Futuristic 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 ⎯⎯ ➤⎯⎯

[mother of sorrows]

​

 

[mother of sorrows]

01.

the introduction

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The beginning of the end starts in New York City.

A man who will never die and a man whose touch kills. Debts hounding the heels of one and a secret ready to spill out of the other. Their alliance is not a good one, but needed like cutting off the rot - and the foundation has been breaking apart for years, here in this city of brimstone and increasing technology.

But they are not the only ones with a point to prove.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: so not based : (
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: Sear

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Dawn is an hour away and if Artamos' handwatch can be trusted, the district will burn before then.

New Years is still weeks off, but advertisements for bars and avenues to count down the night at have already sprung up on the billboards splattered with neon. The sky stubbornly clung on the night's gloom, a dense darkness still settled over the streets; nothing ever makes New York City quiet, but the harsh, Atlantic-brought winters dampen most of the uproar. Hills of hardened, gray snow stood by the pavement, slushing under passing feet. Only the utterly miserable or returning graveyard workers are braving the streets now, with all the parties long fallen into slumber elsewhere. Brick-and-mortart apartment complexes cover the block, as do the warehouses creeping in from the industrial zones. Respectably falling apart and plastered with promises of 'A HAPPY 2376.'

It is not warm nor is it cold, but Artamos shivers without the need for either.

The alley he camped out in stunk like piss and vomit, trash spilling out of the over-packed dumpsters to lay on wet cement. Thick, over-crossing electrical wires buzzed above, coiled together on the wall akin to a nest of snakes plastered together for warmth; out of sight they creep below the pavement, below his sight, down into the underground. Before they descend they feed the dozen public cameras, too small to be seen on anything else but Artamos' map of Vigilance.OS - Murn created and operated, and so Artamos ignores them even with the GhostID whirring in his flesh to keep up with their all-seeing eye. A second layer of protection he's gonna need to not up on the news come morning.

He pulls the black cloak closer around himself and waits.

Waits in the grime-slick mouth and waits until he sees a man walk up the shaking stairs of a complex. Middle-aged, face wet with sweat and terrified.

There you are.

Connor Wishler. 'Con' to his friends. Under investigation for robbery charges, a small-time drug dealer and in connection with someone that feeds his loud mouth. Like a rat he scurries away into an apartment, throwing one last frenzied look over his shoulder, and Artamos does not follow.

Not yet.

Not until a few minutes pass spent resisting the urge for a smoke and wrapping a gloved hand around the chill handle of a tactical knife. The district will burn and if Artamos is quick, Wishler will burn along with it. The man taps a finger against the brick wall and slides into the dim streets.

The sicky glow of neon flickers through the brief blows of snowfall and the rickety stairs groan with each step taken - he is quiet when he settles before the door and holds his breath. A little patch teeming with technology beeps by the treshold, and Artamos is only concerned for as long as it takes for it to notice him. Cheap little thing, easily crushed and brushed away with; the signals it would send were he to break down the door would go unheard, if only he twists a wire wrong. The amount of lawsuits these security alarms have been getting is downright unholy, but not many of the goverment-planned complexes care enough to replace them. Bad for the people living in them, bad for Murn and good for whatever dipshit of the week is licking the mayor's boots clean.

Good for Artamos now, however - and bad, very bad for Wishler.

He knocks.

Silence.

A barely-perceptive shift of the blinds. He's being watched, he knows, but Artamos trusts in the darkness and whatever camera system there is to be useless; like a ghost to a haunt Artamos leans on the cold metal door and murmurs, just loud enough to be heard by ears that are listening in the first place.

''Sablewood.'' He mimics a password taken from now-dead lips. ''I called an hour earlier.''

Silence, again. The black in his clothes is like any others and the glow of the city is not a halo enough to show his face; but even if it did, there are not many who know to put a name to it. Just the barest movement sounded from behind the walls, the shuffle of unsteady feet, and for the briefest moment Artamos is judged in a court he does not see. A heartbeat and the hinges creak open - white eyes flash at him.

''Come in.''

Artamos releases the breath he is holding and twists away the smile threatening to rise.

The apartment reeks. Like something left to die, maybe and the static-y television plays in an endless, mute loop. Paper wrappers and dirty clothes fill the singular coffee table, lit up by the movie's light even as the corners of the room are cast in gloom. Wishler looms by the wall and watches him like someone who's been cornered one too many time, all open distrust and gruff quiet. Unwashed hair clung to a hound-like face, one that looked like it could bite a hand off.

Artamos puts his hands up in a play at peace. One of the gloves is gone now and his tattoos shine; a worse threat than a knife, one that Wishler does not recognise.

''Do you have it?'' His own voice is soft, purposeful. Rain feeding a flood.

A sniff and a stare from the older man. He looks Artamos up and down, expression feral, sneering - and half-turning towards the kitchen. ''Wait here.''

For the weeks that he has been watching Wishler, Artamos has found out this; he is not stupid. There is just enough an angle to watch the stranger who has entered his apartment and there have to be weapons somewhere around. He counts money thrice and he always locks a door after.

Artamos just happened to be a second faster.

It's over in a flash - the tension in Artamos' muscles snapping into action, the impact of a body slamming into a wall, the violent resistance quieting by the knife's uncurl. If it came down to skill and strength, there is no doubt about who would kill who - but Artamos is the one holding the knife and a gloved hand on the back of Wishler's neck.

Wishler seizes, but doesn't resist. For now he stills, and Artamos takes the opportunity to lean closer.

''Hello, Connor.'' There is no pretense anymore in the way the knife digs into the other's back, his own voice gentle only in volume. ''Heard you were talking about me.''

Wishler releases a hiss. Looks from the corner of his eye, teeth set into a snarl. Danger without any recognition. ''I talk about a lot of people. Gotta be more specific.'' Even pinned like an insect there is a desperation set in his face that promises violence, all caged dog.

Artamos re-adjusts the knife and it disappears.

''Those elysium files you've been spreading around.'' Stolen, stolen right out from his office, and Artamos had been so careful too. ''An insider's knowledge, apparently.''

There it is, what he had been waiting for; the puzzle piece sliding into place, a click in the machine-works, horrible and open knowledge all over Connor's face like smoke on the horizon. Artamos grins with no real humor.

''...You're that damned fuckin' Murn kid.''

''Charmed.'' He says blandly. ''Mind telling me where you heard about it?''

''Trust me,'' Wishler rasped, that wild eye still stuck on him. ''He's gonna do way worse to me if I talk.''

Artamos' smile splits into something far sharper than the knife, grip tightening into a vice.

''And I'll do worse if you don't.''

Like the drop of a pin, the tension broke; the grab for his wrist is expected, but with far more speed than he thought the other man to have. The knife slips out of his grip and Wishler twists back, spitting rage. Artamos blocks the punch aimed for his head with his forearm, kicking away the knife from the other's scrambling reach. There is nothing but the pounding of blood now and adrenaline singing with each kick, punch, defense. The world narrow down to the violence at hand, the air stomped out of his lungs when he is crashed into the floor. Wishler's above him now, fist missing his face by an inch; the struggle is bitter and harsh, and one of them is going to give out. A bone, a nose, a life - something will give.

It will not be Artamos.

He raises a hand - the one that is not gloved - and digs into the exposed flesh of Wishler's neck.

Connor goes still.

Those that are brave or stupid enough to bring it up always ask, 'what does it feel like?' Artamos always answers, 'some things just don't feel like other things.'

The other man seizes up in a confused twitch. Lips slack open first, a strangled groan hissing out of a steadily closing throat and eyes rolling into themselves. The sight is almost unreal in the half-dim light, grotesque like someone took a hook to corners of the man's mouth and pulled. He curls over Artamos in a semicolon, gasping for air he will never get - and then comes the blood, spewing out of Wishler's mouth in thick, dark rivulets, dripping on the grimy carpet. It's not quick and it doesn't look painless, but with one great, last, rasping gasp -

Wishler slumps.

Dull, glassy eyes, devoid of a soul to perceive. Artamos rolls him off and stands on pained legs, breathing heavy.

On the television the movie has drawn to an end; credits roll in the bleak room, shining upon the limp, dark figure. Nothing stirs and no alarm goes off, no concerned neighbour calling the police.

There will be questions. Of course there will be. Even with how early it is, Artamos is sure at least one person saw him enter and the cameras, useless or not, taped the footage. Someone will remember this, but they'll only remember it due to something much, much worse. Artie casts a look around the tightly packed room, turning over sticky cardboard and magazines. The kitchen is cold when he enters it, the city's lights stretching into thin lines on the tiled floor. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, seemingly ignored for days and some unlucky plant abandoned on the plastic chair. Artamos flips open the cupboards and cabinets, goes to the fridge next.

He's not quite sure where to look, but if his own habits are anything to go by...

He pushes aside the half-eaten cereal and ketchup, looking into Tupperware and cartons of expired milk. A bit impatiently he throws open the bottom drawer, hunting around the idly floating ice. Artamos' heart pinches when his fingers brush against a vial, pulling it out eagerly. Blood sang in his ears as he turned it over, glistening in the weak fridge light - the liquid inside moved lazily like trapped starmatter, impossibly white.

Artamos tucks it into one of his inside pockets, swallows over a suddenly dry mouth.

The time on his wristwatch makes him curse, standing to his full height - he's only got so much time to get the hell out of here. Quiet like something not quite real, quiet like a secret, Artamos walks out of the kitchen and towards the door. Wishler still lies in the TV's glow, black with blood.

'Maybe the rumors are right,' Artamos thinks, giving the cooling corpse one last look. 'But there's a reward in heaven for those that know when to shut up.'

He walks out into the humming night and closes the door behind him.

The morning traffic has not awaken yet, but New York City was slowly rousing in it's bed and rubbing the stars from it's eyes. A few shivering figures already waited by the station Artamos scooped out earlier, standing under the flickering red lights. The old bones of the old railways still lay as foundation or perhaps a memory, like pulsing veins sending electricity deep into a dark heart; a maglev pulls up on the tracks like a shining deep-sea fish, a bleached female voice cutting through the snowflakes;

'District A54. District A54. Please scan your ID at the door.'

The doors slide open and Artamos enters with the crowd, the scanners glancing over the Ghost with a beep.

He sits on one of the many worn leather seats, stepping over scraps of paper and cracked alcohol bottles - graffiti stretches from top to the ceiling, everything from tags to monsters to sneering angel women, watching the people coming from or going to work. The cart is mostly empty at this hour and it slides into motion a minute after, the speed neck-breaking for anyone outside of it. Harsh cement and dead buildings disappear from the window and in comes the skyline, the view that people have killed for to see.

Reds, blues and purples shine like a modern constellation, reflecting in the windows of diamond skyscrapers that stratch the heavens. You can see the whole west districts from here in all their painful glory, beautiful and awakening. Cars move along the purpling sky, high above mortality - slowly the day creeps in with the first sunlight devouring away black clouds, only twenty minutes till proper dawn. It is the most quiet at hours such as this, when night-terrors have not quite left yet, but you know you can sleep easy for now.

The district he has just left peeks into view. It's clear for a moment, all slumber and bodies not yet found -

and then it shakes with a new-born explosion, the boom sending everybody into screams.

Fire boils like an enormous snake against the rosy horizon, licking the terrified sun emerging with an impact that shakes the floor. People point, people fall, shrieks and questions mixing into a open shock. The maglev doesn't stop even as the distant buildings disappear into the fire's hungry, raging mouth, the terrified commuters errupting into a prayer of 'oh my God's and 'what the fuck is going on?'

Artamos only clings to the seat-rest and laments, not for the first time, that New York is a city too wet to properly burn.

It is a new dawn and everything is the same.

❇❈❇​

''...regarding the actual point of ignition, which is reported to be the Lew Lai warehouse. While no culprits have been identified as of yet, the NYPD has addressed the public in a speech that promises 'they are hard at work.' Unofficial sources claim that this might be the work of local gangs, who have...''

''Oh, bullshit.'' Artamos mumbles from his place on the couch, tapping away at the laptop on his stomach. It's been six - seven? - hours and Artamos had been lying for four of them, working until his eyes have gone dry and painful. There's still novels of code to crunch through and he's really going to need a break before his brain overfries. Lunch-time has come and rolled by, and a nasty headache was splitting his spine apart. Footage filled with blazing streets and firefighting efforts clipped through on the sleek television screen.

There's few New Yorkers that don't know who's really behind the constant violence and even fewer dumb enough to talk about it outright. The AWSFuture Convention always brings with it a sharp uptick in warehouses getting plundered or projects that have been under the works for years mysteriously failing. Work like this lives and dies by it's paperwork - chase it long enough and things just don't add up like they should. What Lew Lai did to Pavilion this time, Artamos does not know, but his scanners have been wild all week with rumors of an attack. The old year still has a few disasters due for it if Lew Lai has any self-respect at all.

His phone lights up with a buzz on the glass table and Artamos runs a hand down his face, begrudingly deciding to settle for half an hour. He slides the laptop off his lap and reaches for the phone with a groan, squinting at the screen. A bout of hesitation and Artamos answers, expectaction dropping into the pit of his stomach.

A familiar voice, calm and rapsy, greets him.

''Hello, Artamos.''

''Teta,'' he starts, half his attention on the solemn newscaster. ''How are you?''

There was a smile to her tone, one that Artamos could practically see - there was the sound of chatter and footsteps in the background, hinting at some busy street or other. Ginerva never seems to visit the same office twice in a row or do anything but go on vaguely threatening errands.

''Alright. You watching out for smoke up there?''

Artamos snorted. ''Let dog eat dog. Not any of my business.''

His aunt laughed at that. It sounds like glass shattering.

Artamos trusts her - of course he does. But she only does things with a purpose and even her phone calls are rarely just to see how he is doing. The first hints of anxiety pounded in his chest as he waited, eyes flickering idly through the quiet room. As if she was reading his mind, Ginerva speaks;

''I think it might be your business.'' A pause, one that makes Artamos sit up properly. ''Does a club called the Coliseum spark anything?''

Artamos frowns, features pulling together in confusion. The name is familiar in the most distant sense, a memory pulling at his worn synapses. He's not one to show his face, but he must have visited it before; or more likely, Gabriel has. The man mulls over it for a second, two before realisation finally dawns on him.

''That betting place? What about it?''

''Somebody there's been talking about you.'' Her voice is no longer the worn softness it was before. There was an edge to it, all unspoken knowledge now that make Artamos blanch. ''One of their top fighters.''

He was going to be sick.

Cold sweat clung to his palms as he stood up, a manta of panic echoing through his skull. She knows. There's no way she doesn't know.

His aunt keeps talking even as cold ice dropped straight to his stomach;

''I think you should go settle it.''

On his abandoned laptop pings a new email, the blue-light screen blinding on the black leather of the couch; Artamos stares at it like a deer trying to determine if it's seeing stars or headlights. His hand twitches by his side with the urge to throw it.

''Okay. Okay, sure.'' He says it without any trembling or stutter, the only thing keeping his dignity afloat.

Silence. Ginerva goes quiet for a second, apparently thinking on something. Then;

''And Artamos?''

He shallows, still staring at the computer screen.

''You don't have a lot of time.''

The line goes dead. The phone clinks against glass where Artamos throws it absent-mindedly, trying very hard to not go to the nearest balcony and throw himself off it. On his open browser is a single line, bolded and mocking like an omen;

'SUBJECT: THE ENTERTAINER.'

❇❈❇
​

Locke is not a man easily found.

Whether this is due to laying low or something that digs it's roots much deeper, Artamos does not know; but he is not in any official databases and Vigilance.OS draws a blank on the pay-to-view videos of base violence and organized fights. Even the police files seem to have no idea about his existence and all it leaves Artamos with is chasing rumors upon rumors of links and live-streams. An underground fighter - one with countless gazes following his every move if the sheer, bloated numbers left behind are proof. Discussion boards dissect strategy frame by frame, fans curse or praise Locke's existence, hidden betting sites try to crack the odds for who's going down - and not a single last name. No age. A face that goes blank the second Artamos cross-compare it within the software that keeps New York under their thumb.

