SLAUGHTERHOUSE HEAVENS

this could be a scene from a dated movie if we tried hard enough; squint our eyes and tilt our head just right: boy meet girl with legs swinging on cafeteria tables as she watches him, hip cocked, hands bloodied —

critics will argue that the red makes the scene more romantic. 

“the blood is going to stain the cracks regardless of how much you wipe it.” he says as he watches her scrub at the floor furiously, unhelpful as he sits and watches. ghost of a grin on cheshire lips. 

“found any brain bits? i didn’t get the best view but it looked like a decent shot.” eyes dart to the crime scene, lazy scourings. “would be a shame to find it when you’ve accidentally dropped your sandwich two days later. might want to stay away from the red sauces for some time — or maybe we can see who’s taking a concerning liking to it.” 

something cracks under his fist, and gilbert cannot tell if it was his bone and ikar’s. it hurts just the same, and it numbs just the same too. the soldier’s knee digs into the side of the one he pins down, hoping to press some old bruise or the ghost of some broken rib, but that’s about as much strategy as he can put into it. was that not always his champion move? a fifth brains, the rest pure feeling? maybe ikar would have loved watching him in the pit, all screams and tears and careless brutality. he has enough of a show now. i hope he chokes on his blood. 

“shut up.” gil hits again, but no blow is nearly as hard as the first one, accumulated like a dangerous pressure cooker. gilbert was always keen on explosions. “is this not fun enough for you?” there’s voices around them, he’s certain, and someone did risk tugging on his shoulder once, but one wild shake and that poorly sided savior was gone. it’s a spectacle. he’s reveling in this bit. beneath all layers of reason, gilbert knows he is too. the spectacle, with the wide eyes staring and the horror, has become what he knows. somewhere within too, he might even miss the cheers. get us a crowd that can love this. give me public justice. 

gilbert lets himself be pulled in, almost glad. hopeful that ikar will at last fight back. make it fair, make him feel justified, not cruel. gil hopes for anything: blood spit on his face, a headbutt, a bite, try and pull my left eye out. but he’s met with whispers, which multiply in his mind until they’re a crowd of overlapping murmurs of every word out of the other’s mouth. gilbert stops, muscles frozen in place, eyes locked with ikar’s and he breathes heavily. ikar found the button. “why are you here?” it comes out more desperate than he’d hoped for. “this city is rotten, but not enough for you. you can’t do the shit you did in wyoming here. there’s nothing for you to gain.” he’s winning, he’s winning, god, he’s winning. one of his hands reaches down, fingertips (of the tip of his knuckles, where some got cut. you did this) dragging the warm blood from ikar’s face to his neck. his hand rests there, pressuring down but not grabbing. “fight back. make this a circus. we miss it, don’t we? then hit me.” the volume grows back with each word. “hit me! come on! wake the fuck up! let’s go. poor little fucking ikar, shamelessly attacked, uh? paint me as insane.” his fingers grab tighter. “bet i look fucking crazy right now, uh? bet you like that!”

-

you are your mother’s monster; photoshoot smile stained crimson, knowing all the right angles to play the victim. his hands are trembling in anger when he grips you, spit to teeth when the words are dragged from the depths of his fury. 

he rests his hands on your neck and you want to know how his fingertips will wrap around your throat; what bruise your corpse will wear in the morning. 

boy of magazine covers, blood-dipped dreams. you look at the man above you with a glint of something sharp that only he can see; know who’s pinning down who in this position. 

“don’t sell yourself short. you’re here, and isn’t this more fun than wyoming?” words could be so tender if it was anyone but him, said soft, said gently. 

he laughs at gilbert’s shouted words, coughing on the blood rushing into open mouths. spits it off to the side and opens his arms to the other; an invitation. 

“i do,” like you crazy, unsaid, spoken like a wedding vow. like a death sentence. boy is still grinning. “don’t you want a little revenge, gilbert? for what i’ve done to you? an eye for an eye — didn’t the grizzlies kill some part of you? now you can send them back a body in return.”

you bare your throat to him. sign of submission. a challenge, a dare. 

