akillysheel

[akillysheel]

The Demon you (Don’t) Know. ❜

Summary:  Ricky reflects on his relationship with both religion and Laz, his best friend.  Little does he know that Laz embodies the very horrors he’s seeking.

Characters:  Lazlo, Ricky.

Warnings:  Fictional religion and discussions regarding losing faith, child-abuse and cult behaviours implied.  Nothing is in great detail, and Ricky remains very unreliable in that he’s been indoctrinated since he was a young child  ----  which may be a warning in itself, too.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve followed the Phixen faith.

After my dad lost my mom, he turned to Raku to feel better.  He was never really religious before, but I guess I can’t blame him.  I never knew her, but he always tells me how great a person she was.  That she was kind and caring and would have been the best mother anybody could have hoped to have.  

He also tells me that it’s my fault she’s gone, but that Raku’s teachings have given him the strength to forgive me.  I guess it all works out in the end.  My dad has found the fortitude to move on after her passing, and he’s also found it in his heart to be a good father too.  I’m so lucky to be the son of such a generous person.

I’ve been to every service since I was old enough to walk.  Every Wednesday, I head into a small, sweaty confession booth to talk to Raku.  I tell Him everything I’ve done that week.  All the temptations I’ve resisted.  How hard I’ve been working.  How good a son I’ve been pushing myself to be after my terrible sin.  Some weeks are better than others.  Sometimes, I achieve more at school, and I help more of my neighbours, and I get into less fights with my dad.  But the fact is that I always try to be good.  I hope Raku knows that.  He should, if He supposedly knows everything.

'Supposedly’.

I shouldn’t talk like that.  A lot of the fights I get into with my dad nowadays revolve around faith, and what’s okay to do and what isn’t.  As I’ve grown older, I’ve become more curious.  My interests have expanded.  I suddenly have questions that I didn’t before.  My dad says that I’m straying, but I think I’m just growing up, and I think he hates that.  I think there’s still a part of him that hates me for what I did, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop it.

Which only makes me feel even more distant, because if Raku’s teachings have really healed him, then why is he still punishing me?  By the word of God Himself, he should feel drawn towards the light.  “Vindication should not traverse the pure of heart” is what Raku tells his prophet Aldierno in 10:2.  I think my dad still feels vindictive.  I think he still hates me.  He just won’t admit it.  Which is a sin too, by definition, but whenever I raise this argument he holds my hand under hot water for a full minute, and that’s the end of that.

Maybe I am straying.  Maybe I am being slowly consumed by darkness.  Maybe I don’t have what it takes to be a truly good person.

That would explain why I’ve been ditching sermons to go urban exploring instead.

I know it’s wrong.  Though ghosts are undoubtedly real ( or so the text says ), huros aren’t supposed to meddle with them.  To attempt to bridge the gap between our world and the spirit realm is one of the greatest sins in the entire scripture  ----  but according to my dad, I’m already a murderer, so technically speaking, I don’t have many ways to get worse.

I can’t explain what intrigues me about the spirit realm.  I only know that when I lay awake at night and think about the presence of creatures that exist on a parallel plane, I feel scared out of my skin, but I also feel alive.  Like I want to know more.  Though me and my dad butt horns about it often, there’s nothing in the scripture that discourages the pursuit of knowledge.  In fact, Raku Himself says that to know is to love, because knowing means that we understand more. It’s just unfortunate that the thing I want to know more about could potentially land me in serious trouble with the Church, and my commune.

I don’t think any of them know what I’m doing.  Not yet.  I still look devout.  I still take care to show up to events and services whenever I’m being watched.  I still go to church with my dad.  I even still attend The Great Burn, even if it hurts me to watch.  It’s not as if I hate religion now or anything.  I just think there are things out there that I want to know, and maybe my beliefs don’t line up with what I truly think any more.

I don’t even really know what I think.  I’ve never had to think for myself that much, and now that I’m on the cusp of adulthood, I feel stunted in a way that I shouldn’t.  I think that’s what this is, this new-found interest in ghosts and all that weird stuff:  I think it’s that I want to challenge myself.  I’m constantly stuck between wanting to see something and never wanting the supernatural to show itself, because if it’s real and I see it then there’s no going back.  I may be questioning my faith, but it’s also a safety net.  An easy way to live my life.  If I see something I can’t unsee, if I breach the veil between the living and the dead, where will I go from there?  What will I think?  And how can I continue to live with my dad being the way that he is when I know in my heart that it’s wrong?  I think that’s what scares me the most:  the idea that my dad isn’t actually as good a person as he seems.

Laz says that he’s projecting his insecurities onto me.  I don’t know whether my dad’s actually unsure about anything, given his attitude, but Laz is certain.  He says he feels lost and alone in the world, and that he’s using faith as a crutch because dealing with grief is hard.  I used to tell him to stop being so cruel about him, but the more I think about it, the more I think that he hasn’t really dealt with my mom’s death at all.  Maybe Laz is right, and maybe I know that, and that’s why I’m sticking with him whenever I can.

Laz is a bit of a weirdo.  I met him when skipping one of my sermons.  He was standing in the shade at the back of the church, still as the dead.  It was as if he knew I was coming.  His eyes never left me.  When I asked what he was looking at, he said that he too was ditching, and asked if I wanted to hang out with him.  I was scared of how easily he saw through me, and I guess that made me say yes.  I didn’t want other people to see through me too  ----  and I didn’t want him to tell anyone that he’d seen me out of the service just to spite me either.

I’m ultimately glad I hung out with him though.  He’s probably the only person in my life right now that I actually trust.  My dad’s kept me pretty closed off throughout my life.  I’ve been so focused on my practises that I haven’t had much time to make friends, and I’m only really allowed to associate with members of the church.  People my dad approves of.  He would absolutely not approve of Laz.  In fact, I get the feeling that he could probably kill me for hanging out with someone like him.  He isn’t a bad person, but he isn’t a believer either, and my dad thinks the two are mutually exclusive.  I know better though.  I think Laz is good.  He listens to me, and even though he’s a pretty lazy guy, he gives solid advice and speaks from the heart.  He’s honest.  And he’s entertaining my stupid ghost-hunting adventures despite being a sceptic.  You can’t ask for a better sidekick than one who’ll follow you into the dark just for the hell of it.

He’s the entire reason I’m brave enough to be doing what I’m doing now:  sitting awake writing in my journal while we’re bunked in The Crow Yard.  It’s such a creepy place, and even in Raku’s stories it’s a place of great evil.  It’s where really bad people are put to rest.  Like, really bad people.  The people of the district come together to make a scarecrow that embodies something they feared when they were alive, so that their spirits are too afraid to leave the grave and wander.  It’s an old tradition, but as you can probably imagine, there’s a lot of folklore and myth surrounding this place.  People are scared of it.  They think it’s haunted.  I do, too.  I think if there’s any place that something evil could live, it’s here, and while it may not be brave enough to come out, that doesn’t mean it isn’t here.  I’m scared out of my mind, much too scared to sleep, but I feel…  excited.  Like I’m actually doing something I want to do, even if part of me is telling me to run away.  

Laz is snoring beside me.  He looks so goofy tucked in a sleeping bag.  He’s stupid tall, and so finding something for him to sleep in was next to impossible.  Though he assured me he didn’t need anything, I still brought an old futon for him.  His legs are poking out of the bottom.  His pillow’s on the dirt.  He sleeps as if he’s shacked up in his bedroom while I’m sitting here shaking like a leaf.  I kinda wish I was as brave as him, but maybe it’s less about being brave and more about being stupid.

The sun will rise soon.  I haven’t seen anything, but I feel it.  In the air.  Like electricity.  Like something’s gonna jump out at me.  Laz would laugh himself to death, even if it really was a ghost that attacked me.  He’s just a jerk like that.  But at least he’s here, which is more than can be said for my dad.

[akillysheel]

❝ Were you serious? ❞ ( 6/75 )

Summary:  In the end, he did let her know he was okay. Characters:  Kip, Jagger. Prompt:  ❝ Were you serious? ❞ Warnings: N/A

A/N:  Sorry for the break between uploads.  I was dealing with a uhhhhh ~Mental Breakdown~ lol.  I’m slowly getting myself back together, but please just be patient for a couple of weeks while I get back into the groove again!

Success has a glorious way of putting her to sleep.  Though her slot in the bar had been brief–  a measly fifteen minutes on stage, it had taken longer to set up than it had to perform–  it had left its mark.  The applause echoes in her mind as she gradually enters the world of the living once more, vision blurred and fluffy until her bland white ceiling comes into focus.

One day, these gigs will pay off.  She tells herself this day in and day out, if only because it keeps her hopeful.  The life of an artist is a painful one, one destined for ignorance and underappreciation, but she loves music too much to give it up.  As long as she's still alive to do so, she'll continue to make it in spite of the fact that it seems rather fruitless;  it's all she can do, and all she has to offer the world in turn.

If not this, what?

Still hazy with sleep, Kip retrieves her phone from beneath her pillow and clicks the power button.

[ 2 MESSAGES  →  JAG. ] [ 1 VOICEMAIL  →  JAG. ]

The memory of the previous night hits her like a truck, heart beginning to race as she recalls his clumsy stagger and his hazy eyes, the image of him driving turning into a wreckage that she can’t fully visualise--  because she isn’t brave enough to.   Even now, she can’t quite believe she’s seen him in any other state than perfect.   It feels similarly to seeing a teacher outside of school.  Eerie, if only because the concept of them having a life outside of their job has never hit you in the way that it does in that moment.  They’re a complex person, with their own thoughts and feelings, and you never stopped to realise it because you were too busy stressing about trigonometry.  In that same vein, she’s never viewed Jagger as somebody that exists outside of his debaucherous career.  He's always well-dressed, well-groomed and ruthlessly articulate.  Sharp, like a knife, and with the temperament to match.  What she'd seen last night had been nothing short of sloppy--  a glimpse behind the curtain that she’d never asked to see beyond.

Hurriedly, she beats her thumb against the notification, cursing the lag of her old model as they load at a snail’s pace.

[ TEXT  →  JAG. ] I made it hpme. [ TEXT  →  JAG. ] Don't piss your pwnts.  Assignment tomorrowq.

Kip stares at the messages with a look of begrudging awe.  Even in the throes of inebriation, he retains his snippy tone, and she can’t quite figure out whether to be impressed, annoyed or relieved.  Most likely some cryptic amalgamation of the three.

He got assignment right but not pants?

With a quiet snort of laughter, she throws her legs over the side of her bed and drags herself from beneath her covers.  If he’s indeed going to follow through on the whole assignment shtick, she at least wants a slice of toast in her.  Trying to do Jagger’s bidding is made even more insufferable by hunger.

A generous helping of butter is drawn across her toast before she hops up onto the counter and nibbles at one corner as she scrolls through her social media feed.  Fourteen new likes.  One new comment.  It doesn’t take long for her mind to drift from the pictures of cute animals and crass jokes flooding her timeline, brain steadily filling with visions of what Jagger’s going to want from her this time.  One day, she fears she’s going to fall too far down the rabbit hole;  find herself neck-deep in dirty darkness that she no longer wants to escape from.  Holding a wrapped shipment of spice had almost been too much for her to handle.  How the hell is she going to manage anything more incriminating?  Even if Jagger can keep her clean in the eyes of the police, she’s still been exposed to things she can never forget.  Doors she can never fully close.  People she can never fully wipe from her memory.  Some things run deeper than the law.  In fact, they tunnel beneath it and emerge on the other, darker side, nails dull and muddy, teeth sharp and spiteful.  Kip knows that.  She’s been one of them  -  and at the rate she’s going, she will be again.

Her mind drifts uneasily to the voicemail.  She’s never been nervous to open one before–  not even when she and her brother have had fights–  yet she can’t help but worry.  She may be playing a glorified maid at the moment, but when things get real and Jagger requires an extra set of hands, she can only imagine the horrible things he’ll make her do.

With evident apprehension, she forces what’s left of her breakfast down before belligerently clicking on the notification.

                                          YOU HAVE…  ONE, NEW MESSAGE!

“Kip, listen…  that song you played at the bar, was that yours?  I’ve never heard anythin’ like it before.  I searched some of the lyrics but nothin’ turned up,”  Jagger slurs, his voice low and thick before the sound of shuffling consumes the line. At first, it’s nondescript and quiet, but she quickly identifies it as bed sheets rustling.  It relieves her to know that he hadn’t been drinking when he sent this;  he’d already been drunk behind the wheel, the last thing he needed to be doing was trying to talk on the phone too.  “Can’t stop playin’ it over and over in my head.  Think I took that bassline home with me.  I’m thinkin’ of you;  you-- singing, I mean.”

Clumsy.

Her brow furrows as she listens to him toss and turn, mumbling incoherently as he does.  His message brings with it an indescribable warmth.  It settles in her cheeks, the same way it does when she receives praise from someone she hopes to impress, and it stays there in a way she’s not felt before.  Jagger is a hard man to please.  She’s barely seen him crack a smile since their unfortunate meeting, nevermind lavish somebody with genuine wonderment.  A pleased little smirk forms on her face;  smug, upturned like she really is some sort of posh snoot.

Jagger clears his throat on the recording, and it makes her straighten up.  As if he’s right next to her to smother her ego. 

“Bring me a copy of that song on a disc.  I want to play it in my van.”

Abruptly, the message ends, and she listens to the automated voice ask her what she wants to do with the voicemail as she struggles to close her mouth.  From beginning to end, his words were a mess…  but they were undoubtedly honest, and that’s what matters to her.  People like to blame their loosened filters on being drunk, but Kip knows better.  She knows that intoxication makes people brave, not liars, and not even someone as supposedly flawless as Jagger is exempt from this shameful truth.  The things he’d said…  she knows he’d never say them without some sort of failsafe.  It’s not like I knew I was complimenting you, dipshit.  I was shit-faced.  She hears it so clearly in her head that she scoffs outwardly, her smile large and audacious.

Now her only question is whether she really should burn him a CD containing her song or not.  Sober, she doubts Jagger will appreciate her smarmy attitude.  He may very well snap it in two right in front of her, and that will hurt her more than she cares to admit.

After considering her options, she types out an impish set of texts and hits send before she can think better of it.

[ TXT  →  KIP. ]  Still thinking of me, bossman? =P [ TXT  →  KIP. ]  Were you serious about the disc by the way?  I can totally burn you one.

