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The blood splatters on her face. Drop after drop, blow after blow. Her thirst is insatiable and her resolve feels like it increases; she wants more and more and more. Her strength is fear inducing, muscles tense with the exertion, it mirrors a workout. Her grin is unnerving, and the black symbol on her forehead is barely visible, but there. She feels like a hunter with its prey at her feet. A prey so innocent it can never escape its destiny again.
“Have enough, yet?” She asks, changing the position of the bat in her hands. There is no answer from the dead. It's satisfying nonetheless.
“Don't you think you had enough?” The other asks, close but far enough to give her space. "Our time could be better spent elsewhere." He knows not to interrupt, but the longer they stay, the harder it is to flee.
Her pointed ears twitch. It's a bad sign.
“No,” she replies without turning around, her grip on the weapon tightens and her symbol changes color to red. Snappy. Tempered. Rude. The other resists the urge to argue, the least he needs is a fight with someone so angry. His symbol turns green. He loves her, he owes her, he chooses her; but she's disgusting.
And so, she resumes. Because why not? Nothing, no one, not him, will dare disturb her again. Her symbol agrees: it turns back to black.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash.
The body is now barely a pile of sticky goo on the floor, but it deserves it, and when it's in hell, the torture will continue.
“Stop,” he says, taking long strides in her direction. She obeys and bides her time to breathe. In and out, with all the calmness in the world she rests, her symbol is now white.
He kneels down and looks around. He doesn't flinch at the mess, it was a criminal, he could care less; there's only one thing he seeks.
There it is.
The remains’ own symbol, stained red with viscera. He rubs it against the back side of his sleeve, the light finally emanating when it's clean. A shooting star. How pretty.
“It looks like yours,” he grins as he shows it to her. She snorts, her amusement real and contagious, happy as if she hadn't killed someone mere minutes ago.
He wants to kill her. He knows he can't.
She wants to kill him. She knows she can't.
“One more for the collection. How many do we have so far?”
“Sixty-four.”
“Still not much, huh? Let's keep it going.”
“Yep.”
The Collector leaves, but it will hunt again. It's two silhouettes. Two symbols. Always one mess. The heart asks for it.
They still deliver.