nice knife work /benji + mav + killer [clue]

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

from here x

B E N J I  R O W L A N D

The coffee tastes stale but Benji doesn't mind, as long as it does what it's supposed to.

Pain cuts through the center of his head with pinhole precision and Benji winces before his brow settles into furrows of annoyance. The timing is poor as ever. Stella is still in here somewhere, or she's not and somehow that idea seems even worse.

He stares at the yellow gloves hanging off the faucet. He'd noticed them when he first entered the kitchen but hadn't thought much of it then. There's nothing more commonplace than kitchen gloves hung to dry. The odd thing is, everyone had been outside for the last few hours, if anyone was in the kitchen it was just to refill their cup.

And it smells like lemons and disinfectant. The coffee he just brewed a minute or two ago wraps around the clinical scent, clashing badly. Either someone's secretly a clean freak or something horrendous happened in this kitchen in the last hour while everyone else was laughing and warm around the fire.

Benji shudders and turns to put his back against the sink. The coffee is hot on his tongue but it's cutting through the oncoming fog, at least for now. His migraines don't last for as long as they used to. Weeks have become two to three days at most, but it's like the time that's been cut makes up for it in an increase of pain.

He bites his lip and tries not to think about that. His first task is just making it through the night. Preferably with no more of his friends dying.

What an odd thought.

It's strange to be all of seventeen years old and be standing in a kitchen in the middle of the night, grieving the loss of so many people in less than a year.

But things stopped feeling real the day that they found Scarlet in pieces. Benji still feels like he's living inside a glass bubble, everything feels muffled. Even Stella's lips on the back of his neck, or the sun on his face, it just all feels empty. A body's just a body and his has a habit of belonging to everyone but him.

The coffee cup ends up empty on the counter top and Benji still hasn't left the room. He's afraid of what he'll find in the darkness past the warm glow of the light. It's been too quiet for too long, either there's no one else in the house or everybody is and he's the last one standing.

What happens when he finds the lifeless body of every person he cares about strewn about the place like toys left where they were dropped by a disinterested child?

A door opens, then shuts again. Benji straightens up, a hand closing around the handle of the kitchen knife on the counter top beside him. Then Mav comes into the light, eyes so stormy that Benji unconsciously leans backwards over the sink, hands raised in front of himself as if that could hope to stop the knife pointed right at him.

“Where is Nai,” Mav near spits at him, “You better not have hurt her Benji or I swear to God I'm going to kill you.”

Benji stares back at Maverick in silence, mind racing, eyes on the knife edge aimed right at him.

Naomi had been at the fire too, then Grady and Zeke had arrived and everything got a little frantic after that but he does remember her running off to get bandages. He also remembers Maverick running after her. His lungs pause briefly, a spark of fear cuts through the pain growing behind his forehead as understanding slowly settles.

His eyes narrow as he slowly lowers his hands. "Before you go throwing out wild accusations, Poole," he starts, tone icy, "You might consider the fact that you were the last person that was seen with her."

Benji's hand inches slowly towards the kitchen knife now pulled slightly behind him. He has no idea anymore what Mav is capable of. He doesn't have reason to trust any of his friends anymore. The pain of that lays dormant beneath the current threat but it's there, blooming. A drop of sweat runs down his back as the tips of Benji's fingers scramble to find the hilt of the knife. Would Mav actually stab him or is his threat as empty as his brain?

His hand wraps around the handle once again and Benji raises the knife in front of himself. He slides sideways against the counter out of Maverick's immediate reach. He doesn't lower his hand though, distrust having woven itself into the space between them the moment Mav entered the room brandishing a knife.

"So what did you do to her?"

The question isn't useful. It's antagonistic really in this moment and Benji knows that, deep down. He's basically asking for Mav to stab him at this point.

But purgatory is a school hallway, all eyes on Benji whenever he goes anywhere because no one can decide whether to pity him for all the people he has to grieve this year or accuse him of their murders.

Sometimes the thing that cuts deepest isn't even a blade.

[🌱 kaitlin.]

M A V E R I C K  P O O L E

The one thing the whole world knows about Maverick: if he bites you, there's no one to blame but yourself.

Boy moving through the world like a walking warning, with the same slant to his smile and tilt to his head that his good for nothing father had. Maverick wears a short chain around his neck with a dagger pendant, stacked amongst two other, shorter chained necklaces. They catch the light as much as Maverick's light eyes do when he takes another step into the kitchen, anger bright as soon as he walked in and saw Benji standing there.