Zepp has little interest in sobriety. She thinks that might be the way life has been since somewhere in childhood, even before this fuckstorm of an apocalypse hit: something flawed in their code, or something. A pendance for escape, for blurring the edges of existence. Their eyes focus on the way the smoke curls, their view hazy.

“Easy? Shit, bro, if you even knew how long it took me to get this shit to the quality it is these days. People talk about how hard living is in this shit-for-tits world, but they don’t know a fucking thing if they haven’t tried to grow their own product, you hear me?” He chuckles, extends a hand for the joint.

The how question is a rattling one, of course, and Zepp would circle around a clear answer if he wasn’t as blurry-minded. “My dad, y’know. When we were still living that good-for-nothing life outside these walls, we grew our own shit. Sold it to anyone willing to deal with a shady smuggler.”

There’s a vague grin. Zepp takes the joint, inhales deeply. “And then I decided to continue the tradition once I came here. He’d be fuckin’ ashamed at the lack of profit I make, but whatever.”

his laugh is a short, jagged thing; serrated knives against hardwood as he breathes out smoke, grin loose and eyes hazy. “alright, no need to get your panties in a twist, it’s hard and shit and you’re the expert weed grower. can’t do what you do but i’m happy you do it, and for nothing but a few extra furs from skinned squirrels and shit.” 

closest you’ll get to appreciation. the weed makes the words less sharp and more slurred. 

“mm. family business and all that bullshit. i get it.” that laugh again, hand outreached as he waits for zepp to pass the joint back. “dear old dad part ways to make meth? or is the old man dead?” 

he could be kinder, he could be crueller. a rarity that at this particular moment he does not care much to be either. 

...

but the hostage, despite his screams, has too much loyalty. he gathers up a mouthful of spit and aims it at ikar. despite his hulking size, nik is quick to land a calculated punch to the hostages ribs. the wind is taken from the man’s lungs, and he wheezes. a sharp noise leaves his lips as nik grabs him by the hair again, forcing the man to straighten up where he’s bound. “deep breaths,” he says, almost soothing, but in reality he’s steering the man away from passing out, “where are your friends?”

he hardly flinches to the violence, having inflicted worse, having received worse. merely smiles, tongue peeking out of mouths to reach the spit that landed on his face, slow and deliberate as he watches nik with the prisoner. making sure they see. 

She should be more like Nik or Inna, make herself a fortress, an unreadable thing of cold stone. But Daiyu has always – in spite of circumstance – been more bleeding heart than guarded heart and it must show on her face, now. Not just the grief, but all else that comes with it.

Ikar pushes past bruises and reaches his slippery claws in her chest, clawing at her heart. Daiyu wants to grab a chunk of his hair and drag him onto the ground. “Who said anything ‘bout mourning? Am literally just fucking walking.” Defensiveness gives her away: it always does. Alexei chastises her, somewhere in the back of her mind, and she rolls her eyes.

It seems there’s no escaping that tyrant, with Ikar bringing him up without even naming him. Her hands curl into fists. Luckily, she has never sought for her father’s approval, but still, the sentiment, the fucking audacity. “Why are you such a cunt, Ikar? Like, what the fuck is wrong with you?” She looks at him. “Fuck. Right sure, through process of elimination I’m now daddy’s favourite. Make me a badge so I can show my hard-earned title off to everyone. Dickhead.”

“oh? not mourning then? how cold of you. careful or you’ll end up more like daddy dearest than you’d like.” 

she would hardly be the first to ask and undoubtedly would not be the last — he enjoys the slow sinking of knives into flesh, teeth into skin, words to minds. he eyes the curled fists, the sharpened eyes, and lets out a bark of laughter. anger as predictable as a heartbeat, thrumming under veins; boy knows it well, knows how to unrefine it into rage. 

they’re just south of the zoo now, all signs having been weathered away – but there are still remnants of what was. the map, for example, has a glaring zebra that even as a child, has always haunted ksana’s dreams.

but she doesn’t get to focus on that, not for long.

the sound of a clicker, a threat, holds her in a vice grip. she slows her breathing, drawing her gun almost mechanically as she crouches, one knee digging into the ground.