Oh, he’s going to give her hell for that one, whether it was well-played or not.  She can feel that much in her soul.  In spite of this, just picturing his stupid face as he reads her texts is enough to make her climb into the shower with a smile.  

[akillysheel]

❝ It was work. ❞ ( 5/75 )

Summary:  Kip has never kept a secret from her brother before. Characters:  Kip, Basil, Jagger (mentioned). Prompt:  ❝ It was work. ❞ Warnings: Brief references to drugs, brief mentions of violence.

“Kip, I’ve told you a billion times! Stop leaving your boots in front of the door!”

“Sorryyy…”  

The clock reads six thirty-two as Basil puts down his keys and shuffles into their tiny kitchen space.  Kip is cooking…  if one can call putting ramen on the hob cooking.  It bubbles and spits as if it’s a meal worth its salt though, giving her all the trouble that actual food would if she could afford to buy it.  The full culinary experience  -  just without the end result.

“How was work?”  she asks sheepishly, already knowing what he’s going to say.

“It was… work.”

Yep.

“You’ve really gotta quit that place, Bas.  It’s sapping you dry.”

He arches his eyebrows slightly, and she knows what he wants to say but won’t.  Someone has to pay the bills, Kip.  He’s said it once before, and it escalated into a fight that could’ve been avoided had she just allowed herself to admit that he was right.  She doesn’t have much pride to begin with, but what little bravado she has seeps right into her dream.  Chasing music may not have brought much success to them yet, but she can feel in her soul that it will one day.

Still, it doesn’t make them any less poor in the present.

“One day,”  he says with a feeble smile, and that marks the end of that.  “What’s cooking?”

Kip bites back the urge to reply that it’s the same thing as usual, instead settling on a sunny:  “I’ve seasoned it with vegetables this time!  Why don’t you go sit down?”

Everything’s as it usually is, and yet she feels burdened in a way she hasn’t before.  As she plates up their noodles, her mind drifts to the mess she’s found herself in.  She’s never kept a secret from Basil before;  she’s told him about everything, even embarrassing things like crushes and dreams.  This feels like a completely different beast, though.  Is there a good way to break the news that she’s serving a criminal?  And not just any criminal–  a kingpin, a leader of Leylan’s drug cartel, a dangerous man that had no qualms about threatening her in a dirty back alley in broad daylight.  Just thinking about the way her arm had bent has a cold spike of fear lodging itself neatly between the discs in her spine.  It stays there, borderline loyal, as she carries their bowls into the living room.

I have to tell him.  It’s killing me to keep something from him.

Basil is more laying than he is sitting, aching feet propped atop a ratty old pillow that they’ve had for the better half of forty years, but it doesn’t stop him from accepting the offered bowl.  He dips his fork in, swirling it rhythmically in counts of four, before spooning what he’s collected into his mouth.  Like most things he does, there’s a distinct sense of order to it.  It contrasts wholly to his sister, who shovels whatever she can get on those weathered prongs into her impatient little mouth. 

But today she’s not shovelling.

She’s swirling.

Nudging.

Basil frowns, circles halting.  “Hey.  What’s up?”

This is her window.  This is the part where she drops all pretences and confesses to her brother that she’s found herself in deep shit.  He’ll be disappointed for sure.  He’ll berate her for her kleptomania.  He might even abandon what’s left of his meal in favour of sulking in his room.  But at least he’ll know the truth.

“Well, I…”

… but she knows Basil.  She knows how protective he is of her;  how much pressure he puts on himself to look after her;  how hard he strives to be the ‘big brother’ (even though he's only older than her by four lousy minutes).  Knowing this will only make him unravel.  It’ll kick his anxiety into overdrive.  It might even make him pick fights he can’t win.  Images of him bent and broken flash in her mind like memories, each more contorted and messy than the last.  It chases what’s left of her appetite right out of the door, fingers trembling as she holds her fork tight.

“Um…”  

He looks concerned now, sitting up properly and giving her that nervous look that she knows all too well–  the one where he tries to look stern, but instead looks like a disgruntled deer in the headlights.  It makes her heart clench whenever she sees it;  she wishes he didn’t fret so much in general, but especially not about her.  She wishes his medication was stronger.

Tell him.

Tell him now.

“... I didn’t get it.”

Basil blinks owlishly, his confusion palpable.  “Uh…?”

“The gig I tried to secure last week,”  she elaborates weakly, feeling both relieved and crushed all at once.  It hurts like hell to lie to him, but she doesn’t want to expose him to someone like Jagger.  It feels too dangerous.  The less people she can pull into her unfortunate little side hustle, the better.  “They turned me down.”

For a moment, the room is painfully quiet, and Kip feels as if her fork is about to snap.  Then, Basil gives her a sympathetic smile that all but saws her in two.

“Idiot!  Don’t worry me like that!”  He blows out a breath as if it’s been burning his lungs, staggered and slow.  “Well, there’ll be other gigs, right?  I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but it’s only a matter of time before someone else takes you on.”

Feebly, Kip nods, staring into her soggy noodles with a grievous crease in her brow.  “Y-Yeah, I guess.”  She forces herself to smile, because she knows that if she doesn’t then Basil will grow suspicious.  They know each other like the back of their hands.  Though Kip has become a solid liar, Basil knows her quirks.  Before he can regard her too closely, she directs the attention from the conversation and to his bowl.  “Does it taste okay?”

Successfully distracted, Basil’s green gaze flits to his ramen, then back to his sister’s face, his smile tight, grim.  “It’s… ramen,”  he says through his teeth, and they both share a sad chuckle.  If they don’t laugh about their empty pockets, they’ll surely cry instead.  “Like, you tried, and I appreciate it, but…”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.  I suck,”  she retorts with a dramatised sigh, rising from her seat and heading to the kitchen.  She feels bad for not even touching her meal, but she knows that if she forces herself to eat it it’ll be coming back up soon.  Her stomach feels all sorts of topsy-turvy, palms clammy and shaky.  “Y’know, I…  I’ll eat later.”

“You didn’t even touch it,”  Basil replies, staring at her from over the top of the couch with a furrowed brow.

“I know, I guess…  I’m just really bummed about the gig.”  Her mouth tastes like ash now, her lies sitting like stones on her tongue.  After pouring her noodles back into the pan and closing the lid, Kip shuffles meekly out of the kitchen and towards her bedroom door.  It’s at times like these where she resents the fact that their house is small and single-story;  a set of stairs would make for an easy getaway right now.  “I’m gonna sleep it off, okay?  Don’t wait up for me.”

“Hey, Kip?”

She pauses at her door, looking at him over his shoulder.  The apprehension on his face only twists the knife.  “Yeah?”

“... you’re okay, right?  You know you can talk to me about anything.”  He’s seen his sister recover much faster from far worse.  One year, she got a grand total of two gigs  -  and one of them was absolutely out of pity.  She’s like an elastic band in that she always snaps back, even if she’s stretched thin.  To see her so depressed about one refusal…  it stirs doubt in him.  Something’s not quite right.

“I know!”  she assures him, waving her hands frantically.  “Really, I’m fine…!  I just–  feel a little useless right now.”

He holds her gaze a moment longer before letting it drop.  Even if there is something more at play here, she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to talk about it yet–  or that she can’t.  Basil may be riddled with anxiety, but he knows enough about patience’s benefits to extend it to her.  To try and force her to come clean about all she’s feeling now will only result in her pulling further away from him.

“... okay,”  he says, giving her a half-smile.  “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah.  Goodnight, Bas,”  she answers, before opening her door and walking into her room.  Its soft click as it shuts again makes him feel more alone than it ought to.  He slowly sinks back into his seat, his bowl now feeling frightfully lukewarm as he nudges what’s left of his meal around it half-heartedly.

The gears in his head are already turning.  No matter how much he tries to slow them down, the worry seeps inside and stains his efforts grey.  Poison.  That’s what’s in me.

With a heavy sigh, Basil places his bowl down on the coffee table before laying face-first on the couch.  At the very least, he should try to get some rest before his next shift tomorrow  -  not that he thinks he’ll be able to stop thinking about his sister and her bizarre behaviour for hours to come.

[akillysheel]

                SEE  YOU  IN  THE  FUNNY  PAGES,  FUCK  YOU!

[akillysheel]

❝ I kind of liked the secrecy. ❞ ( 4/75 )

Summary:  Kip sees Jagger less than a little composed. Characters:  Kip, Jagger. Prompt:  ❝ I kind of liked the secrecy. ❞ Warnings: Alcoholism (implied), drunk-driving, general recklessness and stupidity.

Jagger remembers his first drink like most people do their first kiss.  It was in his father’s office at the tender age of seven.  He’d been screwing around, like most children do, and found the bottle tucked in his bottom drawer.  The cap had instantly drawn him in;  a silver dragon etched into its surface as if it was a badge of honour as opposed to a corporate logo.  The moment the whiskey had touched his tongue, he’d gagged and spat and determined then and there that he’d never touch the stuff again.

“What do you fancy, Jag?”

“Whiskey.  Neat.”

The bartender is the kind of man to make nice with everyone.  Jagger isn’t.  The moment he receives his drink, he gives him a single nod to indicate gratitude before looking away.  Even without words, the message is clear:  leave me be.

Jagger seldom gets time to relax.  Drink and drugs have become infused into his typical routine, yet his time spent in socially acceptable drinking spots is all but zero.  Unlike a lot of people in this place, he doesn’t drink to enhance his sociability.  He does it like one might do a chore:  for a greater, loveless purpose.  The hum of chatter feels like home though, like the incessant buzz of the lamps that keep his produce growing as it should.

It doesn’t take long for him to polish off his drink and buy another.  Alcohol doesn’t burn like it used to.  Instead, it nestles in his chest like a sleepy animal and rests, and the warmth it radiates is comforting rather than overwhelming.  His heart is a window ledge;  his afflictions a lazy cat.

Eventually, he grows tired of ordering and pays for a bottle to be left beside him.  A familiar buzz fills his head, followed by a snowy static that consumes his limbs, and for a while, everything is calm.  He tunes in to the quiet song playing in the background, some sunny electro-swing duet performed by a couple that love music as much as they do each other, and feels content.

He doesn’t pin the exact moment that the scene changes.  It starts as a thumping rhythm that wasn’t there before, one that his boot subconsciously taps along to, followed by a synth that sends a shiver down the length of his spine.  Jagger’s music taste is a subversion from most men his age.  He may like classic rock, may hold affection for iconic riffs from his time as a teenager, but his soul lives in a bassline’s pulse.  His van’s radio is evidence of that, a playlist full of synth-pop and smooth liquid drums at his disposal whenever he has errands to run.  Unlike a lot of things, Jagger likes this kind of music for the way it makes him feel.  It’s music that should be played while speeding down highways at way over the speed limit, the city tinged violet with hedonism.  Not a sight he’s experienced first-hand, given Leylan’s strict curfew, but the image burns so brightly in his mind's eye that he swears he’s been there before.

Jagger takes another drink, eyes falling closed as he soaks in the atmosphere.  The dim orange lights have faded to an atmospheric blue, swathing the bar in a nebulous darkness that makes him feel tired in the best way possible.  He’s floating, so very high above everything that’s ever had the capacity to weigh him down–

                                                                       – and then her voice reaches his ears.

His eyes snap open with recognition, though he remains with his back to the stage.  To her.

It can’t be Kip, he thinks stubbornly.  Blaming his warped perception on the drink seems permissible  -  and then the song reaches its chorus and her voice is irrefutable.  It’s…  beautiful.  Far more mature than he’s come to expect.  When he saw that stupid keytar hung over her shoulder, he’d assumed she was of mediocre talent.  How else is he supposed to react to the starry-eyed, “I’m a musician!” if not with scepticism?  Everybody that’s ever said that has really meant that they have no prospects and are desperately chasing a pipe dream. 

He gets the overwhelming sense that he should leave, yet he feels glued to his seat.  Her melody settles in his brain before trickling down, down, down, until he swears he can feel it convulsing in his soul.  Those gentle vocals mixed with the 80’s style synth make for a deliciously haunting tune, and the sudden surge of POWER in her voice throughout the final chorus all but knocks him off of his bar stool.  By the time she’s finished, he feels alarmingly as if he is too.  He glances at the stage over his shoulder;  sees her sitting in front of a big, bulky keyboard that has most certainly been borrowed from somebody.  There’s no way she could afford such a swanky bit of kit--  not when she’s supposedly stealing wallets to buy food.

The sound of people cheering breaks his spell.  It’s a gradual noise, as if the crowd isn’t quite sure of what they’ve just witnessed, before the unpleasant crescendo swallows him whole.  It isn’t that big a group, and most of her audience is shit-faced, staggering even though they’re standing still, but applause is applause when you’re hungry for stardom.

She rises from her chair with a bright smile, hands clasped in front of her as she bows humbly.  “Thank you!”

Jagger’s never heard her sound this happy.  It’s as if he’s seeing a different person, the real her, and it feels far more personal than it should.  As the lights brighten and the crowd moves on, Jagger rises from his seat and determines that he should vanish.  However, the drink makes him clumsier than normal, gait wobbly and slow as he attempts to weave between tables without falling over.  Usually pinprick senses are abuzz with static;  it leaves him oblivious to the fact that she’s noticed him on his way out, bridging the distance between them.

“Jagger?”

He pauses as if he’s been caught doing the walk of shame, dark knuckles turning white as he clutches the neck of his bottle.  He’s never spoken to her outside of work before, never so much as shot her a text that isn’t to do with business.  The gap between them is purposeful, and it’s more for her sake than his.

“Kip,”  he says, voice low.  “What’d I tell you?  Outside of work?  We.  Don’t.  Know each other.”

“Whatever.  I know you,”  she replies dismissively, following him as he exits the bar.  He’s drunk as a skunk, that much she can gather just by smelling him, nevermind from watching him walk.  His usually sharp sense of direction falters as he clears the threshold of the pub’s front door.  “You’re wasted right now!

“Well, yeah, ‘s how I like to be."  He stops outside of his van, fumbling with the door handle, and Kip gasps softly in surprise before reaching out to grab his arm

"You can't drive this drunk!"  she hisses, swatting at the skin of his forearm gently.

"No, don't worry, I-- I do it all the time."

