lost in purgatory {tae/sin}

[Python]

T A R O N

He woke up in a dark world, the morning sun eclipsed by dread. The aches in his joints and crevices made themselves known the instant he shifted in his bed. He didn’t want to think about what caused them; a world of pain, disgust, and crimes against humanity. Nightmares riddled with screams echoed somewhere in the fog of his subconscious, but he had to shake them off. The real nightmare was out here. Awake or asleep, it stalked him like a shadow. Three years of slavery under his belt and he had little to live for.

When he rolled over, he felt the remnants of Rudy’s presence. An indentation in the mattress, bundled sheets, and the lingering odor of cigarette smoke. At least I don’t have to make breakfast.

He had to cherish the little things.

A morning without the tyrant meant he could spend an hour by himself. His favorite morning routine was one without domestic responsibilities and the obnoxious, baritone voice of his “beloved boyfriend”. Nobody in this organization ever realized how fucking annoying their boss was. They were too busy shoving their heads up his ass so they could boost their rankings. He didn’t understand gangs and their undying loyalty and respect for scumbag human beings.

He showered until his skin was scrubbed raw. After three years of this shit, his flesh still crawled at the thought of his nights with Rudy. On a good night, he could picture himself elsewhere. At home with family, outside with a bottle of whiskey, in another bed with any other man he could possibly think of. On a bad night, he pleaded for a drink because he couldn’t fucking stand any of it. Rudy was never one to give him what he wanted.

Asshole.

Unfortunately, today was an important day. A day that demanded the addition of combat boots and an armored vest to his outfit. An enemy organization had an incoming shipment of drugs – a treasure Rudy wanted a taste of the moment he learned of its planned arrival. He had unresolved beef with whoever these people were. Taron didn’t know the details of their relationship – he never cared about the politics. He was a dog meant to follow any and all orders, so that was what he did. There was no need to involve himself in other shit he didn’t care about.

No matter what the circumstances, this was a dangerous mission. Most gangs were independent enough to find their own methods of getting illegal substances. His boss happened to be the scum of the scum, stuck to the very bottom of Hell’s boot. He wanted to steal from someone else’s illegal earnings because he felt “betrayed” by their leader. The way a child would react, naturally. His boss was the epitome of a toddler’s tantrum. Unfortunately, his strength did not match a child’s, and Taron received the blunt ends of those tantrums.

Gun in his belt, he reported to the warehouse a minute before he was due. A line of assigned grunts awaited him. One of them was a new recruit. He didn’t know most of their names, and he didn’t care. They joined because they wanted easy money, easy sex, and a one-way ticket to Hell.

Welcome aboard, scumbags.

He sighed. He didn’t want to deal with these people. Grunts were obnoxious and degrading; they talked about sex, money, weapons, and drugs. Nothing intelligent, to say the least. He didn’t want to listen to their snide comments as he explained the details of the mission. So, he decided to skip that part. Who needed plans? He didn’t care if they succeeded anyway.

”Don’t even speak,” he said, tone exasperated. ”Just follow my lead.”

table: fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

mason turner.

In all honesty, it's not to hard to pretend to be an idiot. Vacant smile, clumsy hands. I can feel their expectations of me seeping through the floor like blood from in between long fingers. Splattering upon the hard wood below, the melody of dead men screaming for a justice I cannot give them. Gang life favors none, we are all disposable in the amber eyes of War. She is a cruel horseman, orchestrating suffering on her battlefield with figurines made of bone and flesh. I'm thankful I can still feel some kind of fear, after everything I've been through. To be numb like Tate is to already be dead.

In retrospect, I shouldn't be smiling. Leaning against the wall in clothes that would look much more at home at a party than a possible suicide mission. Though, I suppose that was the point of all this. Look as woefully unprepared as possible and hope to worm your way in through the pity of another, higher ranking asshole. But the only pity I can see is in the disgust of eyes run up and down the length of my body. I don't look like I belong, hair just a few centimeters too long and left unruly and out of place with a shit eating grin sewn upon my cheeks- as though I hadn't a care in the world.