“what?” ksana says in a half-whisper, half-yelp.

but before she can drag him backwards, he’s pushing forward. fuck.

she follows, though not without frustration working itself into her jaw. “you did not just tell me that you had a fucking pet clicker?” she wouldn’t put it past him – ikar was… well, ikar. swallowing air, ksana watches as the clicker drags one foot, and then the other through the overgrown grass, jerking one way, and then another.

“sorry, that doesn’t really sound like my thing.” she leans against the tree, peering to the side where another approaches, this time closer. shrinking against the bark, she inhales through her nose. how many more were there? “do you have a knife?” she asks him, gaze still trained on the one that was venturing a little too close for comfort.

tw violence, amputation (to clicker) 

mischief makes him look as young as he should be; less soldier and more boy, coloured trouble for all the wrong reasons as he approaches the clicker with practiced ease. learned of them, learned from them: how to be a thing rotting from the inside out, how to ruin others slowly. you smile at ksana. 

he brandishes his knife from his thigh for the girl to see, glimpse of sharp teeth before he plunges the blade into the clicker’s shoulder; wrenching the limb loose with a wet squelch before pinning it down quickly. hand pushing the back of heads into dirt as one knee digs into rotting backs, the other pressed hard against wrists. 

“i did have a pet clicker. trained it well, too.” boyish, devilish smirk as the one beneath him writhes, trying to reach him with a stump of an arm, mouth snapping at dirt, remaining hand pinned. 

“betcha never seen one up close.” a taunt, almost. a challenge. “you can cut the fingers off, then only its mouth is worth anything, but that’s an easy fix —“ a sharp twist of its head from his grip on the back of its neck “ — simple to keep. or if you wanna be a little bitch about it, feel free to shoot its head and we can move along. i’ll even make it easy for you.” 

— FOOD COURT, MALL, 20TH OF MAY 2044,  WITH IKAR KYO. @infestaticns​

his hand taps the metal table, cold meeting numb and scarred and lost. what is meant to calm him becomes a reminder of yet another thing he’s lost to him. it wasn’t him, he wasn’t even there. logic matters little as he’s begun seeing red long ago. at the first sight of the soldier, really, his knuckles already feeling bruised before they hit anything at all - it’s muscle memory, from the previous times they were in contact with ikar. poor ikar, so young, still new in town, fallen victim to the crazy man, is that not the story? it’s not as if gilbert hasn’t lost it with others before, drawing blood and bruise when he should not, although it’s been happening more often ever since his return from the grizzlies. and yet one of them sits across the long table from him. i never left, they’re still all around. ikar’s words have long been lost in his ears, sounds of provocations (or perhaps innocuous words, his paranoid mind reminds him) melting into voices that don’t belong to ikar, the bear he never even met. it is wrong to judge him for the sins of his leader, but he stands proud, too proud. “shut up.” is he even talking right now? his eyes blink, trying to pull him back to the loud canteen, full of people eating their rations, full of faces who know him - but his imagination or, worse, his memory, keeps pulling him right back. gilbert has no time to think, as when he tilts his head to look at the other man, he sees his mouth move. it doesn’t matter what disgusting words leave it, because gil is, without warning, pulling himself onto the top of the table, crouching and sliding his way to the other side, the familiar fist hitting the other across the face and gravity pulling them from bench to hard floor. he cannot tell if the canteen has suddenly gone quiet or if he’s filtered it out. gilbert should know better, daiyu volkova having just returned from her disappearance after attacking another enforcer. but her stakes are higher and gilbert is too lost in fear, despite not calling it that. 

