Second Chance || KitxMohs (DC Plot)(Complete)

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

I've let it go, I've let it go

He sits, his back pressed loosely upon the overly patched cushion, gnawing absentmindedly on a toothpick, glaring down at a mess of writings below. Others around him come and go, but Mohs remains listening intently to a steady stream of metaphors and similes as they pass into his thoughts- then as soon as he scribbles them down, they leave, as swiftly as they fluttered in.

Strong fingers gingerly stroke a hardwood pencil, halting only for a moment until it furiously scratches some phrase away, and the utensil falls as the male nearly throws his arms up and away in exasperation. The small cluster of kids young men and women sitting at a table beside his lonely booth offer him glares laced with shock at his indignation; if he thinks he's all that, interrupting someone brave enough to stand onstage and bare their soul for all to see, then he could just get out, like fucking seriously.

His head falls into his hands, and he rubs at his silvery eyes. Thursdays are a respite from work and judgement, prescribed by another healer in the district, but here he sits, stresses and shaking as if he were right back at work the week before the reaping.

Pale eyes poke past his fingertips to gaze down half-heatedly at his messnotes. One hand lowers to reach for a half-full mug of amber liquid and he sips quietly at the piss-water.

Normally, Mohs is the last person anyone could peg as an alcoholic, but today, two empty glasses accompany his half-full beverage, a sure testament to his own drunkenness. The alcohol, at least, keeps his leg from aching. The sky overhead is cloudy, he knows simply because of the dulled pain down where his knee should be.

The trembling girl with the bared soul finishes her stanza and slips away offstage to a round of polite applause. Her friends at the next table explode with cheers, shooting unopposed glares at Mohs' table.

He offers a blank stare as his only response, his mind jealously coveting the girl's confidence. He knows his poetry could, would never be heard through his own voice. The thought pains him slightly.- it would be nice, to get feedback on how to improve his writing, or how to put his feelings into perfect words, though Mohs knows this to be impossible in his current state.

The girl is the last to wander onstage- He vaguely remembers last call for alcohol a few moments ago, and struggles to rise to his feet. Hands sweep everything into a dark messenger bag, not caring about organization like he usually does. A frown plants itself firmly onto his countenance, and without a word to the owner, or finishing his final beer, Mohs leaves.

Through the downtown area of district one, hundreds of alleyways criss-cross through the district, and the fastest way for Mohs to get to his small home on the edge of the city is to wander through ten of these. The First Aid trainer leans heavily upon his cane, relying on his right side to drag him through the high walled city veins. What should have been a half-hour walk seems to drag on forever as he stumbles along.

More than once he begins to question the want or need to drink, and scowls at his poor choices. Overhead, the angry clouds gather, and begin to spit down upon the lighted streets, the ground becoming slippery and soaked in moments. He seeks refuge below a low overhang and curses as thunder rumbles across the grumpy sky following a bright white light that completely illuminates the world around him. It must be close to midnight he thinks, as all other life in the district seems to have vacated to their own homes, abandoning the outside.

A shout rends the air and two forms scurry before the male in the shadows. The first is panting heavily, wearing a fine-looking suit and clutching at a spot in his chest while the second approaches fast. Footsteps are nearly lost in the rain as the second withdraws something from his jacket, and with an animalistic scream, tackles the offender. The first man rolls on the ground, his thick, meaty hands outstretched in a defensive position while the second begins to plunge a sharp looking blade in and out of his chest repeatedly.

Mohs sits petrified as he watches in shocked awe, another bolt of lightning forking across the sky. Rain continues to pound as he counts- seven, eight, nine, ten. The murderer stands, trembling, the blade left abandoned in the abdomen of the man on the ground. He adjusts his button-up shirt, and with a cough, spits upon the corpse, staggering away.

He waits, thoughts completely lucid, adrenaline slithering through open veins. He counts again, to thirty this time- enough for the man to wander away. Without a second thought he approaches the body, collapsing on his knees beside it. Blood streaks across the chest and nice suit of the male on the ground, though his chest continues to shudder. A large kitchen knife protrudes, stuck sickeningly deep in his body.

The flannel Mohs wears is soon off of his bare body, old training scars crossing his form shining with every light from overhead. His breath lingers before his body as he counts a pulse- then begins to tear the shirt to long, thick shreds. One eye remains on the struggling chest, listening to the heavy, labored breathing. He says nothing, focusing entirely on the task he set for himself. He figures no one would hear him in the rain, and besides, it's too late for anyone to answer the door- even in the nice part of One.

Mohs ties the flannel into one long strip of mock gauze, and begins to tie off the knife deep in the victim's stomach, carefully lifting his head and shoulders and replacing them as he works. Blood begins to well below the male and after a few ties, Mohs stops and listens. Only the sound of the rain greets his ears.

"Fuck." the first word he says all night. Quickly, he rips open the ruined suit, and the white shirt below until he can see a bared chest, thick with knife wounds. Trembling hands form, the right palm on the bottom, searching until he finds the hard bone of the sternum while the left searches for the beat of a broken heart.

Nothing.

"FUCK."

He begins compressions, pushing hard while reciting lines from a long forgotten poem, keeping the beat. He checks for a pulse after the first minute- still nothing. Again, he compresses. Everything in his world revolves around pushing and rescue breaths for the stranger below him. His shoulders heave, and his own breathing becomes heavy and thick with the force of exerting pressure. Mohs can feel the bones shifting below his hands, and knows he's broken the sternum- the force has to be working.

Once again, his fingers slide to the male's neck, and finally, finally, he feels a pulse. Faint, but it is there, a bright light in the storm.

A slight crazed laugh slips through Mohs' jaws, and he looks to the thundering sky, hands held high in jubilation. Yells of help follow, as his hands return to stemming the flow of blood from the strange man's chest.

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

A fist collides with the suspended punching bag, releasing dust through the air of the basement and dancing towards the ground in the remaining light of the day. A stray beam poured through the window, brightening the room enough that he could clearly see the outline of what was before him. His day was coming to a close, and so he finished it the way he always did; a couple of hours spent getting his heart pumping before he went home and crashed for the night. There was the distant sound of thunder coming from outside, a storm clearly moments from hitting. Every punch felt like lightning within the room, electrifying Kit's entire body straight to the bone. He felt invigorated and full of life, his pulse pounding throughout his entire body. And just as quickly as he started, his bounce in his step came to a halt and he laid one last punch into the cushioning material before stopping.

Kit Gresham had spent the majority of his day doing paperwork, a large part of his job. There was a stiffness to his bones that only a bit of exercise could work out after having spent the majority of work hours in a chair. He was redirected to District One to investigate a particular incident whilst catching up on unfinished work from the past year. Papers piled up, and most of the time it was far more entertaining to be on the streets. Especially in a new District that you had yet to step foot in. Kit was moved around a lot, kept on his feet so that he was ever changing. It helped him develop and evolve into a unique Peacekeeper, or so he liked to think. He believed that he knew the difference between when it was okay to be intimidating and when it was better served to be a good person. Whether it was the right choice, Kit Gresham tended to go with the latter.

It didn't take long to get out of the sweaty and damp clothes he was in to exercise, switching back into the Capitol issued uniform he liked to call the Robot Suit. It was armored and fancy, as was most of the product made for the Capitol's usage against the Districts. To Kit, though, it made him feel less human. It was his wish to avoid that as much as possible. Staying as connected to the world around him as possible would always be the young man's preference. There was no telling the consequences of letting go of that. He had been down that road far too many times. Alcohol was not a friend of his any more. They had ended that relationship plenty of years ago. And yet I still hear you calling.