All that Artamos can gleam from hours scrolling without sleep is this;

Locke has won almost every fight he has been in.

Not evey single one - but the amount of compliations where he does is overwhelming. There's flashes of a man beaten to dripping blood, blonde-haired and moving like a predator. There is too much teeth in every smile, the taunts twisting like a knife in a back; a modern-day gladiator almost, bathed in off-color lights and shouts for more. The general census seems to be, he's a wildcard. He's the best you got. He's a fucking lying actor and needs to be kicked down a notch. If there is anything else to know on a man that doesn't exist outside a club, Gabriel would be the one to ask - but with any luck, he's on one of his week long raves again and Artamos doubted his brother will be sober before the weekend.

The clock is ticking down. To what end, Artamos does not know, but he's never been one to wait and find out.

Getting an invite was about the easiest part of this whole thing; he doubts the club is that eager for new customers, but spread money around and any door will open soon enough - and the Murn name is enough to force most of them open, though Artamos is not that arrogant to think it's his own reputation alone that does it. A few calls around is all it takes to eventually get his hands on a neat, gold-rimmed envelope. It burns in his pocket like a cattle brand, searing his flesh in the hours it takes for night to fall. The moon is heavy in it's penumbra and the nightlife has startled out of slumber when Artamos finally walks upon the snow-slick streets, stepping around tittering, winking faces and shadows watching for weakness. Bars line the pavement like slinking, shamed drunkards and laughter drifts along the music, eager to grab the night before it dies. No one pays attention to a lone man with a blank, chilly smile and a suit the color of charcoal; he hides out in a little alley undisturbed, glancing over the bold address printed on thin paper.

There is no sign, but this ought to be the place; where should be a name is only a shabby, plain metal door. This should be the place, unassuming as it was - not that any of the clubs worth their money will show it off. Artamos steps over piled-up trash and knocks, the door sliding open a moment after.

''Invite.'' An unseen voice demands, the barest hint of eyes watching him from a black hallway.

Artamos smiles and fixes an exposed wrist, tugging the envelope free. A bout of silence before the door is fully open, a shadowy figure moving aside; there is not enough light out here to see their face, but Artamos thinks he caught a glimpse of scars. ''Go ahead.''

He takes back the envelope with a flat nod and walks, without a word, into the Coliseum.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, the man thinks with dry humor, footsteps echoing down the brick, gloomy passage, city of woe indeed. There was a ground-deep filth to the place that no amount of vinegar or hot water could wash away, one that sticks to the dull air and leans on his shoulder; it's a far cry from the comfort and polished marble, but one that he can appreciate for it's baseness. The briefest flash of neon is all he has for navigation to another unassuming door, one booming with barely restrained shouts; he opens it, Artamos' flickers over the giant, red-struck room, filled almost wall-to-wall with blazing faces and leather furniture. Screens, huge and colorful, spit out numbers and names that change by the second - in the corner is an overflowing bar of gleaming liquor bottles and waitresses with smudged, red eyes that watch like statues.

It smells like dried blood and perfume. Artamos supresses the urge to sneer.

He can just barely make out the raised platform where the fights must start; a crowd has already packed in around it, sharks to the smell of death. Artamos makes for the stairs instead where a few onlookers waited. He settles on the corner by the wall, off-handedly pulling out a cigarette while he waits. Fire flickers against his palm and comes to life, smoke curling towards the ceiling as he takes a drag; a gloved hand leans over the railing, idly watching the pit below. Squint and he could almost see why Gabriel blows all of his allowance on these places, low as they are. There is somethin to the excitement that even Artamos couldn't deny, the atmosphere thick with it; a few loose shouts errupt at the new names flickering on the boards, one that makes Artamos' head turn.

LOCKE VS TORRENT.

''Sir?''

The man snaps back to attention, turning to the figure right of him. A woman. Tall, brunette, eyes that have been ran dry with mascara and something altogether quiet to her. A cigarette of her own ashed from between red nail polish and a hand-held betting machine.

''Bets go here.''

Oh. Right. Artamos flickered his phone to the money tranfer app, tapping a few hundred dollars away with half a mind. Winning or losing was not why he was here, but he couldn't just stand around either. He nodded towards the vibrant screen closest to them when it went through, giving the tiniest raise of his eyebrow.

''Whoever the Torrent guy is.'' In all honesty, Artamos had no fucking idea who this man even is, but the other option would leave a bitter taste in his mouth, odds as they may be. Fights in real life are an all-together different experience from a curated internet one, and Artamos was willing to hope on some luck.

The woman smiles at that. She doesn't smile like a person that ought to smile and there was an enigmatic quality to it that he wasn't sure he liked. She handed him a physical ticket with his number on it, looking briefly towards the fighting area. Artamos couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was some meaning to it that he is missing.

''Thank you. Good luck.'' She is gone just as the crowd breaks into a chorus of noise, the voices almost deafening - he looks on just as the fighters are walking in, all sleek muscle and camera-ready smiles. Blonde hair, the face of someone used to danger, a half-bruised body; Artamos recognises the figure of Locke, just as clear as the videos on his computer. He looked even more a stalking thing in real life, entering the ring with something akin to terrifying grace. The other fighter and Artamos' lucky bet of the night was some rough sort mapped with tattoos and grinning before even stepping a foot in.

The briefest of nods exchanged. A shrill noise, announcing the start. Two fighters dropping into form and tension coiling into tight muscle.

They circle each other like animals in the devouring woods, but the fight is still over brutally fast - impatient or simply arrogant, Torrent throws the first punch that fully brings in the barely-held back violence. Like a spark bringing forth ruin the punches and kicks begin, blood flowing after a single minute - and, much to Artamos' annoyance, most of it was not from Locke. The other man fought like there was all the time in the world, dragging out the offensive in a way that had the patrons going wild. Torrent held his own ground well, striking a few nasty jabs that will bruise come tomorrow, but it obviously isn't enough - he's on the matted floor soon enough, face bloodied and another call bringing it all to an end.

Locke looks glorious and bloodied, half a man and half something that should never leave a place like this.

Artamos does not stick around long enough to see the pride that follows. He puts out the last of his cigarette on the grimy brick wall and decides to wait downstairs.

❇❈❇​

The night air is wet and cold, and sooner than later it will bring humanity inside. Not yet, though - no, for now it is still clear.

It swirled along Artamos in a freezing embrace even though his thick jacket, the side door creaking with a long protest. A single sign fights against the darkness of the night here, an alley where moths threw themselves at a miserable lightbulb and the revels of the main street were a dot at the end. The cement walls were drawn over long ago, perhaps even before the Fall and the foundations cracked at the very edges.

Artamos finds him here, alone, nursing fresh wounds and a bottle. The fighter doesn't seem to notice him at first, shirtless despite the bitter cold and gaze elsewhere; but Artamos is no idiot to not see the sharpness in it and he makes no attempt to hide his footsteps, the halo of neon flickering behind his head. Partly in shadow and partly in red he walks closer, a discreet threat echoed through every movement - he kicks at a pebble to draw attention, the smooth edges of his smile obscured.

''Good fight. I can't say I've seen one like that before.''

His voice is dark, thin. The treacherous domain of a river. The man settles on the wall opposite and leans on a stray pipe, hands sliding into his pockets. His grin widers when he catches the other's gaze, a bit too much teeth in the gesture. ''You're Locke, right?''

As if there was any mistaking it. As if Artamos has not been hunting him down for days.

As if Locke has not been doing the same in return.

''Artamos Murn.''

The sentence falls flatly beneath the buzzing of the sign and the distant humming life; it drops like a whisper and a stone in one. The man takes another cigarette out to chase away the edge, the light almost unreal in the Cimmerian night - it rests in an exposed hand, tattoo alight.

''You wanted my attention, well,'' Artamos breathes in the acrid burn. Waits. ''Now you've got it.''

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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Death is just out of his reach.

It flashes in the buildings in his side vision, a twisted face of warped desire that mirrors his own. He can feel its grasp around his neck as the tick of the speedometer continues to grow. The numbers are increasing at a rate most wouldn’t dare to travel at, but Locke finds himself chasing a thrill that doesn’t exist, breathing heavily as the steady thrum of a motor settles in his consciousness. For blissful seconds, it wipes away the stings of pain, numbing the constant physical pain. Gloved hands tighten around the handles, taking a corner at a speed he didn’t even blink at. His tires skid, screech, and he can feel his life flash in front of his eyes as he parks and dismounts.

Even if he had crashed, death wouldn’t claim him.

A crumbling building towers over him, garbage littered around the entrances, the stench of filth filling his nostril as a welcome. The gray of the brick murky against the skyline, the sky hidden by the skyscrapers, only limp light flickering in between the structures. It offers as much comfort as a dying candle, and dying it is, disappearing with the tick of the night as buildings flicker off their lights. Half abandoned, the other half lived in with rats - human and real. He hides his bike away in a nearby garage that offers the small bit of privacy that keeps it from being trashed in the morning and locks it up. There’s a pop, and another light on the street gives out with a shower of sparks, casting it into greater darkness, and Locke groans as the garage closes behind him. With how dark it is, he’ll be lucky if he survives the trip down into the basement levels of the building. Willing the interior lights to work at least, he begins the careful trek across crumbling pavement and shards of glass from alcohol bottles. Snow falling heavily around his shoulders, blurring his vision even more, snowflakes that he lets melt from his body heat settling on bleach-tormented hair.

There is no soul alive at this hour, except a drunk that can be heard singing further down the street. Piercingly off-key, and Locke toys with the idea of making his way there to shut them up, before deciding that would only cause more issues. He steps around the building, searching for the basement door in the taunting shadows of the night, and nearly slips on ice. The metal door greets him, keeps him upright at that too, cracking open and welcoming him in, and to his delight, so do the stairway lights. At least those worked, even if they flickered ominously, threatening to give out if anyone so dared to look at them. The trip to the door of his apartment goes faster then, past graffiti scrawled walls, and metal doors housing other residents.

317. Third floor down, hidden away within the depths of the earth, is his humble abode. Shreds of paper wave in the draft that Locke lets in with the opening and closing of the door. The wallpaper hangs tattered, stuck back onto the wall with pins and tape that are barely keeping the place together. Shadows twist like untethered serpents, barely kept at bay by the single light hanging over a kitchen table. It flickers, a light bulb in need of changing, and buzzes, a steady sound in the background that molds with the sound of the road heard through cement walls. It’s a windowless prison - made comfortable by rugs hanging on the walls, and fairy lights dotted throughout. It’s not their place - but it’s a home. The smell of cinnamon hangs in the air from cookies baked earlier that morning, overpowering the stench of dampness that came through the cracks in the walls, and from water that dripped from their ceiling. Locke sidesteps the garbage bag near the entrance, noting to himself that he needs to take it out, placing his helmet down carefully on a table teetering on its last breath.

It’s a few hours past midnight, and yet he can see the fluffy head of hair sleeping at the kitchen table, slumped over papers. Only the buzz of the electricity, and a stray fly can be heard as Locke moves across the living space to pause by the kitchen table to look at the sight in front of him.

In the dead of the night, his expression twists, painful fondness making him choke - rarely seen gentleness softening his features even with the piercings and bruises. A tablet off on the side of the table flashes, and Locke reaches over, tapping the screen and smiling at the scribbled notes that are proof of hours spent studying. His brother mutters something under his breath, shuffling around on the table that he’d made his bed for the night. One that Locke knows is uncomfortable, and will result in a stiff muscle in his neck in the morning if he doesn’t move him soon. A soft sigh leaves his lips, and he places the electronic device away, scooping the teenager into his arms, even with the ache in his muscles. Humming softly under his breath, he carries him through the apartment to one of the two bedrooms, giving the closed door a passing glance- a sign his mother had come home for the night.

With as much care as Locke can muster, he tucks his brother away, pulling the blanket over him and settling down on the edge of the bed until his breathing evens out again. Their time together came and went, work holding Locke’s free time in a vice grip, and refusing to let him breathe even for a moment. The dried blood smeared on his face is a reminder of the fight earlier that night, and the new bruise beginning to blossom across his chest, is the second one. An easy one, it still hadn’t been won without injuries inflicted.

Maybe tomorrow they will be able to spend time together. It’s that hope that lets him stand up, leaving behind the soft breaths of his brother, closing the door behind him even if his fingers take another second to leave the door handle.

The night is in full glory, and his exhaustion is calling him to rest, but he finds his place on the couch, laptop pulled into his lap with textbooks open on the screen. Just a few hours wouldn’t hurt, and rubbing his eyes, he begins the process of studying material that makes him grit his teeth. It’s difficult to chew through, and a few hours turn to multiple, until the shuffling outside the apartment door is the sign that the city is coming back to life. There’s the slamming of a door somewhere in the distant, and the early morning arguing of his neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Grandorf. He waits, fingers poised over the keyboard for the peak of arguing that he knows will come. Each morning at dawn like clockwork it starts with the slamming of doors, and then the usual ‘I know you cheated’ exclamations but this time around it doesn’t come. Instead, they quiet - fast.

Suspiciously fast.

Locke unfolds from his place on the couch, a curse of pain passing his lips, as he hobbles toward the door to peek outside and check on the state of his neighbors. Had the end to Mr. Grandorf came to pass? The last time he had to drag a cold body from his apartment hallway had been over a year ago, and he wasn’t in a hurry to do that again.

In all honesty, he should have expected the grab for his shirt that occurs the second he pushes open the door. Fingers close around the worn fabric, and he was yanked forward, losing his balance for the split second that would become his end if he didn’t recover and fast. Reflexes kick in, and his hand knocks away the grip, earning him a howl of pain. Thank fuck for experience. His muscles tensing, Locke slams the door behind himself and throws himself at the one that cradles their wrist. His fist goes swinging, motions coming as easy as the rise and fall of his chest. A kick at the man’s legs, and he collapses under him, and Locke goes down after, a weight clutched to his back, intent on keeping him downed. Two - no, three, are reaching out to land hits on his body, and one does. There’s no avoiding sharp jabs to his ribs and the arm that wraps around his neck, strangling him as harsh breaths brush against his ears and the back of his neck as they fight against his struggles. His breath catches, red flashing before his eyes, before he throws his weight against the wall, relying less on skill and more on brute force. Then again, and when the arm around his neck goes slack, the fight from there on is uphill. There’s fire burning through his body, aggression boiling over into the fierce need to win as he swings, a sickening crunch knocking out the second. Blood smears his knuckles, and he turns to face the third, but they are already backing up with their hands raised in mock surrender.

“We were doing our job.”

Locke tries to breathe, sharp air whistling with each attempt, hands clenching and unclenching with sharp, jerky movements that are betraying his dwindling patience. His heartbeat is still in his ears, pounding away a familiar rhythm as heat spreads through his body. Part adrenaline and part his body kicking in to heal the new assortment of bruises he had collected for the second time in the span of twenty-four hours.

“Scram.” He spits the word at the man, and the two of them fall silent, only the drip of blood from Locke’s knuckles disrupting it. The man tenses, seeming about to move forward, but the clenching of Locke’s fists stops him in his path. As it should.

“Fine, fine, fine. Just know that you need to pay up. He isn’t happy.” Their words tumble from their mouth, rushed and frantic at the sneer that crosses Locke’s face.

“Scram, I ain’t gonna be patient no more unless ya have tha' death wish. Do ya, eh?”

The pounding of their footsteps echo as they turn and flee, the sound echoing throughout the stone cold hallway underground. Locke wipes the blood off his knuckles against his pants, red nearly invisible on the black, and side-steps the bodies, letting them come to naturally as he escapes back into the safety of his apartment to continue his unending day.

❇❈❇​

If he thought his day couldn’t get worse, he would be mistaken. The sheepish smile on Nero told him a lot, to the point that he raises an eyebrow and puts down the pan where pancakes were in the process of baking. The smell had spread through the apartment and roused the teenager, who had stumbled into the kitchen with a muttered ‘good morning’ that Locke echoed back. Now that Nero was more awake, he pushes the tablet from the night before towards Locke, snatching a cooling pancake on the countertop in exchange.