The Mason in this gang is not supposed to survive for long- I don't want to give them any reason to doubt my death, when the time comes. Tate's got one hell of a fucked up moral compass- never seen him get as angry as he did over this stupid gang. Well, 'cept the time he cut off some poor drug addict's mini-me after he gave his brother drugs. Or the time his little brother got arrested and-

Maybe I've seen Tate angry a lot more often than I care to remember.

I still have nightmares about him. Running blades along my skin- the long hours we spent cooped up in his office, only thing daring to break the silence being the trickle of my blood or the sizzle of my flesh. It was a pretty fucked up thing to go through at age twelve, but I know I'm so much stronger for it.

Tate saw me for who I was. A dead man walking.

And that is exactly who I pretend to be now.

Don't even speak. The last person to join us has given up. I've seen all sorts of people, I've seen all sorts of scars. Mine are physical, jagged white lines celebrating four years of calm after such a storm. I can't see his body, but I can see his pain. Pity tastes like bile in the back of my throat, eyes hopelessly stuck upon the newcomer. My mouth's corners grow heavy, high crashing as I remember the purpose of me being here. As I remember the reason that Tate had gotten so damn angry at what this gang has been doing.

I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I don't think it'd go over well.

Maybe I can make him laugh, that's all I've really ever been good for. Because I can pretend to be stupid, pretend not to understand the cruel intention of every snide comment passed off as good fun.

"Ey boss!" I beam, breaking the silence without a moment's hesitation. I do not fear punishment- especially not from another dead man walking. I take my gun out of my pocket, finger rested upon the trigger and eye closed as the other peers into a loaded barrel. It's the first day but my hands have already plunged themselves into hungry flames. I've always loved playing with fire, I've always been able to handle its burn. "You got any idea how this thing works?"

"They just kinda handed it to me and like-" I point the gun toward the ground, firing off a couple shots and stumbling into the wall behind me. "Oh shit I think I figured it out! Never mind it's all good!"

I wish my happiness was not so manufactured.

At least my smile is genuine the minute I meet his eyes. They are like nothing I've seen before.

[Python]

T A R O N

Someone always had a shit-eating grin plastered across their face. He rolled his eyes when he realized it was the new recruit. Newbies always had something to say; they were spry, eager, and thought of themselves as giants standing atop of the world. Most of them would end up dead, young blood wasted on a concrete mural. The others would float in purgatory, collecting women and men and money until they realized their wealthy existence was meaningless. At that point, it would be too late to rewind, so they would seek drugs to compensate for their empty souls. The few grunts that remained would suck the boss’ dick to gain a higher ranking. The worst of the worst – the traffickers themselves – made it to that shit-stained pedestal. Taron hated the lot of them.

He didn’t hate this newbie – not yet. But first impressions were everything.

Idiot was the first word that came to mind. Barrel pointed toward his own skull, he busted out his worst possible joke about gun ignorance. For a moment, Taron expected his head to pop. He had seen many skulls shatter in the past three years. Bones against cement, brains splattered against lonely walls. The smell of death had carved itself into his nose, creating a permanent grimace on his face. He never liked violence. Even after three years, he had not habituated. He would always despise torture and gore, no matter how many times he was ordered to take part in it.

The idiot didn’t put a bullet in his own skull. He fired shots into the floor instead, bullets embedded into wooden planks. The other grunts flinched in unison. Taron blinked and stepped back. Gunfire was a sound he was accustomed to. It still sent his heart into a flurry, but he could hide his anxiety behind a mask of steel. ”Don’t do that,” he sighed, ”We need to be stealthy.”

He knew the grunts had a sinking feeling about this mission’s inevitable failure. Taron was okay with it. There was always a part of him – the human instincts – that would fear guns and their ability to deliver death with a devastating blow, but he didn’t have a warm bed to return to. He had nothing worth returning to. If this mission failed, maybe he would be too dead to deal with the consequences.

”We’re going to steal a shipment of drugs. You all have permission from the boss himself to shoot everyone on sight.”

