#char:deadlock

“The death of a beloved is an amputation.”

It begins as it most often does—with fire.

They can smell the poignant aroma of chemicals before they can see it. It filters into the air, makes their head feel fuzzy, and they find their gaze traveling over the many heads that surround them for the source of such a scent. The source is unlocatable, but the aroma seems to grow stronger still, and it makes them feel anxious. They shift from foot to foot, pick at the elastic around their wrist, and try to spot the familiar head of curls making its way through the crowd. They count the seconds that pass—one, two, three—and when they get to thirty, that’s when it sets off.

It’s a riptide explosion that cuts through the world around them and suddenly the only thing they can see is a terrible combination of black and gray. Smoke, soot, dust, and fire—always fire. The poignant chemical that they smelt earlier is gone and replaced with the aroma of burning flesh and ash, and they can hear the muffled cacophony of agony wailing up around them like some terrible glimpse into the inferno. It’s a siren that seems to increase in pitch and in frequency, and as they stumble to their feet, as they feel the gravel and stones beneath them rip up the flesh of their palms and their cheeks—

They wake up. Their body shoots upwards into a sitting position as they grasp at their sheets, sweat beading their forehead and their heart racing a mile a minute. Their breath escapes from them in a rattling gasp as their gaze focuses on the wall directly across from them. Its dark, indiscernible form provides some form of grounding for their rattled mind, and after a few moments, they find themselves able to relax once more.

It doesn’t last long, of course. The scent of smoke and burning flesh is still fresh in their mind, and they find themselves throwing the blankets off of their overheated body and stumbling up to their feet. The cold touch of the hardwood floor provides little comfort to them as they exit the room and hastily make their way down the halls. The other guests of The Juniper Bonds rest soundly in their rooms, oblivious to the small-scale crisis that Pariah is currently experiencing as they make their way into the kitchen. They’re hopeful that it’ll be devoid of life, but this hope is quickly dashed when they see the light on underneath the management office’s door.

Cyrus is still awake, which is incredibly unusual for him. He’s often in bed long before Deadlock and Helios; if Pariah was to run into anyone, they would’ve expected it to be one of those two. For a moment they’re reluctant to enter the kitchen for this reason alone, but eventually the dryness of their throat and the fuzziness of their mind from the leftover traces of the nightmare forces them to concede.

They try to open the cupboard as quietly as possible. They hold onto the handle and pull it open with such precision that one would think they’re handling a bomb; unfortunately, the cupboards of The Juniper Bomb are not accomodating for anyone, and Pariah barely gets it open a crack before it lets out a shrill shriek of protest. Their entire body goes rigid at the sound and they close their eyes—hoping, praying—only to have all of that hope dashed when the sound of the management door opening echoes out from behind them.

“Dorian?”

Dorian. Fuck. They let out a slow breath as they shift to peer over their shoulder; the silhouette of Cyrus stands in the doorway, his hands firmly resting on his hips as he looks at his midnight thief. Pariah feels their lips crack into a strained grimace.

“Evening, Cyrus. Well, morning, I guess.” Surrendering all efforts to stay silent now that they’ve been caught, they yank open the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it up with water. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“Jan’s on patrol tonight, is he not?” Cyrus reaches out to flick the kitchen light on—causing Pariah to wince in response—before crossing his arms over his chest. “So what got you up and about so early?”

Pariah grips the glass with both hands as they turn to face Cyrus before leaning back against the counter. He looks tired—valid, since it seems like he hasn’t gone to bed yet—and Pariah feels this mirrored on their face as well.

“Nightmares,” they grumble, taking a generous drink from the glass as they do so. The cool water offers a sense of relief to their parched throat, and Cyrus appears to wait until they’re finished to speak up.

“... Want something stronger?”

Pariah’s eyebrow raises in surprise as Cyrus jerks his thumb to the office. “Still got that brandy Jan got me for Christmas. Personally, I’ve been waiting for the right time to open it.”

“And now is that time?” Pariah sets the glass down on the counter as their expression shifts to wry amusement. Cyrus shrugs in response.

“I think we’ve both had a shitty enough night, yeah?”

—--

Ten minutes later, Pariah finds themself sitting across from Cyrus in the management office, a glass of amber liquid having now replaced the water that they were holding moments earlier. They’re nursing the drink—Cyrus, on the other hand, is not. He’s already pouring himself a second glass by the time Pariah takes their first sip.