The station was fairly empty as the day workers took their leave and the night crew came in. There was a house only a few blocks away that Kit was staying at during his time, and so he wanted to get back as quickly as possible. Nodding at the few men and women standing within the lobby, he entered out into the rainy streets. The ground was soaked already, the cobblestone roads shining with water. It was still coming down pretty heavily, and so Kit picked up his pace ever so slightly. He knew the path back home fairly well, having made it twice a day for just about a week. It was almost becoming second nature to him. I could probably get used to living in a District like this. Crime seems to be down, it's fairly wealthy. Like District Three but the air is healthier.

It was in that moment that he heard the cry for help. There was no denying it was close by, and there was nobody in the general vicinity who could offer their services. Plus, Kit was a Peacekeeper. I tend to forget that sometimes. The speed of his feet against the pavement increased as he projected himself towards the sound. Who knows what he could find looming around a corner. Maybe he would have some action to get him going, giving today a little bit more purpose. At the very least, he hoped to find something interesting enough to cap off his pretty boring day.

What he saw was red. A lot of it. There was a body on the ground and a man hanging over top it, and blood everywhere. An object stuck out from the man's chest, looking to be a knife or some sharp weapon. In District One, there were plenty of those lying around. There was some sort of bloodlust that ran deep, though they tended not to act upon it as much as one would think. This was a criminal though, and it was Kit's job to take care of them. He twisted his head to the side, hearing a crack come from the stiffness of his neck, and then jogged towards the murderer and his victim.

His hand was soon holding the gun tightly in it as he dropped to his knees beside the corpse. It was pointed directly at the young man who appeared to be surging with an energy, unseen. Fingers went to the man's neck and found a slight pulse, but not strong enough to survive without help. "You move and you'll get a damn bullet into you, do you understand?" His eyes never left the perpetrator, his body rummaging around in his uniform for the communicator he would use to get help. He pressed the button on it, then held his wrist to his mouth to shout the words. "I've got a severely injured man a few blocks west of the station at my current position. I need a medic right away, he's almost dead."

To take a life was one thing. It was a thing that Kit couldn't understand, especially since being on the opposite side and seeing someone you love get taken away. To take a life and sit to see the person's life leave them was another thing. Kit could feel a warmth burn over him as he glared at the man. "In the name of the Capitol, you are under arrest, scum bag. Move and you'll be dead." He moved forward with restraints to put on the bloodied killer.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

I've let it go, I've let it go

The drunk man's heart ricochets into his throat, relief filling his form as the Peacekeeper falls on the opposite side of the victimized male. The first words out of his mouth are about to be- 'Thank the fucking universe you're here' until Kit announces Mohs' arrest.

Son, we've never had an alcoholic in the Aurum family, no sir. My great-great-great uncle Erik was the last one and he wasn't even an Aurum! He had a temper on him to start, like you. Alcohol inflamed his problem, see? He got in a fight with a military man and got his head blown clean off after saying just two words to the man.

Don't ever be so stupid, Mohs.

His father's sagely advice flows through his ears and his head tilts slightly to a side.

Instead of a nicely coherent thought spilling from his throat, a confused "What the fuck did you say to me?" escapes before he has a chance to reel in his emotions. Adrenaline levels finally falling, he no longer catches the swaying, swimming motions of the world around him and falls hard onto his rear, legs folded below his form.

Bloodied hands rise to either side of his face, his expression faltering somewhat between fear and indignation while the Peacekeeper remains, pointing the steely tube to his forehead. Pale eyes wide, terrified, Mohs allows himself to fall backwards until his full weight is below him and the only sounds echoing around the tight alleyway are the shallow breaths of a dying man, and the torrential downpour of rain that seems to slowly fade to a light pitter-patter of water on cobblestone.

Again his lips form words, "I'm a healer- I work first aide at the Training Center on First and Capitol Junction, so if you wouldn't mind, may I please continue to work with my patient? Stop being such an asshole and let me fucking work- he's going to die, can't you fucking see that or are you too stupid to know the difference? No, you were a career I can tell. That's all they pick for their peacekeepers." His voice slurs, though the defiant tone lingers heavy in the air between them and its extraordinarily clear what he meant to say and do.

Don't let me die.

His eyes narrow as he glares down at the victim, a silent apology exchanged between the two of them. He wants to drag his hands away from the son of a bitch peacekeeper but he allows himself to remain still. Rational Mohs won out over Drunk Mohs, with years of training reinforcing his back. Stay calm, collected, keep a firm grasp on reality. You can still make it out.

What the fuck was he doing out so late anyway, and who was the mysterious man in the tan jacket chasing after him? Mohs' mind struggles to work out the details of the attacker, the assailant, but every thought is disjointed and jumbled as if his brain were in a blender on the high setting. What would his parents say? They already lost him once. What about his students?

Would he still even have a job when he came back?

The thoughts swim and wander from one subject to another as time seems to slow down and the breathing of the male on the ground becomes heavy and labored once again. "Please, just let me help him! Fuck you, fuck the Capitol, fuck everything you stand for. You would let an innocent man die just to reach a sick quota." He knows whats to come next, and remains completely still, spare for the drunken motions swimming before his head. The line has been crossed long ago- no going back now.

The physics and chemistry of the shiny gun before him fill his mind. The trigger pulls, the hammer snaps, and the primer explodes. Firing out of the muzzle at over seventeen hundred miles per hour, the bullet would completely smear his brains across the concrete like some kind of sick smoothie. Mohs wonders if he would even have a moment to react, to pray for whatever afterlife may be beyond.

A case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time... The capitol could understand that, right? Especially if it were involving a man such as Mohs- a trainer to make the games worth watching for fuck's sake. He was ten thousand percent sure there were files on all of them- Poppy, Brad, Rolex. Every one of them has an ever watchful eye on them from their 'friends' in the capitol. But would they see him now as a murderer, or simply a good Samaritan trying to save a fellow district man's life? 

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

The room had been completely empty as she lay upon the table, save Kit. There was an incredible silence in the room; so quiet that the thump, thump of the young man's heart could be heard could almost be made out. His breathing was almost nonexistent as he held the breath in. Her breathing was nonexistent as her lungs had given out. There was no blood, no violence, no chaos. She let out a shaky breath, and that had been it. The doctor solemnly spoke the time to his assistant before stepping out of the room to give Kit some time. Every second that went by felt very much like a lifetime of despair to the man at that moment. Aches tore deep into every fiber of his being and his heart felt as if it were on fire. There was a fog in his brain as his synapses began firing and exploding, completely out of control. Emi was gone. He couldn't change that.

There were no tears at first. His face remained dry and frozen in place; it was a look of peaceful sadness. No pain existed behind his eyes, merely a plain face of acceptance. It remained for days afterwards, even past the funeral. Not a single tear had been shed by the women's lover prior to one evening a month after her death. A whole month had passed before everything hit. And then it hit hard. Pain is often times assumed to be primarily physical, with emotional pain being in a different league. Not quite comparable as they worked differently, the physical and emotional pains that Kit had been through in his life ranged in their severity. Nothing can prepare a person for the pain felt when the life leaves your loved one's eyes, and it clicks that they're forever gone. Kit was far from prepared. He wasn't sure if he ever could have been. That room's silence would haunt him for years.

"Understood, Gresham. Healers will be about ten minutes at the least, back up on their way." The sound came from his wrist, playing out loud for all to hear. Ten fucking minutes?! This man won't make it. He could feel his calmness leaving his body. Of course there was a ton of incompetency within the department because why could there ever be people that did their job? Why would you ever want to do that? And then he heard the man speak, his voice clearly not fully under his control as he stumbled across his words. "No, you were a career I can tell. That's all they pick for their peacekeepers." He really wants to make this a shitty night, doesn't he?

