The Graveyard Shift [Open]

[Alexander Marshall]

At one time, the thought of eating another human being disturbed him. Alex had always thought cannibals were the mascots of sick, twisted S.O.B.'s who needed to be shot. Multiple times. In the groin. But now, lo and behold, here he was, preparing to do the same thing. The first time hadn't been intentional. A fight he'd picked long ago, when he first came to this wretched place. He'd won, sure, but it left him horribly mangled. At that point, it seemed that instinct had kicked in. It wasn't untill he was gulping up the last bits of the poor man that he realised what he had done. Needless to say, he'd vomitted.

But now, it was as normal as breathing to him. While he could certainly eat just like any other mutant, it just wasn't as strengthening, as nutritious...When he devoured flesh, it left an amazing, invigorating feeling as the massive quantities of biomass were added to his own. And, in all honesty, he found that he liked the taste. Even after it had started to decay. A side affect of his mutation, he supposed.

But he kept it quiet. Alex didn't brag about his eating habits. He didn't boast about how he would, from time to time, sneak into the graveyard after dusk and start digging up corpses to add to his biomass. If it were to get out that a mutant was eating other mutants, there would be trouble. They would hunt him, and due to the obvious limitations of Freakopolis, eventually they would find him, no matter how many forms he had. It could take years, but they would find him. Alex had never really integrated into the society. He had no relationships of the romantic or friendly kind, and he had no profession. Really, the only one he had any sort of real relationship with was Madame Weaver, but then, who here didn't? And that would make it all the worse. If he'd never become one of them, they wouldn't be so hesitant to kill him if they knew, now would they?

Thats why he had to be fast and quiet. Even now, hands that had been altered into large, grotesque claws were digging at the ground, piling dirt behind the carnivorous ex-marine. He knew there was a body here. He had seen it be buried not two days ago. He dug deeper and deeper, sharpened claws easily piercing the soft soil and shoving it away in chunks. Six feet. He had to dig six feet. So far, he'd only made two. But the night was young, and he was hungry.

[Jett Tsar]

Jett seemed to be making a habit of wandering through the graveyard. At an earlier date he never would have dreamed of strolling through such a godforsaken land; a land where those peaceful souls slept and the ones who still had thoughts on their minds roamed. His customs rendered him extremely respectful of the dead. He tread softly and would hum soothing tunes when his nerves began to get the better of him.

The first strange incident had involved a beautiful woman and many, many empty graves. It had been jarring for the poor boy. Ever since then he visited the graves to...why did he visit the graves? No answer came to mind. Perhaps he subconsciously deemed himself "Protector of the Grounds"...but, no. Jett was no Protector. He was a Dreamer. He had a gentle heart and loved to love and never wanted to be around anything too grim for too long.

So why, you might ask, was he in the graveyard now? Why did he always happen to end up in he graveyard?

"I'm asking myself the same question." Jett muttered flatly, running his fingers through his hair. It was no longer a chocolaty fountain which fell in perfect directions. Jett's hair was now unwashed and greasy, lying awkwardly on the sides of his face, its tips adorning his shoulders. Not only his hair, but his skin was pale and sickly, clinging to his cheekbones and the hollow beneath his eyes, which were dark and shadowed. His lips were cracked and his clothes were torn. The boy looked awful.

Jett didn't necessarily feel awful. He went about his business, silently honoring graves, seeming as if nothing about Freakopolis affected his manner.

With a short sigh, Jett moved to the next grave. A movement caught the corner of his eye. It was the man he'd glimpsed earlier. Indeed, whilst crouched beside a fresh mound of dirt, Jett had watched a mutant enter the graveyard. Maybe he should have said hi? But what point was there to greeting someone who would no doubt be killed the next day? Relationships were dangerous. A flash of Tune's recently finished flute lying broken on the ground caused the young man to grimace. In trying times in a place like Freakopolis, your biggest weaknesses were your attachments to others. Why, God, had he chosen to be a Dreamer?

"Not that God has anything to do with this." Jett hissed, growing angry with himself for thinking of Him and with Him for giving him the ability to think. "You just stay up there, old man, while your flawed creation rots." He'd never been a religious man. He'd never even heard of God until coming to America.

With his thoughts in his eyes, Jett approached the mutant. He was...he was digging. Perhaps attention should have been called to the man's hands. As it was, seeing such abominations was not a great deal here in Freakopolis. Jett had gotten used to the abnormal when he realized the surprises were never going to stop coming.

His approach hadn't been sneaky. Well, he was a light stepper. But it hadn't been intentionally. Jett stood a couple of yards behind the mutant, arms crossed over his chest, expression twisted between thought, observation, and curiosity. The hell was he doing...?

[Alexander Marshall]

Alex could feel his heart pounding violently against his chest as, with every motion of the arm, he was brought closer to his next meal. Just one body. Thats all he needed. One body to add to his biomass. One body to satisfy his hunger. Just one.

How did it come to this?

How did it come to this, that a United States Marine would resort to grave robbing? How had it come to this, that a Commissioned Officer would become a man-eating monster? How? Of course, he knew the answer. They told. They sold him out. And when he was pulled out of bed like a fugitive and then sedated and dumped in this place like an animal, they were all gone. Semper Fidelus. Always Faithful. It was their Creed. It was their Faith. And they spit on it. They betrayed one of their own. And when he got out of here, he would hunt them down, and he would make them pay.

If his drill sargeant could see him now, he'd make his life a living hell. Not because of what he'd become, or what he planned to do, but because his head was so far up his own ass, he failed to notice someone walk right up behind him. A Marine SNIPER, the ultimate tracker, failed to see someone walk right up behind him, while the guy was talking to himself! At least three generations of Marshalls must have been rolling over in their graves.

Plunging his claws into the dirt once more, Alex noticed a distinct change in the texture of what he was piercing. His heart almost skipping a beat, he retracted his claws, which turned back into normal hands. There was blood and dirt on his fingers. Pushing away what little dirt was left, he found what he sought. A trace of flesh. Shoving his hands into the dirt, the former Marine grasped the rigid corpse and hauled it from the earth, tossing it beside him. Time to eat.

[Alexander Marshall]

Still unaware of his visitor, Alex crawled the short distance between him and the corpse. Gripping it by the shoulders, the next transformation began. His jaw unhinged with a sickening popping sound. His teeth elongated and sharpened into fangs. Pulling the corpse up by the shoulders, he somehow worked its head into that ugly, mutated mouth of his. He clamp down with a sickening crunch, made a few chewing motions, and swallowed. One could actually see his throat stretching to disgusting lengths to make room for his 'meal' as it slivered down to his stomache to be assimilated into his biomass. Lowering his head to the headless corpse, Alex began to repeat this gruesome act.