Ignoring the thievery of his breakfast, Locke glances at the screen, and feels his stomach bottom out - his appetite disappearing in the process. He turns down the news that had been serving as background noise, ignoring the discussion of the explosion that had rocked a district, having originated in a Lew Lai warehouse, in favor of giving his brother the attention he deserved. Turning off the stove on the second attempt too, he tries to keep the horror out of his voice as he reads over the document that was zoomed in on the screen.

-”with the changing times, the upkeep to maintain the facilities and the state of education without increasing prices has been impossible. To continue to prioritize our student’s education, there will be a 4% increase -”

Nero gives a curt nod, muttering around the pancake, “Yeah, and I need a new headset.”

“How much is that?”

A shrug is the answer to his question, and another pancake disappears. If the growing prices, and crumbling economy was anything to go by, the headset would cost a fortune. The numbers weren’t adding up. Rubbing a hand over his face, Locke watches Nero disappear into his bedroom to get ready for the school day, and pulls out his phone to ring the only person he knew would be able to help. The ringtone went for a few seconds, the high-pitched tune making him lose his mind until the phone connects and the name Nikolas flashes on the screen.

“Aye, Nik, gimme a fight soon. Yeah, yeah, I know. Torrent is up ‘gainst who? Ace? Nah, take it. Yes. I said, take it.”

The phone call disconnects with a frustratingly loud ping, and Locke stares into space, fingers tightening around the device until they relax with the set of his eyebrows in a determined furrow.

He would make things work.

❇❈❇​

Ah shit, this would cost him.

The bottle goes flying, slamming into the wall with frightening finality. There’s the sound of glass breaking and shards finding their spot on the filth, being dirtied and losing their shine within seconds. Shattered, as the expression on the fighter’s face is.

It was spreading like rot. Like everything else in the underground, corrupting everyone’s tongues and making them far too loose. Rumors had a way of doing that, loosening people up, making them willing to sell even their soul to get their hands on secrets that dwelled within. Elysium, and drugs, clouding everyone's minds. He never wanted to hear about them, but here he was, exposed to underground gossip that was making its way around.

The fighters who had let the rot consume them stare at him in shock. “What the fuck, Locke?”

What the fuck, was the right question.

Artamos Murn. The name was now on the forefront of his mind. Another member of the Murn family, connected to Gabriel, and in deep shit. Locke crosses the room, jerking one of the fighters forward by the collar of his shirt. This was his chance, and in no way in hell was he letting it slip past his fingers.

“Tell the others - Artamos Murn is mine. Keep this info out of ya mouth.”

❇❈❇​

The rumors spread fast over the next few days - the rot making its way through the crazed members of the club. It hadn’t taken much of a push. A word here and there, and everyone was whispering under their breath that he had something on the Murn family. Specifically - Artamos Murn. Only a fool would call the Murn family to his doorstep, and for this cause, Locke was willing to be considered one. The actual details were blurry, and Locke did damage control, keeping them under wraps in his small social circle. The words wouldn’t leave the other fighters mouths either - considering they had no way to speak at that moment.

He was hoping that the rumors that he had circulated, the flames that he had fanned, would bring the man to his doorstep.

“Are you even listening?” There’s a sigh and Locke feels the source of the voice drape himself across his shoulders in worn familiarity, earning a scoff from him as he eyes Nik’s face out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t listening, considering the past few days of circulating rumors, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

“If I said I ain’t, whatcha gonna do?”

Nik peels himself away, and Locke’s head jerks forward as a light smack lands on the back of it. It didn’t hurt but for dramatics, he whines, hearing the general manager’s laughter echo in the room as he moves away to sit on the bench in front of him.

“Let’s try this again. Get your head in the game Locke. Torrent is a nasty shit, and it wasn’t easy getting this fight for you.”

The man had seen better days. Locke traces the grizzled beard lining Nik’s face with his eyes under the guise of intense focus, frowning at the gray hairs that peeked through arrogantly. The past couple of months hadn’t treated his manager well, and it was visible in the exhaustion that shined in his eyes and in the bags under his eyes. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, one that was only exacerbated by the cheers that reverberated through the building. Even if he couldn’t see the crowd, he knew the wolves were out there and waiting for him to enter the stage.

“Locke. Win. I can’t give you more. They are pressuring me.”

“When have I lost, Nik?”

❇❈❇
​

The stench of the club assaults his senses, his eyes blinking rapidly to adjust in the change of lighting. They were bright, fluorescent, directed straight at the ring that was smack in the middle of the club, lighting his body up. The noise is deafening, chants following on deaf ears, as his attention zeroes in on the man heading into the ring from the opposite end. The man flashes him a smile, too much teeth, and too much excitement for the upcoming fight, and Locke scoffs, his own smile pulling his face taunt.

He would be a fool to deny the rush of a fight. The adrenaline that set his body ablaze, burning a scorching path, like the tattoos scattered around his shoulders. He’s grinning, bouncing ahead, and with a nod and the bell he is off. They circle, eyes watching each other’s movement, and he sees the moment that Torrent loses his patience. Nik’s words echo in his mind, a reminder to take the fight slowly - to drag it out - to satisfy the sick desires of his paying fans.

Locke takes the hits, settling into a familiar rhythm, letting only the thought of the fight fill his mind. There is nothing else in those minutes. Only the sensation of flesh connecting against flesh, blood spilling, leaving trails across his skin, the monsters of the ring taking their paintbrush and painting designs across both Torrent and him. It’s bitter, the iron taste filling his mouth, swallowed down in harsh gasps as he dances around the ring. It’s an artform that is personalized to only him, smooth movements, muscles contorting in motions as he dodges and weaves, throwing out punches that find their mark. He can see the desperation coming to life in Torrent’s eyes, punches becoming more erratic, footwork failing, and Locke’s swooping in, taking the chance for finishing blows that drive the crowd insane.

Not that he can hear them anymore.

Only the blood under his nails and lining his hands is what matters in that moment. His grin is growing wider and more feral, blood rushing into his ears, and he feels free. Nothing else matters. Torrent is collapsing, and he’s on him, turning his face into a painting of gore.

There’s the piercing end of the fight, and Locke bounces back, heavy pants leaving his mouth as he raises his hands in a victory.

Again.

Please don’t let it be the last.

❇❈❇​

He had escaped the ring as soon as the crowd had let up, slipping away with practiced ease, to the bar that so faithfully awaited. “Please,” his fingers tighten around the stool in front of the bar, eyes wide as he waits for the bartender to catch his eye. She sighs, waving her hand, and he slips away with a bottle in hand, dodging fans and haters alike. The side doorway was his goal, and he is outside before anyone can catch him, slipping into the dead of night in search of recluse. Soon, he settles on the ground, moving garbage away with his empty hand and taking a burning swig from the bottle with the other. It chases away the pain, numbing it, and leaving him at the mercy of his burning skin and traitorous thoughts.

The fight rewinds in his mind’s eye, following each movement of his opponent, and he loses himself in the memories of it, staring at a pipe sticking out of the wall absentmindedly. In the background, he can hear the creak of a door, but leaves it, trusting in instincts to protect him in the face of danger. That and the deal he had made with the reapers guarding the doors of death. Even if someone had left the club through the side door, it didn’t have to be to follow him.

A pebble clatters in his direction, jerking him from his thoughts and catching his attention. It seems that it was to follow him. Locke turns his head, squints, and still can’t make out the face of the man approaching him. All he can tell is the danger that he brings, in the stride that threatens violence, in the voice that slices through the air, dropping the temperature even lower than it had already been. In the brief glimpses he catches in the neon lights, he sees eyes that hold no warmth, and a smile that shows too many teeth to be considered friendly. The man carries the air of a predator, and Locke, still sitting on the ground, feels the threat of becoming prey hanging over him.

“ ‘ppreciate it.” Even if the warning bells were going off, he would respond to the statement, deciding to pretend for the moment it was a customer.

His muscles tense unconsciously, preparing for a fight that may or may not come, as he looks upwards at the man resting against the wall opposite, the name falling between them like a stone into a lake.

So he had found him. This definitely wasn’t a customer.

“Ah. Artie then,” Locke’s voice is soft, taking the name and shamelessly contracting it to a nickname that rolls off the tongue easier. Words mesh together as he speaks, the piercings in his lips finding their way into his mouth. “I suppose I ain’t gotta introduce myself, considerin’ ya have my name and all. Ya took a longer time to appear then I would’ve reckoned it woulda taken ya.”

His words are honest, even if notes of pride slip into them. It wasn’t easy to leave a trail that was near impossible to follow, and he suspected that even with the man hunting him down to his workplace - he knew nothing more of him. Only his name and job. The GhostID and connections did their job well. It was mutual however - Artamos being as much of a ghost as he himself was.

There’s a ding, and Locke casts a fleeting look at the phone he slides out of his pocket. The holographic screen flashes to life, shifting neon colors that glitch and twist. A closer look from one would expose the malfunctioning screen that reflects in his eyes. He watches the numbers change, his expression twists into a sneer, remnants of the feral animal from the ring shining through.

The cage they had boxed him into, was continuing to tighten. Nik’s words flash through his mind, the heartfelt apologies that he was doing his best to keep his cut the same as before but there was only so much he could do. Desperation claws its way up his throat as he waves away the screen, the slashed-in-half paycheck burned into his pupils.

His chance for survival is standing right in front of him, but is it survival when it's cornering him just as much? How much did they want him to dance in their palm? Flounce around the ring, while begging for scraps to be thrown to him. The treatment of an animal - a circus animal for their entertainment.

He couldn’t roll any deeper in filth than he already was rolling. He was already at rock bottom. Locke slowly pushes himself to his feet, leaving the bottle at his feet, and leans back against the cold wall. It burns his back, a jarring contrast to his burning skin, and he hides the wince that threatens to spread across his face. The action of movement had tugged at his skin, reopening fresh wounds that lie across his chest, and pulled at the skin on the knuckles, scabs cracking open with sharp stings. Blood oozes once more, coloring the bandages red, and the difference in temperature is enough to make his body be wreathed in condensation that floats off him in thin strands. They disappear into the dead of winter, illuminated for fleeting seconds by the lone sign, twisting shades of red and purple.

There’s a lingering threat in Artamo’s words that hang between them, and Locke sizes the man up now that he’s standing at his full height. He knew what he had to do, but the words still stuck in his throat, only guided by the ticking clock in his head.

“Yeah, hadda question for ya. Ain’t ya slippin' your family's shit into your own pocket?” Locke pushes down the discomfort that he nearly chokes on, urging the words to leave his mouth with the grit of his teeth.They fall heavy from his lips, thickening the tension that hangs in the air between them. It’s teetering on the precipice of overspilling, the threat of violence present but he can’t pinpoint from who. Is it from him - his threats of dismantling the crafted world of Artamos Murn or the man itself, whose reaction he can not fathom.

Guilt threatens to overwhelm him in waves that wash over him and try to drag him back under the surface. A man, who can’t swim, who is lost at sea, is setting fire to the ship that he hopes will be his savior. A humorless smile to maintain the facade of brimming confidence tugs at his lips, and he lets it spread. “I reckon, it wouldn’t be too preferred if that info got out, eh?”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: exceedingly off-balance
location: an alley
interactions: Sear

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The ground he was standing on was perhaps not as solid as Artamos had originally thought; not with how he increasingly felt like it was about to crumble.

A flickering hint of a sign is not enough to reveal the foggy details of Locke's face, but he was just close enough now to make out something much more restrained than the mad dog barely kept leashed in the ring. No less steely, Artamos noted carefully - there was a look to the man that he did not like, too close to an animal deciding whether to bite or not. Locke watched Artamos watch him and there was no telling who was circling who.

Ah. Artie then.

Artamos' lips thinned a fraction of an inch with disgust, a gesture he quickly breaks away into a mask blank with politeness. The sound of the nickname is enough to start the first sparks of irritation - it was too much to expect to not be mocked, he supposes. People like this, greedy for opportunity, will dig into your wound for no reason at all other than they can. It is something that he's been forced to smile at over and over again, and Artamos forces down the urge to snap an insult back. He paints a dry smile over it instead, taking another drag that does nothing to ebb away the anxiety beating in the darkness of his ribcage.

A sound, then. The fighter casts a look his phone that sharpens into a threat matching his own, a shift that didn't escape Artamos' notice. The man rises from the snow-slick ground, fresh blood weeping down watercolor bruises, green and blue and a bone-deep black that must scream beneath muscle. If there is pain, Locke does not show it. He only straightens to his full height even as the bandages leak red - he is decently shorter than Artamos, but that speaks nothing of the actual strength belied beneath. That fight was not just for show and far it be from him to count a victory before he's gained it.

Artamos likes to think it gives him an advantage. He's seen what Locke is capable of, but nothing in return. His ungloved hand twitches in anticipation.

The smile stuck to his face widens into the edge of a snarl when Locke steps closer, the man's words twisting into his stomach like a predator's claws playing with a laying mouse. Artamos tries to hide the effect it has on him, all raised hackles, but even in the gloom of the alley he doubts he was able to sweep away the fear altogether. A swallow clicks over a too-dry throat, Artamos' eyes never leaving the other's - all doubts Artamos has been fostering as a replacement for hope died right there on the dirty ground, along with the control he was desperate to hold on to. He bites at the flesh of his cheek, trying to keep the sickness crawling up his spine away - the smile on Locke's smile seems mocking to him now, all the champion confidence that spilled over in the club. There was a flash of a different emotion in Locke's gaze - one Artamos was not quick enough to catch - but whatever it was, Artamos counted it as a challenge.

Of course. That is the thing with this whole elysium rumor. Locke must think he's gotten an easy grab at some money or a doubtless favor, or perhaps even a way to Leonard Murn's ear. A hand over a loaded billionaire's son raised pool side with caviar and champagne. The urge to defend himself curled heavily, raising it's unpleasant, angry head; if Locke expects him to beg or grovel, he's truly mistaken. The part of his brain that was still concerned about how this could play out begged him to keep in line, to ask for demands and bide his time until he can make a move. There is danger in too much care for yourself and Artamos knows far too well he can survive even if he is crashed to his knees.

The part of his brain that howls with all the rage of the prideful, however, makes him step forward.

Artamos tests the boundary between them, uncomfortably close to the other man; he can almost feel the boiling heat radiating off the other, staring down at him with an expression between alertness and cold stone. The tension was thick, almost choking - Artamos watched for any twitch, any movement that speaks of intent.

''And what would you want in return? Information?'' A shine then, mean and narrowed in his tone. His voice is deceptively light, inviting to step closer.

''Surely not money. Or maybe? After all,''

Artamos takes a drag of the cigarette. Leans down, far too close, to blow it right in the other's face.

''I heard all about what you're willing to do for it.''

A blow that makes Artamos grin again, even as the sharp, horrible fear stabs at his heart. He will sleep better in the following nights (because there will be nights after this) if he at least pushes back when cornered instead of submitting. And it's not like he is lying, throwing an arrow in the darkness - Locke's reputation preceded him, stretching like a long scream. Stealing others' fights, taking bribes, throwing games; not everyone is as impressed with Locke's behavior as his fans are. Artamos has dug deep enough to have stumbled on the harsh words, the rants taking up entire forums. Gabriel practically tears the whole house down when his picks lose again.

'The Entertainer' is both an insult and a title caught in blood, and there is no mistaking which one Artamos means.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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Please forgive him for this.

The guilt is slamming into Locke, the flicker of fear that had slipped past Artamos’ walls of stone not going unnoticed by him. If there is a god above, he prays to it, hoping that the lines he is crossing are forgiven. Blood continues to drip onto the snow-slicked ground below his feet, and he wonders if the trail he is leaving behind himself with each word and step forward is as bloody as the snow now. Once so clean, it’s been trodden upon and destroyed, turned into a shell of the beauty it had once been. The blood that spills tonight, will be gone in the morning, washed away by time he decides, along with the guilt.