Maverick gave it away the second he stepped foot on the tile, was ready to attack the moment he saw the other.

Benji looks pathetic standing there, hands raised; Maverick doesn't trust him for a second, feels like everything is spinning out of control and there's nothing he can do to stop it. The other boy meets viciousness with narrow eyes, collecting and arranging his face. It drives Maverick closer to the edge, a swath of feelings he's never been in control of taking root; it sort of feels like his feet are going to give out underneath him at any moment.

The knife wobbles uncomfortably in the air where he has it levied in Benji's direction, arms weakened from weeks neglecting the pottery wheel.

Gooseflesh prickles all over Maverick's skin when Benji spits Poole at him like some sort of insult; something catches under his diaphragm, the realization his own name can be used as a weapon against him.

"Don't get ugly," he spits with a savage rage. It sits thick in his throat, burns in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't have time for whatever this bullshit show Benji wants to put on is. "Don't even— Naomi needs help, not someone preening about how Maverick saw her last; he's the one screaming at the top of his lungs she needs help in the first place. Not to mention Presley is still somewhere out there and Maverick never figured out the right way to actually tell him he fucking matters and he's never even liked Benji and— "Shut UP," — "what did you do to her?"

"You shut the fuck up, Benji Rowland," he presses in closer until the knife stops shaking, willing his limbs to steady. The words are a low grumble in his chest, his only attempt at control before he gives it. up. "Cut the shit and tell me what you know. Where is she? We were looking for bandages upstairs and she fucking screamed bloody goddamn murder only to be NOWHERE IN FUCKING SIGHT!" It hurts to say out loud, nausea rolling through him, rocking his body off kilter. He thinks about the bottle of liquor he'd been nursing earlier, and wishes that he hadn't been such an idiot. If he could go back and break it over his own skull instead of drinking it to the dregs he would. "I find it hard to believe no one else heard."

[cluekiller]

I emerge from the forest empty-handed. Let that bitch hide in a hole among the ants and rodents, where she belongs. If I'm lucky, she will be devoured by wolves, and her carcass will be discovered on the morrow when my work is finished. Let a unhinged killer dream, I say. The fantasies quell my frustration, as I've been losing steam this past hour. I failed to kill Stella, and I lost Clara somewhere in the woods. My resolve has not slipped, yet I wonder where my failures lie. Am I distracted? Exhausted? I rested as well I could before this ambitious ordeal.

Maybe they're just lucky. That is all they ever were, until they met me.

I creep my way back into the house. My ears are met with the sounds of shouting, as if some sort of argument has broken out. I weigh my options: attacking a group has yet to prove fruitful, but if they're distracted, I can make my move and hope the other is too cowardly to act. If they rush me the way Stella did, I still have it in me to defend myself.

Yes, I think to myself. This could be perfect.

Fortunately, I don't need to listen to know their identities. They spit each other's names like wildfire and I know it's Benji the betrayer, and Maverick the pretender. How upset they must be about the missing girls. How powerless they must feel, knowing something terrible happened and having no way to control it. Oh how that delights me. As the wolves flay Clara alive, maybe these two will rip out each others throats, and I can be an observer in the doorway. Doing nothing simply to watch their reactions. What a familiar sentiment.

Greed takes hold. I can't help myself, approaching the kitchen door with caution. I let them work themselves up until it feels like the moment to strike. They accuse each other of acts neither of them could dream of, the cowards. Their blood must be boiling in their veins, and I need to be careful - anger is dangerous, it lights the embers of adrenaline. Let's just hope the alcohol suppresses all of that.

"Yes, tell us what you did to her!"

I lash out.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

B E N J I  R O W L A N D

For all of the things that make Benji Rowland desirable, there's a list just as long that make him not. Make your way past the pristine surface and you'll find that there are vital pieces missing. Blame his childhood, the solitude and the silence, the conversations he'd have with the walls because no one else was there, whatever.

But anyone else who knew Maverick would have the sense not to stick their hand in the tiger's mouth. Thing is, it's not that Benji can't see the rows of sharp teeth, it's that to him they're sort of beautiful. He's a boy that has spent a lifetime burning for sins that he must have made in a past life, he's never shied away from pain. He knows what fire feels like already, it's the other stuff that fascinates him.

And even with Maverick accusing him of murder, with the sharp end of a fire poker in his face, something in him steadies, it always does. But he's been close to death more often than some. He's touched it, held its brightness in the palm of his hand and then he closed his fist over it and realised what most people don't find out until they're much older, there are worse things.

