"Such a pity to ruin this piece," Xcor drawled. "It must have taken a long time to get done. Must have hurt as well. "
Xcor put the blade's razor point to the nape of the thing's neck. Piercing the skin, he went ever deeper, until he was stopped by bone.
More crying.
He put his mouth to the fucker's ear again. "I'm just revealing what everyone can see. "
With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer's legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder. . . and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.
What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The lesser, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor's hand.
The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.
Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.
Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.
You are as worthless as your face. Get out.
The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor's arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp's cave - whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.
Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.
Indeed, that hadn't been the first time he'd been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he'd had a long history of being denied. The war camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.
He'd had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he'd proven he could withstand.
Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of -
"You've been busy. "
Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.
"Are the women ready," Xcor demanded gruffly.
"It's time. "
Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess - there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.
"There is a lavatory o'er there. " Throe pointed across the lawn. "Finish this and let us wash you. "
"As if I am a babe?" Xcor glared at his lieutenant. "I think not.
You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly. "
"You can't bring your trophies. "
"And where would you suggest I leave them. " His tone suggested "up your ass" was an option, at least from his point of view. "Go. "
Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless - and per protocol - he nodded and spirited away.
Left on his own, Xcor spared the desecrated carcass one last look. "Oh, get over yourself. "
The urge to further punish the weakness gave him the energy to stab the thing through the chest. The instant the steel tip penetrated, there was a pop, a flare. . . and then nothing but a stain on the grass where the lesser had lain.
Dragging himself to his feet, he took the spine of his prey and put it in his shoulder satchel with his other trophies.
It did not fit, one end protruding out the cinched top.