1st of Spring, 515 AV.
He was lucky that the house was in East Street. This meant there was much less of a patrol. He also fit in much better here. While he was much better groomed than the average individual on this side of town, there were many that he had pleasured in his line of work. They understood that his appearance was directly linked to his profession, a profession that would cause most to classify him as scum. Some respected the profession, calling him a Harlot or an Escort. Others did not, calling him a whore or slut. Any of those titles could be grouped with the other titles found within East Street. Thieves. Con artists. Thugs. Whores. He made sure not to dress up too much, though. He didn't want to stand out while he did his investigation.
The house was stuffed back in the middle of a collection of other houses, half of which were either abandoned or occupied by any given person at any given hour. They were the oldest houses in the slum district, held together by makeshift repairs. It was a wonder that the houses hadn't been destroyed due to safety concerns. Did the government really concern itself with this district, though? Pushing the political thoughts from his mind, he refocused on his task. A few simple strolls around the house caused him to grow fairly intimate with the immediate surroundings. It was only a few dozen paces from the nearby waters of the Bay, though no one seemed interested in the massive expanse of water. Matthew supposed the ocean held no wonders for the people of Zeltiva.
While he waited for night to fall, he pondered. From what he could see of the house, it was in no condition for father and daughter to live in. While he was no father, he did have medical training and had spent a considerable amount of time with Dorian. It was unthinkable to raise someone so young within a place that looked so utterly filthy and unsafe. He supposed he would find out more information soon enough, though.
When darkness finally came, Matthew rose to his feet to take a stroll along the nearby shore. He tasted the air, let the salty spray of the ocean caress his face. He inhaled the scent of it, of fish and seaweed. In a sense, he let it become a part of him. It was so very interesting how he knew to do all this. It was somehow second nature to him, even though he had never ever done it before. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the way to do it, though. Soon, the Harlot removed his clothes, finding a semi-private area on the beach that was shielded by some of the nearby East Street homes. While not talented in stealth, the inky blackness of night and the wetness of the sand underfoot allowed him to move both silently and unseen. Once he was fully undressed, Matthew stepped into the ocean, slowly but surely traveling deeper.
Once he was submerged up to his broad shoulders, Matthew closed his eyes and focused. He cleared his thoughts of all things but the ocean that surrounded him. He captured the image of it in his mind and slowly began to modify it. He began to change his mental picture of the ocean to what he assumed it looked like in the past. There were not very many changes to be made. Still, he continued on. He didn't know how long this went on for. So lost in his meditation, Matthew only realized he had been successful when the mental image began to shiver and then blur.
Suddenly, the sound of rushing water swelled upwards, surrounding him in a single tick of an instant. A dark blue ring flared to life around each of his irises, the Treaver taking his first step back in time.
~
48 hours later.
"Wake up."
Matthew backhanded the man, knuckles slapping across his flabby cheek and causing his head to bounce back and forth. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." Again and again he slapped him, casual blow after casual blow, the cheeks of the man swelling a hot red color before he finally snapped out of his stupor with an attempt at a pained and startled cry. He would find that his noises were muffled by a gag, hands and feet firmly strapped to his bed with leather bondage equipment that was just a size too small, digging into his flesh and slightly splitting the skin underneath. He was bleeding from his wrists and ankles, just barely. Why was he bleeding? Why couldn't he feel it? Why was it dark outside and why had the harlot he hired hurt him like this? Fred couldn't stop the tears from filling his eyes as he stared upon the passive face of the harlot, staring down at him with those sharp blue eyes. Matthew had told him that he loved him. That he would always take care of him. Then why was he here, strapped down and just now starting to feel the pain of his abused cheeks, wrists, and ankles? The harlot seemed to sense his distress, tilting his head to the side and calmly speaking. "Engeron Bane. It is a poison that rendered you unconscious for hours. It is night now. I had plenty of time to securely bind you to the bed and prepare."
Fred's wide eyes glanced down over the harlot, blinking rapidly, trying to hold back the tears as Matthew began to strip. Slowly but surely he removed each article of clothing, neatly and methodically folding each item and setting them in a small pile at the corner of the room. "I am not exactly sure how to go about killing someone. If I was to be caught, I would be punished. This is against Zeltivian law. I've tried to take precautions. I am taking my clothes off so I won't get blood on them."
The victim of the oddly-calm Harlot whimpered behind his gag, causing Matthew to suddenly pause in his movements. The Harlot merely stared down at his folded clothes for a few ticks, then slowly turned his head to focus his blue stare back on his captive. Fred tried to shrink back, but had no room to move. There was something in those blue eyes. Something dark. Something hot and raging. A very different kind of heat than he was used to seeing in the eyes of the Harlot he had thought loved him. "What did you just say?" Fred blinked and whimpered, trying to plead for mercy behind his gag, the words only coming out in a series of muffled noises. Matthew straightened his bare body, lip curling in an unnatural show of emotion, stepping toward the bound man with his head craning to the side at an extreme angle. "Are you pleading? Are you actually begging? Faced now with the possibility of your worthless life coming to a sudden and violent end, do you feel despair? Do you feel desperation? Do you feel lost and alone, Fred?" The Harlot's hand slowly crept out, reaching for a nearby decorative chair, eyes still focused upon Fred. The victim paused a moment and then whimpered again, trying to nod. Trying to connect to something within the Harlot that would stop whatever madness this was.
At the sound of that very next whimper, Matthew suddenly sprung forward, face twisting into something entirely different than anything he had ever been before. "Shut up." Even with his face twisted, his voice was still eerily calm, though with a strained edge to it. Fred let out a muffled cry of pain as the chair was brought down over his head, the cheap piece of furniture shattering on his skull and causing the world to spin around him. "Shut up." Matthew immediately responded to the next muffled shout of agony, striking with the only shard of the broken furniture that he had left. A wooden chair leg smashed into Fred's jaw, releasing a flood of blood inside of his mouth as a tooth was jarred free. "Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup."
The command streamed out over and over again, spoken over Fred's muted noises of pain, the Harlot bringing the chair leg down again and again in a rain of blows.
They were aimed blows, not reckless ones like it may have seemed. Matthew did not want to kill the man. Not yet. Matthew wanted the man to suffer. Only that would satisfy the raging heat in Matthew's head.