Fuck this. He slipped his gun back into his holster, turning away to face the body. There were priorities, and he could always chase after the guy if need be. Kit tore his gloves off, revealing his bare hands to the misty air now that the rain had calmed down to a drizzle. He pressed each against two large stab wounds, putting pressure onto the wound and keeping an eye on the man's chest as it ever so slightly rose. He was still alive. Come on man, keep kicking. Just a few minutes. But then the kid spoke once more. "Fuck you, fuck the Capitol, fuck everything you stand for. You would let an innocent man die just to reach a sick quota."

It was enough. A hand went straight to the man's shoulder, gripping onto it with force as he moved right up in front of him. "For your information, buddy, I could care less about the damn quota. There's a man dying here, there are damn priorities. Maybe that's not how you do it around here, but that's how we grew up in Three." There was too much stress within the small environment, so he took his hand off and placed it onto the man's neck. There was no way he was going to survive. It was likely that organs were hit during the stabbing, especially considering the size of the kitchen knife the kid used. Alright, fuck this.

"Okay, here's what I need you to do. You want to spend the rest of your miserable life in the Detention Center? Keep shooting your fucking mouth. Or you could be fucking useful and help me with this guy. Your sentence will be lowered to attempted murder, and I will personally fucking escort you there." It was a risk he was willing to take. The kid didn't look to have meant to kill the guy, maybe only wanting to scare him. There was no doubt he was shaken up; something was off about him. Is he high? Drunk? If offering him a bridge to close the gap meant they could save this man's life, it was worth doing.

"Should we move him? We can't wait for the healers." Panic was beginning to set in, without a doubt. The silence was creeping back into Kit's mind as his hands pressed tightly against the wounds and he could see the colour slowly leaving the man's face. They would need to act fast; the cop and the killer. Why does this shit always happen to me?

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

I've let it go, I've let it go

I wanna be just like you when I grow up Mohs! I wanna be a career, train and win the Hunger Games and get to travel to all the other districts someday and meet a lot of people and-

No, Fault, you don't want that... Trust me... Things are way better in our district than it is anywhere else.

What? Why? Don't you wanna be in the games anymore?

I... I can't little cousin.

But but I still wanna see other districts! Like seven and three!

Three is a desolate, godless-place. No one wants to fucking go there. They're between two and four- completely forgotten by the capitol. They make electricity and shit there, and they get no fucking recognition for it. You see their reapings Fault! You don't want to go there!

Don't tell me what I do and don't want!



The shocked man grew limp in the Peacekeeper's hands, his own palms lowering to rest upon his knees. He deserved it- whatever it was the guy wanted to do, but he knew there was nothing to stop it. "I didn't do this. I'm a fucking healer- I don't kill." He spits out a bit of bile gathered between his lips, and raises a hand to wipe away his mouth.

The thought of KIT escorting him to the detention center for a crime he didn't commit makes him ill; or maybe its just the alcohol. A shiver slides down his spine, and he moves to the male's head, lifting his lids. The pupils contract at the slightest light, icy blue irises expanding to fill the space left behind.

"Should we move him? We can't wait for the healers."

Mohs hands rise to ruffle through his hair, fingers catching on a few soaking wet locks as his mind swims. "I think... I think we need to leave him here. I dunno if the knife hit his spine- don't wanna risk paralyzing him if he's gonna live." he explains, voice falling a few decibels as he continues on, pondering, wondering. To the left, a few abandoned shreds of flannel remain.

"Just... Leave the knife in. It's like a plug right now- if we pull it out... He might bleed to death..." His hands struggle, scrabbling for the ties, then pushing open the ripped and mutilated clothing to the exposed viscera-coated flesh below. "T-Take some of these... They'll put more presser on the wounds than... Just your hands..." he murmurs, the waves of drunkenness causing his hands to waver as they searched, finding the more gushing of the wounds and placing the fabric upon them.

"He's... He's gonna need a transfusion..." he adds, swaying a moment, a gust of wind sweeping the alleyway and knocking him off balance. Scrambling back to his knees, Mohs allows a wild thought rise to the forefront of his mind and begins talking again, with zero filter.

"You've got a powder gun right? You can use the gunpowder from your bullets to cauterize the wounds he has- I think he's gonna die if we don't do SOMETHING to help- kinda life and death here so I promise I won't make a fucking move if you can pry 'em open. Light it on fire for a few... Seconds and we've got a closed wound." His hands push against the flannel holding the man's innards together like some gory patchwork doll.

Fuck I am never drinking again god dammit

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

Kit had always wanted to be a comedian. Probably not the best time to be thinking about a life filled with jokes and laughs. It was his dream to make people smile and thinking what he said was funny. This dream died with his parents. It briefly came back up when he met Emi, but once again was tossed out of the way when she passed. Either way, Kit had always preferred to keep smiles on people's faces. It may not have been the best trait to have in a Peacekeeper, especially the way the Capitol liked to have things enforced in the lower Districts, but Kit didn't particularly care. When needed, he could step in and be serious. It was almost never needed. Criminals or not, everybody has a human side. Humans tended to prefer going the easy route.

At the end of the day, something was strange about the whole situation. The man - practically still a boy by the looks of it - was in no way looking like he just killed another in cold blood. It took a unique kind of person to do so, especially up close and personal with a knife. He appeared nervous, almost out of it. And then came his claim of being a healer, and having not done the crime. I'm still not so sure, man. Sorry. It was hard to completely ignore the evidence, especially considering the body was still so fresh and he was the only one around. No matter how incredibly strange the whole situation was, there was a little too much to be pushed under the rug. At least for right now.

"It's a good thought, but we may not have a damn choice. I'd rather him be alive and never walk again than just fucking dead." It was something that would have to be thought about; leaving him to just die because of being too nervous to pick him up was not at all the preferred method. This guy seems to know his stuff. He definitely has a vague idea at the very least. He begins talking about the knife stopping the blood from pouring out, and how there was a better alternative to putting pressure. "Fuck, you actually know your shit, kid."

But the best part of all was the idea with the gunpowder. There was no denying it; Kit knew right away that this man seriously wanted to save the dying body. Whether he intended to stab him, or did it on accident, or not at all, there was no doubt that he was feeling the remorse or responsibility to do something. "Here's the deal. You help me save this guy. We'll get him to the healers. And then I'll listen to your story. He lives, you're only on the hook for attempted." It was incentive to save a life, not that there should really be a need for incentive. The issue at hand, though, was getting the bullet pried open. He reached for the gun on his boot, deciding that he would have to trust in the potential killer. Removing a bullet from the mag, he looked at any possible way to get it open. And then his eyes landed on it.

"I think I need the knife." And he really truly wished at that moment that he was a comedian, and this was all a joke. "I need you fucking ready to put pressure on that or whatever." I'm going to be sick if I see any more blood. He slowly moved his hands towards the knife, being careful not to push any more onto it. Wrapping a nervous hand around it, he took a breath. "Okay, let's fucking do this. One. Two. THREE!" With as stable of a hand as possible, he yanked the knife from the man's chest, averting his gaze from the impending stream of blood. I swear, you better be handling this.

The knife was caked in blood up to the handle, dripping all over the white of Kit's uniform. He pressed it against the bullet, pushing and pulling to pry it open. Come on you fucking piece of shit. He tightened his grip with his other hand, holding onto the bullet tightly to have the most amount of torque. He knew as soon as it slipped what would happen, but he didn't even feel it at first. He could see as it dug deep into his palm, and watched as more red blood poured everywhere. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" He gathered himself before the pain hit, using all of the adrenaline to push against the tip of the bullet, watching as it flew off and bounced off the rock ground. Then the pain hit, like a burning sensation all along where the knife had moved. He bit onto his lip hard enough to surely draw blood, feeling a bit of dizziness coming.

"Okay so, we may have a slight problem. Get the lighter in my left pocket inside my coat. It's, uh, right beside my gun belt. I need you to do the cauterizing thing. I just gashed my fucking hand. Fuck." Yeah, maybe being a comedian would have been better.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

For we stand as one tonight

"I told you, I'm a healer."