Kill all of those fuckers, he had said, breath laced with whiskey and garlic. A disgusting concoction for a disgusting man. His impulse was impeccable – he wanted all of them dead and hadn’t considered the consequences. What about the gang’s imminent retaliation? How many people would die because of this decision? He supposedly cared about his men and his property, yet disposed of them like used tissue paper.

With the exception of Taron, of course. He just has to be the special one.

He turned away and pulled the gun from his belt.

”Follow me.”

table: fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

mason turner.

The smell of blood has become something of a comfort. There is sweat beaded upon my brow, fingers wrapped around a heavy trigger and the deafening wail of gunfire is enough to make my head spin. Shootouts are never easy. I can feel unease dig her fingers into me, movements fueled by adrenaline and fear alone. Back pressed to a wall, chest rising and falling in unison with every shot forced from its chamber. That being said, after so many dances with death I have only stepped on his toes a couple times.

All of this - the smells and sounds and feeling of bullets flying into a wall only inches from my flesh - it's all I've ever known. Whether it was mom brandishing my father's own gun at his head or if it was Tate, stood next to me and teaching me how to survive a shootout. I have no time for manufactured smiles, no strength left to draw broken laughs from solemn cheeks. The only thing I'm left worrying about is getting my ass out of this.

Someone falls beside me. Bullet plugged right between eyes gone cloudy the instant metal broke his skull. Back when I was thirteen, doing all of this with shaking fingers and hope instead of candied cynicism, it would have terrified me. Perhaps I would have cried. Freaked out. Convinced myself I was about to die.

Instead, all I notice is his blood pooling around the soles of my shoes. Involuntarily, my lip curls and all I can manage is a step back behind another wall and away from my dead comrade. I've become so cold to all of the violence that my heart has begun to die from the frostbite.

Except this new position has brought with it company. There's not even a moment left to think, gun pressed to the skull of a man I've never met, free hand forcing his head away from a cornered ally. I paint the walls with his blood and then I wrap my hand around the throat of another- nails leaving angry half moons upon his neck well before I've smashed his skull against an adjacent wall and decorated his skull with molten metal.

"Were you even trying?!" I snap, anger and adrenaline leaving me deaf to the sounds of an ending battle around us. "You have to try really fucking hard to get cornered by men as incompetent as these." I kick one for emphasis, unable to keep my eyes upon them for too long before my skin starts to crawl. I cant know their names, their families. I can't look them in the eyes. I don't want to.

He doesn't seem incompetent. If anything, he seemed bored of all of this. Not scared, not nervous. Even if this were a simple mistake, it was enough to get him cornered. I've seen him a hundred thousand times, wandering around their territory or by the bosses' side during my few months of surveillance. I know damn well this guy is kind of guy I'm here to save and he almost got himself killed not even two hours into my first day.

So much for any of this being easy.

[Python]

T A R O N

A noose tightened around his neck as they walked. Anticipation stirred in his chest, a moment that always left him winded, but he wouldn’t allow that emotion to leak through his pores. His expression did not twitch as he felt the ice cold metal in his palm. There was so much power in one object, enough to leave most men at his mercy when he wasn’t the one pinned to the floor. He had learned the feel, sound, and smell of guns when Rudy first abducted him from his home. He had hated every second of it, and he still did. The tang of iron in his nose, the sight of blood spatter and brains against a concrete wall, it was all ugly to him. Ugly and nauseating.

He knew he was on edge; he could sense his death in this pointless revenge mission. Whether it happened or not was in fate’s judgment to decide, but he knew he could pull a few strings and trip on a few stones to increase his odds. He wished he could black out at this very moment and never return, but the distant voices of doomed gang members would not let his heart rest.

You want to disappear? Make it happen.

He sighed. The inevitable shootout would probably kill the newbie and at least one of these other idiot grunts. Not that he cared, but it was a waste of time and resources. Any sensible leader would know that, you just got stuck with the temperamental imbecile. But he was a powerful imbecile, and influential enough to make his life miserable. Certainly miserable enough to pursue any suicide mission available.