"All the time?!"  She's torn between gawking and scowling, lips parting and meeting as she fumbles desperately for words.  She feels useless, for she can't even offer him a ride home.  Learning to drive is low on her list of priorities, given that she can get everywhere she wants to go via roller-skates and monorail rides.  Maybe one day.  "That's so dangerous.  You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Yeah, you're ruining my buzz, doll.  Remind me to never go drinkin' with you."

"Okay.  First– "  She swallows hard, uttering a short, harsh laugh.  "Do not call me doll.  Second, I'm just looking out for you!  Do you know what that is, huh?  Empathy?"

"Doesn't ring a bell,"  he murmurs as he drags the driver's side door open and climbs in.  She sticks her arm in the way when he tries to close it behind him, and he feels frustration building in his gut.  "Kip--"

"You should've said hi."

"I kinda liked the secrecy,”  he drawls sardonically.

"The secrecy of what?"  she asks, catching his eye feebly.  The sun is beginning to set.  Her outline is warm and fuzzy, and Jagger feels a drunken urge to invite her back home.  He swallows it down like he does alcohol, relieved when it tastes bitter upon its descent.  "... did you like my song?"

“You…”  He’s cellophane in that moment;  he knows it, and she knows it too, and he doesn't have the mental fortitude when he’s this drunk to lie convincingly.  Still, he doesn’t want to tell her as such–  doesn’t want to admit that his veins are still thrumming with that intoxicating rhythm, that her stunning vocals have made a nest in his brain.  Instead of saying anything, he feeds his key into the ignition and turns it, the engine revving to life.  “I’m goin’ home.  You should get goin’ too, it’s getting late.”

The look in her eyes is desperate, but she knows in her heart that she can’t stop him.  She may not be overly fond of him, but she doesn't want him to wind up dead because he totaled his van on the way home.  It isn’t a trustworthy statement, but she can only hope that he’s being sincere with his sentiment, that he really has done this ‘all the time’.

It won’t stop her worrying, though.

Her hands curl around the lip of his window.  “Look.  Text me when you get home, okay?”

“Why?”

“Just–  so I know you didn't crash and DIE, Jag!”

A bitter laugh escapes him as he drums his hands against the steering wheel.  “Please.  All your problems vanish if I vanish,”  he says, staring into her eyes unflinchingly as he leans a little closer.  The smell of whiskey permeates the space between them.  To her credit, Kip doesn’t flinch either.  “You should be sending me off with another shot glass in hand, little lady.”

Her brow furrows, and she looks simultaneously exposed and affronted.  With a growing storm in her eyes, she scowls and leans forward until there’s barely any space between them.  Fiery.  Defiant.  “Don’t.  Say that.”  It’s as if she frightens herself, a hint of innocence gleaming through the intensity as she backs away from him again.  By the time she’s back to her spot on the pavement, she looks slightly dazed  —  as if she’s woken from a particularly vivid daydream  —  and her gaze is back to being round and doe-like.  “... I don’t want you to die, okay?  Just, drive... as safe as you can.  And tell me when you get home.  I have to pack up.”

He watches her with a muted sense of confusion as she slowly backs away from him, until she’s standing in the bar’s doorway again.  He just can’t understand her;  he doesn’t get how she can have so much love stuffed inside of her.  She’s like a living, breathing teddy bear, and it pisses him off.

                                   Don’t act like you give a shit about me.  Don’t.

Nervously, she raises her hand and gives him a meek little wave, leaning her head against the doorframe like a sad puppy.

With grit teeth and swimming vision, Jagger puts his foot on the gas pedal and floors it down the road.

[akillysheel]

❝ Well, That’s on You. ❞ ( 3/75 )

Summary:  Kip learns what is meant by “a rotten assignment”. Characters:  Kip, Jagger, Basil. Prompt:  ❝ Well, that’s on you. ❞ Warnings: Drugs ( fictional ).

A/N:  A direct continuation of the previous chapter because uhhhh I said so.

“Wakey wakey.”

Kip stirs when Jagger nudges her shoulder with a gloved hand.  He’s fully dressed, excluding his coat, and is clearly already prepared for the day ahead.  Hung over his arm are her freshly washed clothes, offered to her with an unexpectedly cordial patience.

"Okay,"  she mumbles, not knowing whether to thank him or not.  She may have just woken up, but she recalls how that had panned out yesterday.  Her poor forehead.  "Um–"

"You've got twenty minutes to make yourself…"  He pauses, looking her over, his mouth curling into a spiteful sneer.  With evident disdain:  "... vaguely presentable."

Kip squints before kicking her blanket aside and standing up.  She snatches her clothes from him with a sour scowl before trawling off to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.  If there’s one thing she can’t understand above all else, it’s why some people make the conscious choice to be unpleasant.  Jagger must have one hell of a reputation to protect.  After how they’d met, that wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest.

The second that the cold water hits her face, Kip breathes out a sigh of relief.  She’s never been a morning person, but she can always count on that icy jolt to kick start her day.  She washes as efficiently as she can without a designated flannel or sponge, and after hunting in a couple of cabinets for a toothbrush and subsequently feeling bad about it, draws a stripe of toothpaste across her finger and attempts to brush as best she can.  By the time she’s finished, hands washed and hair arranged as neatly as she’ll get it without the use of a hairbrush, she feels semi-confident.

With gusto, Kip points at her reflection, a determined look flashing across her face like lightning.  “Today’s a new day,”  she tells herself with a smirk.  “And you’re not going to let Jagger ruin it.  You’ll keep your cool, and you’ll kill him with kindness.”  Her smirk becomes a sheepish smile then, shoulders sagging a little.  “... well, maybe don’t kill him.”

Not even in a hyperbolic sense can she imagine hurting somebody that bad.

With pep in her step, Kip leaves the bathroom and, after stopping to slip her boots on, descends the stairs.

“Just in time.”  She turns her head to see Jagger watering one of his house plants, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  Against her better judgement, she feels the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.  “What?”

“Nothing!”  Her hands wave defensively as she looks away from him.  It’s not her fault;  the image of a ruthless drug lord sparing time to water his house plants every morning is just a little too adorable to fly under her radar.  She shouldn’t be swayed by such normal tendencies, but she certainly doesn’t expect them from someone like him.  Just like the candles and the soft blankets, it feels so out of left-field that it’s almost laughable.

He puts down the spray bottle with more force than necessary and bridges the distance between them.  “Share with the class.”

“What’s his name?”

Jagger’s eyebrows raise.  “... huh?”

“The plant’s,”  Kip elaborates, arms tucked behind her back as she beams wide.

“What’re you talking about?  It’s a plant.”

“I name my stuffed animals,”  she replies with a shrug, and her smile widens until she’s positively glowing.  Jagger backs away, looking a little disturbed.  “It’s only the same.”

“We’re not the same,”  he states bluntly, nose wrinkling with displeasure.  “What are you, ten?”

Kip clenches her fists tight, sharp fangs pinching her tongue until she feels the urge to insult him back pass her by.  Not once does her smile falter.  “Try naming them.  It’s free therapy.”

“Don’t need therapy.”  His voice is uncharacteristically light as he sticks out his foot and kicks a rug aside, revealing a trapdoor beneath it.  "Need money."

Kip stares wide-eyed at the secret entrance, suddenly feeling light-headed.  They can talk about house plants and gratitude all night long, but come the end of things, Jagger is a man she knows little about.  If his occupation is anything to go by–  which it most certainly is when she's face to face with a hidden door in a house that he uses only to lay low in–  then she can only imagine that there's something nefarious going on down there.

Her eyes follow the broad sweep of his arm as he unhooks a latch and opens the door, eventually settling on that black hole in the floor.  Humid air reaches them like the breath of a beast, a faint hint of something spicy reaching her nose.  The longer she stares, the darker it seems to become, until it's so black that she thinks it can be nothing other than a gateway to hell.  She’s trying so hard not to let him get under her skin, but she won’t lie:  this makes her nervous.

If he has anything to say in response to her apprehension, he doesn't make it known.  Instead, he drops to a crouch and finds the first prong of the ladder that'll take him down into the basement.

"Come.  And pull the door shut behind you,"  is all he says before vanishing into the dusty depths.

Her options are limited.  She gets the feeling that if she climbs down that ladder and enters that room, there’s a good chance she won’t come out of it the same, but what else can she do?  The last thing she wants to do is upset the man who has already proven that he’ll do some nasty things to the people that inconvenience him.  She doesn’t want to land herself in any more trouble, nor does she want to put Basil on Jagger’s map.

I’ve got a truly rotten assignment for you tomorrow.

Begrudgingly, Kip lowers herself down into the dark, her knees feeling wobbly and weak.

A soft squeak of shock leaves her as the place is suddenly awash with ugly fluorescent light.  Its sickly yellow glow illuminates the basement, and Kip gets her first real taste of anxiety.  It comes not from something abjectly horrifying, rather the knowledge that she’s been exposed to something that she otherwise would never have seen;  a side of life that she was content to know of only from newspaper clippings and crime novels.

Packages.  Packages, packages, packages.  No matter where she looks, head turning this way and that, the basement is little more than a bunker full of these hand-wrapped bundles.  There’s nothing in the room excluding the table they sit on, and hot blazing lamps arranged in a row along the brick wall.  In comparison to the house above, the basement is a hole;  a bleak, stuffy, vacant void that smells overwhelmingly of pepper, smoke and ash.  Kip’s nose wrinkles, creases forming beneath her eyes as she fights back stinging tears.  They find Jagger at the far end of the room.

He’s smirking wide, looking the most excited she’s ever seen him look.  “Beautiful, ain’t it?”

“It stinks!”  she exclaims, watching as he pats one of the bundles with a surprisingly hearty laugh.

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it.  And you will be getting used to it.  40,000 paals is a lot to owe, little lady.”

She grits her teeth, refusing to bite.  In as neutral a tone as she can:  “This won’t cover it?  How can eight tiny tabs be worth more than a basement full of stock?”

The look he gives her is one he might give a sulking child.  There’s a genuine inkling of pity there.  “Y’know, I was still on the fence about you being a massive cheat, but you really don’t know squat about the business, do you?”

“I told you I don’t!”  Suddenly, she remembers her mirror pep-talk and how determined she was to have a good day.  The contents of this room may be testing her, but she isn’t about to let it break her that easily.  Her smile is forced, corners twitching at the grim nature of it all, but it’s a smile nonetheless.  “... but I can learn.”

He’s watching her intently, so intently that she feels a little scared to move beneath such a watchful gaze.  A gloved forefinger and thumb rub gently together, as if he’s calculating something unseen to her, before he breaks the tense silence with a thump of his palm against the closest package.

“No need!”  he exclaims, disarming her with a good-natured grin.  She’s never seen him quite this happy, and she can’t decide whether it’s endearing or unnerving.  “At least, not yet.  All I want you to do is move this stock for me.”

Kip blinks.  Of all the things he could have said, this hadn’t even made the list.  Slowly, her brow furrows.  “Sooo, that super spooky job you said you had for me…  this is it?”

“I believe the word I used was rotten,”  Jagger replies, stroking his chin as if deep in thought.  The light stubble there makes a quiet, scratching sound, and Kip feels momentarily mesmerised.  “And yes.  This is it.”  He picks up one of the many parcels and hands it to her.  “How’s that feel?  Is it heavy?”

Kip raises an eyebrow at him before tossing the package upwards a short way.  It’s as light as can be, hardly a problem, even for a girl her size.  “You’re kidding, right?”

Jagger lets out a low chuckle before placing a second one on top.  She may not be able to toss it anymore, but they sit comfortably in her hand, weighing no more than the average phone.  He repeats the process until she begins to struggle;  she can hold about fifteen of them in both arms before it becomes uncomfortable.

“Well, now you need to go upstairs.”

Kip’s smile dims a little.  “Huh?”

“Mhmm.”  He’s barely holding back a smile of his own.  Contrary to what she thinks, Jagger doesn’t hate her.  He doesn’t want to cause her unnecessary strife, if only because he has deadlines to meet  -  but he does feel as if he’s being challenged.  This new-found positivity she’s wielding like a weapon only makes him more keen to take her down a peg or two.  “I have a van parked out front.  It’s painted like a mail truck.  You can’t miss it.  That’s where they need to go.”

He watches the wheels in her head turn, the full extent of what he’s asking her to do dawning on her like daybreak.  Petulantly, Jagger glances at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket.

“It’s just gone five-ten.  I need this moved by, ohhh… six?”

“A-All of it?!”  Kip exclaims, feeling the life drain from her body.  She has no idea how she’s going to lug all of this up and down the ladder in fifty minutes.  There's an ungodly number of these things sitting around.  Thousands upon thousands of them, if she had to guess.

Jagger says nothing for a moment before mercifully shaking his head.  "No.  The van won't be able to carry all this in one trip - and it's not all going to the same place anyway.  I need two-hundred and fifty of them to go."

“But how am I supposed to move that many on my own?”

“Well, that’s on you to figure out.”

"Okay."  Kip breathes in deep through her nose before nodding, a mix of trepidation and determination filling her face as she tries to work out the best way to proceed.  To her astonishment, Jagger offers some support.

"You're holding fifteen there.  Shed however many you can't carry under one arm and we'll start from there.  I will count them."

“Really?”

“Yeah.  I don’t trust you to do it right.”

Kip deflates noticeably.  It’s the first outward chink in her armour today.

After much trial and error, she finds that if she tucks seven under her arm and two in her jacket pockets, she can move about nine at a time.  

The first trip is a breeze.  She wriggles her way up that ladder and out of his front door with hardly a pause.  This emboldens her  -  which makes her steady spiral into exhaustion that much more painful.  By the twelfth trip, she comes to fear that ladder.  She’s a healthy young woman;  she was a track runner in college and has lived a life full of secret bases in trees and leaping over rivers as opposed to taking their respective bridges.  She still skates with her brother on most evenings and she runs to every gig she gets.  Even so, that awkward, one-handed shimmy up the steep ladder leaves her lungs burning and her gut clenching.  By the time she’s clearing the last of it out, her legs resemble jelly and she’s trying not to pant for air too obviously.

“H–Here’s… the last of it…”

Jagger is leaning against the side of the van with a yoghurt in his hands.  He regards her shaky legs with the ghost of smirk on his face before feeding himself a complimentary spoonful of strawberry, tiny plastic utensil lingering against his lips long after he’s finished.  She’s undoubtedly tired (and he knew she would be), but she managed.  Despite their contentious relationship, he’s impressed.

