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Scaramouche wasn’t used to the concept of restraint just yet.
His subordinates looked on in abject horror; seniors shielded the eyes of their shaking juniors, who could not help but peek between their fingers. The red-soaked puppet rounded a corner and sauntered toward another set of Doushin with their spears out. Despite the confidence in their demands to stay back, their eyes betrayed them and showcased their fear.
Several stomachs have twisted amid the Balladeer’s audience—an agent purged their rations in a nearby bush. Dry heaves echoed alongside gross sobs, but no one ran to check on the source. Not a single soul had the courage to step away. How could they when their superior stood before them?
How could they when such a spectacle—a monstrosity—took root before their very eyes?
The Harbinger had drawn his katana and swung at the many Doushin that charged forward. He cut through each body cleanly - his blade showing no signs of snagging through their fabrics, bones, or organs. The splattering stained every inch of his clothes; it marked his socks, his veil, and even the purple frills poking out of his kimono sleeves.
The veil would take the longest to clean when he got back.
And though his lackeys initially tagged along as backup, they were instead assigned “clean-up duty” of the offal he ever-so-casually left behind. For every arm amputated, there was an extra intestine they tossed into nearby ponds or puddles. For every torso cleaved, they covered trails with pretty little scars on even prettier little faces.
Scaramouche swung his without hesitation. He swung without mercy.
Original plans to obtain the Electro Gnosis involved peace talks, as per usual in such a diplomatic position. Exciting as it was to use violence as an answer, every Harbinger knew talking was, unfortunately, the most efficient way to further their agendas and schemes. It certainly lessened the amount of blood they would have to clean up from their uniforms.
That said, Scaramouche was anything but a pacifist. Not tonight, at least. The sooner the squeamish buffoons covered up his crimes, the better. The last thing he needed was for a passerby to step on a lung and ruin his fun with a scream. If there were any screams to be had, they were only to come from the obstacles who blocked his path.
A Doushin slipped behind the puppet and aimed for his throat; Scaramouche spun on his heel and instantaneously severed them in half. The blood splattered across the golden ornament on his chest this time. Several gasps surrounded him. He couldn’t tell if they were from the Doushin or from his own henchmen.
No, wait—that was for sure the puke-eating henchman again. They’re lucky Pierro scolded him for severing the heads of one of their own the first time he reported it.
A mere titter left the Harbinger’s lips as another Doushin body crumpled to the floor like sliced ribbons. Foolish cries for mercy rang into sunset skies. Scaramouche elected to ignore them. Oh, how laughable it was to think his onslaught was over once he gifted the militiamen the death they so wantonly craved. One of the Fatui agents made a passing comment, wondering if the Harbinger ever had a stopping point in his murderous revelry.
All he had to do was sneer to shut them up.
And as if he wished to make this moment a teachable one, Scaramouche took another approaching Doushin by their neck and cleanly snapped it. Another round of gasps and vomiting. Of course he hadn’t had enough. Why would he when his plot against homeland had only just begun?
His order of operations were simple: infiltrate the land, squash all rebellion, and feign following the Tsaritsa’s orders so he may bolt away with the one treasure he truly desired. A rudimentary recon mission with an intent to score an audience with the Shogun herself, Scaramouche fully anticipated leading the charge himself… at least until Her Royal Highness sent the Fair Lady to the land only a few weeks after. Talk about ways to impede his plans. For all the “trust” she seemed to put into her “loyal followers”, the Tsaritsa truly wasn’t convinced he could do the job right, huh?
It’s not like the Jester hadn’t sent him into the Abyss on more than one occasion. Not like a certain blue hag considered him worthy enough to unseal extraordinary power Beelzebul purposely locked away.
Scaramouche turned his attention to a nearby pile of limbs one of the Cicin Mages cobbled together within minutes. It probably belonged to one of the Doushin given its thin and bony structure, but then again there were a few recruits amongst his clean-up crew. They might have gotten caught up in the crossfire. Flew too close to the Balladeer’s sun and lost their life in the process. He’d pin the blame on one of the Inazumans somehow. He was never without a backup plan.