"See that?" He points to the paused screen of a games long past, the emerald lazer pointer circling around the chest cavity of a falling champion. Blood squirts from the wound, the blade plunged deep into the space between the heart and lungs. "It's the killing blow- now, I know this happened over twenty years ago, but it's still relevant. What do we do if one of our allies gets impaled?"

A hand shoots up in the back, and Mohs lifts a finger to point with a nod, an affirmation to answer.

"Pull it out?"

His head firmly shakes. "No. If we do that, what's going to stop all those severed blood vessels from pouring out? Nothing. That's what. That knife or spear or arrow or whatever is acting like a plug. So you have to be ready to remove it." The silence fills the air. "The human body can bleed to death by losing only forty percent of their blood. In a healthy adult, that's about two and a quarter liters. Its less in children."

The class falls quiet, and a small girl in the front lifts her palm to the sky. Mohs nods at her question.

"What... What do we have to do... To... To prepare to pull it out?"

"Attempted."

The word leaves his tounge, and a tiny flicker of hope slips into his throat. He doesn't think I did it. A tiny, flittering smile forces its way onto his lips, until the mysteriously kind Peacekeeper mentions pulling the knife.

"Wait, what?" Again, the alcohol slams him straight in the face. Mohs isn't quite sure if he heard Kit right- he wants to remove the only thing keeping the man's life in? Nope, he's pretty serious. His gaze slides down to where the hands grip the mahogany knife handle, and he draws an intensely deep breath. The flannel keeping the blade in place does not shift, even as Mohs' fingers pushed down, through the ruby tinged fabric.

He feels for the final gash that instantaneously begins gushing freely now that the plug is removed. Gritting his teeth together, Mohs puts his entire body weight onto the abdomen, and watches Kit with a heavy heart. The squelching sound echoes into his mind, and a groan slips out as he moves. He sees it before Kit, but the firing mechanism between his brain and mouth is a few seconds slow today.

"Dude wait- you're gonna-" and then, it happens. Crimson liquid slips between loose fingers and onto the already scarlet ground. He wants to slap his forehead with how stupid the whole situation is. Tiny vessels flow throughout the entire hand, and Mohs is only thankful it was the palm, not the back.

"Keep it together boss, I can't patch both of you up at the same time." he growls, watching the male sway from side to side- as if he were the one drunk. "Ah man, okay I'm gonna get it, just stay still... And stay with me. What's your name? Full name."

Keeping his left hand firmly planted onto the male's stomach, he shifts, right digits extended towards the Peacekeeper, slowly, yet affirmatively as he makes contact with the bright white of his jumpsuit. His hands tremble as he lifts and carefully rummages. Cold fabric touches his skin- he knows what it is.

For the shortest of seconds, he knows he can withdraw the instrument, and easily kill the man beside him, get away to guaranteed safety. Stop that, no you can't. Your leg came unjointed when you fell on it.

Mohs frowns, and twists his hand until it touches the dark fabric of the jacket, digging around until he finds it- cool, metal. It shakes once, twice, freeing itself from the confines of the uniform, cast upon the shallowly moving chest of the victim on the ground.

"Okay, I need the bullet." he moans, left hand beginning to unwrap the McGuyvered gauze, until he manages to grasp a firm hold on the rim, before tilting ever so small of an amount into the free bleeding wound. "What's your favorite color? Stay here, don't pass out. C'mon it's gonna get a hell of a lot worse." He taps the metal twice, and clicks back the top of the steel lighter.

He inhales, and flicks the flint. The flames dance to life in his hand, pressed calmly against the skin. Tiny black flecks catch alight instantly, and sizzle into the skin, avoiding catching on the fabric nearby simply because of how absolutely soaked through they are. Mohs shifts away from the crackling light, the smell of steaming, burning flesh rising darkly through the air.

He shifts the gauze, and carefully puts out the fire with all the emotion of a machine- Mohs has seen far worse in his time at the training center. His own wound ranked somewhere around a six on the horror scale. Deep in his heart he knew- the man was destined to die, but they were sure as fuck going to do everything they could to help him.

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

It was all so absurd. That was simply the best way to put it. Kit was not a believer in a higher power above, directing life as they wished for it to go. To him, he went through far too much to believe that there was someone, or something, intending for it. But at this very moment, there was no other explanation to him as to why everything seemed to be going wrong and seeming strange. He was in the process of saving a man's life with a potential murderer - one which Kit didn't fully believe was guilty - and while doing so, sliced up his palm with a kitchen knife that had just been inside of a man's chest. I'm laughing, okay? Now give me a break here.

There was a fire burning on his hand. It was simply the best way to put it. Kit was not used to incredible amounts of physical pain. To him, pain was never really a concern considering his situation. In comparison, there was always something he had felt that was way worse; something always one upped the pain in that moment and so he would shrug it off as best as possible. Still, he had experienced something way worse than the gash along his palm and yet his mind could do nothing but vibrate within his head, aching consistently. Every time his eyes fell to the wound, he would feel a shiver run down his spine. I can handle blood. This is not a problem.

"Keep it together boss, I can't patch both of you up at the same time." And that was simply the best way to put it. Really, it was exactly what Kit needed to get his mind back under control, and to fight against all of the frantic chaos he was internalizing. The man spoke once more, and it took a few moments to actually process it fully. "Fuck, you're ... right. I'll be ... fine. And it's, uh, it's Kit. Kit Gresham. Yours?" His focus shifted to dealing with his hand, pulling his boot off and taking off the thick sock. Using his other hand and teeth, he tightly tied it around the cut, squinting all the while. And then he kept completely still as the young man went looking for the lighter.

It certainly crossed Kit's mind that his gun was right near the pocket with the lighter and that all it would take was a quick shot to his exposed chest and he'd be dead and there'd be a - potential - double murderer on the loose. And yet he retreated with the lighter, having nearly no hesitation nearby the piece. You're getting stranger and stranger, kid. I wish I could just fully believe you had nothing to do with this. He went to work almost immediately, asking another question to keep Kit aware and conscious. He was fighting the wooziness and staying as focused as possible, but there was a haze floating across his mind. "Well, it used to be red but I'm totally not about that colour right now. I think I've overdosed on it." His chest hurt slightly as he chuckled, his heart pounding powerfully behind the walls of his sternum.

And then the smell hit him. It was not necessarily a frightening view; there was a small bit of flame, a lot of bubbled flesh and slight blackening of the edges. However, the smell of the flaming skin was the absolute worst. "Holy shit, why couldn't it smell like roses?" Wrinkling his nose, he watched with fascination as the fire blazed across the man's chest. And then it went out, sizzling away almost as instantly as it started. There was just the sound of a rare rain drop hitting the pools of blood, as well as the rocky road, and the heavy breathing coming from Kit's lungs. "Alright, we need to move him, man."

Kit was well aware of the consequences and that it may have been a dumb idea, but they were beginning to run out of choices. It was coming down to making the attempt, or leaving him to die on the ground in the alley. "Let's both be real for a second. We both know how shitty most of the Peacekeepers are. Nobody's coming for a while. There is no rush for them. I'm not like that, and I'm not letting this man die on this street. Are you going to help me, or should I treat you like all the other Keepers would?"

To Kit, that was simply the best way to put it.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

For we stand as one tonight

"I'm fine."

The hands slide down up thighs, to his hips fingers pushing into bone and muscle tissue. "You can walk if you want to. It fits fine."

"No. I don't need to."

"Yes, you do. Get up asshole. Do you want me to stick around?"

"Fuck if you put it that way."

This guy probably had a nice family, someone who loves him, a kid or two to come home to. Mohs didn't want to be held responsible for severing that life, that connection between a man and his world, and it all revolved around keeping this weird Peacekeeper on his feet- theoretically.