“Good job, little lady.  And here I thought you’d pass out.”  He turns, tossing his now-empty yoghurt cup over her head and into his general waste bin.  “What did I tell you?  A rotten assignment.”

Kip gives him a smile that reminds him of a switchblade.  After a big, stubborn inhale:  “That’s the second time you’ve underestimated me, Jagger.  You ought to start learning I can take it.”

“Well damn,”  he replies, eyebrows raised high.  “Check out the attitude on this one.  One job strong and feelin’ fine.”  He can’t say it isn’t earned though.  He really has put her through the ringer already, and the sun has barely risen.  He’ll allow her an ounce of victory.  

An arm reaches through the rolled-down window of the door nearest before it withdraws with a second yoghurt cup in tow.  “Here.”

Kip blinks at it, as if she’s never seen one before in her life.  He must not have taken it out of the fridge long ago for it’s cool to the touch.  She all but snatches it from him, only realising in that moment how hungry she is.  The pink carton is about the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“Now get in,”  he orders, patting the door with a gloved hand before circling the van and climbing into the driver’s seat.  She obeys him without question, already halfway through tearing the foil lid from her snack.  The passenger seat has quite the incline, but she’s more focused on trying to pull her seatbelt on with one hand as the other feeds her plastic spoon into her mouth.  If Basil was here, he’d be criticising her lack of patience something fierce.

“Where’re we going?”  Kip asks as the engine hums to life.  Daylight is beginning to paint Leylan in its usual golden glow.  Soon enough, the early risers will be starting their morning routines, readying themselves for a day of work.  Given the type of goods Jagger is moving, it makes sense why he'd want to minimise his chances of being seen.

"I'm taking you home,"  he answers as he pulls out of the side street and onto the main path.  Leylan's roads are narrow and not entirely clear, far better equipped for bikes and skateboards, and the idea of a van this heavily loaded making some of the turns to her house has a knot forming in her stomach.  "Tell me your address."

It's pointless, but she still holds her tongue for a moment.  Her place of residence feels like the last personal thing she has left.  Sacrificing it means letting him into all aspects of her life, and she isn't keen to have that layer of separation broken.

"I can walk it…!"

Jagger glances at her out of the corner of his eye as he fiddles with the radio dial.  A smooth, thumping bass line fills the space between them.

"I don't want to trouble you!  I–I made it here on foot, I can–"

"Just tell me your fucking address,"  he interrupts tersely, and Kip stops talking.  It seems that no matter how she tries to play it, she's going to have to capitulate.  She does so with a heavy heart, settling on finishing her yoghurt in silence.  She needs to find a way to explain to Basil exactly where she's been without letting him know about Jagger.  If he finds out about the steaming pile of shit she's found herself in, he'll worry himself to death–  or worse yet, attempt to save her from it.  He means well, but Basil has never been a fighter;  she can only imagine the kind of mess that Jagger will make out of him if he tries to play the hero.  He'd almost broken her arm without so much as flinching.  She dreads to think what he'll do to someone who swings first.

The roads gradually become more and more familiar as time rolls on, and Kip finds herself soaking in the feeling of a car ride with just a little too much willingness.  She's never ridden in a vehicle like this before.  It differs a lot from a monorail ride, and even more so from rollerblading.  There's something intimate about sharing the passenger seat of a van being driven by somebody else;  a display of trust she's really quite conflicted about, given her less-than-stellar opinion of the man sitting beside her.  As usual, she tries to put a positive spin on it, tries to tell herself that she's not in danger.  He might be a little prickly, but he hasn't done anything grievous to her beyond their first meeting.  In fact, he hasn't so much as laid a finger on her again since their unfortunate meeting.  He could've left her for dead last night but he didn't.  He could've let her go hungry but he didn't.  He could've physically forced her to do any number of tasks for him at this point, but he hasn’t.  No matter how sour he's been with her, there's some good in his heart.  She believes in that, if nothing else.

Eventually, her house comes into view.  It's a tiny one-story building nestled between two others identical to it on a hill.

"Hold on,"  Jagger says as she unbuckles her seatbelt, and she pauses obediently.  His hand dips into his pocket before offering her her phone.  Her eyes widen immediately.

"Oh shoot!"  Hurriedly, she accepts it, unable to believe she forgot about it completely.  It's definitely seen better days.  The screen is cracked and the stickers on the back are fading, but it still works fine.  "Thanks…  I didn't even think about–"

"Hey.  How old are you, Kip?"

The shift in tone all but gives her whiplash.  After fumbling over her words for several seconds, she stammers out a confused, "Th–Three thirty…?  Why?"

Jagger taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the sound of leather squeaking quietly as he sucks in a breath through his teeth.  She looks adult to him, but definitely too young to be caught in the crosshairs of criminality like this.  She’s supposed to be full of promise;  studying something convoluted that didn’t exist when he was a boy.  He can’t understand why a young woman like her, so bright and full of life, is hovering on dirty street corners, robbing people and getting herself into trouble.  He can’t just let it slide, not when she’s cost him so much money, but part of him wishes he could.

“You’re too young to be caught up in this shit-storm,”  he admits, giving her a sober look.  “I’m gonna get you out of this mess as quickly as I can.  I don’t want you caught up in this scene for too long.”

The words take her aback.  There’s that consideration he keeps denying he has.  It reaches into her core, elicits a form of gratitude that she’s never felt before.

“I’m okay.  It was an accident, but… it was still my fault.”

“Still.  I don’t want you to start liking this life.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like it, Jagger.”

“You’d be surprised.  That’s what we all say,”  he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.  It disturbs the gelled back strands enough to leave some loose, and she looks away as if she’s walked in on him naked.  It’s just too strange, seeing him as anything other than the perfectly composed businessman.  With a smile that could just as well be a grimace:  “Just, be prepared to work your ass off for a couple of months.  Then we can wash our hands of each other, deal?”

“Deal,”  she replies, returning the half-hearted smile.

“Good.  Now go on.  Ske-daddle.  Get the hell outta my van.”

Kip exits the vehicle, yoghurt cup and all, and stands on the white pavement that leads to her house as the van roars to life once more.

“I’ll be in touch,”  Jagger calls over the purr of its engine, almost looking devious against the glare of sunlight that pours in through his window.  “I don’t ask for permission.  I call, you answer.  It’s that simple.”

“Got it.”  It’s said through her teeth, pinched and tight, but with a smile that could absolutely class as agreeable.  In spite of his tone, he’s made it evident that he’s at least sympathetic to her circumstances.  The best she can hope for is that he’s telling the truth–  that he really will find her enough work to absolve her of this bothersome life as soon as possible.  Her eyes follow the vehicle until it rounds the corner and disappears from sight.  

With a sigh, Kip drags herself up the hill and to her front door, unlocking it and shuffling inside.

“Basil?”  she calls as she walks into the cramped living room, all too aware of the time.  She can’t imagine that he’s left for work yet, but when she pokes her head into his room she discovers that it’s empty.  With a frown, she makes her way to her own and plugs her charger into her dead phone.  The moment it sparks to life, she discovers that she has seven missed calls and fifteen unread texts from her brother.

Hey, where are you? Kip, it’s getting late.  Are you coming home soon? I’m at the platform and the last tram just left.  You weren’t on it.  Where are you?!

She lets out a groan and dims the screen with a click of the power button, guilt washing over her in waves.  Her brother may be an anxious mess by nature, but it’s hardly an over exaggeration to be worried about her not coming home.  In her heart, she knows that he won’t have done anything foolish--  that he won’t have attempted to brave nightfall--  but she can’t imagine how sick to his stomach he must have been.  It’ll be a wonder if he’d slept at all.

The latest message is a haphazard string of capital letters;  incredibly out of character, for he’s a stickler for grammar.

KIP.  IF YOU DON’T REPLY BY TOMORROW AFTERNOON I’M CALLING THE POLICE!  CALL ME.

“Damn iiiit…”

His last call was at 5:34AM.  Her phone must have already been dead, because she absolutely would’ve picked it up otherwise, whether Jagger had been breathing down her neck or not.

Quickly, she hits the speed dial and brings the phone to her ear.  It barely rings once before it’s picked up.  “Hey, Basil–”

“Where were you?!  I’ve been worried sick!”

“I know, I’m sorry, I…”  She pauses, feeling overwhelmed by guilt and grief and anger.  As much as she wants to blame Jagger for this entire fiasco, she knows that she’s the one that landed herself in it.  This is what she gets for being a thief.  It was always only a matter of time before she got more than she bargained for.  “Um…  I…  lost track of time with my set.  Ended up staying over in the bar I played in.  My phone died.  I’m okay!”

She hears him tut, pacing so viciously that she can almost envision a trail of fire being left behind him.

“I’m sorry, Basil!  Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m–”  His words abruptly stop, and she hears the muffled voice of his boss barking orders at him.  Her brother mutters a timid “sorry, sir…” before he comes back to the phone.  “We’ll talk later, okay?  I have to go.  I’m glad you’re safe.  I love you.”

“I love you too, Bas.”

When the line goes dead, she only feels marginally better.  With a defeated huff, she puts her phone beneath her pillow before laying face-first on her bed.  She’s been awake for no longer than three hours and she already wants to go back to sleep.

[akillysheel]

I’ve known for a very long time that I’m  ACE,  but being nonbinary is a new discovery!

[akillysheel]

❝ It’s Not Going to Break. ❞ (2/75)

Summary:  Not even Jagger is cold enough to force Kip to brave the dangers of nightfall. Characters:  Kip, Jagger. Prompt:  ❝ It’s not going to break. ❞ Warnings:  Mild inappropriate humour.

A/N:  More Kip/Jaggerstuff because the first one was incredibly fun to write and I have way more ideas brewing with them!  I also had a lot of fun describing Jagger’ssafehouse!

By the time Kip returns to the doorstep of Jagger’s safehouse, it’s a quarter to nine.  She stands on the uppermost incline with a damp package in one hand and a fistful of her jacket in the other, listening intently as the sound of several locks being slid open signals her temporary boss’ arrival.

When he opens the door, it’s with a smug expression, brow pinched with an irritating faux-calm.  “So you actually managed.  And here I thought I’d find you dead in a ditch.”

“Like I’d give you the pleasure,”  Kip retorts with a haughty toss of her head.  In spite of this, there’s an undeniable look of worry on her face.  She lives on the other side of town, and they’re cutting it incredibly close to curfew.  If she takes to the rooftops and sails high above the streets, she might be able to make it, but it’s still unlikely.  The longer he takes peeling back the paper and counting the bills, too, the more on edge she becomes.

Teal eyes hover anxiously on Jagger as he finishes his count and gives her a satisfied nod.  “You did good, little lady.  It’s all there.”

Without another word, he steps aside and opens the door wider.  A rectangle of warm orange light illuminates Kip’s tired features. Her lavender hair is noticeably dishevelled and her jacket is muddied at the edges.  Collecting money from people that owe it is a simple enough task, but it requires a lot of sneaking around and lurking in back allies.  Hardly the cleanest job around, in all senses of the word.

“Well come in then,”  he barks impatiently, watching as her mouth opens and closes several times in surprise as she lingers at the threshold.  An invitation into his living quarters, even if unofficial, is hardly what she expected.

“But–”

“You want to take your chances out here after curfew?  Be my guest.”

“Wait!”  Kip sticks her arm in the diminishing gap between the door and its frame to stop him from closing it entirely. “P-Please… don’t leave me out here.”

With a hefty sigh, Jagger opens the door again and lets her slip inside before locking it behind them.  Like every other lyle’s door when dusk befalls them, it will remain sealed shut until morning.  Without regard for his unprecedented guest, he moves to the windows and repeats the process, making sure they’re secure.  There is a large, webbed handprint on the upper-right pane.  One of the ijus must have been on his roof again.

Kip’s eyes roam curiously around his quarters.  It’s a small, cramped place that seems secondary to the clunky wooden staircase and the space that lies beyond it.  She realises, staring up into that trapdoor-esque entrance to the upper floor, that this ground level arrangement is merely a front;  like a liquor store hiding the meth lab located just upstairs.  Normal enough to satisfy the average person.  There’s an armchair facing a television in the left corner of the room, though there’s a fine layer of dust coating the screen, suggesting that he barely uses it.  A cabinet with various plates and cutlery lining the wall draws her eyes to a homely little kitchen.  The light is off, and she can't really see anything beyond the threshold in any meaningful detail.  Just the vague outlines of cabinets and a fridge-freezer.

"Up you go,"  Jagger instructs, gesturing with his head to the stairs before he begins blowing out candles and switching off lights, and Kip obeys him with nary a complaint.  They creak beneath her gentle footfalls, and as she breaches the top step, she can't help but gasp.

"Holy…”  

The room is huge.  It’s as if she’s stepped through a portal and appeared in an unfamiliar realm.  Beneath her boots is a plush grey carpet, unlike the wooden floor on the level below, and she instantly slips out of them and leaves them on the top step out of respect.  She may not be too fond of Jagger, but she isn’t about to trek dirt into his safehouse after he opened its door to her.

Her eyes trace over his belongings with a muted sense of fascination.  The bed there is almost comically large, a thin grey blanket draped neatly over its bottom half.  Beside it, there’s a circular bedside table with a scented candle and a small pile of books on it.  The room smells vaguely of cinnamon, and various potted plants give the space an earthen tinge.

Her head naturally inclines as she spins in a slow circle.  His entire outermost wall, save for the edges, is one large sheet of glass.  Reinforced like every pane in Leylan, she has no doubt about that, but she’s never been inside of a house that has such a large window before.  She can’t help but approach it, knocking her knuckles gently against its surface as if she expects they’ll pass straight through.  All that she receives is a dull thunk.  That familiar sturdiness provides her with instant relief.

“At least you took your shoes off,”  Kip hears Jagger say as he enters the room with her.  He looks different with his coat off;  tailored purple waistcoat complimenting his lean figure in a manner she would find attractive if not for the personality attached to it.  Even so, the sweep of his dark hair looks distinctly less put-together when he’s surrounded by pillows and candles.  It isn’t what she expected of him at all.

She shuffles away from the window, her expression sheepish.  “Of course I did.”

“Well do me a favour and take the rest of it off,”  he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, ignoring the spatter of outraged colour that fills her cheeks as he moves towards a door and opens it.  His arm sticks inside, fist closing around something before withdrawing and tossing it at her.  “You stink.”