Which continues to crawl up, turning his words into something nasty beyond belief, a knife he didn’t wish to wield, yet he clutches at it like a dying man. If there was a hell below, he prays to it, hoping the suffering he puts others through will come back to haunt him for eternity. Banished from the realm of the dead, and dead to the land of the living, he knows there is no forgiveness for a man such as him. Even if he wishes to drop the knife that this secret is, shared between the two of them under a flickering sign, it has molded to his hands.

How dare he turn the same weapon that had sliced his family apart against a man - a stranger even - to harm him? He’d stood by and watched as it had turned humans into skeletons, left to rot in the streets, claimed by the horrors created in labs. The poison's mortality turned to were a fate he didn’t wish upon anyone. How could he - when he had been forced to admit defeat in the face of temptations that he couldn’t overcome for the sanity of another.

Artamos steps closer, and the light falls upon the man’s face, framing it and exposing the budding snarl, and Locke has to swallow back down an apology that threatens to erupt from within him. All he can do is hold onto fraying strands of fury that originates from a place of hurt born from years of rolling in the filth. It will be his strength and his downfall, but not tonight, even with the two of them circling each other. All they lack is the ring and the bell signaling the start of a fight.

They are probing one another, eyes locked in a battle of wills, under the settling night that has draped its arms over their shoulders. Artamos has moved uncomfortably close, testing boundaries, and Locke can’t tear his eyes away, drawn into the upcoming battle. Internal pleas echo within to his own will to not fail him in this moment, as acrid smoke is blown into his face. It swirls, turning his vision murky and slipping into his eyes, causing sharp stings that cause him to blink rapidly, trying to recover from the action before the next blow.

It comes.

''I heard all about what you're willing to do for it.''

He wishes it had been physical. Locke flinches, eyes widening beyond his control and the realization settles over him - the winter that surrounded him finally breaking through to freeze the blood within his veins. There was no one that knew his reputation better than him, and there is only one thing he can think of that would deem such an insult. A question flashes in the front of his mind, of how Artamos knew, before the hatred and hurt take over. They collide, one fighting the other for dominance as they cloud his vision, and Locke sucks in a whistling breath that only brings with it more smoke. The taste settles in his lungs, robbing him of the ability to breath - a thief that had snuck within in the midst of the night.

Of course. Of course it would continue to follow him. The ground threatens to give out below his feet, and he can feel himself reeling, attempting to recover from the blow that was digging itself into his chest, and refusing to release him.

A second passes. Then another. There is no witty response coming to him, even as he scrambles for one. All he remembers is hands clawing at his body, entangled in his hair under street lights. It would never leave him, a stain on his body he couldn’t wash off. Disgust crawls up his body, and he swallows hard, then again, wondering if he was going to be sick. The hatred wins over the hurt, sparks flying as the tension breaks between the two of them from seeing the grin that had spread across Artamos' face.

“Ya’ fuckin’ -” His hand snakes out, fingers tightening around the collar of the man, turning white from the pressure they are under. Words are failing him, but his actions won’t, and he falls back to instinct. The difference in height is felt, but brute strength wins, and Locke twists around and slams Artamos against the wall he’d been leaning on just mere minutes ago. Blood smears across the charcoal black suit, and Locke invades the man’s personal space; getting into his face, a sneer splitting his face.

“Ya actin’ awfully bold in my territory. How’re ya any better? Don't’ make me laugh. I ain't the one a slave to my vices.”

A lie if he had ever heard one.

His hand tightens around the man’s collar, and his other hovers, waiting - prepared. A threat of restrained violence. A fist tightly clenched; a sign of a battle he was quickly losing against the desire to let blood run.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: victorious and terrified
location: an alley
interactions: Sear

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Artamos had all but begged for a reaction, and yet he only had time enough to brace himself before he is slammed against the brick wall, head snapping painfully and all the air pushed out of his lungs.

He caught only a glimpse, the unexplainable expression that blazed over Locke's face like a wildfire devouring a city; shock and a startling amount of hurt, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it glimpse of a hidden wound. Locke looked more a man stabbed than one whose pride has taken a fall, but rage darkers over whatever loose stone Artamos has grazed over. It burns through the hands at Artamos' collar and the snarl promising something giving in, burns through the still-warm blood seeping through the back of his suit. Locke is all the person he was back in the ring, right before he uttered the final blow that made Torrent kneel. The other man's fist ready to break matched Artamos' ungloved hand, waiting to seep away a life, both of them waiting for the signal to start.

Artamos' back might be bruised tomorrow. As it is, he matched Locke's rage inch by stormy inch, glaring back into the eyes that stared into his. Artamos' hand - gloved - scrambled for purchase on Locke's tense wrist, squeezing with force. It was easy to pretend he is not terrified, stomach bubbling with frozen anxiety, when there is a person that you can pretend is not in control. Whether Locke is truly so obsessed with his own reputation or didn't expect to be talked back to, Artamos has found a spot to dig his fingers into and he knows every knife is worth twisting twice.

He lets out a laugh, mean and deride and mocking in a way that might get his nose broken in. He pushes at Locke's shoulder with no true expectaction for the man to move, the freezing wall leaking into his skin and the sign flickering in the impact like a light house.

''I'm the one that's bold? You're the one trying to blackmail me.'' There was a hint of the fury twisting just beneath the calm, rising with every twitch of fear. ''Considering how well-known you are, I would have thought you were set for money.''

Something followed the words 'well-known', something that tried to break into whatever soft spot Artamos kicked on accident before; it was a stupid hope, he knows, one that he couldn't count on too much. If there truly was a payment for his secret, Artamos would gladly pay it - that's not the problem here. But if there was proof, one that Locke could spread even with blood-paid millions in his checking account...

The thought made Artamos want to scream.

He doesn't know who spread it. WIshler was useless and now rots for it, but Locke is a different sort altogether and it might just be the match to Artamos' dried hay panic. Pride will only get him so far before the water starts to rise -

and if Artamos is honest with himself, he can feel it at his knees already.

''Maybe you should just go and entertain, then. Your fellow fighters say you're good at that.'' The man spat, a triumphant edge to his words. The truth always hurts more than any falsehood can, and the truth here is repeated by every mouth involved in the dark underbelly of the world. There are only so many times a person can look away when a fighter keeps swooping into fights or straight up steals the night from under another's nose - no matter how good you are, each thrown fight or fake loss or stolen money is remembered, and no one is forgetting how often Locke has done it.

A few whispers can be enough to burn a kingdom to the ground, after all.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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What monster has he pinned, dared to lay his hands upon, and even threaten with desperate measures. There’s a nagging fear beginning to spread, take root and blossom in sharp thorns that impale deep within with each breath that he takes. Pinned, Artamos is just as unyielding, a cornered animal with eyes flashing with fury that curled underneath and Locke's fist wavers, but does not drop. The realization beginning to set in as Locke held the stare, staring into depths unimaginable of a hatred born to destroy.

He’d made a mistake.

This was not a force he could reckon with, and even with the man still shoved against the walls of the alley, it does not feel to Locke as if he has cornered Artamos. It is him, who has been torn to shreds, each and every festering wound revealed to the night sky. They sting, sting, so sharp that his confidence continues to crumble underneath his feet. Each word, each laugh, that leaves Artamos’ mouth goes to twist deep within the rib cage where Locke’s heart continues to pound for now. Their venomous quality, a sickly poison that continues to consume what had been confidence, and is now rage left sputtering on fumes.

-well-known-

A hiss escapes from thinned lips, and Locke slams the man once more against the wall in a flash of rage, fearing the spreading chill through his veins. This wasn’t the ring, and he can’t get away with leveling the man’s face with the wall, but the reminder that his reputation is at stake is escaping him. He’d never been in control from the start, and whatever power he could hold over the man’s head was slipping through his fingers; sand from an hourglass that had long since shattered, predicting his approaching defeat.

“I was jus’ makin’ money.” Even his own words sound pathetic to his own ears, but the need to defend himself curls around the festering wounds, skipping past true accusations of blackmail. Protection that is deemed futile, letting acidic words skip past so hastily thrown-up defenses. His eyes widen, and the crumbling confidence vanishes, replaced by fear that crawls up his throat and floods his mouth and fear is not one something can rely on. It is a treacherous bastard, throwing a wrench into plans crafted days before.

It has finally taken root and blossomed. It has spread throughout his body, invading each of his senses and muddling any voice of reason that could have existed previously. He was terrified, a sensation as foreign to him as grasping the stars within his palms. It stabs at his composure, slipping past their twisted snarls in the night that are reflected within the flickering light. How far has Artamos dug to uncover secrets best left untouched? How deep has the man stepped into the rot to bring to life the knife he now wields against Locke? Questions that Locke does not have answer to.

So he watches, fear-stricken, unable to tear his eyes away from the man who holds the key to his defeat.

“I-,” his words fail him, swallowed by the night, and he finds himself scrambling for any sort of reaction. He knows of the title resting across his shoulders, of the name that has been gifted to him by insult-spitting and loving mouths alike. Yet, the blood that it’s tainted with, comes from beyond days in the ring and he does not know which entertainment Artamos refers to.

There is no difference. No matter which form of entertainment, bringing to life shady nights in hotel rooms and slippery deals made with only greed in mind, will tear down the foundation he's so carefully built. There was nowhere to run, only The Coliseum his chance for survival, but even they’d desert their famed fighter if things came to light.

The gods had a cruel way of toying with his life, and begging phrases died within his mouth. His fist comes down instead, missing the man that toyed with his life so, and flesh meets stone. Knuckles burn from the impact, skin that split once more a reminder that even a human body can withstand only so much. Just as blood springs to life on dirtied bandages, the want for answers bubbles up, driven by the need for money, but those die within too. It will all die within, cradled by his burning desperation.

Desperation which, a fearsome monster, turns him into a puppet at its will. It has driven him to stand in front of a burning wildfire of rage, and now it drives him to step back from earning burns that would never heal, tugging and pulling at his will until his hands shake and he listens, jerking free a wrist held by gloved fingers.

There’s the soft scrape of his feet against stone as he lets the distance grow, a gaping chasm that he hopes no soul will cross. Certainly, a soul, the man in front of him lacks.

“I ain’t askin’ for ya money. I don’ need it,” a swallow down past a too-dry throat, joining the twisting anxiety that now drives him insane as he attempts to salvage from the ruins of this conversation. “Jus’ your help.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: victorious and terrified
location: an alley
interactions: Sear

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Artamos has stumbled on something. What, he does not know, but he feels it in the way Locke slams him against the wall.

A barely-supressed hiss snaps out at the sting, fighting against the wild strength that kept the other man's hand steady - this was no half-hearted gesture his father's thugs use to scrabble over money. There was a stink to Locke's eyes that made sweat drip down his neck, the sting of an animal that is deciding whether to return the favor. He watches with surreal interest as Locke jumps from leashed, boiling rage to the open fear as if he is the one pinned to a wall, a mix of terror and something unreadable staring back at Artamos. Locke looks at once ready to tear out his throat and plead for his life, ferocious and meek in a way that baffles Artamos into silence.

The confidence (the facade?) crumbles. What it leaves behind is far more uncertain.

A thought pops into Artamos' head - one that almost makes him laugh with how absurd it is - that this might be the first time the other man has tried his hands at blackmail. Or maybe, he didn't really want to go along with this, save for some unknown desperation. The cringing hesitation, the release of Artamos' suit, the odd way he glanced down as if suddenly unable to bear another's eyes. It was such a stark contrast from whatever he was back in the ring that it took a moment for Artamos to straighten his back, slick with blood.

He can't help the peal of laughter that escapes when Locke steps back, even if Artamos does not find it that funny.

At once he is a resemblance of calm, the screaming panic dropping back beneath the surface. He is still afraid, there is never a moment where he is not, but control seems to settle back into his hands like a clingy cat and he is glad of it. It is easy to pretend he was not shaking a heartbeat before when there is one even more terrified at whatever he thinks Artamos holds. Questions linger at the back of his skull, ones that he promises to investigate further - but he is nothing if not ready to pretend he truly is the boogeyman Locke seems to jump at. The possibility of simply knowing about the curse dies as quick as any soul does; if the fighter had known about it, he would have to be stupid or overly bold to grab Artamos as he did. Although...

Locke does act like both.

Artamos stares. Stares. Says nothing.

Black-devoured eyes glance over every nervous click in Locke's throat, every shifted gaze. The anger from before packs itself into a quiet, prying expression, one that flickers in between shadow and light. His footfall resounds in the suddenly stifling alley, creeping closer to the other man half like the stalking of prey and half confused observation. I don’ need it, Locke mumbles almost too low, jus’ your help. Artamos lets out a hum that is loud even to his own ears, eyebrows stitching together.

People do not come to him for help. They ask others for help digging Artamos out of their heel.

''My help.'' His voice is low. Hushed. He has the urge to tap his finger against a desk. ''For what?''

Hook, line, sinker.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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The laughter that Artamos releases echoes through the alley, and Locke’s teeth find his piercings once more, tugging at his lip in a helpless gesture. Bitterness floods his mouth, twisting his expression into one of disgust at himself, urging forward frustration from being forced into this. The laughter feels mocking, throwing salt into his wounds, made to feel Locke even smaller then he already does. Of course it’s funny to Artamos. He should have been able to deal with the situation himself and not stoop so low as to face Artamos.

Except he hasn’t been able to, and here he was instead, pinned under the man’s eyes, the intensity scorching as Artamos seems to take each piece of him apart and examine it under the light. For what reason, he did not know, but he knew he was making it far too easy for the man to come to conclusions. His face never was able to hide his expression, shifting emotions flickering across it as he lowered his head, watching the footsteps approach. What wouldn’t one pay Locke imagined to see the sight that was occurring - The Entertainer cornered. Being forced to ask for help. Having even gone as far as lowering his head.

It was pissing him off. It was terrifying him. It was driving him insane, muddling his brain from the unknown of it all. His fingers twitch in anticipation, in the barely restrained desire to defend himself from the incoming threat, but he doesn’t move, even if he cringes away from Artamos and teeters on the edge of taking a step back. For what? The question hangs between them, one beat, then another, it continues to go unanswered.

A lump lodges in his throat, blocking words from coming to his rescue as he tries to figure out how to even phrase the answer without revealing too much. So much has happened - too much even - and mentioning his mother would be a death sentence for his family. Or maybe it already was, and he hasn’t yet realized that this man was the reaper that he’d summoned to his doorstep.

Well, not that death could claim him.

Think. Think. The pads of his fingers roll the blood-stained wrappings on his knuckles and wrists in between them, and he glances up to look at Artamo’s face, before dropping back down to staring at a point elsewhere - unable to deal with the pressure the man emanates now that his expression was one of calm. It is stifling, on the end of the worst he's ever felt. Think - but his brain has stuttered to a stop, exhaustion and pain and emotions bubbling up and he feels the tell-tale prick in his eyes. Fuck that.

In the end, he exhales a trembling sigh and steps back and away from Artie to lean against the wall. Keeping an eye on the man, he bends down to find the neck of the bottle he had deserted there previously, and straightens back up to his height with it in hand. A swig, chasing away the fear and hatred in one to leave behind the bone-deep exhaustion. Liquid courage they say. It assists with the job, steadying him enough to answer the question.

“In gettin’ ya fam off my ass,” he swallows hard and mirrors the hushed tone that Artamos was using. “I’m indebted to ‘em.”

There it was. The admission of debt. It seeps out his energy, and he takes another drink. The truth was now out there, or as close as it can be to it at this moment. It looms, reminding him of the failure he was committing. He should have been able to deal with things himself. The thought to run away from it now crosses his mind, and he looks up, eyes flickering over Artie’s face in desperate attempts to glean anything. Just anything that he can use, but there is nothing. Blue of the sea meeting black, and the abyss stares back. If there was one thing the man knew how to do, it was to maintain a mocking mask of calm.

Fuck, he wants to unsettle him as much as he felt thrown off balance, but he's long lost whatever edge he had in the beginning.