He watched as the blood seeped through tattered fabrics before it dribbled to the floor. He watched the fingers twitch—or at least, he thought they did. Curiously, his dainty fingers rolled up a sleeve to reveal a gold watch with a cracked and bloodied crystal. A gift from a spouse, perhaps? Had to be, given the minor indent on their stiffened wrist. Wasn’t hard to figure out they likely had a family to feed judging by his callused hands and–oh.
There went his wedding ring.
It fell into the sands, gem side facing down. Pretty soon, the waves will rise just enough for it to be swept away to sea. The saltwater will gnaw at the metals, and such a trinket will be nothing more than a memory forgotten at sea. The memories it could’ve left behind would fade no differently than the minor marks the family man left behind in this world.
What a shame.
Were material possessions and monetary gain important to him, he might have taken a more careful approach to his killing spree. Keyword being might. Golds and gems mattered little to a puppet like him, but they did make good bargaining chips when he needed to siphon a tip or three out of lowly beggars. They were both the easiest to round up, and the easiest to dispose of once his job was done. A beggar’s allegiance was merely a weapon, after all, and like every weapon Scaramouche wielded before, he would make use of it until it shattered.
Urgent footsteps from his crew clamored behind him. Before they could organize their thoughts, Scaramouche held out a free hand to halt them and their verbiage. He twisted the arm around for a time, his eyes fluttered shut and his head cocked in curiosity. The smell of iron is stronger than all the rest. The blood is fresher. Squeezing the severed limb pushed the viscid fluid far enough to paint his fingertips and nestle itself between his nails. The thin texture and brightness lasted only seconds before oxidation made it into a perfect watercolor asset. A gourmand could use it to enrich their fine dining experience.
…drool oozed down the Harbinger’s jaw like a waterfall. Feverish throbs hammered against his chest no differently than a racing heart.His brain racing a mile a minute, Scaramouche parted his mouth open and, without hesitation, sank those sharp fangs of his into the flesh. Like a food aggressive wolf, he snarled. In this moment, he was no different than a starving mortal wanting for food scraps.
He wasn’t ever too keen on this taboo tryst with flesh and bone, but then again, neither were humans whenever they returned to old vices like spirits or tobacco. They did so because it parted whatever dark clouds plagued their mind. They consumed because it was all they had ever known.
Scaramouche remembered doing this once before. Partaking in human flesh. He remembered how his stomach churned when he pulled apart skin like one pulled the softest pork off bone. He remembered how gamey it was, and how some parts of the muscle either fused his teeth together or got stuck between the gaps. It was nothing like the fish and fruits Niwa fed him as the meager Kabukimono. The saltiness was nothing like the homecooked meals he enjoyed in the past.
Unhappy with how it traversed his throat at the time, he opted to peel the skin off like meat floss and nibble until he grew bored. If memory served him right, he fully intended to finish it before a screaming human ruined the opportunity for him. He had half a mind to chase them down and eat them too, but absconding was the better option.
This person’s skin wasn’t even the satisfying part. Every thought and every action he made came back to the blood, and only the blood. He slurped up such viscous fluids the way an eager child gulped down their first taste of bubble tea, yet he savored how it rolled against the roof of his mouth and under his tongue. He suckled on fresh puncture wounds with vampiric passion—spat out sweet blood clots while gulping down the bitter ones. A giddy giggle trilled from the depths of his throat as blood gushed from the arm. A happy hum left his lips when the blood mixed with his endlessly pouring drool. The arm briefly twitched before it returned to its lifeless limpness.
His stomach did not churn as heavily this time around.
Mortals would not understand his euphoria. Of course they wouldn’t understand. They would never realize how different it felt for him to not bleed red. They would never experience the agony of fractured porcelain skin, or the way his pores oozed violet ichor with every injury. Such synthetic properties could easily be replaced with a few good thrashings from Dottore, but they could never make up for the proof of humanity. Only a mortal’s crimson wine carried proof every waking moment of their life.
Scaramouche… should not be jealous. And yet Scaramouche was. That’s what brought out the need for such a licentious feast. That’s what made him position two of the fingers to his lips, open his mouth wide and—
“L-Lord Harbinger?”