He fired the first shot, bullet blasting through an unsuspecting skull in a single blink. Chaos abruptly ensued, echoes of gunfire like Capitol fireworks pounding against his ears. Stacks of empty crates served as their cover, but he didn’t shield himself from the fray. Bodies fell, blood sprayed, and none of it was his own. The drug hoarders had been caught off guard, all according to plan, and it seemed their retaliation would not be strong enough.

All of them would die unless they retreated.

I hate it when we win.

He grimaced in frustration. The noose around his neck unraveled itself. Apparently it wasn’t so simple to die in a shootout, even when he was practically begging for it.

It was ending as swiftly as it started, only a few pawns left to defend their territory. His heart lurched in his chest at the realization that his clock was ticking down. If he wanted to finally pull through with his escape plan, now was the chance.

He stepped out of his cover and shot blindly at one of the spares. Three bullets in his chest and he was down, and now Taron was exposed to the hostile environment. He paused when he heard footsteps behind him. The cock of a gun, a bullet for his soul. He turned around and didn’t raise his own gun in defense. He could probably shoot the guy quickly enough, but he didn’t.

This bullet had his name carved into it.

His heart twitched in his chest. This is what you wanted, right?

He heard a loud bang, and expected the world to end. It spun instead, creating an illusion of his own death because for a moment he thought it was true. Then he watched the new recruit grab the last pawn by his throat and slam his head into the concrete. It was almost elegant the way he executed it – very much unlike an inexperienced grunt.

He hated surprises.

”You have to try really fucking hard to get cornered by men as incompetent as these.”

It was true; he couldn’t wriggle his way out of that honesty. Their battle had been victorious from the beginning, but he had forced himself into harm’s way in the hopes that fate would take care of it. He hadn’t counted on this “rescuer” to ruin everything.

”Why not let me die then,” he grumbled.

Why did everyone have to be a goddamn hero?

table: fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

mason turner.

The whole point of this is to make a difference. We're all dealt an ace when we need a king; hear snake-eyes rattling against cherry wood soon to be accompanied by coins torn from unwilling pockets- life is not fair. And I never expected it to be. I didn't sit on my ass, cupping each loss within bloody palms and giving pain enough time to creep past my smiles that have always been so painfully fake. Plastic and perfect- beautiful in every way. Authenticity does not matter, only what you make them believe.

I never wanted to know Tate, I never wanted him to take his blades to me and ruin a child that could have been something so good. There is so much inside of me, so much that was torn to shreds by a thirteen year old boy who had no fucking clue what he was doing to me, let alone to himself. I never wanted any of this, but life is not fair. I didn't expect it to be.

The whole point of this is to make a difference.

For every life I take, there has to be one worth saving.

At least, that is how I sleep at night. I don't think about the grunt whose brains I poured onto the concrete, I think of this boy. People like him. The people I'm trying to help. And I know many lives will be mourned tonight but at least I can take comfort in the fact that it is not yet his. That there is more to this than senseless gang violence and the smell of gunpowder and iron.

"Because that would have been fucking stupid." I'm armed with so much more than a gun. Months of casing this gang, wandering about the territory and watching some ugly man shatter his pretty porcelain doll. Months of getting grunts drunk and sitting in their laps, playing with their hair and coaxing secrets from between their stupid lips.

Sometimes I wish I was as ignorant as I pretend to be.

But then, I would be dead.

It's not hard to see why the Boss has taken a liking to this one. Son of Aphrodite, molded in her image with a radiance that simply cannot be suppressed- though I imagine he tries. Men like him deserve to be so much more than slaves, throwing themselves in front of bullets and hoping that one might hit.

He makes my palms itch, and I really don't think that's a good sign.

Strays, Tate calls them. My very own band of misfits and loners. Those too weak to save themselves and so I brought them home instead. Unlike him, I cannot sit by and watch the helpless suffer, forfeiting their lives for those I consider more important.

"If you really wanted to die you would have done it yourself, not sat around and waited for an idiot to get lucky." I kneel, checking the dead man's pockets for cash and pocketing what I find. It's no use to him now.

My hair's too long. It falls into my face and kisses the tops of my cheeks as I rummage about the carnage, searching for anything that might be of use to me before I turn to face him again. Halfhearted smile, arms crossed and head tilted to the side as though it will give me some insight into the slave trusted to lead. He doesn't want to be here and yet he does not run, so I must find where they have chained his heart.

