Happy Birthday! [Giles]

[Gale Whitfield]

There is one small crack in the hotel room's mirror.

Gale notices it almost immediately the moment he takes a seat in front of the vanity. The first few moments had been awkward and he felt awfully foolish. He certainly looked like a fool—a grown man stuffing a hotel chair into a bathroom where it obviously did not belong, and sitting there attentively, watching his own reflection in the mirror. It was better than the alternative, which was sitting on the chair in the main room where Giles was, or sitting on the bed in the main room where Giles was, or being in the same room as Giles. It was one enclosed room and Giles wasn't going to let him out regardless of what he decided to do, but at least the bathroom had a door—and though that door was open, it still was technically a separate room, and what Gale wanted was to not be in the same room as the witch that caused all this in the first place.

Simply put, for the time being Gale was as comfortable as he was going to get, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

"…Can you pull the curtains closed?"

It was getting harder to curl his fingers into a fist. Gale looked at his puffy knuckles, then the crack in the mirror, then the pocket-sized bible open in his lap. He knew closing the curtains was not going to help (he bit his bottom lip at the loud cracking noise and the pain that shot straight up his arm. That was his hand; gnarled now, claws bleeding from the base where it grew from his blackening finger tips) but it was nice to pretend for those last fleeting moments that Giles just had to listen to him, close the curtains, and everything would be fine. (His lip was bleeding now. He licked up the blood with one fluid flick of his tongue. His stomach growled appreciatively.)

His eyes left the mirror and his hand and lay on the pages of the bible. God wasn't going to help him tonight, was he? Gale was trying hard not to fear the evil that had embraced him. The evil that was in this upscale hotel, parading inside the room like a man. Was God testing him? Did he want Gale to go through this? Was this a lesson?

Slowly he leaned back in the chair, peering balefully at the rest of the hotel room. If it were any other day he'd be relaxed and marveling at the place. It was bright, clean, and spacious. Giles, that bastard, had money. That much he had to admit. (Another sickening crunch. That was his nose breaking, the bone extending at a rapid pace. This one elicited a scream that ended in a pathetic, dog-like whimper.)

Eventually, Giles would tie him up, wouldn't he? Bind him somehow. Or use some other sort of spell. Maybe he'd sick that demon on him. It was a shame he didn't have any holy water but he did have claws and could tear the little meatsack apart to throw onto that bastard and then he'd eat the heart whole, and slowly draw the intestines out like noodles and burn the skin right off his bones.

Gale screamed again, though it was sounding less and less like a human. He didn't expect this to be so God-forsaken painful. Wasn't it quick in the movies? Did it always seem this agonizingly slow?

He could feel himself fading away. Gale clung on desperately, standing up from his seat. The little bible dropped onto the floor. The wolf, the beast, whatever it was he'd be turned into; it was clawing its way into his mind. He notices less and less of what's around him and can only feel the pain and vaguely see the bright lights of the vanity, the lamps in the room, smell the presence of Giles that fills the room.

Angrily, Gale looks at his left hand, the knuckles hard and large and black and hairy, and covered in blood and glass.

There are thirty large cracks in the hotel room's mirror.

[Giles]

"…Can you pull the curtains closed?"

“No.” His tone is blatant, straightforward as the gold eyebrows remained furiously furrowed, as if meticulously studying the subject before him. His fingers flick over quickly to the area of each crackling sound as the man painfully slow began to change and whimper. Gale clung to the bible like a madman to his knife, and there is this sort of arrogant wave that runs through Giles’ body at how the man clung to the useless book.

There is excitement building in his blood, like Victor Frankenstein watching his creature rise. Underneath his skin the boiling depth of his religion churns, the excitement of the devils power that is his; the power he has worshipped and saved. Angels rising are a Christians dream, yet here he is facing his equivalent of this every day. That surge of power gives him the false sense of being untouchable, a little too comfortable with the creature in the suite that is beginning to form.

“Where is your God now?” He questions accusingly shooting up, the lights beginning to flicker around them and in a corner, if Gale would notice, was a shadow moving and vague figure forming as Malphas debated quietly whether or not to make his grand entrance.

“Where is your God now when Malphas plays?” He asks again, much more pointed as he steps closer, something running through his eyes like a lunatic on the hunt. He is past his angry interior and indulging in the chaotic feed of his beliefs. He feels no better at any time than bringing down the supposedly holy.

“Tonight you only got me and Malphas.” There’s a twitch of a smile, almost but a near impossible facial expression for the man to muster. His tone is deep and the words are said through his teeth. He watches as the bible falls to the floor as the creature has fits, His beautiful creation has rose, like a zombie from the grave.

Hallelujah.

”Where is your god now?” He pushes once more. There is no fear, not at all, and maybe he is slightly snide as the remark flies off his tongue. There’s more power through his words as he repeats himself once more like a broken record. He wants Gale to feel it, feel that quaking power. Yet Gale is no longer, instead replaced by the devilish creature of his creation.

The bible is carelessly on the floor, exactly where it should be.

Giles, in the selected mayhem, has become the nut-job religionist people avoided. The beliefs, soft usually in his voice where now exposed as his moving force. It’s as if he’s on a high in this fancy hotel room. His magic is pumping through the room, through his body. No one would hear anything, not even a mouse and they would leave the room better than when they had come in. It was perfect, except for the minor detail Giles had forgotten, too taken up in all of the glory.

Binding Gale in his new form or at least setting up a barrier around himself was a necessity he had not remembered.

The lights were still flickering as Malphas was grabbing power from wherever he could as he seems to appear around the room; four, five of him. The thing is almost as horrifying as its new contender, a terrible mixture of human and bird (though more human.) Feathers around mottled skin pop out and his mouth is a disgusting mixture of hard beak and excess fleshy skin. His eyes are deep, flitting around quickly like a crazy bird as his illusions play like a maze of mirrors, appearing all around the room with it being impossible to tell which one is real if anyway.

“There is no god to save you from the demon now,” he snarls out, angrily and full of energy.

There are only his gods now.