Idrian "Cyanide" Cyann :: Party Poison [D3]

malenineteenheterosexualdistrict threeleaderrole modelsharpshooterpyromaniacrun awaydestined

subject is idrian cyann, time is eleven-hundred hours

I blink as the muffled voice bleeds through the intercom that hangs in the corner of the bland room. A table is all that's laid out in front of me, a dull steel table. I can't see my reflection in it, and I'm not sure I'd want to either. I resisted arrest, and so they bloodied me and beat me. 'Course they did. They're the Peacekeepers, it's their job to beat up kids. I feel my left cheek has puffed up and swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I'm having trouble seeing out of that eye, so I keep it closed and look through my right. The rest of the room is empty, save for the chair I'm sitting on and the retro lamp that hangs above me, like something from a cop-interrogation scene in an old movie.

I sit there in casual clothes, nothing like my usual get-up. When I'm out with the Killjoys (or rather, staying in with the Killjoys) I like to wear my marine blue jacket. Too easy to identify me in that, though. The rolled up sleeves and tattered motor gloves are trademark to Party Poison, in addition to his leather pants and aqua-blue sunglasses. Luckily I am not dressed like that, and they arrested me merely because of my hair, which is dyed the same signature red that Party Poison flaunts. I look the part, but without my trademark yellow mask, they cannot tell if I am truly him. The advantages of hiding your face.

what kind of person are you, mister cyann?

The voice comes so suddenly from the intercom above me that I lose myself for a moment. I stop observing my surroundings and try to focus on what's going on. I'm being interrogated. They suspect me of illegal activities. I can't let on anything that could tell them that I'm one of the Killjoys. They don't want to be in the same room as me, they're opting to stay on the other side of the mirror, they're afraid. I suspect that they suspect that I'm a suspect. My snarling fightback and bitter hatred when they restrained me is good enough evidence to go on that I could be a rebel. I fit all the criteria of Party Poison, the leader of the Killjoys. Heavy sarcasm, stubborn jawline, dark and judging eyes.

What kind of person am I? It's a stupid question, a stupid, stupid question designed to make me question myself. Like I'd ever tell them who I am. Like I'd come out and confess to them that I am Party Poison, a leader, a rebel and a darn good thinker. District Three seems to be full of thinkers. I like to imagine I'm in the top percentage. How else would I be in my position? And what a fine position it is, with a swollen cheek and a bloodied forehead.

For one, I'm a liar.
"I-I'm an a-alcoholic..." I stutter with all the pathetic juddering I can manage. Alcohol, good in moderation, but I'm not a low-life that crawls the streets of Three lost in the haze of LEDs that blink and daze and confuse. I'm not a scumbag who looks for trouble with Peacekeepers, but the more I keep up that image, the less of a Killjoy I look. The less I am an anarchist, a master of chaos, an agent of disaster. The less I am of that boy nearing manhood with the cutting edge needed to lead a rebellion. The less I am that boy who hides behind sunglasses and pretends he can take the pressures of being the organizer of the biggest anti-Capitol movement within District Three.

"I-I can't... I'm sorry, I w-was just... This is so heavy, man..." I stutter again, behind the sweating mask of nervousness and drunken stuttering, I am frowning. I'm angry that I got caught, angry that I went out after dark and got myself beaten bloody and forced into an interrogation chamber. Behind it all, I am snarling like the coyote I really am.

where did you come from?

They ask. The humming of the intercom makes it feel like I'm talking to static, to a robot. I crease my brow, sweat drips from my forehead. Is it hot in here? I remind myself that I am a professional. I am above these mediocre interrogations where they are too scared to face me and hide behind a microphone and six inches of concrete.

Where did I come from? Good question. It was so long ago that I lived a normal life in Three. So long ago that I can't even remember the life I lived before. I see flashes of my sister's face, my beautiful older sister who would always watch out for me. The only thing I can remember about her is that she left me. She abandoned me, just like our parents had. I was eight when she vanished, just a boy, nothing more. My hair was brown and my face was plain. Just a boy.

Of course hunger set in pretty fast. Living in a derelict old tin-house on your own at eight meant your days were numbered. So I left. I did what my father did, and my mother did and my sister did. I left. That's a lie, they never left, they vanished. Remember? I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to push away the memories.
"I-I come from the slums, just n-north of the m-main section..." I stutter like an eight year old. Just eight. Just a boy.

They ripped that out of me, though. He made sure of that. He made sure that all the innocence and all the love was torn away. The damaged tendons of what remains healed, but it was not the same. Scars made me into something different. He made me into something different. I thank him every day for it. Vampire, was his name. Black hair draped over his pale skin, his eyes hollow and unforgiving. The leader of the Killjoys had no color in him at all, he was a man of simple tastes.

He took me in when I was scavenging around one of the Killjoy warehouses, looking for food. He told me that I was vermin, a rat on the streets that brought disease to their organization. He tried to tell me more, but I was already running away. I was outrunning them and outclimbing them. Oh, how I ran and ran that day. Inside that warehouse I jumped from crate to crate, from box to box. I almost got out of a window near the roof of the warehouse, but before I could reach the pane of glass a hand was on my shoulder, bringing me down to earth again. It was Vampire himself who caught me. Who else? He said I was less of a rat from then on. He called me a spidermonkey.

Ten years of training followed. Ten years of sharpshooting, acrobatics and an eternity in the gym. I threw away that boy I was, Idrian Cyann, and became Cyanide. I died my hair and held a gun. I became Vampire's number two. He trained me to be the next leader so that I could carry on the message of the Killjoys. He knew that he couldn't take out Korse. He knew that he was too recognizable. He knew he would die and that my face would be the one that was feared and known by all of Battery City. He knew his sacrifice was all for me.

And so at eighteen I was the leader of the Killjoys. What a fucking joy it's been.

The silence that follows lasts over an hour. I wonder if they are deciding my fate from their cowards viewpoint. I wonder if they are choosing whether I live or die. I'm ushered out ten minutes later and thrown back onto the streets. I brush myself down and stagger back into the night. Always good to keep up appearances.