"Really, you don't have to thank me for saving your ass but it'd be nice."

This part is always too much fun.

[Python]

T A R O N

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach that made him feel nauseous. It wasn’t because of the gore and carnage left in their wake, or the realization that he had once again committed horrible crimes against his will. It was the reality he faced – living because of this asshole – that made him ill. His will to survive was in shambles. Instead of bending down to frantically pick up the pieces, he had prayed this idea of his would work. How easy was it to ‘accidentally’ get shot and killed during an ambush? It happened all the time, no matter how experienced Rudy’s men were.

But this pretty boy had ruined his dream.

”Because it would have been fucking stupid.”

Easy for you to say, he thought bitterly. Privileged motherfucker didn’t understand an ounce of his pain. Escaping was not stupid. Maybe it was desperate, but he couldn’t help himself after three years of this. He slept at night thinking of ways he could die without truly committing suicide. The boss wouldn’t allow it; any purposeful escape from his clutches would mean the end of Taron’s family, and he couldn’t die knowing he would condemn his sister too. The whole reason he was here was because he volunteered in her place, like a tribute volunteering for the Games.

That would’ve been easier.

Even with that in mind, there were nights when his gun felt heavier in his belt. How easy would it be to stick it in his mouth and pull the trigger? The men stationed by his parents’ house would be ordered to strike, but at least his suffering would end permanently.

He sighed. That wasn’t an option.

It made him angrier when he heard Mason pretend to understand.

”I’d love to do it myself, but they’d kill my family. Suicide is synonymous with escaping.”

It would be simple to put a bullet in his skull, or step off the edge of the tallest building. He wouldn’t hesitate if not for the noose around his sister’s neck. His parents, on the other hand, could rot for all he cared.

He watched this “new recruit” rummage through the corpses. A suspicion about his true ranking came to mind, but he was also too worked up to care. He craved a bullet in his teeth so badly he could taste the tang of metal on his tongue, not quite like blood. Another sigh, and a scowl to follow. A thank you would be nice, wouldn’t it?

”Fuck off.”

He gathered himself, shoving his gun back into his belt. The rest of the men were already collecting the shipment of drugs. Another undeserved victory for Rudy, and a new flux of income for the drugs. And now he had to return with this smug little shit who wanted to play hero.

It never fucking ended.

table: fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

mason turner.

Facades taste like blood. Bitter iron crawling down my temple, seeping onto the tip of my tongue - familiar and painful. They are molten copper, beautiful and dangerous. Molding to fit the container to which they are poured, yet eating away at the material meant to contain it. Out of control, quick to consume. I'm scared I'll one day forget all that I actually am- losing myself to these games of play pretend. I've come close a couple times. It's easier to be cold and selfish. To be made of stone means that there is less pain to feel when things go south. As they inevitably do.

Alas, an important part of my job is empathy, observing and understanding. I can't afford to lose touch, but it seems that I have stumbled. I thought that scathing remarks and tough love were the cure to his wounds; I at least expected lies and justification, shame or perhaps anger. Anything but acceptance, but yearning.

He shatters my smile, pulling the bloody pieces through my broken mask and I cannot tell if he takes pleasure in this or not. Tearing people out of their comfort zones, face contorted into angry expressions - ranging from disinterested to disgusted. I can already feel my palms itching, desperation to fix what I cannot is similar to stepping in quick sand. A bad habit of mine that leaves me destroyed more often than not. There's no real reason as to why I am so attracted to apathy, desperate and eager to gain the approval of those unwilling to give anything.

There's no way that this isn't going to end badly for me. But I never matter on these missions, I never matter in general. In the end I am but a tool. A way for Tate to gain more power and influence all while fooling himself into thinking that we are better than every one else.

Hey, whatever helps him sleep at night.

The fact remains that I am here and he is not. And I just fucked up. "Right, okay." I mutter, running my hand through my hair in a feeble attempt to stop its shaking. Adrenaline and self-loathing tend to do that to you. Fuck off. The words hit harder than expected, like a palm to my cheek and I recoil as if he has done just that. I am treading on thin ice, showing weakness where I can afford none.