“Ain’t a debt that can be paid off with money. Though I’ve tried.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: victorious and terrified
location: an alley
interactions: Sear

scroll

In gettin’ ya fam off my ass. I’m indebted to ‘em.

Ah. That's the nightmare sitting on Locke's chest.

Half the city is desperate to repay his dad. If not though the company's less than honest investments, then though their drug runners and loan sharks, searching for the fragile and downtrodden. If Locke simply made a bad deal - and there are a lot of bad deals in this town - or fallen into blurry, mind-numbing lines, Artamos couldn't tell. But what he could tell is that he was awfully nervous about something, and Artamos is all to willing to take advantage of it.

'You're out of luck,' He wants to sneer, 'My family would skin me alive if I asked them to drop it.'

Artamos does not say that. He says nothing at all.

This confrontation didn't go how Artamos expected it would, still awe-struck at how he went from being slammed up against the grime of a wall to seeing the fighter crumble like Rome under fire. That's a sight all those deep-web streams would pay for, he thinks - seeing the man that could not be more hated and adored lose all the single-focused bloodthirst, exposing something raw and squirmy when poked. Artamos knew not whether he wants to stomp on it or dissect it with the loving care of an entomologist - as it was, he's got the feeling Locke is going to listen to whatever he says.

He steps closer, uncomfortably so, and pulls out his phone.

It pings with a number request and he tucks it back in, giving a bland smile - Locke will accept it if he truly wants to make a deal and he's not worried about his burner phone. ''Don't call me. I'll call you.''

Artamos has the nerve to give the other man's shoulder a faux-friendly squeeze, taking a step to the right. The life outside grew louder and his mind was churning over the new found opportunity; he'll let Locke wallow in whatever corner he'll find to cry in, until he's got something concrete to offer. ''Hold your horses, yeah?''

Another pat on the shoulder, too friendly to be genuine and Artamos walks off into the night, not turning to see if Locke watches him leave or not.

He's got some phone calls to make and New York never cares to wait.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: shitty and suspicious
location: the office
interactions: Sear

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''You gotta be fuckin' kidding me.''

Searing metal twitched against itself, mechanical joints glitching from software bugs or hardware problems or an 'unforeseen' mix of both. The catch-dog yapped at air, growled at nothing, gave alarm before dropping it a second after and the assembling table shook with each one of its dual-toned howls. Even when Taurus deactivated it, the robot still slammed against the surface like a surgery patient fighting anesthesia. A first run is expected to have a rock or two in the works, but not literally.

''You're joking.'' Taurus gave Abispa a side-stare, as if they could somehow account for the bullshit he is about to witness. ''You're not joking.''

Abispa, all smug by the AC and always with a hint of a smirk on their face, shrugged their shoulders. They were the one who dragged the stuttering catch-dog in, but Taurus is the one forced into the stifling proximity of overheating machinery - he's the one who gets to complain, they're here to agree and feel glad about wearing short sleeves under their jacket.

''Maybe it has performance anxiety.'' Abispa said happily, taking another sip of much needed coffee.

Taurus slid open the chest guard, looking over wires and lifeless organs in pure bafflement and almost wonder. A carefully gloved hand digs through the catch-dogs' electrical arteries, bones, muscles - components mocking biology, sizzling in the dark chamber of thrice-layered armor. The issue whistles with focused power, a micro-chip half the size of a nail - Taurus' face goes flack with recognition, the sheer width of the stupidity presented stealing away words. He gently pinches the chip out of its leeching place, throwing it to a box struggling to fit all abandoned pieces.

''It's Tartarus Adjacent.'' Taurus starts, voice blank from disbelief. ''Why the fuck would they make it Tartarus Adjacent.''

It was too hot in here. Sweat stuck to his skin even with only a thin tank top on, the hollow of his throat uncomfortably damp - outside it might be dead of winter, but the robotics tent swam like the distance on a boiling highway. The man wiped his forehead as the catch-dog slipped back into artificial consciousness, limbs and head fixing into deadly precision. Taurus settled the robot down on the ground with a quiet grunt, eyes half-lid in interest. Software flashed to life behind it's empty gaze, a blinding red that paused on Taurus - paused and watched, teeth that Taurus has seen amptutate grown men sliding from rubbery gums.

It paused for a tense silence and flashed green. Taurus straightened to his full height and pointed out the half-open flaps, whistling.

''Off you go, then. Patrol.''

The catch-dog ran out as soundlessly as the snow falling outside. Abispa stretched out their neck to follow with their gaze - the sound of shouting and commands filled Point Devon, soldiers stomping in and out of warehouses, tents, steel buildings. Deployment awaited only two days away.

''They seriously made it Adjacent?'' Abispa asked, raising a dark eyebrow; their fatigues shimmered with reflective cells, taking on the tent green in a retina-burning shine. A button click away from whispering into invisibility. Taurus crashed on a nearby plastic chair, desperately convincing his body to cool down.

''It's like they forgot we're gonna be in the middle of nowhere. Can't update with Tartarus in the wastelands.'' He said with no small amount of annoyance, cheeks flushed. That's the problem with these things - they all rely on Tartarus like a crutch and not a tool, sending in robots that can't exist in a world outside of it. As if their squads are going to update the new models in the middle of radioactive, swelling fields, in horizons that bring sickness to those that can't afford life.

The no-man's-land New York City's people are willing to kill over.

Taurus was looking for the cup of tea he stashed away somewhere when the radio at his hip buzzed to life not even a moment after, making him shut his eyes with the effort to barely contain a sigh; Abispa only gave a knowing smile that did nothing to help, seeming quite serene as Taurus tore it out the holster.

''Taurus. Report. Taurus.''

''I'm here.'' The man drawled, stretching weary legs in preparation.

A familiar voice on the other line paused, so intertwined into his life that he has dared to dream it.

'The General is looking for you.''

A click and the line goes dead. Taurus pauses. Pauses in the seat and does not turn green, but gives Abispa a look of silent searching. The sniper's expression was just as openly curious as Taurus felt, chin raising, and neither of them felt the need to say a single word. His gear is warm under his fingers, but Taurus changes easy and gives Abispa a bump that brings a smile.

Outside, the snow has gotten worse. Taurus follows along the catch-dogs' footprints as he jogs.

***​

The office's windows blurred with condensation, the harsh New York winter having no hold in the pale browns here. Pure militarism carved the furniture and arranged it simply, corners accounted for and weapons hidden from untrained sight. Cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling in long, acrid snakes, dancing in the dim light of energy saving efforts. The gas mask filters second-hand smoke, but not the way General Stefson was staring through the wall of gray. Old, sharp features danced in and out of reality, there and not like the dream-monsters ancient Greeks saw when they slept.

Taurus stands with square shoulders and put-away hands. Says nothing.

General Stefson does. A voice worn with chronic smoking and no need to talk.

''Your skill hasn't gone unnoticed, private.'' Another puff filled the gap between them. ''You've never failed a mission. Your field report is outstanding.''

Expectaction, dark and purring, dared to poke into the flesh of his heart - Taurus didn't beat it away, only giving a respectful 'thank you, sir.' The general continues as if he had said nothing at all, a gloved hand cutting through;

''I wouldn't have called you in here if there was any doubt about your abilities. You see, things are about to change around here, and I need a face I can trust.''

The General leans over the shining black table, hands folding with unspoken intent that Taurus watched closely. A beat of silence followed, a silence so heavy it could choke, and the older man smiles, lips tugged by a ragged scar.

''I'm asking you, Taurus, if I can trust you.''

There was something in the words that gleamed like glass in the high desert, there and now it's gone - the glimpse of a snake in the grass that slithered away and is no longer a threat. Taurus licks his lips, gone unseen under the mask. ''Of course, sir.''

General Stefson watched him for a moment; whatever he saw in Taurus satisfied him, nodding to the guard-glass by the side door. ''Bring it in.''

A chatter of movement errupted behind the closed steel door, a hushed voice murmuring a sentence too low to hear; it sounded like a bat thrashing against a cage, footsteps following in twin sounds. Finally, it creaked open, in stepping a harrassed-looking guard and -

A person. Taurus felt at once as if he was the one that walked into the wrong room, whatever hope he had lagging like a shit streaming service.

The man blinked. Blinked once more, just to make sure his brain wasn't playing tricks in the gloom. But no, it was a person - half his size, wrapped in red-struck bandages, black hair. Eyes completely blank, gliding over sensation with such a stomach-twisting familiarity it made Taurus take a step back.

( - fire, endless fire, Io calling out for him but it's late, always too late - )

There's no fucking mistaking that stare, the way the person's face was slack with too much sedation and too little humanity. Panic at once thrashed in Taurus' chest like a pigeon throwing itself against a pane of glass, but he pulled back enough calm to not react - he only gave the General a stare, demanding an explanation without words.

''Now, I know your history regarding... Biological weapons, if we call them that. But this one isn't like the ones you saw on the field, private.''

Taurus relaxes a jaw he didn't even know he was clenching, throat unveiling to allow words. ''...What are they doing here?''

Another scar-split smile, as if the question was expected. ''It's only an A rank BOW, stand down. Only one of our soldiers that went under surgery recently and is still recovering.''

Some of the tension rolled out of his muscles at that, even as memories threatened to play the moment he lets loose the reins of control. If the person heard them talking, they gave no reaction - their head rolled like a puppet's, no real purpose. Whatever sedation they were under, it must be some heavy shit. Their pupils were dilated enough to devour color and light, staring blankly ahead. The nameless guard held them upright, hand clenching bruises into their arm.

''And you want me to take care of them.'' Taurus says flatly, glancing away from the living-dead-soldier to the General.

''Only for a while. It shouldn't be a problem, it's very docile.'' Ashes fell from the cigarette to the desk, the older man giving the soldier a look that Taurus couldn't really explain. It. ''In fact... see, it's waking up.''

Stirring. Something inside nothing. It was eerie to watch consciousness be born anew, like putting on a piece of clothing or snapping out of a daydream - there was still a laden quality to each and every movement, but the person was looking more aware by the second. Taurus gave them a wary stare, a stark contract to the General's analytical one.

''Well, Mephitis? How are you feeling?''

Mephitis. Not a name. Fuckin' BOWs.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

MEPHITIS.

holy water cannot help you now,

thousand armies couldn't keep me out

the weapon

and what has been done cannot be undone

seven devils

— florence

mood: muddled mind
location: the office
interactions: mother of sorrows

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“I don’t want to hurt you, you know that right? It’s all for your good.”

A lie. A lie. A lie - or was it? Confusion wells, the source of the voice washing over Mephitis with unbearable familiarity and no face to it. It was blurry, edges smeared, someone having taken an eraser to each detail and destroyed any recognition with brutal finality. All that was in clarity was the slow spin of a key, spun around the voice’s finger, as they stared down at them. It flashed in the dim lighting with each spin, the metal tarnished from use, not breaking rhythm with each sickly sweet word.

“Now, we wouldn’t want you to go back there would we?”

The key flashed again, dim lighting through dusty particles reflecting in their eyes. Mephitis searched for their voice, for a response to give, but their voice was gone from use - a singular wretched gasp escaping as they struggled.

Fingers slick with blood dug into the concrete of the ground, nails scrabbling for purchase as crimson stained everywhere the eye could touch. It continued to drip down from where leather bit into their skin bitterly, and a soft tsk echoed in the dying light at their fading struggles.

“Let’s try this again.”

This time around, Mephitis tasted iron.

❇❈❇​

They woke to silence, a gasp dying in the clench of their throat, body shuddering from the mere noise. Noise of what.

The noise of their own gasps, echoing in the emptiness of the room and resounding back, engulfing Mephitis with the hunger of a starved beast. It was so hungry, so hungry, desperate to see them come undone and come undone they did. Curling in on themselves until the imprint of the bedsheets existed in the palm of their hand and the sheets stuck to their body from the dampness of the sweat.

They stayed in that pose, tightened in on themselves until their muscles ached, chasing each breath with feverish frenzy. Each one whistling as it was pushed through cracked lips, screaming lungs welcoming each inhale, and then they could feel their stomach twist and turn and threaten to upheave.

Somehow they find themselves white knuckling the toilet before the taste of acid assaults the back of their throat.

The voice continues to echo in their mind, even when in the next bout of recognition they find themselves leaning over the sink and splashing water over their face. Cold droplets rolling down their face, chasing one another down their neck and into the damp collar of their shirt, easing back the echoes. With the passing of the night, so did the voice, and they glance upwards into the reflection of themselves - the liberty of a self-deprecating smile pulling at their face -

and it continues to grow.

Continues to stretch in the mirror, corners of its lips tearing to leave strands of flesh that hang dangling in a bloody gaping maw.

Their smile dropped, and the creature in the mirror kept smiling.

❇❈❇​

When the knock on their door sounded, Mephitis had been sitting on the edge of their cot for the past hour, rolling around the bottle in their hand, listening to the clink of dwindling medication absentmindedly. They were fully prepared for the day ahead, dressed in the light gear provided to them, a gas mask hanging around their neck in preparation of being donned.

The light from the fluorescent light caught the transparent bottle, the emptiness within, the tumbling pills as they twisted from side to side. A twist removed the cap and they dumped out another one onto the palm of their hand, letting it go down dry in a practiced movement as the door was slammed open.

“What a shitshow.”

A guard swiftly entered, another one left at the doorway, and Mephitis unfolded from their place on the edge, mask firmly fixed upon their face and bottle slipped away to an inside pocket housing both a journal and it.

“General Stefson has ordered your presence.”

When the guard speaks, an empty stare meets their words, black eyes staring unblinking. It’s when one moves closer there is finally a reaction. Their eyes flicker to the distance between the two, and then it's split in half as the tension breaks.

Mephitis grasped for the man’s arm, yanking them forward with coiled strength that erupted, twisting them around to press a forearm to their throat. They struggle once, twice, and then still, fearfully frozen in the wait of their next step

A step they would have taken, if not for the dig of a needle that finds its way into their skin.

A exhale escapes them, along with a curse, their hold loosening. “Shit.”

A singular blink, eyes flitting from the guard in their grasp to the needle in their arm, before their consciousness was tugged back under with terrifying speed.

❇❈❇​

By the time they feel themselves coming back, it’s from the screech of the door that grates on their nerves. Tight fingers around their arm keep them moving forward, each step heavy and stumbling. Thoughts slither in and out of their mind, sluggish, barely registering in their mind, bringing forth the suspicion that the dose had been increased. They attempt to hold onto that idea, but it is gone as fast as it came and they can feel themselves still with a harsh yank on their arm.

Somewhere through the fog, words came muffled, slowly coming into focus as time ticked on. A recognition of the rank they were - A? They would have laughed, if it was not for the pressure pushing down onto their mind.

Thoughts continue to dance in and out of their reach, slowly steadying, allowing them to hold onto them with greater luck. The room swimming into focus, and with it the question that had been directed in their direction through the haze.

How were they feeling?

No one asked that with heartfelt intentions.

A lie, a lie -

Wariness twists within their ribcage freely, and with it so does the rage. It rises from the depths where it had been held, tethered down by mind-muddling substances, and then it snaps with the force of a caged animal.

The guard didn’t have time to react.

Dulled reflexes, movements laden with sedation, and yet they still had the upper hand from the element of surprise. The fingers tight on their arm are pulled off in a sharp movement, their body slipping behind the guard to slam a foot into the back of his knees to bring him to the ground.

A beat of silence. The office hung in balance, the thump of the guard being slammed into the ground having threatened the existing dynamic.

Not for long.

“Mephitis, stand down. ” A heated warning exists in the barked command, carrying with it the full force of authority that their superior had. Was this General Stefson? The flickered gaze they had sent across the man's face hadn't rung any bells, but it wouldn't have had even if they recognized him.

Slowly Mephitis straightened out, leveling the General (or who they assumed was the General based on the older man leaning over the table) with a blank stare and then the other man in the room, with an even more flat stare. It took a tilt of their head to stare them down, but it was done, even with the noticeable height difference. A man of mystery; no ability on their end to discern any expression under the gear that covered them head to toe. Only the power contained within was gleaned, and intrigue flashed deep within for the soldier soon to be paired with them or so they assumed.