She gawks, first at him, then at the thing she’d haphazardly caught.  It’s a fresh white shirt, free of creases and dirt, and a pair of shorts.  A derogatory retort sits on the tip of her tongue like a poisonous barb, though his kindness–  even as tightly wrapped in unpleasantness as it had been—  touches her just a little too deeply to spit it at him.  She can imagine that after the day she’s had, she really does reek.

The tension leaves her body as she gives in.  “Fine.  Where’s your bathroom?”

“Right beside you, dumbass.”

Kip’s cheeks puff up as she eyes the door that had previously gone unnoticed.  Asshole.  “You stink,”  she announces petulantly before stalking into the bathroom, not catching Jagger’s annoyed squint as she closes the door firmly behind her.

The first thing she notices is how chilly the floor is, even through her socks.  It prompts her to look down, making eye contact with marble tile that has her mouth falling open.  In light of all that she’s seen so far, she probably shouldn’t be so surprised, but she is.  She’s never occupied a house as expansive as this one in all her life, nor one that’s as objectively lavish.  All she knows is wooden slats and mismatched rugs;  a heartfelt attempt at fashionable organisation.  Jagger’s safehouse possesses elegance.  Charm unbefitting of such a brute, she thinks spitefully.  He’d be way more at home in a muddy cave.

As she slowly looks up again, the stark white of the bathroom takes her completely by surprise.  It’s spacious, and so clean she’d readily eat off of its damn floor.  There’s a bath atop a podium preceded by three stairs, and a large glass shower cubicle with her name on it.  After taking a moment to simply marvel at the set-up, she determines that she should actually get moving.  The water scalds, but she doesn’t bother to fix it, instead letting the heat wash both the dirt and the stress of the day down the drain.

By the time she emerges from the bathroom, she feels - and smells- much better.  Jagger looks up from the book he’s reading to stare at her, expression unreadable as she lingers awkwardly in the doorway.  The curtains are drawn closed now, the large window blocked by black velvet that seems to shimmer wherever the light hits.  Glitter?

“Give me those,”  he orders as he puts his book face-down, gesturing to the clump of dirty clothes in her hands.  Black nail polish catches the candlelight briefly.  Protectively, Kip draws them to her chest and gives him a suspicious look.

“Why?”

“To wash them?”  To his credit, his confusion is well-placed this time around.  He can’t imagine what else he’d do with a bundle of dirty clothes.  “Seriously, why would you ask me that?”

“You’re a delinquent,”  she utters sharply, her eyes narrowed.  “Who knows what you’d do with them.”

Jagger holds her gaze, equal parts amused and irritated with her.  The gall of this girl… what an idiot.  With a purposefully antagonistic smirk:  “What, you think I’m gonna steal your panties or some shit?  Give ‘em a sniff while you’re not looking?”  He scoffs, as if the idea repulses him so much that he has to physically expel it, but the hot, angry blush on her face almost makes it worth it.  At the very least, she’s cute when she’s affronted.  “Please.  Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Go to hell, you weirdo!”  In an act of defiance, Kip flings the clothes at him.  Thankfully, they remain bundled in her jacket, and he catches them in one unperturbed swoop.

“You’re a piece of work, lady,”  he tells her with a grimace, picking up his candle before exiting the room.  She strains her ears to listen as he makes his way down the stairs before his footfalls vanish completely.  After a moment or two, the low whir of a washing machine can be heard, followed by his steps gradually coming closer again.  Anxiously, Kip fiddles with the drawstring located at her navel.  He’s quite a bit bigger than she is, broad and fairly tall, and it’s only through tying it tight that his shorts are able to stay nestled around her little waist.

When he enters the room again, he doesn’t so much as look at her.  Instead, he crosses the room until he can tug the blanket draped over the edge of his bed into his arms, scooping a couple of cushions up before he turns to look at her.

“You can sleep there,”  he informs her, nodding towards a seat that she’s been side-eyeing for the past five minutes.  It’s vaguely egg-shaped, with the exterior of a woven black basket.  It hangs from a metal frame, suspended by two thick chains.  “Go on.  Sit.  Or curl up.  Do whatever it is you do.”

Kip eyes it dubiously before doing as she’s told, clumsily arranging herself atop the plush white padding until she’s vaguely comfortable.  She can’t imagine Jagger being able to do so, but her short height makes it possible for her to stretch her legs.

“It’s not gonna break, you know.  You can lay down properly,”  Jagger says as he feeds one of the cushions behind her shoulders, hand gently pushing her back until more of her weight rests against the swing seat’s wall.  When it doesn’t so much as rock, she feels a little more confident;  lets the tension in her body go until she’s fully relaxed.  “Yeesh.  How heavy do you think you are?”

She doesn’t get to reply before he begins tucking the blanket around her.  It’s much too big to fit within the confines of the seat, but the material is light and flowy, meaning that even when it drapes over the side it doesn’t weigh too much.  It pools on the floor around her even when she’s fully nestled in there, her head the only thing poking above its grey surface.

It strikes her then, just how kind he’s being.  He likes to act as if he hasn’t got a nice bone in his body, but his clear concern for her comfort overrides that narrative.  He could’ve left her downstairs, alone in the dark, but no--  he’s invited her into the room he sleeps in, letting her into the most intimate part of his quarters without a hint of hesitation.  This may not absolve him of his brutish nature, but it certainly makes her think.  He’s not as hateful as he makes out.  Not as cold as he thinks he is.

The stare she affixes on him is round and doe-like.  “Thank you.”

There’s a moment of silence between them that stretches thin, chock-full of things that neither of them have the time nor the guts to say.

Eventually, he settles on a plain:  “Don’t mention it.”

“I will mention it,”  Kip replies resolutely.  “You didn’t have to take me in.  Or let me use your bathroom.  Or give me blankets.  I’m grateful for that.”

The gaze he levels her with is alarmingly open, surprised.  It’s the kind of look that a troubled child gives a birthday gift.  That kindness isn’t for me.  What lies beyond that pretty packaging?  Do I dare disturb that perfect little bow?

Jagger reaches out and flicks her forehead, evoking a sharp “augh!” from the girl as he straightens out.  “Sheesh, you're a pain,”  he laments, hands resting on his hips as if he’s a disapproving parent.  “Of course I’m not going to leave you out there after dark.  What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Kip clutches her forehead with both hands and hisses:  “Asshole, you’re an asshole!”

By all accounts, that feels better to receive than her gratitude.  He tries not to think about those large, appreciative eyes as he turns away from her and heads back towards his bed.  He can’t remember the last time he was thanked for anything.  Not even his customers say thank you.  Though he hesitates to admit that something embarrasses him, this does.

Only when his back is to her does he think to speak again.  “Get some sleep.  I’ve got a truly rotten assignment for you tomorrow.  Consider it compensation for my charity.”

Kip huffs and rolls her eyes, turning her head as far into the pillow as she can get it without straining her neck.  In a petty whisper:  “Can’t wait.”

[akillysheel]

You Can’t Fool Me. ❜ ( 1/75 )

Summary:  Kip gets more than she bargained for when she steals a man’s wallet. Characters:  Kip, Jagger. Prompt:  ❝ You can’t fool me. ❞ Warnings:  Threat, mild violence, references to drugs and volatile mood swings.

A/N:  I started a new drabble challenge in the hopes that it’ll get me out of a writer’s block!  There’re no set characters nor prompts, but I think a lot of them will focus on Kip and Simon and the people in their lives, as well as their eventual crossover.

Kip winces as her face is pushed into the wall, its uneven surface digging into the soft skin of her cheek.  “Hey, stop!  That  HURTS,  you jerk!”

The stranger lets out a cold, humourless laugh, one that digs into her almost as much as the scratchy concrete does.  Most houses in Leylan are sanded clean and even, though the alleyways are sometimes neglected.  Why dedicate outstanding effort to places fit only to house their garbage cans?  They’re a fussy breed, but they draw the line at futile endeavours.

His gloved hand is hot and heavy against the back of her head, fingers curling into her thick lavender hair and tugging her harshly upright.  Her heart pounds like a drum as her back melds tight against his front.  Fear tastes like the inner wall of a chimney, thick and ashen on her tongue as she clutches the neck of her keytar case for all it’s worth.  She tries to tell herself that she doesn’t claim it, that it can’t take over and make her weak, but she’s terrified of this man.

“Let’s try this again.”  His voice is smooth, singed deep with a mocking calm.  “My produce.  Where is it?”

“I told you I DON’T KNOW!”  She struggles then–  attempts to tug her keytar loose and swing it at him, but she isn’t quick enough.  His large hand catches her wrist and bends her arm behind her head at an angle that borders on unnatural.  Kip is a lot of things:  a smart-mouthed pick-pocket, a darling sister, a talented musician  -  but she isn’t a masochist.  Her pain tolerance has always been horrid, and the idea of having her bone snapped in a shady back alley has a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead, breath coming out in short, shallow puffs.  “L-Let go, let me go–”

“See, I want to!  I do.  But that guy you looted–”  He pauses to dig his thumb into her wrist, hard, as if he’s attempting to nestle it between the tendons without opening her up first.  “He works for me.  I’ve got to protect my own.  And my business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”  Kip blubbers, knees wobbling.  The last thing she wants to do right now is cry, but her resolve is crumbling fast.  She can deal with rude people all day long, but big men that are morally bankrupt enough to get physical with her?  It quickly becomes apparent how little she is in comparison.

“Mm…  nah.  I don't believe you.  You can’t fool me.”

A strangled cry leaves her as he slowly applies pressure to her already-aching arm, fat tears stinging the corners of her eyes before rolling down her cheeks.  “I–I don’t!  I swear, I j–just took his wallet!  I didn’t want anything else–  I d-don’t know who you are!”

The man hesitates for a moment.  The streets may have dulled his empathy somewhat, but they haven’t turned him into stone.  He knows crying when he hears it.  If this woman is lying, she’s quite the talented actress  -  and he gathers, from the instrument slung across her middle, that her skills lie in other areas.  Slowly, he releases her, shoving her away from him with a callous thrust of his forearm.  As soon as she makes impact with the wall behind her, she all but crumbles against it, legs shaking so hard that it’s a wonder she remains standing at all.

“Speak,”  he demands tersely, shoulders squared in case she attempts to swing at him again.  If she does, he’ll make sure it’s the last move she ever makes.  “Who the fuck are you?  Hm?  Why’d you rob him if not for the spice?”

Kip stares up at him as if she’s seen a ghost.  “S-Spice?”  

Things are starting to click into place, albeit gradually.  The shady back alley, the man’s cold exterior, this obsession with brotherhood and money and belonging…  she’d unwittingly gotten her hands on more than she bargained for when she stole that man’s wallet.  Not that she’d even known, for she’d emptied it of bills and coins before tossing it into a gutter.  She sniffles pathetically, her arm (the one that hadn’t been bent behind her head like a makeshift boomerang) swiping across her face in an effort to rid it of tears.  Her skin feels clammy to the touch.  “No, I…  I don’t do things like that.  I–I just needed money.”

“You make money by selling those tabs, idiot.”  He’s growing increasingly impatient with this girl, and the more she talks, the more he fears what he’ll have to do to keep her silent.  He doesn’t take any pleasure in hurting people.  Pride, perhaps, but not pleasure.

“Look, I didn’t know.  I didn’t!”  She grits her teeth, sharp canines bared in the form of a fierce snarl in spite of her red-rimmed eyes.  She’s through with grovelling  -  and she’s through with this man’s accusations, too.  He may be a street-rat, may have subscribed to a life of crime and debauchery, but her only sin is stealing cash to feed herself and her brother.  “Look at me!  I’m a low-life wannabe musician.  I’m playing gigs in shitty bars with ten people in them at max.  I have no money!  I have no university degree!  I have NOTHING!  I have my brother and that’s it.  You think I know ANYTHING about drugs or gangs or what part of town you run?  I just want to pay rent.”  She clamps her teeth over the tip of her tongue until the urge to cry again passes.  “I know it’s wrong to steal.  Just like you probably know it's wrong to sell these things.  But I need to live.  What else can I do?!”

There are several answers to that question, but he dares not say any of them.  He's in a position where most of them can be thrown back in his face.  Just get a regular old job.  Stop putting others at risk.  Just pick a different target.

He pinches the space between his eyes with a grunt of irritation.  “At least give the guy his damn wallet back.  Where is it?”

“I threw it away somewhere…”

He stares at her as if she’s spoken a foreign language, brow knitting with confusion before it becomes a hateful crease.  “You stole it just to toss it?”

“I didn’t wanna be caught with ID that wasn’t mine, s-so I emptied it of cash and then threw it away.”

“There were eight tabs in there, you idiot!  You’re telling me you didn’t see them while emptying his fucking wallet?!”  He leans in close, and she instinctively backs away, pressing herself tight against the wall.  Her teal eyes are blown wide with fear, her fingers closed tight around the neck of her instrument.  “Do you have any idea how much money down the drain that is?!  Shit’s EXPENSIVE!”

“I–I’m sorry–”

“Oh, you’re sorry!”  He throws his arms upwards, and the need for subtlety leaves him completely.  “Pack it up, fellas!  The girl’s sorry!”  Predictably, nobody comes running.  Leylan may be a communal place, but people know better than to interrupt the goings-on in dingy sside-streets.  There’s a reason that people like him operate in the shadows of dumpsters.  He thrusts a finger so close to her face that Kip worries it’s going to go straight into her eye.  “You owe me a lot of money, lady.”

“B–But I don’t have any…”  It’s all but a whisper, watery and frail.  She has very little to her name.  An apartment she shares with Basil;  an old treehouse that has no monetary value;  the most she could do is attempt to pawn off some of the retro consoles sitting in that place, though it would break her heart to do so.

“Then you’d best make some,”  the man hisses, pointing at her keytar.  “I’m sure you can–”

“No!”  Kip draws the instrument protectively behind her, shielding it from view.  Her face is the equivalent of a pond’s rippling surface, cycling through emotions so quickly that it’s all but imperceptible.  She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to drop to her knees and beg–  and yet she wants to do none of them, disgusted by the thought of giving into this man and his less-than-glowing personality.  She’s grown to oppose those that are mean, and he has to be the most unpleasant person she’s crossed paths with in a long time.