I replace the pain with a smile, I always do. Shaking my head, and grinding my teeth against the inside of my cheek. Failure is not an option, not now and not ever, yet I have managed to piss off the boss' most prized possession in less than a day. "I was out of line." I can't think to do anything but admit my faults. "I'm a bitch but I'm not a bitch, you know?"

"So how can I make it up to you? Other than going away." A lazy grin finds its home upon my cheeks once more. It feels so good not to feel anything at all. I am but shields and smoke and mirrors, elaborately placed upon my shoulders so that I can pretend to be bigger and stronger and smarter. "I'm kind of like that bit of gum stuck to the sole of your shoe? Really fucking hard to get rid of." There is pride in my tone, although I know there should be none.

There is not a man on this earth more resilient.

[Python]

T A R O N

”I was out of line.”

Déjà vu and acid on his breath, the familiarity scorched the back of his throat. Usually the situation was reversed; it was Taron forced to admit his mistakes, even if the fault was not his own. Even if he didn’t feel sincere about his behavior. I don’t deserve to be punished. Like a child apologizing to a scolding parent, but the parent had a gun instead of a belt to slap him whenever he pleased. Taron was never allowed to protest.

It felt odd hearing someone else say it to him. He was not in a position of power; Mason didn’t have to say it at all. Interesting.

The thought was fleeting, however. ”I’m a bitch but I’m not a bitch, you know?”

Sure.

Part of him – the sane fragments remaining to guide him through hell – wanted to walk away. There was no reason to stay other than for these grunts’ entertainment. His job was finished. The shipment was intercepted, and the treasure claimed. Now it was up to the other boys to carry all of the shit back with them. Taron was not the bulk of the group, therefore he refused to lend his strength. They would inevitably send him back as a messenger to bring reinforcements. After that, it was back home to his beloved.

Perhaps he would stay after all.

For some reason, Mason continued to speak. It occurred to him that he had never asked for the new recruit’s name, but somehow remembered hearing it from his own boss’ lips. New guy, pretty boy, kind of an idiot, a prime piece of meat. Of course he would never forget such a lovely description. Problem was, he didn’t act like an idiot. Not anymore. In fact, he turned out to be very competent in the field, an unpleasant surprise indeed. What was the point in lying to everyone? What secrets did he have hiding under that pretty face?

None of your concern. That was his philosophy; don’t care about any of them. They were all scum. Why else would they join a gang whose pride and joy was invested in slave trade? They had no redeeming qualities, pretty or not. Regardless, he turned around when Mason continued to speak up. He had a knack for talking when nobody wanted to listen.

How could he make it up to him? By disappearing.

Oh, of course that wasn’t an option. Irritating assholes were stuck to him like glue. Or as he so proudly put it – like gum stuck to the sole of his shoe.

Gum could be scraped off eventually.

”You can’t make it up to me,” he said plainly.

Why? Because nothing made him happy anymore.

table: fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

mason turner

I'm used to being pushed away. Pain masked by forced optimism- by absolute bullshit and bandaids.  If you can lie to yourself, you can lie to anyone. My father used to sit me on his lap, soft smile stuck to fat lips and he never raised a hand to my mother. Not when she hit or yelled, not when she brought home other men to rub in his face and I remember the smell of liquor on her breath better than that of her floral perfume. He'd dry my eyes with sleeves stained by his blood and he'd push the corners of my mouth upwards until I hadn't a choice but to give into his pleading.

Smile for me, Mason.

I learned how to smile from him. Big and wide, filled with teeth even as blood dripped down his chin and there was nothing I wanted to be more than like my father. He could have killed her, easily. He had a gun and she didn't. Gang life taught me as much, the big and the strong rein over the weak and above them all are those smart enough to keep an advantage. I'm tall and damn good at hand to hand combat but none of that is as important as pure explosive power shoved in the face of some pathetic lackey with balls for brains. My father was bigger, stronger, better armed than my mother but he was blinded by love.

