik reaches down to pick him up by the collar. He had shed his jacket at the edge of the alley for a reason, for that look, the terror and understanding (and disgust, underneath; they never stop thinking that way) at the string of numbers etched crudely into his forearm. Age has warped them; it's easy to tell he was a child when they were carved in.
He murmurs, as he lifts the man off the ground, pushes him dazed and reeling toward the closest wall, movements almost gentle. Whatever he said produced a quiet shock of horror, a fumble once he's free--Erik knows he is reaching for the knife and tsks, just before it rises up of its own accord and slashes a clean line from one ear to the other.
To know where to step in order to avoid the spurt of arterial spray takes practice. Erik has that; his clothes stay neat as a pin, not a hair out of place, though he's flushed with exhilaration when he turns around.
"Was willst du?"
It's ...an interesting question to pose, as a man dies at his feet.