… but this is her mess.  Whether it was intentional or not, the result is irrefutable.  Feeling guilty for being the cause of a drug dealer’s misery is arguably misplaced, but Kip hates to be at the centre of another’s inconvenience.  Besides, she may not be interested in what he’s selling, but it isn’t as if stealing is much better.  Two wrongs evidently don’t make a right.

Kip sucks in a steady breath, trying her best to look distinctly more adult than she feels.  “I can work for you.”

Her eyes are trained on his face in spite of the mounting urge to run.  She watches it change like the seasons, the kink in his brow gradually smoothing out, mouth twitching upwards with mirth.  His unpredictable emotions threaten her almost as much as his physical build does.

“That’s less bad to you than selling your instrument?”  His tone performs a dance, light and airy in spite of the grim arrangement forming between them.  If nothing else, this girl is interesting.  He’s seldom met somebody who has no interest in drugs that’ll then throw themselves into his path, not even out of necessity.

Hollowly, Kip nods.  “This thing’s all I have that’s mine.  It’s front and centre in everything that I do.  If I lose it, I won’t be able to do gigs or…”  Against her better judgement, she feels her face heat up with slight embarrassment.  “Or post videos online…”

“Ugh, you’re one of those people…  figures.”

She very nearly stamps her foot and yells at him to shut up, but her sense of self-preservation is thankfully just a little too sharp to do so.  Instead, she swallows hard, like forcing down a bitter spoonful of medicine, before straightening her spine even further.  She won’t be intimidated by him.

“I can do it.  If I owe you money, I can work for you until I pay off my debt.”  She lets a confident smile stretch across her face, despite the fact that she couldn’t possibly be further out of her depth.  “How much do I owe you?”

“Around 40,000 paals.”

“What?!”  And there goes the confident smile, replaced with an expression so stunned that it almost evokes pity from the man.  “For eight tabs?  What the hell is that extortion?!”

“Hey, I deal, I know how much it is.  You clearly don’t understand what it takes to make this shit so pipe down, tiny.”  His voice is back to that low, dangerous whir, and Kip backs off much like she would from a hungry lion.  “You’re noisy, you know.  It’s really off-putting.”  A smirk crosses his face then.  “But you’re fast, too.  And street-smart.  They’re two traits you need to do well out here.  I think you could do it.”

He won’t admit it to her face, but he feels bad for her.  She’s a prime example of someone who’s suffering the brunt of karma early, and probably disproportionately.  She looks young and arguably as desperate as she makes out, clad in nothing but a muddied red jacket that is miles too big for her, cheap leggings and boots that look about ready to fall apart.  It contrasts his suave black coat and his tailored waistcoat so plainly that it’s ugly.  He wonders briefly if her brother has anything to do with this apparent poverty.  Why is it only her getting her hands dirty for the sake of obtaining cash?  If they live together, they’re stuck in the same space, in the same circumstances.  What is he doing to help?

“... fine,”  he says eventually, nodding.  “I’ll take you on.  But you won’t see a single coin of what you earn, understand?  It's mine.”

Kip gulps and begrudgingly nods her head, only partially relieved when he claps and smiles.  It’s wide this time, arguably real, but the veil of pleasantry is so thin that it’s all but translucent.  She can see the shark beyond it, all black-eyed and jagged-toothed.

“Great!  Then meet me here tomorrow.  7AM sharp.  Don’t be late.  If you are…”

“I won’t be!”  Kip interrupts, waving her hands in a desperate attempt to appease him.  She’s normally not one to take threats seriously, but he’s already proven that he can and will hurt her if she does something that he doesn’t like.  She makes an attempt to smile, but it’s more of a grimace.  “I’ll be here.  B-Bright and early…”

He knocks her chin gently with a gloved hand, as if greeting a pet dog, before turning his back on her.  To him, there’s no reason to worry about letting her go;  he’s made his intentions clear.  She’ll be seeing more of him regardless of the choice she makes.  “I hope so.  A young lady disappearing isn’t something I want to be hearing about on the radio, you know.  What a buzzkill when you’re just trying to have your morning coffee, right?”

Kip deflates, the pin-prick tip of his threat popping what’s left of her resolve like a balloon.

                                                 I’m dead.  I’m so, very dead.

[akillysheel]

INFECTED.  ( PROLOGUE )

Summary:  When Leylan goes up in flames, it gives Simon Krit the mental fortitude to cut ties with his abusive father, seemingly for good.  However, when they reunite some time later it goes about as well as you’d expect.

Warnings:  Emotional manipulation, mental abuse, some mentions of self-harm/suicide.

A/N:  Simon is the other side of the Kip/Basil coin that I’m keen to explore.  He’s my favourite of this little cluster of my cast and I felt inspired to write something proper for him first!

Simon slides his closet door closed before huddling in its darkest corner.  He’s a large man, six foot three and lined with a flattering layer of muscle, but he feels as small as a mouse as he hides amongst his coats and dress pants, a kitchen knife clutched tightly in one trembling hand.

He’s never been a particularly patient man.  Waiting for a radio broadcast to provide him with further guidance is as painful as waiting in traffic when he’s already running late.  Still, he isn’t about to take his chances in the chaos that’s unfolding in the streets.  In a twisted way, he’s lucky that this entire debacle started on a Saturday, when he and the children he teaches are at home.  Some of them may be little snot-nosed brats as far as he’s concerned, but he hopes that they’re all safe and sound;  that he’ll see them all on Monday when this unprecedented mayhem blows over.  He’ll even forgive Marcel for forgetting his homework for the thirteenth time.  This might be about the only valid excuse he’s ever had to skip an assignment.

Something crashes outside, cutting the thought clean in two.  It takes Simon a moment to realise that it’s the sound of a rowboat hitting the pavement, wood splintering upon impact.  He doesn’t want to think about the wet splat sound that accompanied it.  He refuses to believe that there was a person in there.

The radio on his bedside table crackles so suddenly that it prompts the grip on his weapon to tighten, black knuckles turning white with strain.  His pulse flits across his tongue like lightning, temples thrumming with the dull ache of adrenaline as he tunes in, desperate for advice.  Even through the door, the crackled demand is clear  -  and disappointing.

                     This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.                                                   Do not leave your homes. Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.

That’s it?  The thought starts small but it echoes.  It bounces off the walls of his skull and grows five times its size with every timed ricochet, until it’s the only thing he can hear.  It feels as if nettles are growing inside of his heart, chest prickling with anxiety.  He’s always known that he’s alone in the world, but this time it feels different  -  as if he’s truly its only occupant.  A helpless thing in a crumbling timeline;  a tiny ember of light in a world that’s quickly drowning.

From deep within his memory, he hears his old university counsellor speak.

                                  And what do you do when you feel helpless, Mr. Krit?                                                                                                   Drink a lot?                                                                                                                 No.                                                                   Make jokes until I feel better?                                                                                                    No, Simon.                                                                             …I guess I garden, doc.

Something tells him that gardening won’t be an option in the foreseeable future.  If they haven’t already been trampled by the beasts unleashing havoc outside, he can see his loyal plants’ health taking an impromptu nosedive.  A shame, too, for he’s been cultivating these same flowerbeds for decades now.

He’s jolted from his thoughts by a steady vibration.  It takes longer than it should for him to realise that it’s his phone.  The idea of someone calling now is ridiculous, borderline comical, and he raises the device with what can only be described as an annoyed smile.

The name on the display makes it fade.

                INCOMING  CALL  ➡  DAD.

Simon groans audibly.  He’s been dodging this man’s calls as often as he can ever since he made his way to university  -  and that was three-hundred-and-something years ago.  The decline button has never looked quite so big and blue before.  Pretty.

It wasn't as if avoiding him was a joyful endeavour, either.  Simon remembers the attempts to pull away from his father like most do their first brush with public speaking, or a really bad dentist appointment.  Despite the way the man had belittled him for his entire childhood, he still felt intense remorse for leaving the cantankerous bastard behind.  Guilt had followed him around like a greedy shadow.  In the end, it had chewed him up and spit him out directly into the university counsellor's office.  He still doesn’t dare to think what might have become of him had she not been there to help him work through his murky childhood.

His thumb hovers over the decline button, his lower lip drawn pensively beneath a sharp canine.  It’s astounding what a mind can tune out when faced with a greater threat.  He tries not to think about what it means to be more afraid of a phone call from his father than he is impending doom.

Just press it, his mind urges.  Just press it and be done with it.

But he can’t.  Even now, even when he’s been told by friends and doctors and past lovers that it’s okay to let go of the people that hurt him, he can’t help but sympathise with his old man.  He’s all alone.  It may very well be his own fault, but it doesn’t change it.

With a frustrated huff, Simon clicks ‘ACCEPT’ just before the tone dies.

“Dad?”

“Oh, thank Florence.”  He actually sounds a little relieved to hear his voice.  “I thought you might be–”

“I’m okay,”  he assures, uncertain why he feels such a responsibility to do so.  It isn't as if he's ever taken that much interest in him before.  "Are you?"

"Of course."

There's an awkward silence.  It's something that Simon is all too accustomed to, for his dad has never had much to say to him unless he's criticising his life choices.  Whatever he’d wanted to do, it was never enough to satisfy him.  The line crackles ominously.  There's a muffled scream on the other end that chills Simon to his core.

"Son."

Simon grits his teeth.  Here it comes.

"Please come home."

“Uh... huh?“

Well…  that was unexpected.  It shows in his prolonged silence, words evading him.  It’s all he wanted to hear, four hundred years ago.  Now, he’s torn between bittersweet relief and haughty chagrin.

A large hand strokes through his beard thoughtfully, the bristled texture providing some comfort.  It’s always been a way to ground himself in the moment.  There’s always time to think.  It doesn’t pay to be reckless or unwise.

“I don't think that’s a good idea,”  he admits belatedly.  “The radio said–”

“I’m alone out here, damn it.  You abandoned me.”  That all too familiar venom rears its ugly head and Simon can’t stop himself from flinching.  He abhors that such a reaction is still ingrained into him.  He’ll probably take it with him to the grave.  “Don’t you care about that?  At least act as if you do, you rotten child.”

Simon bites back a sharp retort, his tongue pressed flat against the roof of his mouth until he feels it’s safe to try again.  He’s over six-hundred years old and has long since outgrown the ‘child’ title, but his father enjoys spitting it at him all the same.  It never fails to get under his skin.

“It’s not that I don’t care, dad,”  he attempts, hating the way his voice quavers with a vengeance.  It makes him feel as if all the progress he’s made is for nothing--  as if the Universe is indifferent to the good habits he’s fostered.  He should be mad, should be scathing and harsh, but something stops him every time.  His temper is ugly;  the last thing he needs to do is to stoke that fire, even if it’s righteous.  “It’s that it’s not safe out there.  I don’t want to get myself killed trying to reach you.  It’s safer to wait.  I can come see you when all this settles down, okay?”

It’s a sensible response.  At least, that’s what he thinks  -  but Senior Krit thinks otherwise.  He hears that notorious tch, the one he pushes out between his teeth with enough force to spit, and knows then and there that attempting to reason with him further is out of the question.  He’s angry now, and he’s about to suffer the ramifications of his temper regardless of whether it’s deserved or not.

Why don’t you just hang up? I don’t know.  I guess I’m too weak.

“So what you’re saying is I’m not worth the hassle.”  He pauses to scoff bitterly.  Simon pinches the space between his eyes, the beginnings of a headache forming.  He already knows that refuting what he’d said would only make him angrier.  I should’ve hit decline.  Why didn’t I just hit decline?  “Damn it, Simon!  I hope I DIE in this mess!  Then you’ll realise you’ve squandered me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I mean it, boy.  I mean it.  Maybe I’ll go outside right now!  Maybe I’ll–”

“Dad, don’t.”

He resents the knot his stomach has become.  His heart is back to pounding, fresh fear flooding his veins like oil in a bay.  It’s hard to breathe.  The closet walls seem closer than before.  All he can think about is this stupid, bitter old man trundling spitefully outside, waiting for death to barrel into him with the force of a train.  The more gruesome his demise, the better a lesson it serves.  He’s quite certain that even his tombstone will spit vitriol at him.  Here lies Cyrus Krit, the spoiled and the squandered.

Simon tunes in and out of his detestable tirade, a black void consuming his thoughts whole.  He’s heard it all before, but it still hurts;  it hurts even more to realise that, even after everything, he’d still held out hope that his father would change.  

    It’s a pointless affair, Mr. Krit.  Your father will never alter his ways.  He does not care to.                                           Never sounds a little harsh, eh doc?

“... ungrateful, that’s what you are…  a spoilt child…  abandoning your father…  useless, worthless idiot…  if your mother heard about this… ”

Simon’s jaw squares with visible frustration, his head hitting the back of the closet with a quiet thunk.  The phone is lowered from his ear.  Instead, he listens to the carnage outside.  Things are growing worse.  People are hysterical;  stalls are being torn up and knocked over;  neighbours are beating down one another’s doors in an attempt to gain entry to somewhere safe.  How perverse is it that such tragedy is favourable to listening to his father talk?

                    This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.                                                   Do not leave your homes. Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.

His head spins.  His mind reels.  Everything’s so loud, yet it’s fading out, as if he’s floating further and further from his body.  Nobody’s coming to help.  That thought replaces everything, casting panic and heartbreak out like house guests that have overstayed their welcome.  This is a fruitless fight, his mind states calmly.  Your frustration is purposeless.

Gently, Simon retrieves his phone and holds it close to his ear again.  In a cold, monotonous voice:  “I’m hanging up now.”

It’s satisfying to hear Cyrus’ insipid little rant suddenly stagger to a halt.  It’s as if his words trip over themselves.  The image of him babbling helplessly to himself would fill Simon with righteous pleasure, if he had the capacity to feel anything over the cloying numbness that’s overtaken his him body.  Maybe it’s better this way;  better to be made of unfeeling brick when the world around you is imploding.

“No, d-don’t–”

“Bye, Cyrus.”

Click.

For just a moment, the world is silent.  The bedlam outside fizzles out, and the sound of his phone being slid gently to the other end of the closet is the only noise that fills the space.  Then CRACK it goes as he suddenly lifts his foot and digs the heel of his boot into the screen.  It splinters immediately, tiny shards of glass leaping free.  They remind him very much of himself: shattered but still accounted for.