"Mohs... Aurum. Not 'Most' how a lot of people say it. Drop the T." His gaze shifts slightly, a barked out laugh echoing around them. "Really- not about that color eh? I don't blame you. I'm a fan of grey honestly."

The flames erupt and even Mohs frowns. It was a theory, something he never practiced with the kids. Cauterization is a last-ditch effort to keep yourself alive. So many things can go wrong with it- and mutts can smell your skin. It's stronger than a backyard barbecue.

"I know but we're literally burning him. What do you expect?" Not a hint of sass resonates within his tone. A deep breath escapes his clenched teeth, lips parting slightly as bloodied hands rise to rest atop his skull, fingers interlaced together.

A trap? his confused mind inquires, before the rationality of the situation plows through. "Yeah... Yeah we gotta. We don't have a choice. He needs to move, now." A hand falls to wipe rainwater, sweat, and viscera out of his eyes, pupils contracting and dilating with the flashes of lightning that still shatter the skies overhead.

"I just... God damn-it, I'm drunk. I don't know if I can fucking carry him as far as you need me to." He laughs, actually laughs, and drags his leg forward- or what would have been his leg, if half of it hadn't remained behind like a limp puppet. Deft fingers stretch, reaching to roll up a sopping wet, filthy pant leg, past empty space, until an angry, scarred stump shows.

He doesn't even flinch, reaching for the thick wooden limb, dragging weakly to his body. He curses once, a familiar ache coursing down, tendrils of pain alight down a leg that no longer exist. He wants to fight, to throw everything down and have a fit like a toddler, but he cannot- Mohs knows what he must do. Carefully, he cradles the limb, and re-buckles the clasps holding it in place. Crimson pressure lines already crisscross the calloused thigh, and the black nylon straps rest easy against the torn skin.

Mohs seizes the loose ends, and roughly pulls them parallel to the bits wrapped around his leg, groaning with effort. Fully attached, finally, he rips down his pant leg, and with one hand behind him, manages to stumble to his feet.

A step backwards, a trip forwards, and he remains, swaying in the gentle breeze.

"A-Alright... There's a way we gotta do this- really careful okay?" He leans forward, and falls, hard, beside the man's feet. Swiftly, he moves to his belt, and removes it, the leather snapping as it pulls at loose loops. He lifts the male's legs, and slides the belt below.

The entire scene reminded him of something at home- how he used to dress up in his father's suits and walk around the house like he was a fancy businessman, only now, he felt as though he were playing doctor. I want to grow up like you someday. What the fuck would his father think, honestly? A gangly, useless child sent to the detention center for attempted murder is all his family would be known for.

A Father's mother-fucking dream.

An explosion rends the air, causing Mohs to jump. The worst of the storm was yet to come, and together, he and Kit had to carry this man out. "Alright..." he mumbles, threading the pointed end of the belt through the buckle until he had a nice handle. "I gotta take the legs... Less weight- less likely I'll trip with him, y'know?"

He thinks for a moment, lips struggling to form an explanation he prays to God Kit would understand. "Okay... So... What you gotta do... Get on your knees next to his head, right, and I need you to put your hands under his shoulders. Walk your knees forward and pull up. But you gotta be like... Almost on top of him to do it. Keep your weight on your knees and act like you're standing on them instead of your feet- does that make sense?"

The victim utters a cough, his breaths becoming rattled and shaky. A shiver crawls down Mohs' spine- they don't have much time. "Right, and after that-" his words fly from his mouth, barely audible. "grab the back of his coat and lift up as hard and as fast as you can- don't worry about his spine or his wounds just lift and then after that you gotta loop your hands through his armpits and grab same hands so your left is grabbing his left forearm and your right grabs his right okay? Then you get into a crouched position on your feet and pull upwards on three but you call three your end is gonna be a hell of a lot heavier than mine, and if you think I'm going to go down then you need to carefully, carefully set him down on his ass or else he'll spill with me and you don't want that like I'm gonna throw his legs away if I start to go."

Slightly winded, he pants a little, while crossing the male's left leg over his right. The belt tightens, and he moves, struggling to get to the left side where he can have the best grip. "Alright Kit, I'm ready whenever you are, just say the word."

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

It's official. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind. Stab wounds aside, even, we are going to kill this man. Kit had always had an issue with death, feeling uncomfortable around its presence. Surely he was surrounded by it; even ignoring all that had happened in his past, he worked a job that was filled with threats of murder at the very least. His boss was a city that put twenty-four kids into an arena to make them kill each other. This world was a terrible one and death ran every single part of it. And really, Kit hated every second of it. He had made it through the fearful years of being eligible for the reaping, instead losing family members left and right like he owed some debt of death. Death was always following and he wasn't a fan.

Signing up to be a Peacekeeper was almost like signing a binding contract to eventually commit a murder. There was no point in thinking otherwise and trying to convince yourself that the employer wasn't sadistic and simply wanting to enforce their ideals. The fact that one day somebody would lose their life to the bullet shot from a gun in Kit's hands was frightening; he tried desperately to avoid ever thinking of that. And yet there was a growing fascination deep within his being that desperately sought it out. He could never pinpoint exactly why he felt that way, but he was just as interested with death as it seemed to be with him. Like an unsafe mixture of substances, Kit constantly felt like he was a step away from becoming a monster. With a gun constantly holstered under his arm or at his waist, there was always a realistic fear of being overcome by those darker thoughts.

He would never ever admit to having that darkness that seemed to hang around the back of his mind; he wouldn't even admit it to himself. Whenever there was a moment where he could feel himself heading down a bad direction, he'd drown out everything in his life to redirect his brain. After the death of Emi and the baby, there was a plummet towards that rock bottom he so desperately feared and the light and solace that pulled him back through was a chance at a productive future. He could glimpse the light that sat at the very end and a chance at making something of himself. She had brought life to him as his mind went the complete opposite direction after he lost his parents. Emi had saved his perspective on life, and yet the darker Kit would sometimes poke its way back up.

Seeing all the blood and feeling as lightheaded as he was began to get to Kit and he could feel his chest tightening up. We are going to kill this man and there's nothing I can do to stop it. We can't save him no matter what we do. And it certainly was no help that Mohs, the man that was under arrest for attempted murder as soon as they successfully dealt with the incapacitated man was, was in the state that he was. You were drunk when you chased down this man and stabbed him in the chest numerous times with a kitchen knife? Things weren't adding up, and time was running out quick for Kit, but especially for the man on the ground. They had to move him, there was no doubt about it. But then...

"What the fuck?! You don't have a leg?!" It came out before he could really think about it, knowing full well that the rate at which blood was seeping from his hand was affecting the entirety of his judgement. Nonetheless, Mohs was in fact missing a leg, something Kit had yet to pick up on. A wooden prosthetic was scattered a bit away from Mohs, but he quickly set to reattaching it and regaining all of his limbs. Okay, so not only are you drunk and you ran after this young man, you don't have a leg? This is impossible. It was too late now. Everybody's time had run out. The nearly unconscious man had a heaviness to his breathing and his pulse was becoming less and less powerful. Kit's hand continued to bleed and he could feel the dizziness fully start to kick in. Mohs would be arrested, guilty or not, as there were Keepers already aware of his presence. All that could be done was a last effort to make everything worth it.

Kit's eyes focused in as he looked up at Mohs, just to catch him as he was taking his belt off. What the fuck, now is not the time- oh. He positioned the belt beneath the man's legs and began to explain how they'd move him. Kit listened attentively, absorbing as much information as he could whilst his head swam through the expanse of nothingness it had recently discovered. Holy shit, my hand hurts. It was now or never. He nodded in response to all of Mohs' words, staggering to his feet without using his injured hand. "Okay, let's fucking do this man. We're gonna save this guy's life." It was false optimism and they both likely knew that; it helped nonetheless to shoot adrenaline through Kit's system.