And in the name of intrigue, there were no lines they weren’t willing to cross. Tension left their shoulders forcefully, and their hands came to rest behind their back from habit. They would - they could - play along with whatever plan the General had hatched for the moment.

The sharp look shot in their direction from the General told them that their behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed, but the man was too weathered with time to reveal any of his thoughts in his expression, only another scar-split smile tugging at his face.

“Mephitis was confused in the brief moment of waking up. Correct?”

Mephitis kept themselves from reacting except for a stray finger twitch behind their back, a stiff ‘yes, sir’ leaving their lips in recognition of their own confusion.

Satisfied or tolerating them for the moment, with the latter most likely, General Stefson turned his attention to the other man in the room.

“It won't be a problem anymore.”

Well, they would see about that, but the tongue that skipped over the sharp edges of their teeth as a smile tugged at their lips was concealed.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: shitty
location: the office, room
interactions: Sear

scroll

The BOW is calm. Until they are not.

Taurus snaps his gun out the moment Mephitis lunges, though not for him - the guard turns into a captive with one firm, well-placed kick that sends him stumbling to his knees, disturbingly fast even with the sedation lagging their reactions. Their eyes blazed wild, an animal flashing teeth; cornered and ready to bite off their leg to spare the body. No sense. Only instinct. Taurus is about to make for their neck when the general's voice cuts out, dropping the sudden aggression like cutting the string off a doll. The BOW's hands go back to rest behind their back and the unnatural stillness replaces whatever broke out their skin.

The soldier stares down the weapon, at once deeply uncertain about what he's just been called in to do.

He plays off the adrenaline and beaten-in instincts as he stuffs the gun back into its holster, though his stiff shoulders betray his alertness. It wasn't unusual for people to lash out after surgeries, especially not with BOWs where all the wires in their heads overcross - but the blatant display of inhuman speed put an uncomfortable hole in his stomach, one that squirmed at the thought this was only a fraction of it. The attacked guard stumbled to his feet, looking off-balance in more ways than one, and Taurus gazes back to his General with some hesitation. General Stefson's words sounded more placating than reassuring.

''I shouldn't have to tell you you're not the only one who wants that promotion, private.'' Stefson's face is intent. The meaning is clear without any need for more words.

Do this, or give up.

Taurus gains some sinister premonition that somehow, in a way he doesn't quite understand, he's been fucked over. He shifts in his gear with the rising suspicion, giving Mephitis a stare that translates as a shift of his mask. Why base his promotion on something as simple as watching over an A rank until they heal? He's done it before, in the now and then chances that one is dropped in for missions, but an A rank is a little more than a regular soldier with fancy tricks. They could have gotten anyone to do it.

Uncertainty rings bells in the back of his mind, but he nods anyway. ''Yes, sir.'' Then, ''How long are they expected to heal, sir?''

The General smiles. ''A month or two. You know how intense these surgeries are.'' The older man clicks open a cabinet and pulls out a tiny box, fingerprint locked and meant for a place more sterile than this. ''You might need to use sedatives if it's in pain.''

Stefson gives a wave with the still-smoking hand and Taurus removes a black glove, pressing a finger to the tiny screen. It flares, burning Taurus into his memory - it slips into his hip pouch easy enough.

''Where will they be located, sir?'' The man asks, partly due to dull curiosity and partly due to a sneaking suspicion, one that's confirmed with a single, scarred smile. You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. No.

''We can trust you to be with them all twenty-four hours, can't we, private?''

Taurus' lips squeezed together. Still he nodded. ''Of course, sir.''

The BOW - Mephitis - gave no sign that they were listening, much less that they were present beyond the surface-level responses. Their stare is utterly flat, passing over Taurus with an intensity he didn't like. But the General had no reason to lie about their condition, and they dropped into submission at his command. As long as they're this tame all of the time, Taurus thought dryly. He grabbed hold of their upper arm, pivoting them towards the exit.

''Is there anything else I should know, sir?'' Mephitis is still under their grasp.

Stefson takes another drag, nodding towards the door; for a moment it seemed as if he was focused on the BOW, but he speaks before Taurus could think on it. ''Dismissed.''

The soldier salutes with his free hand, giving a quiet 'goodbye, sir' and makes for the handle, pushing down -

and finding it locked.

Taurus freezes.

''Oh, that. Just a precaution.'' The General's laugh pounds along the ice in his veins, a dawning dread climbing into the chambers of his heart. Stefson looked almost amused, waving smoke and ash across the desk, and a guard comes to unlock it with a click.

Taurus stares, deep and quiet. When did they manage to lock it?

***
​

The snow outside has advanced from thin, sad flakes to big clumps that clung in between the joints of his gear. A storm threatened to block them in during the night and fog stalked the camp miserably, a ghost of winter - but with any luck, the aircraft will take off in the AM and leave the depressing plain behind. Taurus' room is spared from the worst of the cold that haunted his days in the barracks, decently warm to melt the ice flowers springing up on the windows. It's Spartan and impersonal, only a bed, closet and a cot Gatsby always complains feels like sleeping on sandpaper; it is a room that has never been decorated and now looks like it wouldn't know what to do if you tried to pretty it up, bare and made only for sleeping.

''Alright.'' The bitter wind fights against Taurus' efforts to shut the metal door, but it closes with a push. ''I guess we gotta introduce each other.''

Mephitis does not seem to care, and Taurus appreciates the silence. His hand slips off their arm and he doesn't care to give them too much attention, pointing towards the cot with his chin. ''Call me Taurus. You'll sleep in that.'' The question of gear and hygiene gnawed at his mind, but he can always go ask for some - he's unwilling to share his and just by looking at the other's frame, his gear might make them walk like a turtle.

''You got any questions?'' If there's even any lights on up there, Taurus wants to add; though a crashing sound somewhere outside takes his attention for half a second.

And he notices far too late that Mephitis is no longer still.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

MEPHITIS.

holy water cannot help you now,

thousand armies couldn't keep me out

the weapon

and what has been done cannot be undone

seven devils

— florence

mood: muddled mind
location: taurus room
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

There is a promotion at stake.

Mephitis listens to the conversation happening between the soldier and the general without moving a single muscle until their body is itching with the pent-up energy. It thrums under their skin, whispering into their ear that they need to move and release the energy. It helps that as both private and general flesh out the details of whatever the hell this agreement is, they can settle their mind down with a steady count.

1, 2, 3-

Eyes as dull as the barren landscape right outside the door sharpen at the mention of sedatives, and their efforts to rein themselves in nearly become futile. Animalistic instincts to avoid the mind-addling substances at all cost, and yet the drop in their stomach and twitch of their fingers tells of an addiction that runs deeper than skin level.

Mephitis takes a deep breath over their suddenly dry throat, just in time too, for the private’s hand closes around their arm and they allow themselves to be pivoted towards the exit. None too kindly they noted. There was a strength teeming under the man’s skin that they could not decide whether they liked or were wary of.

The General’s gaze is heavy on their skin as they turn to leave, carrying the weight of unspoken words. They shiver not from the cold that sneaks in through the opening of the door, but from the words burned into their memory in a voice far different from Stefson.

1, 2, 3-

❇❈❇​

When did snow become an assault on their senses? The door to the General’s office slams shut behind them, and bitter wind nips at the exposed skin on their face. The muddied layer of snow coating the ground lays clumped from the countless boots treading through it all day. Even with the setting sun sending shadows scurrying across the snow, Mephitis furrows their brow and glances away from the glaring snow. It stabs into their eyesight, sending the world tilting and it is only the soldier keeping them standing upright even if he doesn’t know that.

Child-like laughter echoes in their ears, dancing out of reach as did the pathetic snowflakes coming to rest on the bottom half of their face still masked. It came hand in hand with winter, remnants of memories that floated up from a past life torn to shreds. They blink, a shadowy child sprinting across the snow and it brings up the past of the ground below their feet, if only to ignore the nagging sensation that they were missing a portion of their memory.

1, 2 , 3 -

If they weren’t attempting to keep their tongue under tight control for the moment they would have already discussed with their unwilling companion how beneath both of their feets lay the crumbling bones and remains of a city long forgotten.

As it is they stay silent, welcoming the escape from the cold when they finally are led mindlessly into the soldiers room.

The room is boring - bare and bleak and Mephitis wonders if it's because the soldier who still has their fingers around their arm is just as dull. Where is the color? The personality? Most of the soldiers they had come across had at least a picture of their family perched on the corner of a desk, or tucked away in the drawers, but taking in the room Mephitis suspects that the soldier is solely boring.

The pressure around their arm disappears and their eyes shift imperceptibly to watch Taurus and then the cot from the corner of their eye as he introduces himself and gestures to where they will sleep. The sleeping arrangements do not matter, and their tongue continues to stay tucked away behind their teeth with all their strength as they let the comments hang in the air.

With no one else around, they can succumb to the tension thrumming under their skin. They are painfully aware of the man, of the gun in his holster and their eyes continue to flick to it as they contemplate how to get their hands on it.

Wait.

Tension coiled across their skin, muscles tensing unnoticeably under the layers of shifting camouflage pattern. Just a little longer -

It’s the crash from outside that gives them the chance. They jolt into action, hand snaking out to tug out the gun nestled within Taurus’ holster. As soon as their fingers close around the grip, they are backing away and fast as much as they could in the split seconds granted to them. There is too much of a size difference between the two of them for Mephitis to stay in close range and brandish the weapon. It would take a single well-placed hit from Taurus to knock them out and they still have things to do and say.

“Yeah, I got one.” A slow, sharp grin spread across their face and they pitied the poor fucker they were staring down (it was up but you wouldn’t find them admitting the height out loud) the barrel. “Didn’t they teach you to watch your weapon, private?” There is no denying the mocking cruelty in their tone as the barrel of the gun swayed upwards to aim in Taurus direction.

The gun steadies, and Mephitis pushes the safety off.

Click.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: shitty
location: the office
interactions: Sear

scroll

Their hands snaps into action like a viper from the grass.

The half a second is devoured by a speed no human should have, one that Taurus couldn't have prevented even if he had not looked away. He only has enough time to stiffen before he's staring down his own gun, the click of the safety loud enough to make his ears ring.

Didn’t they teach you to watch your weapon, private?

Taurus does not panic. The shock is too distant, the bone-crushing fear of a live weapon too cold; if any unreachable part in his brain howls for survival, the gray matter that eats and ponders over maps and takes in light signals does not. It grinds down into a low, shaking halt, clarity enough to take in breakable joints and the weak maws of armor.

The countless training decides on a plan. He's not fast enough to swoop in, and so he twists the gun-weilding hand to arm nowhere - muscles spasm and give away under a brutal grip, metal clattering to the floor uselessly. A punch to the face comes next, the hard mask digging even beyond his gloves. The impact burns into his skin, sends the other soldier stumbling backwards and Taurus lets them fall with a grim satisfaction. He snatches the gun from the floor to throw on the distant corner of the bed, safe from wandering hands.

Whatever is staring back from those eyes is not sedation.

Dullness, the unfocused movement of a ribbon in the breeze has been replaced with an intent so violent it reflected like fire inside a locked house. It's nothing like the unnerving stillness that the other soldier played at before, and it put an uncomfortable taste in Taurus' mouth. Surprised anger burned high in his chest, the edges of it stepping into action - he was pissed, fucking pissed at getting attacked, but even more so at not reacting as fast as he should have. He saw that guard get put to his knees and expected the same, but this fucker still managed to take advantage of a single second. This was not confusion, no.

Meph's gaze was clearing up, and there was something distinctly mocking about it.

''What the fuck.'' Taurus snarls, dragging the other by their shoulder harshly, forcing their body up. ''You piece of shit, that was on purpose.''

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

MEPHITIS.

holy water cannot help you now,

thousand armies couldn't keep me out

the weapon

and what has been done cannot be undone

seven devils

— florence

mood: muddled mind
location: taurus room
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

There is no chance to brace themselves.

Mephitis knew full well that oil splashed upon a fire would bring about a surge of strength, and yet for all their experience in staring down raging flames - this is not one they were prepared for.

An iron grip clamps down on their arm, bone and muscle wrenched to the side with no care for the fragility housed in the carcass of skin, and they lose all ability to hold onto the only weapon they had access to.

The stabbing ache has not yet settled in their wrist when it’s transferred to their face, leaving Mephitis stumbling back from impact that digs metal into their face to taste iron.

Pain dances across their face, their eyes blurring with bitter sting as the world tilts and their feet fail to keep their purchase, ass meeting ground in a painful encounter that wrenches a hiss out of them. Tomorrow, they will feel the tender ache in their cheek in all its glory, but for now they stare up at the towering figure with shifting vision.

Mephitis blinks once and then again, fighting off the daze that had come over them before they’re dragged upwards once more, meeting Taurus rage with their own.

“What, no-“ they wrench their shoulder once, and then twice, wincing at the sharp ache from muscles straining under a grip that does not relent as they drawl in response. “On purpose? Of course not.”

Each pained jerk dwindles in strength until they are still in Taurus’ grasp, head cocked in careful observation of the soldier. The mask stares back, circular depths that end in vacant blackness with no humanity in sight and Mephitis has nothing to go off of.

Fighting against the soldier’s wild strength is a losing battle, and no matter from which angle their brain twists and turns the situation, there is no way out

It is not a conclusion that the screaming hate allows them to settle on, twisting their expression hidden beneath a mask into a taunting curl of their lips, accompanied by a gleeful laugh as they jerk one last time in the crushing grip and then resort to slamming the tip of their boot into Taurus knee as their hand comes up.

There is always a way out.

Fingers scrabble at their mask, finding leverage in edges pushing into their skin and then they yank down, leaving it to hang around their neck as they bare themselves in front of the soldier. A layer stripped from their face, a sense of anonymity that they nurtured in the depths of what could be called a soul gone forever.

In the second of their face laid bare, they let their face split wide into a smile and then -

their head twists, mouth parting open to reveal all sharp edges.

Teeth seek exposed flesh, settling on the folds of clothing where fatigues meet gloves, and Mephitis closes their jaw with an audible smack. Leather not does give, and nor do they, grinding down with all the strength harbored in grating joints.

Then they bite down even harder.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: pissed and HURT
location: his room
interactions: Sear

scroll

First comes the kick. Then comes the crush.

The shoe's steel point knocks away his knee along with his balance. His gear isn't bulky enough to soak up most of the impact and hot pain bursts where the joint meets the ground. Taurus hisses, relenting for a moment that allows Mephitis a free hand - the mask is torn off and Taurus' heart throbs with the irrational, adrenaline-born thought of finding nothing underneath. There is no shadowy hole where a face should be, but a human.

One so disturbingly sweet-looking for teeth so sharp.

Taurus only has time enough to wrench his arm closer before they bite, breaking skin even through the guards.

There were dogs where he lived. Half-mad from disease and radiation, snarling rancid dribble on the broken roads. They ran kids up trees and made them sick with a single bite.

The bite feels like this - like desperation and an animal cornered into losing its mind. He cries out from the brutal pain, fingers spasming out of a grip. It burns like a bullet wound, all crescendo and no fall. No human should bite hard enough to make his vision go black at the edges, twisting his arm with desperate thrashing. He scrambles to collect his logic, aims a grab at their jaw to force it open. Satisfaction, dim and slumbering wakes and burns through Mephitis’ chest at the sound of pain escaping the soldier. And if their mouth wasn’t firmly fixed to his arm, they’d smile.

As it is, they struggle to hold on with the thrashing grip. Fingers dig into the skin on their face and they are forced to relent. Jaw snaps back open to only end up making another attempt to sink down teeth into his other hand now. Taurus avoids it just enough to slam their head against the dry floor with a resounding crack, hot blood oozing onto their forehead. Mephitis can’t bite back the choked gasp escaping their lips from the shooting pain. It wrenches free from their throat, whistling into strangled laughter as the hot blood begins to find its way down their face.