“So.” Cyrus glances up at them as he pours the drink. “Wanna share, or would you rather just sit here for a while until you feel ready to go?”

Do they want to share? The memory still sits like a burnt ember on their tongue, filling their mouth with a smokey taste that the brandy fails to wash away. They swirl their glass in thought as they focus on the edges of Cyrus’ desk; he bought it at a second hand store with Jan, and seemed so proud of having acquired it. They still remember the exasperation on Jan’s face as he helped his uncle haul it in through the back—and how the glint of affection in his eye showed that exasperation to be untrue.

“It was Lovers Square.” They knock back their drink in one go after this before setting the now empty glass on the desk. Cyrus gestures to the brandy bottle, and with a nod, he fills it up again. “It changes a little bit every time, you know. The people around me look different, or Gabby has different clothes on, but it always ends the same way—the eruption, and then the death.”

Survivors' guilt is something that Pariah is intimately connected to. In the first few months after Gabby’s death, when they first began living with Cyrus and Jan, they found themself constantly spiraling with thoughts of how they shouldn’t be here, how Gabby should be here, and the constant questioning of ‘why me?’ parroting in their mind. The nightmares had been every night during that time. Jan, Cyrus, and sometimes Micah would stay up until the early hours of the morning with them as they sat there, shaking and crying and declaring that they smell the burnt flesh.

Phantom scents, phantom memories.

Cyrus sits in silence as he nurses his own glass in his hand. He’s examining Pariah with a sharp, attentive gaze—one that seems to be peering deeper into Pariah’s psyche than they’d like.

“And her?” He finally asks, setting the glass down. “Was she there?”

“I saw her walk away. Her scarf—that pink one she wore—vanished into the crowd. No matter how much I yelled her name, she never looked back.” Pariah reaches up to run a hand through their hair as they sink back into the seat. “It hurts more and more every time I’m forced to relive it, you know.”

“The death of a beloved is an amputation. You lose a part of yourself with them.” Cyrus leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, still watching Pariah with that analytical stare. “And, like with an amputation, it isn’t something you can just bounce back from. It’s a learning process, an adjustment process.”

Pariah snorts at this, although it’s half-hearted at best. “How long do I have to learn for, then?”

“Varies. When my brother—Jan’s father—passed away, it took me a long time to really come back, but I knew I had no choice but to. Jan was only 6 months old and he was relying on me to raise him. He became an anchor for me.” Cyrus points towards the management door. “You got anchors too, you know. Jan, Micah, me. We’re not going to leave you to work through this alone.”

A moment of silence falls again as Pariah chews on their lower lip. Their gaze darts towards the glass of brandy, which sits untouched still on the desk, and back to Cyrus’ face. He’s right—he and the others have always been there for Pariah. Despite the loss of one family, they had managed to acquire another—albeit an odd one—through that loss.

They reach out and pick up the glass, a faintly grateful smile touching their lips.

“... Thanks, Cyrus.”

“Instead of a thanks, how ‘bout you don’t go digging through my cupboards at two in the morning?” Cyrus raises an eyebrow as he grabs the brandy bottle again. “I got a separate cupboard for you kids for a reason, you know.”

Are you ready to call it a night, yet? We haven’t seen anything this entire time—and you look close to hypothermic. Deadlock’s voice carries like a whisper in their mind, causing a shiver not produced by the cold to run through their body again. Years and years of knowing him, and yet they still can’t fathom how he’s able to connect with them at such long distances. He’s still in The Juniper Bond; they’re twenty minutes away.

Pariah clicks their tongue in response as they tug the leather jacket tighter around their body. They can still feel Deadlock’s presence in their mind—poking, prodding, and in every sense of the word, bullying them into an answer—and they know that Helios is probably egging him on.

Pariah. Deadlock’s voice returns, far sterner than the easy-going tone that it was moments before. Pariah tips their head back to stare at the bleak gray sky above. Then they hear the sound of a screen door opening and slamming shut, forcing their attention back to the house in front of them. They feel Deadlock’s presence grow stronger in their mind and they know that he’s now paying attention as well—they all are.

They sink back into the shadows of the car they’ve been posted behind for the majority of the evening, watching as he approaches the vehicle without a single ounce of awareness. Pariah feels their lips curling into a grin—a predatory smile if one might—as Wallace fumbles for the keys in his back pocket. Before he has a chance to pull them out, Deadlock leaves Pariah’s mind with one final whispered remark—don’t be gentle.