His heart is what got him killed and still I find myself falling into his footsteps. There's too much to feel, sympathy for the goon with a tongue swollen from famine and a family to feed. And weakness drips off my tongue like tears, serial romance- searching for acceptance in those trained to take advantage of any and all kindness. It's a wonder I haven't gotten smarter. Not after the first time, not after the second or the third. Perpetual pain chips away at a soul made of stone and still- I smile. 

And I smile now, looking down at the ground with blush rising to my cheeks. An angry sort of blush, full to burst with embarrassment and shame. I know I'm better at this, at charming weary souls. I am a liar by trade and by choice, avoiding reality with complicated facades, with characters only slightly based upon any sort of reality. 

Would I like to be a happy go lucky idiot without the slightest idea of the deathwish he is so carefully cultivating? Of course. A life free of burden is all that I have ever wanted and yet my body, as marred as Tate's, remains heavy. Long, white scars, twisted different shades of eggshell and ivory. Some still pink, some still angry. Skin never heals right. Not after so much abuse. I feel as disgusting as I am. 

"He, uh, had about two hundred cash on him." I take it out of my pocket, meeting his eyes with the same sloppy grin plastered to my cheeks and though it aches- a job is a job. I have to sell it to him, to everyone, or I'm as good as dead. 

And unlike the people which to which I have always been surrounded, death is more a terrifying concept than a tempting one.  I want to live, to breathe, to love. And I don't think I'll ever understand society's willingness to throw it all away.  I'll never understand their willingness to abandon those who depend upon them with heart and soul completely. How selfish they must be, to forget that living for yourself is a luxury that few can afford. 

Yeah, fuck you Tate. 

And fuck this guy too.

"Seems fitting you get it." I push it into his palm, leaving no option for snarky refusal or anger at some perceived charity. "And if you were, say, to take the guy who saved your life out for a nice meal well who am I to refuse."

I've never been as rich as Tate. Surprisingly, Gang leaders often feast upon the fruit of their men's labor and leave only scraps for the rest of us. He pays for my apartment though, so I can't be as bitter as I like. As flawed and fucking awful as that guy is- he has a heart like my father. Too big to bear the burden of this life, too calloused to tell it's dying. 

As for me? I know damn well I'm playing the fool. That I am bait, a suicide switch and that no one expects me to return home from this mission. So I might as well have some fun doing it.

[Python]

T A R O N

Just turn around.

His body was in command – muscles tight, knees locked, hearing perked toward the sound of Mason’s voice. His mind repeating why like a broken record, wondering when the rest of him would start to obey. It was pointless to participate in this idle chatter, and with whom? A boy who would otherwise take advantage of him? It was safest to make that assumption. Saving him meant nothing – preserving a resource at best. The entire conversation was an act.

Be rational. Mason was a mild threat at worst. He probably wouldn’t hurt him, although it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. The remaining grunts were fucking off somewhere with the payload, probably trying to gather as of the prize as they could to seem impressive to their superiors. Nobody ever bothered interacting with Tae anymore; too risky. Only those who possessed authority could speak to him without scrutiny from the boss, and they were all assholes. All they had under their belts were sarcastic remarks, insults, and orders. Tae wished he could kill the lot of them.

He wasn’t a violent person.

Sighing, he grabbed the money and folded it in his back pocket. He couldn’t decide if it was worth admitting to Mason that he was not allowed to own this money. It would inevitably end up in his boss’ hands whether he tried to hide it or not. Choosing not to hide it was the safer option; fewer purple blemishes that way. His bones shuddered at the thought. Eternal soreness was already one of the roots of his emotional issues. Why add to it?

And the merry-go-round continued; Taron expressing his distaste, and an unwanted party carrying forth a dead conversation. ”Don’t hold that over my head,” he growled. I didn’t want to be fucking saved. Not in a thousand years would be ever owe anyone a dinner for extending a miserable existence. It wasn’t allowed either; boss’ property could not be seen alone with another man without permission. Tough luck, newbie.

”You can eat alone.”

Just turn around.

His body obeyed, turning on its heels. He had nothing further to say.

table: fox