‘’Oh, you motherfucker.’’ Taurus spat. He has enough distraction to hoist them up by the shoulder, his hand twitching in their fatigues.

For the second time in the past ten minutes, Mephitis resorts to fighting the wild strength holding them in place. Sweat stings the back of their neck with the effort expended with every desperate, violent movement as they sneer, writhing in his gasp. “Weak ass bastard - couldn’t take a bite?”

Pained shock bubbled into a full-blown rage. It was contained in the circle of action, slamming the other against the aging drywall. The impact sent their head lolling, cracking on it like a ball you threw too hard. It fucking hurt. It took more than one frenzied blink to fight back the black spots dancing in their vision as pain pounds up their spine until it nestles into place at the base of their neck.

Taurus took the opportunity to grab for their wrists, forcing them behind their back even as Mephitis fought like a dog off the leash. He searched for a ziplock in his pouches, snapping it around their hands.

“Fuck, you.” It’s spat through gritted teeth, jaw clenching at the burn in their arms as even with their efforts to stop the plastic that was beginning to tighten around their wrists.

"Goddamnit, stay still." The frustration burst out in a hand hitting their forehead against the wall, holding back some of aggression biting his blood.

Pain returns back with full force, head knocking back against the drywall and Mephitis releases a hiss, part from the blood lining their back and part from the bite in their wrists as all their motion is restricted in one second. An experimental test of the plastic, and then calculation flickers underneath the heat of the fight, a slow smile pulling at blood speckled lips as their movements still. Taurus calmed down as they did, though his grip was strict.

“For someone considered for promotion, I expected more. ”

A sneer from Taurus, hidden by the mask and revealed by a tight tone. "Alright. Enough of you." He considered what to do from here, going silent for a heartbeat or two.

He had a sneaking suspicion that somehow, this had nothing to do with sedation or surgery - and that if he were to go back to the general to report, he'd only be blown away as incapable. BOWs are always problematic. Something wrong with their scrambled brains, whatever they had up there before scrapped and replaced by instinct. But even for a BOW, this was fucking ridiculous. Getting straight up attacked? A grades shouldn't bite like a goddamn animal.

"You got somethin' wrong with you, or are you just out of your fucking mind?!"

Out of their mind. That chokes out a laugh from them. If there was one good way to describe them - it would be that.

As the notes of laughter peter out, their head tilts to fixate their gaze on what of Taurus they can see, mouth flashing open in a smile full of teeth.

“I’m out of my fucking mind.”

His fingers paired with the zip tie are bruising, and they shift, trying to adjust their positioning to ease the pressure on both their shoulders and wrists. It’s a familiar ache, but it burns, and they know that they will be bruised and hurting for more than one day.

They continue on, eyes still peeled to him unblinking. “That and it was funny to see how slowly you reacted.”

Taurus' eyebrow twitched, the steadily mounting anger fed with each mocking comment. He isn't known for his temper, but he never appreciated blatant disrespect either - especially not from someone that took his fucking gun. But this is bait and he didn't feel like biting, either. Pain throbbed up and down his bleeding arm, picking up into near-agony when he dragged Mephitis away from the wall.

"Right." He says slowly, mind churning.

As far as he can see, telling the higher-ups isn't going to do shit. What would they say except 'deal with it'? If he was in the standard corps, then maybe he could complain, but he's been on missions that a few news reporters had to die for. His lips went tight. With a sharp tug he maneuvered Mephitis to the corner where Taurus could pull the cot out with his free hand.

Sleeping off the bullshit. Yeah, okay. A part of him that was still capable of surprise ran in circles, screaming at the prospect of watching over an aggressive BOW - while the other part, well. It was just too fucking tired. They're getting up at 4 AM and he can panic over this once he's not moving on willpower alone. Maybe they just need to sleep.

Hope dies last. Nothing wrong with prayer.

"Fucked in the head or not, I'm going to need you to shut the fuck up for a couple of hours. Think you can do that?" Not so gently but not roughly either, Taurus pushed them down to sit on the cot. Not that they had much of a choice.

“Certainly,” and yet with Mephitis’ agreement to shut up, the smile on their face didn’t waver. They continued on, amusement seeping into every word, knowing full well their request was absurd. “If you remove the ties.”

Taurus stands to his full height. The storm outside blows wilder, winds howling with thick clumps of ice. An aircraft split though the falling snow, its thin yowl shaking the window-pane, and something in their eyes didn’t reflect light the way it should. The promise of waking up at four AM weighed heavily on his shoulders. ‘’I’ll take that as a no.’’

He didn’t feel like dealing with this. He didn’t feel like dealing with a lot of things. The uninjured arm snapped open a pouch, getting out the box; a glove slipped off and an exposed finger burned information into the software. It opened with a click.

He took a syringe, loaded to the point - blue, sluggish liquid swirled like an underwater tornado, dragging down a mind into the depths of one. Without a word Taurus dropped to his knees again, flexing Mephitis’ upper arm even against the clench of pain in his own.

‘’Don’t move.’’ He lets out a hum through the mask, flickering through memory of where veins part muscle. A swipe with a pre-packaged alcohol swap is all the warning they get before Taurus lowers the needle.

It splits the skin and then

Mephitis is dragged down. Down, into silence.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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''Don't call me. I'll call you.''

Artamos is a bastard through and through is the decision Locke comes to in a flurry of rage pounding along his veins again. It settles in his throat with finality that only needed a singular push to be voiced, but in the end it stays concealed beneath hard swallows as Locke watches Artamos leave. The dark swallows the man, and it’s only when the stench of smoke has faded from the air around Locke that he tears his eyes away and slams his hand back down on the grimy walls, cursing into the night and to the moths throwing themselves at the neon light.

❇❈❇​

“You’re not listening.”

“Mm,” Locke hums thoughtfully, moving to place away the equipment to keep the area clean for the next person. “When they want an answer?” For all of the club’s popularity, the stone walls were enough to muffle the noise coming from upstairs, the training room devoid of anyone else other than the fighter and Nikolas on the far end of the room. His question seemingly had been the wrong one to ask, swallowed up by the room as the other man fell into uncomfortable silence.

“Don’t tell me you’re considering the offer.” The disapproval in Nikolas’ voice was as clear as day, the flat tone sending guilt shooting through the fighters shoulders before he set himself and nods his head.

“You’re being an idiot.”

Those weren’t the words Locke wants to hear, and all raised hackles he snaps back. “Maybe, ain’t matter. Accept the offer.” It was a good offer, and frustration rears its head, choice words floating to mind that were just as quickly swallowed. Nikolas wasn’t at fault, but the thought of a fight slipping through his fingers wasn’t wanted. It was a damn good offer, and the money would go straight into his hands. Dirty, but not a single penny drained by the club itself. The uproar caused in the forums was a side effect that he could deal with and hell if he was going to rely on a man who was yet to reach out to him.

“And then what?” The other man’s fingers tighten in his hair, staring at Locke with visible confusion as if he couldn’t quite place his finger on why this situation was quickly spiraling into pieces clashing. “Watch you let yourself be fucking beat up? Call it quits when you no longer can stand in the ring?”

“Yeh.”

The surprise that flickers across Nikolas’ face morphed slowly into sadness, helplessness coloring the lines in his face, and Locke feels the twist of guilt as painful as a knife in his gut as he watches the man age in front of him. Except the guilt still wasn’t enough for him to stop him, moving into Nikolas personal space with each mounting step.

“I have to. I’m survin’ Nik.” The words tear through his throat, jagged edges of desperation cracking under pressure. “I’m fuckin’ survin’ by doin’ that.”

Locke could see the moment the recognition dawned on Nikolas, his mouth slamming shut and silence falling between the two. A beat passes, and then another, and throwing a hand up the man nods.

“Fine. You know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to stand there and watch you get injured purposefully .”

❇❈❇​

Nikolas still showed up. For all his threat about skipping the fight, he was still on the edges of the ring, arms crossed in front of himself as Locke creeps out into the ring, thrumming with pent-up vicious intent. Each time step came with a mental reminder to keep himself in check - to let the fight go the way it should, but the cheering of the audience begins to drown out his own thoughts until only the sound pounds within his skull.

Locke blinks and then blinks again, eyes adjusting to the spotlight and taking in Lane across from him. The air hung heavy, expectant, and the gazes that typically faded into the background felt that more present - boring into the back of his head. A reminder that for the first time that year, there would be no excuse for his actions. No cover up that would pass the scrutinizing gazes of both enemies and fans alike; dissecting the fights through slowed down and sped up videos.

A thought better not focused on.

It was too easy to give into the bloodlust mid-fight, and Locke realizes that late when he lurches forward with the intent of finishing the fight and has to stumble back, reminding himself that he has a different job to accomplish that day. The distraction, unplanned but welcomed, is enough for Lane to grit his teeth and drag the man down to the mat, the breath knocked out of Locke from the ground meeting his back. Weak blocks keep the worst of the hits out of face, but then Lane changes his tactic and Locke belatedly realizes that the fist was swinging down at a new angle.

His ribs gave way , bone splintering audibly, the burst of pain making Locke suck in air and then cry out from the pain the effort had taken. Each stuttering wheeze brought with it a new jolt, making his vision blur as he fought back the desire to fight back. Instincts throwing themselves at the self-restraint, urging Locke into action as another hit lands and the black spots dancing in his vision became that much more prominent. The adrenaline curls under his skin, hand in hand with pain, and it was only the bell cutting through the tension that kept him from stumbling back to his feet.

The man on him was dragged off, and he could feel arms tugging him up and he went with them, stumbling along even as a burst of pain shot through him at the movement.

The cheers didn’t sound right that night.

Nor the next, when he was pushed off the schedule, left to rot on the sidelines with bandages tightened around every ache.

Locke squints at where his phone lit up, laying deserted on the counter top. It gives another flash accompanied by a buzz and then falls silent, screen going black. Locke has half a mind to flip it over so the screen is no longer a distraction but the questioning gaze that he was pinned under made him huff, placing down his drink to pull the device towards himself.

“Fine, I’m lookin’.”

The number makes him swallow hard, before swiping upon the otherwise empty chat to type in a new contact name with a curl of his lips. It's the little things that matter, and the 'don't respond' now heading the chat, improved his mood by leaps and bounds.

“Everything alright?”

“Ah, yeah-” the response is delayed as Locke stuffs the device back into a free pocket. The message stays unanswered, another notification added to the ever growing number of neon text bubbles. The text is burned into his eyelids;

3:00 tomorrow night, Tequila Mockingbird.

❇❈❇​

Tomorrow night came, and nearly passed as fast as the flickering lights seen from the corner of his eye as Locke breaks one speed limit, and then the other, ignoring the clock flashing in the corner of his helmet’s visor with a time past three, and not before. He only slows when the street narrows, building’s squeezing the paved roadway, letting the mechanical voice in his ear guide him so he doesn’t take the wrong turn.

The Tequila Mockingbird open sign is seen from around the corner, blinking at Locke in a welcoming gesture as his ignition rumbles and quiets, coming to a stop in an open spot right in front of large windows. The reflective material shows his own face back at him, unable to see into the Mockingbird except for between the bright colored advertisements pasted to the glass. From tech to only god knows what being advertised, Locke tears his gaze away from the colorful paper that he was struggling to read and pulls off his helmet, patting down the stray strands that decided to stick upward.

His chains jingle along with the bell hanging over the door, warm air welcoming him along with quiet music in the background. The cafe is quiet, stilled between the times when the district is most active at night and when everyone is too drunk to even eat.

Flashing a waitress a smile that sets into a hard line Locke turns back to glance over the space, taking in both the exit into the kitchen and the only others in the space; a couple slumped over a table with fingers intertwined.

Then his eyes finally land on the familiar figure and stay there.

Artamos.

His lips thin even more as Locke makes his way between the tables; steps careful and stiff to conceal a limp that was threatening to surface.

The empty chair at the table Artamos had chosen drags across the floor, and then Locke is settling down into it, teeth clenched from the jostling the movement had done to his aching ribs, legs stretched out to minimize the pain even more.

“Ah Artie. Hope ya didn’t wait long.” Locke’s voice is as thin as the smile on his face, sickeningly sweet as he pointedly glances at the time on a clock on the wall and then at Artie, the curl of his lips widening an inch. “Lets order since we’re here y’know.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: silently raging
interactions: Sear

scroll

The room is dark. With a click, it's lit up by the awakening screen, light sending shadows scrambling for escape.

A bland, beautiful, egg-sticking-to-a-non-stick-pan voice tears the silence, floating over a video of city streets. The beginnings of some royalty-free note starts up. 'Imagine.' People walking a busy road crossing. 'Connection without limits.' Sunrise. Sunset. A shot of a flowering plant. 'No boundaries.' On overhead view of trains passing. Two bleach-clean businessmen, shaking hands with hysteric smiles. 'Everything, just a click away.' Two young friends, laughing over coffee. 'Personalized for you and your goals.' A sparkly eyed little girl, walking hand in hand with a pristine mother. 'HTLL prevents crime.' Next, a man that's more model than doctor clasping the arm of a patient. 'Revolutionizes health care.' Countless blue computer screens, lit up on desks. 'Provides energy.'

The inoffensive song picks up, zooming in on a Murn engineer. She's wearing the bruise-blue overalls, pondering over a circuit board. 'But this is not all.' Blueprints and a hand writing down notes. 'Here at Murn Corporation, progress is only the beginning.' Impossibly shiny windows make up a Murn office, a perfect receptionist greeting a perfect customer. 'We will work for this new year.' A woman hugs her laughing child as a Murn worker installs a security lock on their door. 'A new year that will bring the future to us.'

A couple holds each other, smiling up at dawn sneaking into New York. 'A new year of opportunity.' The focus is on the rising sun now, devouring the outline of flying cars and skyscrapers. It's a hollow sight.

The screen goes darker, text drawing in. AWSFuture Convention 2376. Then, the voice:

'Murn. Technology made modern.'

Sarah Kaminsky clicks the remote in her hand. She turns back around to the conference table, screen quiet again.

''Well, that's it from the marketing branch.'' She looks only mildly harrassed, her wrinkles more prominent in the dull light. ''Big promises, everybody. Um,'' Her finger drags across her tablet and the corresponding ones ding with a notification. The engineers open up the new email, exchanging whispers. ''Don't forget to come in on Friday, we'll go through everything in more detail.'' Her gaze casts over the handful of people, mentally marking who is here and who is not. On the brink of retirement she might be, but there is a sharpness to the way she fixes her shoulders that could belong to a woman much younger.

''Alright, back to work. See you soon.''

One by one, the engineers pick up their bags - the table reflects each movement like a reverse mirror, the ceiling-high windows casting it in a layer of darkness. They filter out into the bleach-white hallway outside and she is left to sort through her notes, putting her stuff in place. There is still hours of work to filter through, and at this point she might stay overtime. Wishing desperately for an Aspirin and some coffee, Sarah puts on her coat to walk outside.

She blinks to find a person still waiting for her, standing by the automatic door.

Artamos Murn. He smiles at catching her gaze, though it's not the snarling grin she sees him sending the other engineers. ''Mrs. Kaminsky,'' He starts, ''I was hoping to get the papers, if you don't mind.'' He looks as confident as always, though his eyes betray exhaustion. She could sympathize. Sarah doesn't think anyone in the engineering branch has gotten more than five hours of sleep this week.

''Ah, I thought you might ask.'' She slides over a manila folder, nodding. ''It's all in here.''

''Appreciated.'' Artamos drawls, taking it. He does not immediately leave. Sarah watches him, straightening her back. For a second, he almost looks uncertain - scatterbrained, as if expecting something more and finding himself at a loss when it is not given.

She does not say anything, yet. Sarah Kaminsky knows how this company works and by what law it operates.

Rule number one, if you want to be in good graces;

You shall not like Artamos Murn.

An awkward quiet passes. Artamos shifts, opening his mouth as if to say something, but Sarah is faster;

''Didn't you hear about the meeting?'' She asks casually, putting the tablet back into her bag. Artamos stares at her, uncomprehending. ''The one, tomorrow. It sounds important.''