By the time he stops stamping on it, his phone is little more than dust;  slabs of plastic and mismatched wires scattered haphazardly across the floor, screen ground down to a fine powder.  With renewed focus, Simon pushes open the door and stands up, turning his radio off and laying it face down on the dresser.  The updates he’s been holding out for aren’t going to help him, and he’s surprisingly okay with that.  Just like everything he’s had to do in his adult life, he’ll have to face this mess alone.

With purpose, he draws his curtains closed before perching on the end of his bed.  Scrick scrick scrick goes his beard, fingers rubbing thoughtfully as he considers what to do next with a clarity he’s never experienced before.  It hits him like a train, that he’s never needed Cyrus to do anything for him.  He’s on his own, the same as he’s always been  -  and that is a liberty, not a curse.

I have enough food for about three weeks if I’m sensible.  Power’s not an issue, especially not with the lights being off.  I should go downstairs and collect all my knives from the kitchen.  That thin, fibreglass fishing rod from the cupboard, too.  I can snap it in half and sharpen its point.

Something thumps against the glass of his bedroom window, and Simon stiffens.  It persists for a few moments before it slides down its length, the sound squeaky and slow.  Whatever is out there squeals with displeasure and scuttles away on all fours, its clumsy footfalls harsh against the solar panels on his roof before they grow distant.  The man lets out a short exhale of relief, hands raising until he can dig the heels of them into his eyes.

The windows won’t be a problem so long as they’re closed.  The reinforcements have held firm for generations.  There’s no way they can suddenly be broken now.

He decides then and there that his first point of call is weaponry.  He doubts he can do much to an iju when push comes to shove.  All he knows of them, he knows from campfire tales and little comments Cyrus made in order to scare him into behaving when he was young, nothing concrete.  Still, he gets the impression that hurting--  or even slaying--  one is going to require something with a little more edge than his knuckles have.

He glances over them with a deep breath, eyes following the white tattooed letters on each knuckle loyally.  A N G E R, they spell.  ANGER, he’ll likely always feel.  There’s always been a lot for him to be angry about:  never knowing his mother;  his father’s abuse;  having to babysit some truly rotten kids throughout his teaching career;  his girlfriend of four years cheating on him;  the loneliness that inevitably came with age.  The end of the world is just the cherry on top of his already-smouldering cake.  Why not, right?  The thing’s already singed to hell!

“... fuck me,”  he mutters numbly, standing up and dragging himself to the kitchen.

[akillysheel]

                                   WELL  YOU’VE  GOTTA  DO  SOMETHING!                                         Wasting your life, just rolling the dice.

                                                                🌿

[akillysheel]

LITTLE MISERY. ❜ ( PROLOGUE )

Summary:  It’s in moments like these where he feels the most vulnerable--  moments where his sister confronts the reality of things.  Moments where neither of them can lie about the steaming pile of shit they’ve found themselves in. Warnings:  N/A. A/N:  I wanted to try my hand at writing something apocalyptic so here we go!  Also, the story is written in English, but all characters are speaking their native language, Laan.

“Let’s get out of here,”  Kip announces, crouched atop the windowsill as if she owns the place.  Basil watches her with growing nerve, his bag slung half-heartedly over his shoulder as he fidgets.

“What about mom and dad?”

“What about them?”  Kip has always been the kind of person to let her feelings stew, as if she has a Plan B that involves commercialising her aged grief, but her animosity towards those that have wronged her occasionally slips through the cracks.  “This is our chance.”

“To do what?”

“To leave.”

Something clatters below them, and the shrill sound of screaming fills the air.  Their window of opportunity is quickly diminishing.  Kip may be an idealist–  a dreamer whose every thought carries with it some vain hope for a better tomorrow–  but she isn’t a fool.  It’s now or never  -  and she doesn’t fancy losing her life.

“We have to go now,”  she urges, securing her own bag tight over her shoulders before holding her hand out to her brother.  He’s the smarter of the two, always has been, but she’s the spine, and that’s arguably more important right now.  “Basil!”

Basil grits his teeth and takes her hand, biting back apprehension as she hoists him up onto the sill beside her.  If she was wrong, he’d fight harder, but she isn’t;  their bedroom may be cushy, sealed away from the horrors below, but there’s only so long before they run out of food and water.  What then?

                        This is a public service announcement for the civilians of Leylan.                                                       Do not leave your homes.         Barricade yourself in the most secure place available and await further instructions.

Kip’s feet touch the neighbour’s roof with a dull thwuck, Basil following suit.  They’ve spent their childhoods traipsing these same rooftops together, escaping out of their bedroom window by night and making camp in the trees.  Using them to make a getaway seems only right.

“Where’re we going?!”  Basil calls as they sail over the bedlam, weaving in between solar panels and clothes lines with practised ease.

“To the base,”  Kip replies, increasing speed as she prepares herself for a particularly risky leap.  Once they reach the end of the street, they slide down the house’s outer drainpipe and make a beeline for the woods.

The information they have is minimal, but Kip knows that it has something to do with the ijus.  She’s seen glimpses of them around town, in the day no less, and she couldn’t be more terrified.  Her parents may not have raised her well, but even they had instilled the fear of the dark into her and her brother.  Just what had gone wrong?  Had their dear Florence abandoned them?  Or had Iju simply become too strong for them to hold off?

She dreads to think what this means for Leylan.

What it means for them.

They dart into the thick undergrowth as fast as their legs will carry them, tearing up leaves and dirt as they snake through the shrubs and hop over brambles.  Superficial scrapes to their shins hardly seem worrisome in peril like this, but they’re seasoned thorn-evaders in this neck of the woods.  It’s instinct to clear them, as if they’re hurdles on a track.

“Go, get up,”  Kip instructs hurriedly, her heart hammering in her chest as Basil drags himself up the rickety old ladder, head swivelling like an agitated bird’s.  She’s never been this scared.  The closest she’s been to terror is back when she was one-seventy and on a large stage for the first time--  something she looks back on with a fond, amused laugh.

This is a whole new brand of fear, a time she’ll never be able to twist into a sunny memory.

“Kip!”

She tilts her head back to see Basil peeking over the edge of the trapdoor at her, eyes wide and desperate.  Something rustles behind her as she begins her rocky ascent, and fear pools in the tips of her fingers, making her grip meek and messy.  When she eventually pulls herself up and into their little house in the trees, she’s relieved by the sound of Basil slamming the door shut, sealing them inside.

This has been their safe place since they were children.  Kip remembers how she’d had to beg her friend’s dad to help them build it.  In exchange for her help, and the promise that his little girl Macie was also allowed to play in it, he’d agreed, and they’d spent their Summer break chopping up wood and nailing slats together.  By the time schools reopened, she and her small band of friends had a home away from home;  a quaint little house nestled in the branches of a huge old tree--  one she still affectionately refers to as Gnarls.  Over time, her friends had steadily moved away, or deemed themselves ‘too old’ to be climbing trees and hiding in the leaves.  Kip and Basil had never shared that sentiment, and after returning their friend’s old things to them, they’d been happy to take ownership of it for themselves.

A fond smile forms on her face as her eyes scan over their familiar belongings.  They’re all things they’ve procured over time, most of them belonging to an era that has since eroded.  Old stuffed animals and retro handheld consoles, spare batteries stocked almost as reliably as their rations.  Snacks and juice in one corner, an old radio in the other.  It's never been much, but it’s theirs and that’s what matters.

“We’ll be okay here,”  Kip declares as she fwumps into one of their beanbags–  an ugly, splitting pink thing with yellow polka dots–  and crosses her ankles.  “Whatever’s happened, we’ll wait it out, and then we’ll go back home.”

Basil’s face is grave.  “Kip.  I don’t know if…  if this is going to work out.”

“Of course it is!”  Assuring him is something she’s always been good at.  He’s the shy one, the one that questions everything he says and does for several months after the moments have passed.  On the other side of the coin, Kip seldom ever thinks before she does anything.  “I promise.  We’ve stayed here for days before.  We just have to go a little easier on the snacks, right?”

“Actually, it’s probably the juice we should…”  His words trail off as Kip flips the cap off of one of the bottles and takes a couple of huge glugs, clearing half of it in seconds.  After deadpanning:  “... go easy on.”

He loves his sister dearly, but he envies her carefree attitude.  Beneath it all, he knows that she’s scared too, but she doesn’t externalise it like he does.  His apprehension is palpable.  It follows him around like sweat does a teenager, while hers is hidden beneath a layer of happy-go-lucky optimism.  While he loves that about her, he’d hate to see it cost her her safety  -  or, Florence forbid, her life.

“Hey, Kip?”

“Mm?”  She’s already got her nose in an old comic.  She’s read it hundreds–  perhaps even thousands–  of times over at this point  but she loves it regardless.  

“... will you play the guitar for me?”

Teal eyes flit from the pages to rest on her brother before she gives him a warm smile.  “Sure!  Pass him here.”

Basil’s hands curl gently around the neck of the instrument.  It’s old, but she dotes on the thing so much that it still appears brand new.  Its home is in the corner, in a thin case gifted to her by the school board.  It has a sticker of her favourite cartoon character on its base.  Some of it has peeled away, its colours drained, but it remains there loyally nonetheless.

“What do you want me to play?”

“I don’t mind,”  Basil mutters as he attempts to get comfortable on his own beanbag.  It sags and folds, and it takes him flopping over it on his stomach to achieve some semblance of comfort.  “Anything.  Just…”  His hands drum listlessly against the wooden floor.  The sound is as hollow as he feels.  “... I’m scared, Kip.”

The look she shoots him is full of pity, calm façade melting away as her chin comes to rest atop her guitar.  It’s in moments like these where he feels the most vulnerable--  moments where his sister confronts the reality of things.  Moments where neither of them can lie about the steaming pile of shit they’ve found themselves in.

“... me too,”  she admits, fingers stroking idly along the strings of her guitar.  It brings her comfort, but she’s not sure how useful it will be in the long run.  The thought of ijus not being confined to the night any more fills her with dread.  How are they supposed to do anything with those dangerous beasts lurking around every corner?  She can only imagine how many of them there are after millions of years to breed.  “But Florence, they’ll help us.  They will!  You have to believe that.”

There’s an argument to be had there, Basil feels, but he ultimately decides against it.  He wonders how their God could have lost control of the district in the first place.  Their deal with Iju is known history and has been in place, as far as they know, as long as Leylan has existed.  What caused that whole thing to suddenly go kaputz?

His mind clears a little as Kip begins to pluck and hum, a gentle song that she’s sang to him since childhood;  one she’d written herself but never fully conceptualised.  Every time she plays it, a chord moves around, or a hum varies, but he still knows it like the back of his hand.

Gradually, his eyes begin to feel heavy, and the ball of anxiety in his stomach begins to untangle as he drifts off.

Florence, they’ll help us.  They will!

Kip plays long into the night.

[akillysheel]

GO  HOME  is officially live!

Follow Cthugha and Kuro as they discover the mysteries of Deko!

Reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[akillysheel]

Here’s your reminder that these two goofballs are coming to ya on Webtoon Canvas tomorrow!

[akillysheel]

Found these iconic gems tucked away in my folder and thought I’d upload them lmao.

Leave him be, he’s undergoing therapy!

( ok to reblog! )

[akillysheel]

HELLO FRIENDS.   I’m looking into buying myself a new snazzy tablet for the sake of comic-making in the future  ( not to be a shill, but if ya want an example of my work then go check out my standalone webtoon  HERE!  )  and wanna take up commissions to help fund it!

Couple of ground rules:

☆  —  I will draw either OCs or fandom content, but I’m going to need a solid reference. ☆  —  I do still work a job, so I request patience while I’m working.  I’ll keep you updated! ☆  —  I take pre-payment, no exceptions.  In the event I can’t complete the job, I’ll refund! ☆  —  I don’t draw furry, mecha, nsfw or any overly complicated designs. ☆  —  I take payments through Ko-fi/Paypal.

If you can’t afford to commission me but still want to help, I would appreciate you sharing this post!  Also, if you don’t have the full amount but would like to donate a few dollars, the link to my KO-FI  is here!  Any and all donations/tips are greatly appreciated. 

Thank you very much, and I look forward to doing business with ya!

[akillysheel]

GO HOME. ( 4 - FINALE! )

Summary:  This breeds a whole new headache. Warnings:  Mentions of child abuse/trafficking, minor character death, nothing in depth. A/N:  I’m gonna turn this short story into a comic in the next month or two, so look out for that  -  and a secret prologue ending  -  soon!

“Nothin’.”

Cthugha gawks, his arms folding tightly over his chest.   “Nothing?”

“Nothin’,”   Kuro clarifies with a regretful nod, one leg crossing over his lap as he reclines slightly in his chair.  He spent all morning chasing up the meagre descriptions he has of the runaway child, but they’d all led to nowhere.  It’s difficult to explain just how much it hurt to hear the head of the missing persons unit tell him that there was nobody who matched his description.  The closest he came to a clue was a missing girl from Vide, and a Viddish citizen didn’t fit his MO to begin with.   “I followed all the leads I could.  Even mentioned the black hands ‘n’ the extreme aversion t’showin’ their face.  Not a single hit.”

Cthugha purses his lips, scowls something horrid.   “Your police procedures don’t work.”

“How d’y’reckon?”   Kuro asks pointedly, leaning forwards in his seat with a tight frown.

“Can you two have yer little spat some other time?”   Connor intervenes as he feels Deko shuffle in response to the noise.  They’re still snoozing peacefully, their bagged head dipped low beneath his collar.  Their soft breaths warm his shoulder.   “Arguin’s not gonna help, no?”

“No.  But it does make me feel better,”   Cthugha quips, much to Sheriff Braav’s chagrin.

“Yer right,”   Kuro agrees, pinching the space between his eyes as he wills a forming headache away. There’s no use in trying to reason with Cthugha when he’s this irate.  Something must have happened while he was busy looking for Deko’s next of kin, though he hesitates to ask about it.   “... I think we’re gonna have to take their bag off.”

The suggestion hangs limply in the air for a moment, and his resignation is plain as day.

“I hate t’ask,”   the sheriff starts slowly, reaching into his pocket to put on his gloves.  They’re thick and black, and regardless of how often he washes them, they always carry the slightest hint of decay.   “But they seem t’have taken a shine t’you;  would y’mind keepin’ ‘em still?”

Connor glances at the sleeping child, then back at Kuro.   “Sure I can.  But what’s the whole bag business about anyway?  I thought it was just Cthugha bein’ cruel.”