-

you welcome the sharp bone of knuckles to the curve of your nose; hearing the resounding crack and feeling the hot gush of blood run into your open mouth, laughing. you have never tried to be kind with your words and now they come out jagged from the throat, spitting out razors and waiting for them to meet skin. 

the blood in your mouth is just an occupational hazard. 

gilbert’s weight on top of you pins your body down, but you make no move to leave his violence, choose instead to bask in it; wide smiles with each hit, mouth stretching the wounds on your face to bleed harder. red is a colour you have always worn well, and you are no less charming drenched in it even with a nose broken, bruises blooming. 

“poor little gilbert — what did they do to you back at home?” teeth coated in crimson, words gargled as you speak, eyes as crazed as his. “i’m almost jealous, really. wish i had in on the fun, too.” 

said quiet enough so that the words are heard only by him. silent knives digging into open wounds of an already fractured mind. when the boy reaches for the elder above him, fingers are almost tender when they tug him down; not in violence, not in mercy. a careful listening. 

WITH: @infestaticns WHERE: grand teton food court WHEN: may 5th, 2044

Kiyana had been worried about Ikar for a while. She’d noticed that he operated with a sort of nihilism that wasn’t uncommon among the youth of the apocalypse. His seemed particular extreme, though. And it manifested in increasingly dangerous ways. Risks on patrols he didn’t need to take, fights with his fellow soldiers…finally, Kiyana decided she could no longer mind her own business. When he started putting patrols in danger, she couldn’t just ignore it.

Plus, if she could help, she had to try.

She hung outside the food court, knowing that he’d need to pick up his rations eventually. It was a little sick, she thought, that they made them pick up their food rations in a mall food court. Like a cruel reminder of the food they wouldn’t be getting. Smoothies and soft pretzels and cinnamon rolls…and oh god, she was hungry. This kid better show up.

And just like that, there he was. Kiyana beamed and waved a hand. “Ikar! Hi, hon!” She nodded toward the tables in the seating area of the food court. “I was hoping I’d bump into you. I was wondering if we could talk?”

her voice is bright, ringing, his name a word meant to be sharp in the mouth and bleeding when given a voice — now said with a lightness that he’s unfamiliar with. he hates it. 

eyebrows quirked when he turns to the source of the calling, sees the woman with a hopeful smile on her face. how quickly such a thing would be carved into a mockery back home; extinguished, exterminated like a bug under his foot. the thought almost brings a smile to his lips that could be misinterpreted as a pleasantry when he approaches her.

“about?” head cocked to the side, meager tray of food in his hands as he eyes her, sharp in calculation. “i don’t imagine my work touches yours — unless you just want some extra food? i don’t mind sharing, but it won’t be for free.” 

now isn’t this just where the fun begins? this is reminiscent of a life you’ve known and missed, knife a familiar extension to your hand with a stranger crying at your feet. testament, perhaps, to alexei’s trust in you — the man had a sharp eye not unlike the ones back at home, saw you bright and clear from the moment you stepped foot into his base. 

trespassers get tortured. inspire me with your worst — i might just like it. a signature smirk. the sniveling piece of shit at your feet is a stark contrast to your entrance at idaho falls; reason why you’re a soldier holding a gun while he’s a tied up hostage. 

you’re certain it must have been a thing of beauty the first time it lived, now reduced to its core essence: an animal, rabid and unseeing. it reminds you of yourself and you smile when the great dane charges at you, half-disintegrated tongue lolling out and an eye socket festering. 

you could kill it quick, but what fun would that be? infected animals are a rarer thing, and you suspect this would be the closest you’ll get to entertainment this patrol. 

a bullet to the head would be a mercy. you are a boy too bored, makes a different kind of beast out of you. a well-aimed branch as wide as your arm and long as your leg is wielded easily; twisted game of fetch when you run the end of your makeshift toy directly into its mouth, delighting in the slow push of bark and splinter into throats. watch the animal slobber around it, stupid and thoughtless as your slow push leads to the soft breaking of already-decomposing flesh, breaking skull and coming out the other end. laughing at how it continue to reach for you until slows, stills. 

