A S K A R E E

loco, maniac, sick bitch, psychopath

What a decidedly inopportune time for Spencer to locate his fucking balls.

On just about any other occasion Askaree would have found the venomous spunk of her favorite pin cushion to be nothing short of erotic; no doubt the novel thrill of it would have sent a sizzling, electric tingle to... all of the best places. But now? Now the only desire his gallantry sparked within her was the unyielding urge to ruin him. In this moment the only thing that stoked the glowing embers of her hate-fire more than his newfound bravery was his refusal to do this, the one thing that she had only ever truly requested of him. He had followed her, tracked her like the hound does its quarry, to this place where he was never meant to be. And, against all of her better judgements (yeah, she had those), she had permitted him to see this thing, this person, that he was never meant to see.

Right now, she hated him for it.

Her knuckles blanched, all blood having deserted them leaving nothing to pad the tarp of caramel skin from the mounds of bone below, her grasp upon his shirt only tightening despite the vice of his grip about her wrist. Her teeth set on their edges beyond the veil of lips that were now pressed in an ill-fated attempt to stymie the tremors of her ire (desperation)... a tremble that rattled through her entire body and eventually shimmied its way to the soft lines of moisture that had erupted at the brims of her eyelids. Fuck! Her affinity liberates itself from the fleshy cage of her body then, set alight by the conflagration of her rage, the telekinetic energy sending the mass-produced garbage that the administration had the audacity to call artwork vibrating against the walls, a dozen nostalgic mementos from a time and place far off skittering against the shelving perched in the corner.

"Askaree." The voice from the ether is louder this time, imbued with an energy that she knew he could ill afford. Yet even in this state of such advanced ailment, his authority was ironclad. Not to be challenged. Not even by her. It is wholly for this reason and no other that the Egyptian woman stages her retreat, fingers uncoiling from the now-heavily creased fabric of Spencer's shirt. Though the look that sizzles against the chocolate irises of her eyes is irreverent in its unmistakable animosity. "Maza kalis?" What did he say? Askaree surrenders naught but a long, heavily pregnant moment of silence to spread like sluggish ooze about the three of them before finally whispering the translation of Spencer's generous offer. The barely-living husk in the soft nest of bed covers seems taken by the tide of consideration for a protracted collection of moments, his eyes flickering towards Spencer before his head inclines in the suggestion of a nod. No fucking way. She snaps her head back towards the elderly gentleman, her dissent offered in a noxious hiss only to be met with her name as an encore upon his lips; it is offered with just as much authoritative gusto as they had been during the course of her entire life. He was the sole individual capable of ending an Askaree tirade with little more than a few expertly administered syllables.

He turns from Askaree then, her fists tightened to such an extent that her nails bite crescents into the fleshy padding of her palm, to face this peculiar stranger. "Come here, young man," the words are grizzled by age and ailment, the English awkward upon his tongue, though he does not vex himself with the notion that Spencer might not understand him. Askaree does not surrender him ground nor does she spare him the tenebrific heft of her glare. Hardly does she move at all save for the breath that hitches painfully within her lungs at the labored words he offers to her companion.

"I am ready."