He followed the instructions given to him to get into position, getting in the squatted position by the man's head. The rest of the instruction came out so quickly, only somewhat registering in Kit's brain as he listened. Let's just do this. We don't have much of a choice. He gripped on as tightly as he could to the coat, and gathered his breath. "Alright let's just power through this. Just lift and move, and give me a warning if you need a break." Clearing his throat and wiping the various liquids off his forehead, Kit readied himself entirely. They were about to lift the dying man and bring him several blocks over to the healers. It was going down. The seriously injured Peacekeeper with a heart too big and the drunken, legless man who may or may not have actually caused this whole mess were going to move the stabbed and slaughtered young gentleman. Death loomed over Kit's shoulder and he found himself whispering as quietly as possible... "Please don't die, please don't die, please don't die because of me."

Looking up at Mohs one last time and taking one final breath, Kit began to count. "Three. Two. Fuck, ONE! LIFT!" And with all of his strength, he lifted the man in the way that Mohs had taught him, fumbling around to get a proper grip and hoping that the other end was also being lifted. The healer is only a bit away. We just need to carry him for about five minutes of a walk. Please don't start pouring, please don't die, and please let this night come to an end. Through clenched teeth as he held the nearly dead weight, Kit spoke to Mohs. "Let's move."

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

Can't be held responsible

Mohs says nothing to Kit's affirmation of life, and simply nods. No use wasting breath when they had quite a walk in front of them. "I won't need a break if you don't." he murmurs, doubting if Kit knew just how heavy the man would end up being. His own body aches and screams against the sudden movements, questioning the necessity for moving in the first fucking place.

He sways for a moment, the altitude change fucking with a bunch of shit in his head. Pressure from the inner ear, all that good jazz. A tentative few seconds slip right by as he plants his feet in a vain attempt to get the world still once more. Thoughts flicker right by, and he pulls along the legs, leading the way through the abandoned alleyway. Someone would have a rather rude awakening in the morning if the clouds didn't part to wash away the regret and mistakes the men left behind.

The disciple of death and the proclaimer of life struggle together, side by side for the same fight. Mohs' face lifts for a moment to the sky as he begs and pleads in his mind- Get me out of this and I swear I won't ever fucking drink again. Please, please, please... but the benevolent gods do not listen to pleading done in hindsight.

The breathing behind him shatters, transforming from gentle inhales and exhales to a rattle thick with pain. "Your load is gonna get heavier." Mohs calls over his shoulder. Carefully, gently, his hands drag the belt over his shoulder as if he were holding a scruffed kitten. Almost instantly he tells it made a difference; what little blood had pooled in the man's calves now flowed back to his chest, providing his heart a little more resistance to beat against, and the sounds of breathing, albeit shallow and labored, echo around them.

His own breath draws long and hard in his chest as he hauls along the body, while overhead the sky seems to push and pull along with the two men on the ground. He wants to turn, to comfort Kit, but the world tilts and threatens to spill its contents into the gutter.

Gutter? Storm drain congested with water and debris on the left, wide open street on the right. The two men made serious progress as they hauled their companion. A tingling, cold sensation falls from Mohs' head down past his knee. A second surge of

strength fills his veins, and he lifts higher. For a moment, its as if he weren't even drunk anymore, and he moves swiftly across the street.

He recognizes this part of town. Almost every day he passes these storefronts the quickest way to the training center from home. Tightly clutched fingers tighten on the improvised strap, and his feet move faster to carry them across. A snarl makes its way onto Mohs' face as he slips on the smooth, soaking wet stones, hurried pace halted to be sure he doesn't fall. Finally, his legs find purchase upon the ground, enough that he can stand alone, trembling.

"I gotta drop him." he explains, voice thick with breath as he carefully drops the man's feet to th ground. His hands fumble to land on his knees as he stares down at the earth below. Somewhere deep within, he feels it- a heat that rises through his body and finally, erupts onto the ground.

Relief and disgust both flash across his face as he finally finishes and wipes his mouth on his wrist. Fuck alcohol, seriously. He coughs once, twice, and turns back to Kit. "I-I think they're close... Just... just around that corner." Quivering, he carefully sinks to the smooth earth, away from the puddle of sick. "I can't move." he finishes, pushing his pounding skull into his knees, a shuddery sob slipping from his lips.

Fucking useless, as always.

"I'll stay with him- you go get help." he manages, mangling the words as he emits them, pale eyes finally rising to meet the face of the man who might have just saved him from a life trapped between steel bars. A sickened smilegrimace parts his lips.

"Still think I'm a murderer, Gresham?

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

There was no way Kit could prepare for the weight of the man he now carried alongside Mohs. As a Keeper, he would have to carry around lots of heavy objects for various distances; not a single one was as awkward and unbalanced as a human body. To make matters worse, the body in question was likely steps away from death which would only add more to his weight. I'm bleeding profusely from my hand, Mohs is missing a leg, and this man has enough holes in him to look like a cork. What's wrong with this picture? And yet he powered on through the strain that rang through his arms. The palm of his hand was ablaze with pain, but he bit the inside of his cheek with all his might to distract himself. Smart. Injure yourself more. Wow, you really can't think straight when you're around death, huh?

He was okay when it came to stressful situations and using his brain. It was sort of a requirement as a Keeper to be able to deal with the tenseness of some moments, though most wouldn't be able to handle it quite like Kit could. And yet as soon as a life was in the balance, he became an absolute mess inside his brain. I will not kill this man, I will not kill this man. Chances were that he would kill this man alongside Mohs and all of their efforts would be pointless.

The man at the other side of the body spoke out, warning of a heavier load coming Kit's way. He gritted his teeth and prepared, letting out a grunt as he struggled to keep the man as balanced as possible. Holy shit, how much further are we? He felt as if his vision only stretched out a few meters, unable to see anything in the distance with much clarity. Unsure if it was from the bleeding wound, the weight of the body, or the weight of the situation, Kit kept moving forward. He would have to fight through it for the good of the man in his arms.

Mohs powers forward, giving a burst of adrenaline to Kit too as he realizes he has to keep up. This is one strange man. There was no doubt in Kit's mind he was a good detective. Part of being a Keeper meant having to deal with the investigative side of things, though most of the time they were ordered to jump to conclusions to make a statement for people. There was one case years before where the true culprit had been found, but they were forced to punish another man so as to strike fear into the people of the District. Sometimes people would have to take the fall when they didn't deserve it. Kit was beginning to feel as if Mohs was one of those people. It was too late for him; he would face punishment of some sort for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing Kit could do at this point unless he entirely lied on his report about what he found at the scene. Part of the Keeper wanted to do exactly that; he was beginning to have a strange sort of respect growing for the drunken healer that stood by the body's legs.

A ton of weight seemed to build up on Kit's side all of a sudden as Mohs slipped on the wet stone, the rain water making this whole journey even worse. And the storm isn't even finished. We need to hurry. He gained his balance, but didn't look all together. There was something in his eyes that screamed that something was wrong. "I gotta drop him." It became rather clear what the issue was as they lowered the body as carefully as possible before Mohs ejected bile from his mouth onto the street. "Oh fuck man, you good?" The stench was immediate, mixing in with the smell of burned flesh that still stuck with the cauterized wounds. It was almost enough to put Kit on his hands and knees too, emptying the contents of his stomach. He restrained, however.