“pretty, don’t you think?” do you mean the blood it spat onto your face, the skewered carcass, or the shade of the majestic beast it used to be? no matter. you grin at your patrol partner slowly appearing from the trees, crooked tooth gleaming. 

the air before the two of you is hazy, smudged with smoke from lazy smiles, columns of throats bared as you puff a soft ringlet into the ceiling of zeppelin’s room. look at how the lines of necks to shoulders is an invitation, curve of an artist’s wrists to line a boy undeserving of existing. 

“surprised you could grow shit this good in your own fucking backyard. fucking almost looks easy.” said with a drawl, the boy having already spent the better part of an hour visiting the other man and perusing his goods after a trade of meager patrol loot. 

at this rate, he might not make it back to his room. he vaguely recalls having a night shift tomorrow; figures he can crash at zepp’s if he can’t stumble back to his in one piece. ah, well. he takes another drag. it’s too late to regret anything anyways. might as well enjoy it. 

the sound rings loud in the silence of the forest, familiar to trained ears and even more so to a boy whose childhood had a symphony soundtrack to the incessant click click click — familiar, despite it being a warning of danger. 

it reminds him of home. playtime. hunting season. he smiles. 

“don’t shoot.” quiet, too-sharp grin when he turns back to ksana, hand over hers to stop her from drawing her weapon and prematurely ending their fun for the night. “follow me.” 

footsteps are careful, eyes trained on the clicker and its erratic joints, neck twisted and face disfigured. hunting while a bigger predator creeps up behind it. 

“back in wyoming,” he whispers, ducking behind a fallen oak, leaning close to ksana, “i used to have a pet that looked just like him. caught him myself when i was fifteen and leashed him like a fucking dog at my feet.”

fond, nostalgic. he turns to meet the girl’s eyes, lets her see how his glint in the weak sunlight. 

when — 4th of may. where — on patrol. who — @infestaticns​​

Every patrol, Daiyu itches for infected or trespassers. For something to busy her hands with, for something to siphon her rage into. It is, however, an annoyingly peaceful day. Birds tweeting, sun peaking through green overgrowth, a nice breeze tickling her bare neck. She might have loved this, a few months ago, but Vissa’s death had happened in winter and so her body was stuck in that icy chill. A year ago, she would have skipped, picked up a pinecone to hit a soldier in the back of the head with, practiced her whistling along with the words, tied her jacket around her waist. 

But today, she’s stepping in silence. Spinning the cilinder of her revolver absentmindedly, wanting to push further and further away from the base, to the edges. Click, click, click, click, click, click, the bullets fall in her hand and are stored back in one by one. Daiyu needs a rush, a large burst of violence to distract herself from all this supposed prettiness, from the itching of her hands. Daiyu needs to sit with herself and think why she craves violence so, these days. 

There’s little time to think, though, as one of the soldiers on her little crew pulls up next to her. Eyes flick up ( always up, her height be damned ), and land on Ikar. This guy. She flicks her wrist, hears the cilinder click back in place and puts the gun in its ill-fitting holster without sparing a look. “What d’you want, Ikar?” Her fingers itch. She wants her father to stop pairing her with this fucker, as if it’s some lesson in cutting off grief. Whatever. Her tone is sardonic, “Something come up? Not a tummy ache, I hope, hm? We still have plenty of ground to cover.”

-

“how sweet of you to be concerned for me and my wellbeing.” almost a purr, eyebrow lifted in amusement as he approaches the girl. a sight to see; how her hackles raise the moment she realizes it’s him. 

“still mourning? didn’t realize it took so much time for these things.” a casual flip of an old knife simply to cure an itch in the hand; not too different from the girl before him. he might have passed it over to her to toy with if he was not certain she would run him through with it. 

perhaps another day.