[ He stretches his arms above his head, arching his back like a cat to limber up again. He's caught his breath, and the show that Amos put on was more than enough to get the gears turning in his head. His shrike was so good at this, John almost envies the skill except for the fact that he didn't want the circumstances that made him develop that skill in the first place.
Wordless, he rises from his seat and crouches over the body, examining it. Blood, fresh bruises, pained breathing. It'd be cruel not to put him out of his misery now. He swipes one gloved hand against his victim's bloody, split lips and raises the bloody glove to his face, tongue darting out to get a quick taste of blood and leather. There's a bloody handprint left behind when he pulls away.
Like a fucking animal, he thinks. A hundred years old and he's every bit as giddy about this as he was when he was a young man. Base nature doesn't fade so easily.
The worst that could be said about John on a normal day was that his resting expression was impressively petulant, and his smiles were often fake. Just the face of a spoiled brat who spent too much time considering his image. Now, when it was time to finish one of his twisted little games, he bares his teeth like Amos had (two wolves against a rabbit, he thinks). Though he himself would admit that his privileged lifestyle has softened some of his rougher edges, his toothy scowl was still that of a man who could tear you apart if he wanted to.
He squeezes his fists tight and lets loose, not bothering to avoid the head anymore. There's a crack against the hard tile floor and it's so loud that he can only guess he was finished there and then, but that doesn't stop John from swinging his fists until he's winded again.
Die, you disgusting fucking thing.
His tantrum could have lasted anywhere between thirty seconds and ten minutes, he blacks out with violence like he does when he's drunk and loses track. ]
...Is he gone? [ He lolls his head to one side, staring lazily at Amos as he pants for air. Of course he's dead, anyone with eyes could see that, but his ears are ringing and his whole body seems to buzz with excitement. He just needs to say something to snap him back to reality. ]
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Wordless, he rises from his seat and crouches over the body, examining it. Blood, fresh bruises, pained breathing. It'd be cruel not to put him out of his misery now. He swipes one gloved hand against his victim's bloody, split lips and raises the bloody glove to his face, tongue darting out to get a quick taste of blood and leather. There's a bloody handprint left behind when he pulls away.
Like a fucking animal, he thinks. A hundred years old and he's every bit as giddy about this as he was when he was a young man. Base nature doesn't fade so easily.
The worst that could be said about John on a normal day was that his resting expression was impressively petulant, and his smiles were often fake. Just the face of a spoiled brat who spent too much time considering his image. Now, when it was time to finish one of his twisted little games, he bares his teeth like Amos had (two wolves against a rabbit, he thinks). Though he himself would admit that his privileged lifestyle has softened some of his rougher edges, his toothy scowl was still that of a man who could tear you apart if he wanted to.
He squeezes his fists tight and lets loose, not bothering to avoid the head anymore. There's a crack against the hard tile floor and it's so loud that he can only guess he was finished there and then, but that doesn't stop John from swinging his fists until he's winded again.
Die, you disgusting fucking thing.
His tantrum could have lasted anywhere between thirty seconds and ten minutes, he blacks out with violence like he does when he's drunk and loses track. ]
...Is he gone? [ He lolls his head to one side, staring lazily at Amos as he pants for air. Of course he's dead, anyone with eyes could see that, but his ears are ringing and his whole body seems to buzz with excitement. He just needs to say something to snap him back to reality. ]