Pariah watches as a man half-stumbles his way out of the house and down the steps and they can practically hear their blood rushing through their veins at the sight of him.

Wallace Carperton, a 52-year-old finance manager at the Casallah Bank. He enjoys social drinking, art galleries, and selling individuals to the highest bidder in his free time. Right now he’s riding down a night of binge drinking and drugs with people who are definitely not at the age to be doing such things—and in about two minutes, he’s going to be welcoming this frosty morning with Pariah's foot shoved down his throat.

Naturally, they won’t be.

----

It’s only when the police finally come to pick Wallace up does Pariah bother to check the time. They tug their phone out of their back pocket as an officer hauls Wallace—nose fractured and blubbery apologies spilling from his lips—off of the asphalt and into a waiting car. Pariah grimaces as they adjust their helmet. The fact that these individuals think a few tears and half-assed apologies are enough to excuse their actions is something that’s always put Pariah in the worst of moods—it’d be better if they just admit that they did what they did and make the process easier for everyone involved.

Regardless, Wallace will be torn apart—metaphorically, and perhaps literally—by Suha and the Crowes within a day. When it comes to anything with the selling of people, they don’t wait around too long.

With this in mind, Pariah clicks on their phone and scans over the notifications coming in. Most are from the Triumvirate chat—Deadlock and Helios have some errands to run—a few are from the police lines and news accounts on Chirp, and one is a calendar notification that causes Pariah’s mood to darken even further—

Birthday.

The date on the phone doesn’t lie, either. October 27th, 7:31 am. It’s still about four hours until the time they were actually born, but it is the day, and they shove their phone back into their pocket in a bid to ignore it.

What a shitty start.

---

They’re met with silence when they re-enter the headquarters after giving the police the evidence that they had acquired on Wallace. The lights are off and they don’t hear anything from Deadlock’s room; considering that he always has the radio playing—the only way he can drown out the sound of people, in his words—this is unusual. But he did say he has errands to run today. Pariah tugs off their helmet and squints at the door before moving to their own room, desperate for the more comforting silence it’ll bring.

When they get inside, they set their helmet down on the nearby table before immediately falling back on their bed. Their room is rather befitting of who they are, as is the case with a lot of the member's rooms. Helios’ room is decked out in polaroids of her and Abyssal, her and her siblings, her and a reluctant Pariah, and so forth. Deadlock’s room is filled to the brim with architectural drawings, paint supplies, canvases, and numerous records.

Pariah’s room...is scarce. There’s a dresser, a king-sized bed, a desk for work, and a closet where their spare clothes are haphazardly shoved inside. Nothing decorates the walls or the ceiling, they have no fancy carpets or blinds, and there aren't any extras besides a bedside lamp and an alarm clock. It’s an incredibly minimal room and it’s precisely how they like it.

Save, that is, for the box shoved underneath the bed. The box, which they now roll over and pull out. With some apprehension, they remove the top to peer inside. It’s in here that their personal assets from their former life remain—photos of them standing beside a woman with curly hair and a smile far too bright for a city like this, numerous letters written in messy handwriting, post-it notes telling them to have a good day at school, and at the very bottom of it all—

A birthday card.

Happy Birthday, Dorian!

They remove the card and stare at it for a moment. A part of them is saying to put it back, to ignore it all, to let it rest. Next year, this part says, next year you can do this—there’s no reason to hurt today.

And yet the other part, the louder part, already has them flipping the card open before they have an opportunity to stop themself. There’s a small block of text written in the same messy handwriting as the letters, and they find themselves reading it over and over as if by order of something other than them;

I’m sorry I have to work today so I can’t be here when you open this, but I want you to know that I’m so proud of you, and I hope you have the most amazing day today <3 I’ll see you for dinner tonight!! We’re having take-out and cake—I promise I’ll get it from an actual bakery this time.

Love you lots!!—Gabby.

They bite the inside of their cheek as they slide the card shut, staring at the giraffe holding a 1 and a 7 on the front cover. It’s a stupid box office card that they know Gabriella picked up in a rush last minute, per usual, but the words ‘i’m proud of you' are the only reason why they haven’t burned it like most of the other items yet—it isn’t that Gabriella never told them this, it’s just that this was the last time she ever did. She died not too soon after.