There are bedrooms that lock from the outside. There are blackout shutters to keep out any traces of light and there are nights that never end. Then always, there's pain, everlasting.

"You shut the fuck up, Benji Rowland," Mav says. It's a zinger.

Benji's brow furrows as Maverick yaps at him like a dog that's been let loose but everyone knows it's bad to let Maverick off on his own, he's got a reputation for leaving a mess in his wake. The fact that Naomi isn't with him is actually worrying because if not her, then that other one should be here too, he's never far from Mav.

But this hardly seems fair. Maverick is drunk and while Benji isn't exactly sober, he'd only had a couple beers and the coffee is already cutting through that nicely. This is suddenly just as tedious, just as pointless as anything else.

"Where'd your leash go?" he asks in response, tone bland again as he lowers the knife, "Presley." Maverick seems too rabid to actually communicate with and having Presley for a roommate has at least given Benji practice with him.

Mav's past talking though, back to accusations barely veiled by the thinnest of tones. He knows this sort of game better. Dinner table conversations where his family refused to talk about Scarlet and what happened to her. His mother never even asked Benji where he was when she was walking home alone. It wouldn't go nice with the Syrah she was drinking.

But Maverick's pointing a finger in a way that no one else has all year and it's almost refreshing.

Except the shouting. Benji winces as the ceiling lights start to scream softly above them with Mav's raised voice. The volume cuts into him sharper than any knife could, gutting his brain, dressing everything up in a brightness that's always been too overwhelming to hold all at once.

"Say it," he dares softly, voice tight, a curious feeling blooming under his skin like heat, "Just say it Maverick. I know it's what everyone thinks."

He smiles then, too wide, it feels more like a seam being ripped than anything else, it feels like a gaping wound. It'd be a neat little answer if it was Benji. It'd make sense, he knows that, grieving boy getting back at the world for what it did to the person he loved.

If only he knew how to feel anything that intensely.

"Yes, tell us what you did to her!"

The voice is garbled, like a person speaking through a rain cloud. Benji shuts his eyes for a brief moment, something wraps its hand around his throat. He can't place it- fear? No. Perhaps it's just self-preservation holding his tongue. He used to have that, then everyone he pretended not to care about started dying.

When he opens his eyes again, the source of the voice is still there. It's standing in the doorframe that Mav only just came through. Benji looks at this person, at the blood on them and the way they stand there like anyone might and somehow it's a relief. This nightmare, this spectre haunting them, they're nothing special. They're flesh and bone like the rest of them.

"Impeccable timing," Benji acknowledges. If he's already got one hand in a tiger's maw, might as well stick his other in too.

He uses the time his stupid comment made to look the figure over, harsh overhead lighting creates extra shadows in the folds of their disguise. It makes it hard to distinguish the rough shape beneath the mask.

He picks his coffee up and has another sip. It's still a little too hot but the bitter taste of stale coffee is enough to keep him tethered. It buys more time, not enough. The fire poker he put down to brew coffee is still close. If he could rely on Maverick to back him up, then he'd have a fighting chance.

That would mean having to trust though, not his forte.

Benji's gaze flicks from the shadow to Maverick. Where there should be fear, there's just this cold, deranged feeling eating through the heat that was there beneath his skin only moments ago. It takes him a moment to realise that the lack of feeling is a feeling in itself.

It's beyond anger but it's not rage either.

Hatred, maybe.

Benji looks at the killer again and the feeling festers. He pushes off the counter, the knife and the poker now in either hand. It doesn't matter if Maverick is there to back him up or if he turns tail and runs. The indifference that has held Benji so tightly for his entire life is losing its hold on him.

It's something to do with the height, with the way the shadow looms, takes up so much space in his vision until it's the only thing he can truly see anymore. That's what she always wanted though, wasn't it?

If his vision fell elsewhere, she made certain to fix that.

The poker leaves his hand. The sound it makes when it hits the tiled ground vibrates through him, driving him into madness with the resulting pain but he was there already, his train of thought dragging him past the point of no return. The realisation tastes like ash. He's afraid to verbalize it because once he does, it's all over, everything is.

He gazes at the mask, already hollow before the name even departs from him. "Stells," he greets her simply, aching. His hand raises to thumb her masked cheek even as he points a knife at the spot he always thought her heart was.

benji attempt to stun w/knife!
fCQlVf6iwNknife
knife

7.5/12
goddamnit benji

knife·knife

[🌱 kaitlin.]