Ah. Right. Scaramouche stopped his mindless indulgence and tossed the limb back into a nearby pile of bodies. To say he got carried away in his fun was an understatement. He hadn’t realized how much blood covered his body now. He hadn’t noticed how loudly one of his three remaining men sobbed until he groomed his palms no differently than a cat after mealtime.
It was just the veil he’d have to worry about—it was everything now. Veil, kimono, hakama… how funny. His katana had the least amount of mess on it. He can already hear the old ladies at the cleaners nagging him or cowering away in fear. They would never let him hear the end of it, draping his body in one of their handmade gowns until they were done with the stain removal.
But he digressed. A few licks away from cleaning the remaining red in full, Scaramouche turned to face the few agents left with folded arms and flaring nostrils.
“What? What do you want?”
“Just… just, um, a-awaiting orders, milord.” The little flunky’s statement sounded more like a question. He barely even saluted his superior properly. “Do you… d-do you require more cleanup? Are there any other enemies nearby?”
Scaramouche, for once, could not blame them for the anxiety. He indulged for far too long, leaving him with too few words to give in turn.
“Round up all who remain. Our work here is done,” he grunted. “Leave the mess here untouched. I anticipate Signora’s colorful talks will be rendered useless without proper consequence. We will use this opportunity as such.”
The puppet wasn’t particularly sure if such a gruesome scene would even be required for their little plan. A way to amplify the production of Delusions, perhaps, but fear would only lead them so far. He would just have to consider this slaughter an instance of whimsy for him. Temporary entertainment.
“R-right away, my liege! I’ll let the others know not to touch the bodies.”
“Good.” A wry smirk crossed his lips. “We’ll let the carcasses sit out for a time, then burn them to ash prior to departure.”
Silence met his initial order, but subordination quickly came after.
“Sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing.” His words stopped his lackey in his tracks. “Tell that colleague of yours to stop sobbing every damn time I kill someone, or they’re next. They should be grateful they weren’t caught in the crossfire with everyone else.”
The grunt saluted properly this time. He left Scaramouche alone without a second thought.
His bumbling servants had grown smarter in recent months. He’d have to reward them later. Some of them couldn’t escape his wrath of kicks and slaps at the start of their tenure. They never stopped asking stupidly simple questions. Nowadays, they simply scuttled off like the insignificant worker ants they were. They seldom met his orders with any sort of contention – only doing so if they found that his plans may backfire.
He lapped off the last of the blood from beneath his nails. He’d consider a manicure in the next few weeks to touch them up.
It was only after everyone had left and made their way back to the Delusion Factory that Scaramouche finally chose to leave the area, too. He bathed far too deeply in the thrill of what could hardly be considered a battle; the desire to further indulge in mortal delicacy was enough to make his stomach growl. Alas, there was no point in eating what the dirt desecrated now. The last thing he wanted to do was pick gunky mud out of his teeth when he washed up for the night.
Besides, something in him hoped his so-called "mother" would appreciate this "gift". If not her, then perhaps his “sister”. He pondered on whether Beelzebul would feign empathy and remain in isolation, or if the failure to protect more of her people would eat her alive and prompt an impromptu spar with that supposedly superior puppet body of hers. He wondered if she would cry watching such a spectacle from the deepest cesspools of her beloved Euthymia.
And oh, if she cried he hoped she wept to the point of collapse. That's ultimately what happened when she abandoned him. Since she was so engrossed in prioritizing the dead over the living, she shouldn't have felt anything the moment she saw this useless filth, right?
Ah, a storm loomed in the land of eternity... and Scaramouche was going to enjoy the floods that would surely come with it. Should all succeed, he might even consider treating himself to a full-course meal. He could care less about fine dining and gastronomy, but successfully snatching his mother’s Gnosis could warrant a temporary change of heart.
Almost any feast sounded palatable to Scaramouche when paired with the tears of the oh-so-mighty Electro Archon; his dessert could be that Traveler who was slated to arrive and throw a wrench in plans any day now…