“Hey!  I’m not that terrible!”

“Deko seems t’be extremely shy,”   Kuro explains, watching as they shuffle.  Stay asleep.  It’ll make everythin’ so much easier if y’just stay asleep.   “When they first got here, they charged into the precinct like a wild animal, then hid under Cthugha’s desk.  They refused to come out until they had somethin’ t’hide ‘emselves with.”   He lowers his voice then, as if admitting to a dirty secret.   “We ain’t even sure whether they’re a girl or a boy.  It’s kinda hard t’narrow the search down when y’don’t even have basic details like that.”

“Hm…”

Subconsciously, Connor shifts the weight in his arms.  It may have been a long time since he’d held Mia in the same way, but a father never forgets what it feels like to hold his little girl.  Deko feels different–  perhaps because they’re not his, perhaps because they’re a boy after all–  but he can’t place exactly how.  Their weight is present but ethereal all at once, as if he’s cradling a shadow.

Would Mia’s ghost feel the same?

He has to fight to keep the thoughts at bay;  has to devote conscious effort to closing the door on such evocative memories.  He may have developed some mental fortitude during his time in Merriway Hospital, but he'll never really be over her death.  That much goes without saying.

"I can do it,"   he says firmly, aligning his focus once more.   "They seem harmless."

"I dunno, they have one helluva bite on 'em…"   Kuro admits as he closes the distance between them.  His hands manoeuvre until they're able to ease Deko's head out from under his collar.  To his dismay, they stir, a soft crooning noise made low in their throat.

"Hey, sleepyhead…"   he coos, trying his best to come off non-threatening.  This really is the last thing he wants to do, but it doesn't feel as if he has much choice.   "Who's this?"

Deko scuttles over Connor's shoulder, arranging themselves in the opening of his coat.  Snug as a bug.

"Maybe they like the dark?"   Cthugha offers, glancing over Connor's choice in apparel.  He recalls that the first thing Deko had done ( after scaling him with their improbable speed ) was bury their head beneath whatever fabric they could access.  The sun seems to cause them some discomfort, even if mild.

"Listen…"   How does he even go about doing this?   "... we need a little look under yer baggie.  Is that okay?"

They immediately rear back and shake their head, though Connor keeps them locked in place with a firm grip around their waist.

"It's alright,"   he says, attempting to soothe them.   "Sheriff Braav is a good man.  He won't hurt you."

But they're already wriggling and writhing with such ferocity that both men, grown and built, struggle to maintain their grip.  Before he can think about it, Kuro curls his fingers around the edge of the bag and pulls upwards, attempting to make the motion quick and smooth.  It comes off with an obnoxious FWOSHHH, though Deko darts beneath Connor’s coat with a sharp, shrill cry, a squirming lump travelling along the length of his body before they spill onto the floor in a heap.  Their breathing is erratic, their face buried into the floor.

“It’s okay!”   Kuro attempts to reach for them, but they kick off of their hands and knees and break into a frenzied run.

“They’re gonna hurt themselves!”   Connor exclaims as they narrowly miss the blunt corner of Kuro’s desk.

Just before they can crash into the wall, Cthugha appears in front of them and cushions them–  somewhat.  They wind up sprawled on the floor, and he gains a firm grip in the scruff of their cape, hoisting them up with a squint.

“Alright, blondie.  Enough fuss.”

“Wait.  Hold on.”   Kuro waves a hand, and the chaos seems to dissipate all at once.  Cthugha looks at him curiously.  Deko continues to shield their face with their arms, completely at the rifter’s mercy as he holds them aloft.   “Wha’d’y’mean blondie?”

Cthugha frowns deeply, as if he’s been asked a ridiculous question.   “Obviously that they’re blonde?”

“... they’ve got brown hair,”   the sheriff states slowly, his brow furrowed.

Cthugha looks at them, then back at him.  He repeats this several times before blurting out:   “Are you BLIND?  I know your years are stacking up, cowboy, but come on!”

Connor huffs, shakes his head.   “Are you two screwin’ around fer fun?  It’s black.”

The disagreement hovers in the air between them, all but palpable as each man begrudgingly lays down his sword.  It’s one thing for two of them to clash, but for all three of them to have conflicting ideas about the colour of the child’s hair?  It doesn’t seem plausible.  Something greater is at play here.

“... somethin’s wrong,”   Kuro says quietly, turning to look at Cthugha.   “There’s somethin’ weird about ‘em.”

Cthugha scoffs.   “You’re scared of children now?  First it was trees, now it’s kids–”

“Shut up!”   There’s more bite in the phrase than either of them are used to, and Cthugha is torn between shrinking down and puffing up with indignation.  In silence, he lowers Deko to the ground and watches them wobble into a corner, facing it like the world’s most shameful dunce.   “I’m tellin’ y’,”   he utters, powerless to keep the pain in his head from spreading further.  It was a dull throb between his eyes at first.  Now it’s an inferno.  It’s consuming the forefront of his mind like it’s made of firewood.   “Somethin’s not right.  They’re…  they said they’re from the dark.  They hide from the light.  I ain’t have nightmares;  the one time they stay in my house?  A terror like y’wouldn’t believe.  ‘n’ I saw them–”

“We’ve been over this,”   Cthugha interrupts carefully, his hands on his hips.   “Ya must have dreamed it.”

“They were in my room.”

“They didn’t leave the living room!  They were there when ya came in, you saw that.”   It’s Cthugha’s turn to pinch the bridge of his nose.  If it isn’t already evident to those that surround him, he’s terrible at keeping his temper in check.  Only when he’s certain that his voice won’t raise:   “It was a dream, Kuro.  It wasn’t real.”

They’re at an impasse, and it shows.  Kuro is so sure, but so is Cthugha, and tension fills the space between them as they stare at one another.

Connor suddenly clears his throat, redirecting attention to himself.

“If I may,”   he starts, and only then do they realise he’s holding something.  It’s brown and neatly folded, and as he approaches Deko and slides it over their head, it becomes obvious that it’s another bag.  Brown, this time;  cartoonishly nondescript.  “It seems neither of y’have answers.  Y’can’t agree.”

“Because it’s dumb,”   Cthugha retorts, annoyed.

“Won’t y’concede that Sheriff Braav knows what he saw?  He’s got a keen eye.  Has to as a detective.”

Cthugha falls silent, his foot beginning to tap.

“And Kuro–  can’t y’trust that Cthugha did what y’asked ‘n’ kept his eye on ‘em?  He’s proven himself reliable, no?”

The sheriff hums low in his throat, glancing away from the object of his frustration.   “... then wha’d’y’propose?  We can’t both be right.”

“Course y’can.  In part,”   Connor replies, his hand settling on Deko’s shoulder as he spins them around to face them both.   “Or y’can both be wrong.”

“In part?”

“Just wrong.”

They watch with a muted sense of fascination as Deko shuffles behind his legs, peeking out at them as if they’re suddenly the ones that scare them.  Guilt washes over the pair in waves, and they both look away, one scratching at his jaw while the other scuffs the floor with his boot.

“... I’m at a loss as t’what t’do with the kid,”   Kuro confesses, his voice a sheepish and culpable hybrid.   “I was just tryna help, but I guess I got it wrong.  I’m sorry.”

Cthugha scratches his neck, teeters between saying something and saying nothing at all.   “... maybe I was…  a little too harsh.”   Apologising is a monumental task to somebody who’s seldom had to do it before.  He may have been in Huron for close to a year at this point, but his reclusive habits still linger.  If ever he doesn’t have to speak to people, he won’t.  It saves him a lot of commiseration.   “Maybe you’re onto something.  Things aren’t exactly adding up.”

“Either way…”   The sheriff pauses to heave out a sigh before moving to his desk, reluctantly retrieving a file from the draw.   “I s’ppose our only option now is t’contact an orphanage over in Vide.”

Connor straightens up, then shakes his head furiously.   “Whoa–  no.  Don’t do that.”

“What else can I do?  I can’t leave a child without a roof over their head.”

“Just—  let me do it!”

Kuro falls still, then turns to face him with a furrowed brow.   “I can’t ask y’to do that.  Y’must know that.”

“Yer not askin’.  I’m volunteering.”

“This ain’t a community project, Mr. Vanton, this is a person.  It’s different.”

Connor circles the desk quickly, leaving Deko behind.  His hands meet the surface, his face pleading.   “Don’t y’think I know that?  That’s exactly why I’m askin’.”

He’s never been to Vide  -  not for leisure, anyway - but he recalls the things his daughter told him about the state of affairs over there.  The overt poverty;  the ruthless unrest;  the messy streets and the disadvantaged youths.  It was precisely why she’d wanted a career in working with children, and exactly the reason that Dawson had been perfect for her, too.

I want t’teach kids that’re strugglin’, daddy.  There’re so many in Vide. Can’t y’work closer t’home?  I’ll miss y’too much. They need me more than the kids here do.  I’ll visit often, I promise.

“Y’don’t know what yer doin’.  Kids in there, they don’t leave.”

“How d’y’know that?  Are y’an expert on Viddish systems all of a sudden?”

“Mia told him,”   Cthugha says, and the penny drops with such a sickening clink that Kuro feels nauseating guilt for the second time that day.   “Right?  Mia wanted to be a teacher, she was studying in Vide.”

“Yeah.  How did you…  y’know what, nevermind.”   He knows better than to question Cthugha at this point.  He has no idea how his time travel powers work–  and has barely come to accept that they even exist in the real world in the first place–  but he’s willing to guess that they have something to do with his uncanny knowledge.   “Yer gonna send them away anyway, aren’t you?  What’s the harm in me takin’ ‘em under my wing fer the meantime?”

“Is that really the best thing fer you?”

He hates to ask, but he has to.  It would be negligible if he didn’t.  Connor had barely left a mental institution but three months ago.  Is putting a child in his life–  a child that he could grow attached to and then subsequently have to let go–  really something that should be entertained?

“Look, I know this isn’t permanent.  ‘n’ I’m not–  I’m not tryin’ t’fill Mia’s void.  Nothing can do that.  She’s gone.  I know that.  I’ve made peace with it.”   His words shake almost as much as his arms do.  Admitting such a thing takes such herculean effort that he feels dizzy in its wake.   “But this is what she’d want, to help a kid who has nothin’.  That’s what she’d do.  That’s what she’d want us all t’do.”

“What about what you want?”

Both men turn to look at the rifter.  He looks milder than before, his disposition cool and calm.

“I just…  want t’help.  That’s it.  I want t’be useful again.  I’ve spent so long just…  rotting.  I’m finally well enough t’do things again and I want t’do them.  I can be of use to you, finally.  I know I can.”

Kuro sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair.  His pen goes takka-takka-tak as he fiddles with it, the gears in his brain turning rampantly.  There are several reasons as to why this is a bad idea, one that he should promptly shut the door on, the first of them being the ever-important detail that Connor is barely back on his feet after twenty years of unhealthy grieving.

But there are also several factors that make it the best option he has.

He already knows that the paperwork to set up such an arrangement would be horrendous, and that the process wouldn’t be immediate.  Connor also has ample experience with raising a child.  He did so on his own, without the presence of his wife to anchor him, and the reason that Mia is no longer with them has nothing to do with the quality of his parenting.  She’d been a gentle, sweet girl, whose only goal in life seemed to be making their districts all the more peaceful.  A girl with good values, with high morale and a positive attitude, and whose loss is felt by some to this day.

“I say let him,”   Cthugha says belatedly, looking quelled.

“Why d’y’say that?”

“Because.”   He looks at Connor, and he feels as if he’s being read like a book.   “He needs some purpose.  People are miserable without that.”   His gaze shifts to the sheriff, locks on unabashedly.   “You know all about that.”

Kuro flinches slightly, unprepared for such a statement.   “What does–”

“You’re going to send the kid away anyway, aren’t ya?  What’s the harm in Connor watching over them while we figure out where they actually belong?”

Kuro watches feebly as Deko sidles over, tottering until they’re beneath the flaps of Mr. Vanton’s coat.  They take shelter there much like a bird does, nuzzling their face into the denim of his pants like baby birds do their mother’s breast.

“We’ll figure it out,”   Cthugha assures with a sober nod.  He’s already convinced that he can crack the mystery, even if they’ve had very little luck so far.   “Connor can be instrumental to us.  He can earn their trust.  They might want to tell him something useful of their own volition.”

“We’re gonna leave it in a child’s hands?”   Kuro quizzes uncertainly.

“Think of it this way, big guy,”   Cthugha starts with a shrug.   “Wherever they came from, it couldn’t hold them.  Ya really think an orphanage in a negligent district is gonna be the secure safe haven ya think it is?  No way.  You mark my words, they’re gonna be back out there before ya know it, and then you’ll have a bigger problem on your hands.”

He thinks about that–  really thinks about it, until the sense in Cthugha’s words begins to seep into his own brain.  He doesn’t know what constitutes as “the dark”, but he’s certain that with enough investigation, he’ll find out  -  and when he does, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’ll be surprised that they escaped at all.

His heart beats dully in his temples, the beginnings of a migraine forming.  This is so far from protocol that he should be disgusted  by the notion of going through with it, but all he can think about is this young child stumbling blindly through districts they don’t know.  They’re incredibly lucky that the people they found were them and not more unsavoury characters.  Only Raku knows what might have become of them if they’d run east and wound up on Vide’s doorstep.

Traffickin’s rife there, I hear.

“... okay,”   he murmurs, rubbing his forehead gently.   “Yer right.  Yer right.  There’s no use shruggin’ ‘em off t’a place like Vide.  They’ll be screwed no matter what.  We’re outta options that don’t damn ‘em.”   The report he was on the cusp of filling out is tucked back into its appropriate draw, and he’s slightly ashamed to admit that he does so with some relief.  Vide may be improving, but not at a rate that he’s happy with;  not at a pace that makes him think it can safely accommodate a baby.   “But this is temporary.  Just until we find the information we’re lookin’ fer.”

“Thank you.”   It’s almost wheezed, Connor’s head bowing as if he’s been granted a million quers and not the burden of a dependent five year old.   “I understand.  I swear I’ll do it right.  ‘n’ anythin’ relevant t’yer investigation, I’ll give it t’you.”

Kuro groans softly as he massages his temples.

With this glaring breach of protocol, he now has a whole new headache to worry about.