M A V E R I C K  P O O L E

The rest of whatever words Benji wields as weapons fall on deaf ears. Not even the shape of Presley's name in his mouth is enough to pull Maverick's attention away from the footfalls behind him. There's something fitting about the night unfolding like this, at another party that never should have happened, drunk on someone else's booze and avoiding all the same problems.

Karma comes from the shadows wearing a twisted mask, ready to show Maverick what he has sown.

"Yes, tell us what you did to her!" the person behind the mask eggs the pair on, fueling the fire smoldering in Maverick's belly. He whirls around quickly, stumbling backwards and away. The sudden movement makes the world tip sideways, and Maverick fumbles trying to pull out the knife that Zeke had given him. It makes an ugly clattering sound against the floor, and impulse catches him unaware, self-preservation forsaking everything else for an awful, blindingly long moment. He takes a step back, then another, and an uncomfortable series of seconds that feel like hours pass.

Two sides, one coin; the Rowland heir and the Poole who witnessed a legacy bleed out in the driveway. They meet their fate together. One boy who favors taking and another who favors running; neither of them gets to hide.

"Impeccable timing," Benji says while Maverick sucks down a staggering breath. He feels his waist back into something, hard, but the pain never radiates, only the cold of the counter. He'd be ashamed to admit that it is fear that wraps her hands around his bones as he witnesses Benji step away from the counter and move towards that mask. Fear puppets him, keeps him cowering; his mouth has gone dry, his throat closed up. The thought that this person killed his friends is not lost on him. Cleo, Cass, Frankie—the image of him on that projector in the greenhouse flashes behind Mav's eyes and pathetic noise escapes him, half a cry, half a laugh. How absurd this all is. How absurd. Grief grips him by the throat.

"Where's Naomi," the words barely form before something mimics the sounds of his knife hitting the floor; it sucks Maverick out of his reverie, focusing his attention on Benji and the fire poker now laying at his feet.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Maverick thinks he says, maybe, can't really be certain. Suddenly everything feels like lead. Two sides, one coin; Benji meets the mask with a whispered name, so soft Maverick almost doesn't hear it over the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. Benji, gentle as a breath of wind, swipes a thumb across the cheek and aims for the heart, sees love where Maverick knows there is surely only betrayal.

"If it's any of us, it's Grady."

Maverick doesn't pause to hope, and goes for the throat.

we try to stun.
MFFeOFKpQqspiked blunt
spiked blunt

crushed skull 40/broken collarbone 6.5

spiked blunt·spiked blunt

[cluekiller]

There is hellfire an my fingertips and justice in theirs. I bury my blade in his leg after he fails to deliver that justice - I'm sure they think I deserve it. Psycho! Murderer! Evil! I'll drink to that. An amateur can't tame the master. He falls to my feet, and I can easily go for the kill if I consider myself lucky. With two against one, I've managed. But this time, the pain of a thousand suns hits the side of my head, and the world is blacker than I'm used to.

I can't hear or see a damn thing. Thoughts are fuzzy, my head is pounding, I can vaguely feel the floor beneath my gloves and the bruises on my back from tumbling over. Humans fall like rocks, I know that from experience. Corpses are worse than cement blocks. I'm in too much pain to panic, but I know they can't move me. They don't have the guts to finish me, I bet.

The world goes black.

I don't know how much time has passed when I can think again. They're distracted, focused on each other perhaps. I see a doorway and I crawl, quietly, breaths wheezy. I can hear shuffling behind me, and it's a shame I can't check to see if Benji is dead. I can't work like this, skull on fire and pulsing like a drum. Every thought is too loud, and I don't feel the locket slip from around my neck.

It has a picture of her inside. Scarlett. She was only six. A beaming child, a golden heart sat atop her parents' lap. Light eyes beaming with excitement for the ice cream cone in her hands. There are other children standing next to her, but she is the centerpiece. Innocent, undeserving of the cruel world ahead.

I leave a betrayer and a pretender in my wake. I count seconds of silence wasted on an escape. This is stupid, I'm on my hands and knees crawling like a pathetic cockroach. I could scream if I weren't so delirious from the pain. Fuck them. They run away like they don't deserve every moment of this epilogue. They hide and point fingers at each other like they know anything at all. So self-interested, so blind to what is going on. They didn't care then, they won't care now, their behavior speaks for itself.

I will fucking return.