There was no way Mohs could move, which he made clear verbally. He looked seriously ill, and so Kit approached him carefully, putting his uncut hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, you're done. I'll have to go." There would be no problem in finding the healers' building, and it was apparently just around the corner anyways. In the back of Kit's mind he worried about leaving Mohs with the body, but it was quickly dismissed after he spoke. "Still think I'm a murderer, Gresham?" Kit actually chuckled in that moment, shaking his head in response. In fact, he knew that the man before him wasn't a killer. There was no way. He may have had his issues but they weren't enough to lead him to kill. And yet everything was already written in stone. "I'm not sure what you are any more, Aurum." It was said with a subtle grin.

"Alright, I'm going to get help. I swear, if you move I will find you and you won't like how I am then." That was all he said before he took off, heading around the corner and immediately identifying the warm looking building with the lights on. He picked up his speed, his uninjured hand clutching on to the injured one with as much force as possible. I'll have to worry about this later. He burst through the door, causing three women and two men to look up with shock on their faces. "Four of you. With me. Now." If there was one thing he liked about being a Keeper it was that his voice carried authority no matter where he went. In times like these where there was no time for questions, he appreciated the fear that his uniform brought amongst the citizens of any District. They obliged, dropping the various things they were doing to join Kit. Exiting back into the rainy night, Kit sped back to where Mohs and the dying man would be lying, hoping that they had done all of this fast enough to save a life.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

Can't be held responsible

"I'm... I'm sorry... So fucking sorry..." The words flitter from his teeth, next to silent in the still air. His fingers grip his throat, clinging to the raw flesh. He hunches over in the street, the reek of bile and booze piling up in his nose until his body can't stand it anymore and it ejects again. He wants to curl up in the tightest ball possible and smash his head into the concrete until he can't see anymore, can't feel, can't hear. A heavy pounding resonates throughout his core, and he finally flops over into the wet pavement beside the dying man.

A heaviness hangs about him, thick, palpable in the muggy air. His hands lower into the Earth, as one word sluggishly plows through his brain, lighting up the forefront of his mind like one of the marquees down on Fourth avenue. "Fuck yes... I'm... I am Aurum. I am gold." His sobs halt just long enough for him to utter the phrase, but Kit is long gone by the time he looks up, the keeper sprinting away around the corner.

Mohs fights a grim smile; on one hand, the victim would be beyond their control, and in the capable arms of District one's healers, but on the other...

More than one of his students had scurried away to the detention center in the claws of a keeper in white. When they returned, they weren't themselves- if they ever came back. He heard about one who left for assault on a Peacekeeper, another carted away for theft. It really all was stupid. They were kids for fuck's sake! Even he himself recalled moments of pale judgement, clouded by hormones and emotions running thick through rivers of confusion and tension.

Being eighteen doesn't free his mind from teenage thoughts after all. Old enough to drink, but not old enough to free himself from testosterone induced situations Like struggling to save a dying man's life when it wasn't his responsibility or job to do so.

Footsteps echo all around, and he loses track of how many people rush beside him. One falls nearby, clutching his wrist tight in a vice grip, glaring down at a watch. Three others turn to the dying man, hands straggling over the cuts and scrapes and stabs while they work. Mohs has nothing to say, not like he could stumble and trip over his words to form a coherent sentence anyway. So they work, and they work, and work some more. No one notices Kit's bleeding hand, only Mohs spilled on the ground and the male fading away in the background.

The healer leave Mohs, diagnosis simply 'Drunk' so the she can slip around and help slide the stabbing victim onto a backboard. Carefully, they clip him in place, and lift on three to carry him back to the center.

Silence meets the lonely man's ears, and a ribbon of desolation wraps around his throat. He wants to call out, to see if Kit is even still around or if he got wrapped up in the back boarding process. He hopes to fuck they remembered to clip his head last, but they were gone- the four legged animal away with their quarry.

Mohs allows his head to rise again as he falls backwards, the ground like a cold abyss he was more than grateful to slip away into for longer than an eternity. Roller coasters of emotions seize his chest,

"Kit... I don't wanna go." he breathes, staring at the gathered clouds overhead. "D-Do I have to?" Mohs doesn't even care if the Peacekeeper is there or not- he told him to stay, so here he sits, his legs splayed below him as if he lost complete control of his body. His sobs reach upwards, and the helpless man is reminded of so long ago, lying on a blood soaked floor, scrabbling at a leg that no longer exists.

Only now it isn't his life that bleeds away, ebbing into the eternal nothingness. Stop being so fucking pitiful. Get up. The voice cuts through everything, and he offers a sniff. You're not ten anymore. Get off the fucking ground. His hands push behind, getting to a sitting position. MORE. Biting his tongue, Mohs manages to struggle against gravity, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his mistakes.

He coughs once, twice, falling to lean against his knees, doubled over in frustration and angst.

"God damn it, that's enough. I'm so done." he coughs, shivering against the slight chill echoing down his spine while his stomach again, threatens to heave.

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

k i t. g r e s h a m.

It was amazing to see people in their "natural habitat". For Kit, that was helping to clean up the streets, or down in the basement of the barracks with a punching bag and his fists. For the healers that followed with him to the dying man, it was using their knowledge and abilities to keep somebody alive when they had no right to still be clinging on. This man was already six steps past the point of survival, one foot already deep into the grave that he would soon find himself in. And yet they looked so naturally comfortable in the situation they currently found themselves in, working immediately to diagnose the problems and fix them. Not that there was much to diagnose; it's pretty obvious when you have several stab wounds on your chest. Diagnosis? Stabbed and likely going to die. Treatment? Hope your drugs are strong enough to take away his pain as he fades off into nothingness.

But the natural habitat thing was difficult to discover for the man that had accompanied Kit with the body. Mohs Aurum reminded Kit of himself, eerily so, and that made it all the more difficult to figure him out. Sure, he was drunk and so there was no such thing as being entirely comfortable in the moment. And yet he couldn't quite see what would bring a smile to the man's face, knowing very well that the near future would do quite the opposite. The Center walls were known to house people who had broken far too many times - both physically and mentally. Kit wasn't quite sure if the man, still practically a boy, could handle all of what was to come and if he really was deserving of it all. You have no choice, Kit. You have no choice.

He would try to get assigned to the interrogation session. That was about all he could do for the youngster before him. It wasn't even very much as the cameras would surely be trained on the two of them, waiting for the show they always seemed to get in those rooms. Maybe that's why Kit wasn't often given Center duty; he wasn't harsh or cruel enough to torture somebody for information that they may not have even known. It didn't bother him that he wasn't asked to contribute to that part of the Keeping mission, but he would have much rather been the one in the room with people like Mohs. Especially Mohs. Like looking in a mirror for some things, but knowing full well what sort of differences existed between them. Just don't go down the road I went, man.

The doctors worked quickly with getting all the vitals, even spending some time on checking Mohs. They'd learn nothing; he was drunk and nearly out of it. There wouldn't be much they could do for him besides give him liquids to flush out his system. The dying man, however, would need all their attention. Kit hid his hand behind his back slightly, hoping they wouldn't notice the long line of scarlet blood that continued to drip and ache. He would deal with it himself instead of bothering people who had an important job in front of them. They had to save this man. For the man himself, obviously, so that he could return to his family and live on in his life. For Kit, so he could escape the death that lurked around him at all times. And for Mohs, so that he may potentially make it out of the horrors of the Detention Center.

They were all finished up and so they went about prepping the man to move. At this point, Kit had done all he could do. There was nothing left for him to contribute to the healing of the man. If there was even much healing to do. His breathing had grown weaker and weaker, and his chest barely moved as he took air in. Kit knew that image far too well; the man was practically already gone. Even the best doctors would find it nearly impossible to keep his heart pumping. At the very least, he could die in the warmth of the healers' building. Anything was better than the rainy streets drenched with blood that they left behind. Kit and Mohs had tried, and they had failed. It left a weird feeling in the bottom of Kit's heart, even though he never knew the man. And just like that, the healers took off with the body to at least make an attempt, leaving Kit alone with the hunched over figure.

