Oystercatcher Tide Pools A man with intent on his face

Cry could almost feel himself falling away, back to a world, a timeframe where he had returned to the Nightmares. His sentence wasn’t done, and in this alternate dimension, he was fine with it. Slade was nowhere to be found- it seemed as though his legacy had come to ripen and decay at Cry’s bloody behest. The skull of the behemothian stayed within Cry’s quarters, cleaned, polished, sitting atop his own hide. 

What had he become?

His vision had come at the mere rupture of Reiner’s voice across the isolation between them. It was a foreboding hemorrhage that had hurt the Phantom, but it hadn’t wounded him, nor was it unpleasantly painful. 
His head was a fog as he couldn’t maintain whether to keep track of this implication or whether to figure out this awful sickness he wasn’t fighting off hard enough. 

“There is none,” he spoke to the reaper, his fluid voice much more civil and oiled than the demon he considered himself having a conversation with.