kairos ; max & mab

[tick 12a / calla]

A M A B E L

it's so laughable
you thought you had me
but bon voyage imbécile
it's the end of the game

You never know how much you can break until you start breaking.

Well. Bones, I mean.

And it happens like this. Like a shattering, a splintering, tripping up and cracking your skull open on the cement floor.

I can't remember how many ribs it is you're allowed to break before shit gets serious.

But maybe it doesn't even matter. The sad sacks that come down here to fight are all low-lifes anyway, rats that would probably benefit more from our drugs than our cash. They wouldn't know how to break a rib even if you used them to demonstrate. But sometimes the smarter ones just show up to be guinea pigs, they take a quick beat down and end up scurrying away with something new floating in their veins.

It's a win-win.

And all the regulars, they know how it works. Everyone that stands around and watches with their fists in their pockets, they know to bet big on me if they want any type of pay-out.

But Max is the one that makes all the miracles happen, he finesses the drugs we use in our little basement ring, slipping them into paper-thin needles and soaking rags, stuffing them into unsuspecting pockets. Because that's how all this runs so smoothly — he takes care of everything behind the scenes and I'm the one who puts on the show, the whole dance of feigned steps and slowed punches, I'm the one taking the bets and figuring out where to shift the tides.

It's always easy to play with them first, the ones who think they can actually win against us, truss them up before they start foaming and stumbling and their vision cuts out.

It's almost sad.

But this time, one last late-night match we managed to squeeze in, this one doesn't stumble.

He doesn't fall.

The guy's almost twice my height, clean-cut and proper and nothing like anyone I've ever seen around here before. He has the kind of face that's just begging to be punched and it makes my heart beat cavernous in my ears, a locomotive fuelled by the smell of gunpowder.

This is what I was born and bred for — the glory of violence, the rush of adrenaline, the feeling of holding lives in your hands.

"Get 'em, bitch." Someone calls out.

But he's faster than he looks, and I guess that means whatever Max pulled off hasn't kicked in yet. His hands skid off my shoulders when I duck away from him, unease slowly spilling through my chest because this is usually the part where they get a little unsteady, a little unbalanced, so it doesn't take much effort to knock them over.

There's a sound like a wind gust, a flash of technicolour, and I land bodily, feel the thud of cement against my temple.

It must be the shock, hands to my chest, that the ground is so much closer here and I can see the splattering of where my head met the floor. The pattern matches the red that drips from my forehead and I dazedly try to blink it away, wide-eyed in the haze because what the fuck.

It doesn't really help. There's still a rusted film over my vision, a backdrop for the stars that dance when his face tilts above me and everything else feels lopsided.

"What happened to the little puppeteer?" He whispers, leans down and completely reeks of upper class, of white collar boys who have nothing better to do on a weeknight.

I want him to lose.

I want to rip his throat out, to step on every one of his fingers and dig my nails into his eyes.

But instead, I wait for him choke on his own tongue, to see some kind of moving shadow, something anything.

There wasn't a plan this time. Everything was too last minute, too short notice, but I guess that was the point. Max said he'd take care of it and I just had to trust him.

Max, my mind supplies, Max Max Max. There's only one person who does what he does, this sabotage, this broken routine.

Who else could it fucking be.

There's a sudden pressure and a boot against my throat. My grip scrabbles against his ankle for some kind of purchase, legs kicking when he presses down. His teeth are all straight and white, all still there when he grins down at me shark-like.

And somehow it's worse.

It's worse than losing to a nobody from off the street who can barely stand straight.

It's been so long since I've actually lost, way back when we trained with sticks and rocks and fists because we didn't have anything else. Because losers die out here. They get left behind and bled dry until there's nothing left but a husk.

And sometimes there's not even that.

But now this prep's going to kill me.

My brother's going to let him fucking kill me.

"Eat shit." I choke out, trying to spit in his face, and I know he must be new when he moves away.

Anyone else would've taken the chance. Anyone that knew better.

But maybe I've just always been a sore loser.

I'm too busy coughing up a lung to pull him back down and really knock his lights out, but his laugh when he collects his winnings is like thunder. It rolls and beats against my skull, finds a home in where I keep my consciousness.

There's a low murmur in the crowd as it disperses, the dull roar of men losing their money, mouth to mouth, palm to palm, and I know they'll all be back within the hour with their torches and their pitchforks.

Because this is a business.
And it isn't very often we get caught.

It isn't very often when the one person you have tries to destroy everything.

My breathing sounds funny now, like something wet stuck fluttering in my windpipe.

But the blood calls and I answer.

I am fire. Molten, burning, stumbling up three flights of stairs to where we count the money and screaming some type of fury.

"MAX!"

I'll kill him I'll kill him I'll kill him —

There are lilacs crawling up my arms, watercolour bruises, a million shades of red under my nails and under my feet and just fucking everywhere. This is the vision of war, of death; a girl made of broken bones and poisoned flowers, flames licking at her feet.

And Max weighs nothing when I shove him up against the wall, arm to his throat. I stain his skin with the colours I've bled and ignore when my shoulder groans in protest. He's always been so fragile, so weak, and I think I can feel the creak of his bones under my hands.

There's a vengeful spirit in the pit of my stomach, howling, angry, hungry, "The fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Tryna get me killed, huh?" This is our livelihood but it's my life, my soul, my essence. It's the only thing I was ever taught to do. "Want this business that we made all to yourself? Or did someone put you up to it? Offer you a better cut?"

There's no boss here but the two of us. There's no boss here but me. But I look at him and there's a bullet between my teeth. I know he doesn't have the guts to pull off something like this on his own.

I'd bash his face in if we didn't share the same one.

"Who bought you off, Max?" And part of me already knows. The guy who just kicked my ass was a last minute shoe-in with a million different things that could've gone wrong, a million different ways to win, he had ended up walking away with a hefty enough sum to split. But I think I need to hear him say it. "Who?"

l'imperatrice — erreur 404