He could leave and run from Kit. That was an option. Kit could let him go, but then he would just be a fugitive and the rest of his life would be ruined. It would only worsen the punishment he would face. And yet he saw a weakness in that moment that brought back memories he fought hard to avoid. "Kit... I don't wanna go."

"Kit? I don't want to go." Her voice was weak and quiet, coming out in a breath that he had to struggle to hear. An outdated machine, one that would have been replaced with something they built in the District for the Capitol only, beeped along with what would have been her heart beat. It was equally as weak, fading along with her at the slow pace. And yet every time he looked into her eyes, he could feel nothing but happiness. Happiness for the fact that he knew the most beautiful person to ever exist, and that she had loved him despite all of his flaws. His hand clutched on to hers tightly, feeling how clammy they had become as her fever rose.

"It's going to be okay, love." He knew that wasn't true. They both knew it wasn't true. Neither Emi nor the child would survive. Her heart was too weak to support one life, let alone two. For all they knew, the child could have already been gone. He felt as if he could feel all the pain that his wife was feeling, and yet he was physically perfect. Every inch of him felt like it was a mess, a sensation he detested. "Just breathe, baby. I'm here for you." The doctors knew it wouldn't be long before she passed, wanting to give them the privacy they deserved. An intense connection of love kept them together, and they did nothing but look at each other for the remaining minutes they had. "Kit? I love you." It was almost a whisper at this point, her eyes barely remaining open. He planted a kiss on her knuckles first before getting up from his seat to kiss her on the lips. "I'll travel the entire planet to find you again, my love. I love you so much."

He felt empty and cold, his hand no longer bothering him as his heart felt the bulk of the pain. The broken boy still lie before him, having just attempted to stand before tumbling back to his knees. It was a sad sight, and Kit felt nothing but guilt. He had caused this. Had it been anybody else, maybe Mohs wouldn't have looked so guilty. Maybe it wouldn't have already been called in. I owe it to him. And yet, he still could be guilty. There was no way to know, and Kit had a job to do. That doesn't mean I'm not human. He approached Mohs slowly, bending down and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, listen to me man. I'm going to help you through this, okay? You just have to trust me." He looked for eye contact, talking directly to the drunk. "Let me help you up. We'll get you a nice bed for tonight, some water, and then we'll get you processed."

It was the unfortunate side effect of the system they lived in. The Capitol wanted blood and Kit was the knife that they used to get it. It sucked for all involved, but there wasn't much anybody could do. The Capitol ruled with an iron fist. "Mohs, I swear I will do everything in my power to help you through this. Now get off your ass before I throw you over my damn shoulder. If the other Keepers arrive and you're not 'restrained', this will go differently."

He put out his hand to help Mohs Aurum to his feet, both physically and mentally. I'll travel the entire planet to find you again, Emi. And this is where I start. I'm going to fix my life. I'm going to make it better.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

Love, love is a verb, Love is a doing word
Fearless on my breath, Gentle impulsion
Shakes me, makes me lighter, Fearless on my breath

Kits words just roll off of him, like a rock stationed against the waves. Trust... Trust came easy, between everything they'd been through together, and Mohs doubted he could walk another step or two without the help- already he was collapsed on bent knees, his face still skyward as the man spoke.

His instincts scream to run, to throw himself before the fence and plead the benevolent gods for forgiveness for whatever crime he'd committed, and take pity on a crippled kid. But he knew that couldn't happen- the swirling, whirling world wouldn't allow it. What a cruel irony- to work so hard to be independent and alone from any and all help, but still be forced to rely on a stranger for support and guidance.

Fingers run through soaked hair as his eyes finally fall, staring down at the stone path; funny how one could miss something so small only when they know they may never see it again. His life, after today, would end. Not kicking and screaming in an arena like his younger self thought, but probably bleeding out like the man he'd failed to save, kept in some desolate, capitol-forsaken cell.

When he thinks about it, it really makes sense. The capitol has abandoned each and every one of them, even in the districts like one, two, and four. They were mere pets in the cold grasp of a spoiled three year old who knew nothing about the intricate workings of caring for another living being. Actually, that sounds nice when he thinks it over. Maybe, when if he got back he'd like to write about it

Perhaps he might even invite Kit to listen to the others bare their naked souls in that dark bar sometime. Yeah, that sounds nice.

He wants to stay conscious, to walk himself proudly to the Justice Building, but the world presses in, atmosphere heavy in his mouth and the pressure is becoming too much to handle. He fights a losing battle, fraught with exhaustion and drunkards and all he really wants to do is sleep. Sleep sounds fucking fantastic.

At the same time, he doesn't want to abandon Kit just yet, to carry his living corpseform all the way down fourth street alone and bleeding. With the support of the stranger he manages to get clumsily to his feet. So many things left unsaid, so little they truly know about one another. The Keeper seems like someone Mohs would have become easy friends with after the accident, so much so that the assistance is met not with resistance as he would normally give, but with a quiet, resolute submission. He feels comfortable here and his mind swims with visions of another life- he is seventeen and back at work only work isn't as a first aid instructor-

It's as a career, a fit, powerful force of a boy man, completely and totally whole, volunteering to cheers of the district only to be cut down weeks later, the first to die from twenty four.

Things happen for a reason.

If he never lost his leg, he would never have become the First Aid professor at the training center. He never would wander to the dive bar to write, wouldn't drink, wouldn't smoke probably, and there's no way he would have tried to save a dying man trapped in a lonely, concealed alleyway.

There's no way he would have met this man with a rugged stone mask, but with a truly gentle disposition. A normal peacekeeper may have shot Mohs on the spot, but Kit hesitated- why? Even Mohs knows how suspicious it must have looked, kneeling over a bloody, battered body in the night with a shirt off avoiding getting it soaked in blood through a haze of mist and rain.

Still, Kit did not shoot. Why?

It would have made less paperwork, but that couldn't be the reason- he worked side by side with a potential murderer just to save someone's life and they didn't even know if he deserved it or not. All of these questions he wants to find answers to, but his tongue and mouth stopped working long ago and he can't bring himself to ask anyway. Not now. Maybe tomorrow, there would be time if Kit were so intent on escorting him to Hell himself. Mohs didn't mind it really, he'd like to know Kit on a 'see you every day', first-name basis. Truly, he was different, special somehow.

He'd seen some shit.

Mohs struggles furiously along aside the male, glancing at the arm around his shoulders. "Hey, man, your hand. Get that stitched up tonight. Don't wait." What normally would have been a command slips out as almost a plea, a gentle suggestion from a place of kindness and caring. Infections spread quicker than one may think, and with all the blood he'd touched today, Mohs wouldn't be surprised if he contracted some strange, rare disease. The laws of the universe were strange like that, really.

Half a mind left, he wonders if someone would tell his parents, or if they'd wake up to find his room empty and abandoned. What about work? IfWhen he came back, would they still extend an offer of employment? Or would everyone he knows, lovestolerates drop him like the shit he is? He'd be branded a hardened criminal. He doubted the denizens of One would let their precious babies go to class anymore to be taught by a suspected murderer.

They haven't gone too far, just far enough to get away from the scene, passing through brightly lit streets, free from any sign of life. Mohs trips, body intent on spilling out upon the ground, yet firm arms keep him supported and vertical.

It's all finally too much to handle, too much for his head to comprehend. He stops, and begins to slip while the outside darkness presses across his eyes, blotting out street lights and flashes of lightning accompanied by silence.A final word lingers upon his lips as the world fades away to the swirl of alcohol and sleep;

"Brother."

Water is my eye, Most faithful mirror
Fearless on my breath, Teardrop on the fire
Of a confession, Fearless on my breath
Most faithful mirror, Fearless on my breath.

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Table by Kire