With a low sigh, they roll onto their back and stare at the ceiling above them. Exhaustion from the long night they just had is now creeping into their mind, and they find themselves closing their eyes before they even realize it—

Card in hand, and the bedroom door still unlocked.

---

The first thing they’re aware of when they come through is the feeling of someone prodding their face. Muffled voices can be heard from somewhere within the room, and Pariah does their best to focus on the tone and sound, to place who they belong to. Their body is already kickstarting back into the red area of stress—where they’re overly aware of what’s happening and ready to react—when suddenly a sharp stinging sensation burns across their cheek.

“Fuck?” The word slips out of their mouth in a snarl as their eyes snap open and they grab the hand of whoever just had the bright idea of slapping them awake. When their gaze locks onto a familiar green-eyed one, this anger boils down to nothing but utter annoyance.

“Evening, sleeping beauty.” Deadlock’s voice drips with sarcasm as he jerks his wrist free from Pariah's grip. To his right is Helios, who’s lounging across Pariah’s bed with a disapproving look on her face.

“Did you really spend your entire birthday sleeping? What kind of party is that?” She lets out a groan as she rolls onto her back, effectively rolling right onto Pariah, and stretches upwards to prod Pariah’s cheek with her hand. “You’re in your twenties, not your fifties. You don’t need to follow the retirement schedule yet.”

“I was out the entire night working, remember?” Pariah leans back and swats her hand away, still nursing the burning aftermath of Deadlock’s wakeup strategy. “And you of all people should know that I’m not really into the ‘party' scene anyway. I’d rather just treat this as another day.”

Deadlock lets out a small, bitter hiss as he scoots himself to the edge of the bed. “Yeah, we know that already. But unfortunately, you’re also friends with the two of us,” he pauses and points at Helios, who gives a cheery grin in response, “and we can’t let this day pass without at least a little celebration. So!”

He reaches down and picks up a small white box from the floor. Pariah doesn’t need to look at it for more than a second before they’re already trying to shove Helios off of them to get up.

“No, you did not do this to me!” Helios lets out a cackle before scrambling to drop her full weight on Pariah, effectively trapping the latter down. Deadlock’s doing his best to keep back as the two of them struggle—one to escape, and one to prevent this from occurring,

“Please just look at it! Do you know how long it took for me to convince Operator to do this shit? I literally had to stand behind the man and loiter in his office before he finally relented.” Helios lets out a huff of breath as she wraps her arms around Pariah’s form. “He says happy birthday, by the way.”

“He absolutely did not say that. He said, and I quote, ‘Helios, I did what you asked for, please let me and my cat go’. It felt far more like a hostage situation than a request if you ask me.” Deadlock shakes his head with a huff as he flips the top of the box open. Pariah, realizing that Helios’ bear-hug is something that they won’t be breaking from any time soon, finally relents and peers down at the cake within.

It’s…

Well, it could certainly belong in some part of an art gallery.

The icing is sloppily applied, a ‘Happy Birthday, Pariah!’ is written in shaky red writing, and Pariah thinks there’s supposed to be a dog drawn in the corner, but it looks more like a to-be-identified alien species instead. Helios props her chin on Pariah’s shoulder, still grinning.

“Deadlock and I decorated it—can you tell?”

“Well I did the writing, Helios did the dog in the corner. You can clearly tell based on what’s before you who should be the lead decorator for the birthday cakes from now on.” Deadlock tips his chin up with a smug grin as he sets the box down on the bed, earning him a bitter look from Helios.

“Bullshit, we had to redo the icing four times because the writing ‘wasn’t up to your standards'. It took us an hour to do what could’ve been done in ten minutes if you weren’t such a hardass for decorating.”

“You switched from cat, to cow, to horse, to giraffe, and then to dog because you’re so indecisive—”

“I’m indecisive? Sir, you simply could not commit to one style of handwriting—”

Helios and Deadlock rapidly dissolve into a series of banter about who is more responsible for the hour-long process it took to create this true homage to Jackson Pollock that Pariah has before them. They take a moment to look at their companions—Helios, with her glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and Deadlock, who’s fighting back a grin as he valiantly defends his handwriting—before looking down at the cake again with their own faint, yet genuine, smile.

Maybe, just maybe, they can enjoy their birthday this year.