She's said too much. She can tell by the way meaning slides into his expression, by the way her words hit their mark. An executable offense - metaphorically, though she wouldn't be surprised if Leonard Murn started public executions in the break rooms. The woman gives a small smile, wondering if they'd bother making PR videos for that, too.

Artamos does not look triumphant like she expected. The folder in his hands lowers down, and his face is unreadable.

''...Ah. It does sound important, yes.''

❇❈❇​

It pays to know places like the Tequila Mockingbird.

You can't escape Vigilance.OS. You can't escape the ever widening web of security systems. Privacy is sold at a premium and a Ghost.ID lands you in federal prison. There are pockets, though - pockets of peace where not even technology can reach you. Even a screaming confession in a church can be surveilled, but New York is enormous and it's only a matter of legal hiding. Any business set by a road of any real traffic is forced to have a Vigilance.OS connected camera by the entrance, but the same does not apply to places the city forgets exists. Find one, and you will find the world - drug deals, schemes, filth.

The Tequila Mockingbird has no cameras, but it has little sin, too. Only unwashed cement floors and sticky, colorful plastic chairs, an atmosphere that smells like fresh waffles and coffee. The booths are filled with night workers on breaks and chatty college students, and Artamos stands out with his pristine suit. The purpling eye circles make him fit in just enough to avoid attention, though - the advantage of being bone-deep tired is that he can pass for an office worker. The smokers' section is scarce, anyhow, and Artamos leans on a table with a cigarette already lit. He does not think.

Not unusual for him. Obsession turns his thoughts wild, makes him wake up in the middle of the night with his head throbbing and teeth clenched; but at times he is so distant from his own body, so detached from terror that his mind is a perfect blank. Artamos barely takes in the surrounding conversations or the reality of why he is here. He is aware of his order - two shots of vodka - but only as aware as a bystander on the beach is of a boat on the horizon. The man glances at his watch impassively.

Locke is late. Artamos taps a gloved finger against the table.

He is not angry yet.

Not as time drags on like a crawling body. Not as the waitress starts giving increasingly curious glances. His head is pure like ice, and he does not think.

A jingle breaks the silence and Artamos startles back into his body when a chair is dragged near. The face is familiar, even when glimpsed last in an alley - Artamos gives a dispassionate drift of smoke, ashes falling over his gloves. The Entertainer. Late and giving an oily smile like he is daring an argument. Locke looks almost gentle outside the harsh darkness of the club, giving no sign of the bloodthirsty aggression that Artamos saw up close; but the bruises and odd way he shifts in his seat speak otherwise.

Artamos drags his gaze over him, silent and observant.

A limp. He must have been in a fight.

With another drag of the cigarette, Artamos leans back on the chair; he is in no hurry to talk anymore, seeing as Locke is already late. A blatant show of disrespect, no doubt. Even a fish caught in a hook is going to thrash - their meeting is still fresh in Artamos' mind, the threat wiggling in his brain in reminder.

''You don't have a clock?'' Artamos says through expelled smoke, expression focused on Locke.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

''You don't have a clock?''

“Ya lucky I’m even here.” Respect is a two-way street, and neither of them were on it. The right answer would be to apologize, recognize his own inability to be on time and accept it out of respect for both the meeting time. Locke was late, very late, and his ego wasn’t inflated enough to not swallow that fact and let an apology slip but it stuck in his throat; a thorn as fresh as the wounds on his body. As it is instead, Locke settles for what he hopes is a safer alternative. A half-truth concealed in the temptation of a lie. He doesn’t want a fight, not when his jacket conceals black and black. “I had to work.” He wasn’t allowed to work. “Can’t exactly watch the clock then.”

The menu is sticky under his fingers, the laminated plastic sporting signs of use as Locke flips through it. It hasn’t been long since he had held a menu in his hands, but experience told him that the more high-end a place is, the more the menu was built into the tables in wires overcrossed. As it is, there is only a small computer at the end of the table to streamline the ordering process. Minimal technology kept the Tequila Mockingbird distant from the outside world, and Locke wasn’t complaining. As long as it fed him, and his face didn’t hit the front-end forums of the criminal world he was satisfied. He skips past the options for salads, and replacement meats, thanking the store internally for providing a whole list of meat options along with a dessert section that rivaled even the best bakeries.

If he focuses on the text, he can ignore the sensation of being picked apart. Locke hates the way Artamos’ eyes pass over him, devouring each shift in his expression with the hunger of a predator left starving under lock and key. Somewhere deep within his twisting anxiety, Locke knows that whatever control the Murn family has over Artamos - it was not enough. The golden cage is crumbling. What he had on Artamos definitely wasn’t enough either.

He ignores that too in favor of finally deciding on what he wants to eat and beginning to tap it into the small computer, glancing up at Artamos for a brief second before dropping his gaze once.

“So…”

Locke inhales smoke with his hesitation and swallows back a cough, the bitter taste of nicotine pricking his throat. A memory tugs at his mind, bringing first to the forefront with a grimace the cloud of smoke that had been blown into his eyes at the hands of the man sitting across from him. Then comes next the echo of a voice, warped by time to the point that Locke knows deep down it’s no longer accurate. He can hope, even if his heart squeezes with the realization that memory isn’t perfect.

‘Don’t smoke at the table.’ She’d always chided his father for the cigarettes dusted off at the ashtray teetering precariously on the edge. He’d always laugh, raising up the ashtray with a cigarette between his lips to protect the ceramic from crashing to the ground at her dissatisfaction. Either way he’d listen, putting it out with a hushed whisper in Locke’s direction, telling him about respecting the wishes of everyone in the area. He’d always played good in front of his wife, or at least he had, stinking with the smell of his chain-smoking but keeping it away from her and him.

Locke’s lips are thin as he regards the cigarette, but decides against commenting on it yet and continues after clearing his throat.

“Aye, let’s not waste each other’s time anymore." Locke grimaces at his own phrasing, quickly covering it up with a thin smile. "Can ya help?”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: girlboss slay
interactions: Sear

scroll

Ya lucky I’m even here.

Locke is at once bold-faced and cringing from his stare, demanding and yet unsure in his own words, more Baby's First Defiance than the threatening blood-dog they set loose in the ring. It amazed Artamos how starkly different Locke is here, in the glow of menus and street lights, to the panicky rants spat out by money losers. On the internet, Locke is brutal - up close, he acts more like he gets a bucket of water dumped over his head daily. He ignores Artamos' intent stare to order a frankly outrageous amount of food, something that could almost be hysterically hilarious if Artamos didn't feel like a man in the stocks. The waitress seems both excited and wary, unsure if she will get a huge tip or a dine and dasher.

Artamos signals for another shot.

He says nothing. He lets Locke lead the silence - not from kindness, no, but to make the tension resonate with every word. It's there, even if Locke might pretend it isn't sitting right next to them, sharing their drink and smoke. The nervousness deep in his stomach makes Artamos itch for another cigarette, but he stops himself; it would betray him as scared, as flesh and blood and not some plutocrat crafted in mythological fire.

If he stills just so, Artamos can pretend he is unfeeling. That he is a great corporate snake, a thing that's only known deals and exchanges - that, with his silence, he sees Locke as a worm to stomp on. Something to discard, a petty thought the hungry machine of Murn consumes with every working day. He encompasses the mocking politeness and the patience of a businessman hearing out a stumbling intern. Under his blank, slight smile, Artamos can pretend to not be terrified out of his wits and that the thought of what Locke holds kept him from sleeping for two days.

But the annoyance is there right along it; the implication that him and Locke are somehow on equal footing when it comes to lateness irks him enough to make his eyebrow tiwtch. He presses in over the table, eyes set right on Locke's, pressing the cigarette into death.

''I'm so sorry for wasting your time.'' Artamos gives an almost-smile, unfriendly and flashing the bad mood that's been raised inside. He postpones his own answer via his new shot, casting a look out the shadowy window outside; lights and passing crowds turn the night dizzy, voices like a beehive around them. Artamos hesitates, only for a moment, over his words.

He turns back to Locke, then, barely closer to avoid unneeded ears.

''You're shit out of luck.'' There is a sardonic hint to his words, his smile proudly contrarian. ''I don't know if you expected me to snap my fingers and get your debt gone, but I'm sad to say I'm not in my family's good graces.'' Fear grips his heart tight, imagining Locke standing up before he can finish the sentence; but Artamos keeps talking, searching the fighter's face for any changes spelling trouble. ''They won't listen if I ask to just erase it.'' They'd probably raise it just to spite me, he thinks bitterly, leaving it unsaid.

A bout of silence. The red-cheeked waitress pads over with a tray almost spilling over with steaming dishes, sliding them on the table in practiced grace. It's enough food to make even Artamos pause out of his sarcastic satisfaction, giving the piles upon piles a deadpan look. Oh, what the fuck. If this was some scheme to dominate the conversation, it was almost working.

''But,'' Artamos starts up again once the girl leaves, leaning back into his seat. For a moment he reminds of a lazy observant, idly throwing crumbs to ducks. ''I can help in another way.'' Once again the responsibility of questions falls to Locke; on purpose, a sort of challenge to his look now. Locke already turned up late - to make him chase Artamos' answers is the price to pay for that.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

There is frustration stepping into play within the depths of Locke’s chest, and the clench of his jaw gives him away as he avoids the intent gaze, even when the distance between the two of them is cut down. The cigarette dies with a spark, and yet sparks of anger are threatening to be lit alight within. Locke pulls his piercings into his mouth, shoulders set in a thin line when the conversation veers into a territory that tastes mocking. He wants to stare a hole into the table under his hands, and instead settles for a spot somewhere on Artie’s suit in fear of losing even more face than he had already lost. The cloth he scrutinizes costs his entire paycheck, if not more, that he is certain about that.

‘You’re shit out of luck.'

The speed at which Locke’s face snaps up to stare at Artie nearly gives him whiplash. Wood digs into his hands as his fingers tighten around the edges of the table, internal pleas to his own ability to keep his cool falling on deaf ears. Locke would be lying if he said it wasn’t fear that stabbed at his heart, tightening its grasp around the base of his neck where the metal of a choker rests. A comforting presence previously now left him reeling for oxygen as panic struggles for a way to escape as he shoves it back down, irritation rising to meet the challenge as his waning patience catches up.

“Ain’t surprised y’ain’t in good graces.” A shadow of the rage that earned him the bruise coloring his cheek settles back into place with the bite in his tone. It’s not restraint that keeps the snarl off his face, but the appearance of the food, dishes sliding into place in front of him. It’s a welcome distraction from picking a fight he can’t afford to have, and he toys with the leather on his hands before tugging at the velcro keeping the gloves snug. It crackles under his touch, even slow movements not enough from jostling tender skin that stings in contact with air.

The beat of silence that Artie offers him to chase questions grows, and continues to grow as Locke picks up the utensils provided to him silently and jabs at a dumpling drizzled in sauce. He is not a dog who will fetch a ball at the slightest urging, and the flat stare that he gives Artie mirrors that as he chews slowly and methodically. The table is not large enough for Artie’s arrogance, and he refuses to give in even with the inkling of hope offered to him. No matter that Artie looked utterly in control of the conversation, filthy hands and all clutching onto it. If Locke had by any chance previously had doubt in the last name of Murn, the man in front of him would be enough to dispel all misgivings.

Artamos is all snake, all cunning and lying in wait, all bite and no bark, a stark difference to the faces Locke glimpses on the daily. Those have their emotions shifting in waves across their face, spelled out in the bruising of their knuckles. Here - Artamos is unreadable as before, and Locke wants to tear the man’s mask off to glimpse underneath.

He chases the lingering heat on his tongue with his drink before he bites the bait, a promise to meet the challenge twitching across his face. “Aight,” he dares to chew through another dumpling before continuing, “I’m listenin’. What way exactly can ya help if ya ain’t got any power in ‘em Murn family.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: wtf the fuck
interactions: Sear

scroll

Ain’t surprised y’ain’t in good graces.

There it is. That animalistic violence Torrent went face to face with, contained only by the ropes of the ring. It's hard to define whether Locke is a deeply angry person, easily provoked and easily pushed into reacting, or if he just hates Artamos; though being treated with equal contempt might offset whatever pre-inclination Locke has for irritability.

''Such a temper. No wonder you're all beat up.'' Artamos snaps back, giving a raised eyebrow at the greenish black and blues peeking past the shirt. Fight gone wrong? He silently notes to look through the latest news, pillaging through piles of data on the off-chance he finds something useful. Locke, though, is stubbornly uninterested in the pieces Artamos laid out; he chews with the vigor of a senile elder forgetting they were supposed to eat. Two can play that game, he seemed to say, but Artamos takes pride in being the one to start it. He gives Locke an opaque look, waspish, smug, and rests his elbow on the table.

''Well, good for you,'' His tone is the snotty know-it-all one, the one that he knows makes people want to punch his lights out. Artamos takes a bit of satisfaction in potentially making Locke's frown worse. ''I don't like them either.'' Anymore. Or at least, not more than he did for the past years.

''Just because you have some marginal blackmail doesn't mean you have more power over me.'' Lying. Lying straight through his teeth, neck going damp with cold sweat. But maybe, maybe if he pretends this is nothing to him, that this couldn't ruin his life as horribly as it can; where is that uncertainty Artamos saw back at the alley? That stuttering, splitting fear? Where is that sore wound Artamos stepped on accident? ''If you try and drag me down, I'll make sure your family gets it a hundred time worse.'' A flash then, in his eyes - a challenge, but a completely different one. Setting the battle lines in the sand and hoping Locke doesn't try to cross them.

''But if you're willing to hear me out...'' A smile. Unfriendly, eyes half lid with observation. Internally, a part of him wonders if he pushed too hard - he's always had a problem with holding his tongue, keeping his hands to himself and not shoving. For a wild moment, Artamos thinks of retracting, rolling over to show his stomach; but even in his blinding fear that shivers in his skull, he simply can't bring himself to. Especially not under a threat for all he has built.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

Artie reminds him of a child spoiled rotten, one whose golden spoon was as far up his ass as it was allowed. A child with money at his fingertips and his whims listened to with a snap of daddy’s fingers and Locke isn’t here to entertain the tantrum of an eldest son. So he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t want to rise to it, even when Artie’s words drip in arrogance. The dumplings take the brunt of Locke’s frustration, dough turning into shredded pieces with a frustrated jab before he finishes them off, muttering a half-hearted agreement. “Sure ya don’t care.”

He personally certainly doesn’t care in whatever kept Artie awake at night. With how there was not a singular redeeming quality in the man, it was no surprise to him that he was hated even by his closest family members. Artie keeps on talking, and Locke twitches in his seat, impatient even as he places dishes to the side to be collected by the wandering waitress. There’s mention of marginal blackmail, and a scoff escapes his mouth and he gives a stare as flat as desolate fields ravaged by the Fall.

The next sentence is no better than the first.

''If you try and drag me down, I'll make sure your family gets it a hundred time worse.''

Locke stills, the only movement from him a clink as his fork finds a place on the table, food forgotten in a split second. He doesn’t move, face devoid of emotion as he echoes back Artie’s words to him, eyes coming to meet Artie’ as his brains churns. It skips over the recognition of the challenge flashing in the depths of black-devoured eyes, only the face of a brother at the forefront of any sense.

“My family?” It’s a question he doesn’t wait for an answer to, and for a brief stuttering moment, his restraint remains even as he reaches across the table for a shot that doesn’t belong to him. The alcohol go downs burning, and with it the tension breaks. A sneer twists across Locke’s face as rage burns through the last snapping shreds of restraint till only ashes remain. They snap, and they snap hard, all sense leaving his mind in exchange for edges going red. Beaten in instincts jerk Locke forward out of his seat across the table to reach and twist at Artie’s collar, dragging him forward with a snarl leaving his lips, “Leave my fuckin’ family out of it.” Hatred continues to burn steadfast, even when his voice drops deceptively low. “What the fuck do ya want?”

© reveriee