Futuristic 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 ⎯⎯ ➤⎯⎯

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: uh oh um
interactions: Sear

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There was almost a violent sense of deja vu to it, to how Locke downs a drink that is not his. Rude, though nothing less than what you would expect from a street rat that makes its living off spilling throats for entertaintment. Artamos expects it like how he expected it in the stinking dark of the alley, but the disturbing strength with which he's snapped over the table still made his pulse speed up. The starched cotton choked against his damp skin, uncomfortably aware of how quickly this could turn into a broken nose or arm. Humility repulses him, but so does stupidity. He doesn't fight against the grip - there was little chance of escaping it, and the waitress' suddenly alert look is attention enough.

''Careful,'' Artamos grits out, a gloved hand gripping at Locke's tense wrist. ''You're not in your club now.''

Can he feel it? Can Locke feel how Artamos' carotid beats with frightened blood? Artamos wonders with impossible terror if he made a grave miscalculation; but no, Locke is still hearing him out, repulsed and mad, but not any closer to punching Artamos' lights out. He's still in the calm, the infuriating lack of emotion, and he gives Locke's wrist a squeeze. ''Did you think you get to threaten me and I'll just roll over and take it?'' Like a dog that got kicked one too many times showing its belly, begging for mercy. No, Artamos will bite back twice as harsh if it keeps Locke from seeing how enormous the drug proof is. Locke has Artamos' head on the chopping board - it's Artamos' job to keep Locke from figuring it out.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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The waitress hasn’t begun to move yet in their direction, even with the shift in the air, the tension the third seated at their table. Instead her gaze is hot on Locke’s back, tempering his anger enough to watch the surroundings closer from the corner of his eye. Even without Artie’s warning he was aware of the fact that he wasn’t in the ring. His blood is still pounding hot through his veins, and with each breath he is beginning to settle back into the ring however, the fluorescent lights reminiscent of the red hue that lit up his nights. Even with fingers tight around his wrist, digging into where bruises are tender to the touch, Locke’s smile is the mad dog shown on screen, all teeth and no humor. “I know,” He tugs Artie closer, his words hushed in a secret shared only between the two of them. “Only reason ya ain’t gotten a nose job yet.”

There is a sweet appeal in the addicting drag of adrenaline through his body. It dulls where his side digs into the side of the table, sending an ache pounding with each breath sucked in. They become more shallow the longer he stays upright, grip still steady in the desire to not be the first one to back down.

He’s shown enough weakness. “Yeh actually.” In the face of a threat to his family, he refuses to roll over the same way he’d hoped Artie would have. He knows that Artie has to be worried to at the power he holds at his fingertips - yet he won’t budge and Locke wants to scream. He can’t read the snake he has under his grip, grasping at straws for a way to dig under the sharp-tongue Artie has and expose the man who has to have something to lose. It was only a matter of finding it.

“I was hopin’ you’d roll over. How ‘bout ya talk before I walk out that fuckin’ door and spread your shit to daddy dearest.” Desperation is beginning to set in, as persistent as it had been in the alley before, the monster that kept him awake in the dead of night. He searches Artie’s face, looking for signs that the situation that he was doing a terrible job of de-escalating was at risk of turning into a brawl. In some buried part beneath his anger, he prays, that he won’t have to keep pushing, each breath thinner than the one before in the pain seeking to find a hold.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: oh.
interactions: Sear

scroll

'I was hopin’ you’d roll over. How ‘bout ya talk before I walk out that fuckin’ door and spread your shit to daddy dearest.'

How vapid, that a single threat is enough to make Artamos cringe away from a fight. Like a bear that lunged first but got a stick over its muzzle, he withdraws. The waitress is by the counter, talking to a cook through the steaming window - she gives them a glance, concerned, pointing a discreet finger. He's not afraid of the cops. They titter and flutter their eyelashes at the Murn name, and even as the infant terrible he's safe from them. Shame is a powerful motivator for his dad.

Imagine the shame Leonard would feel if he knew about the elysium.

Is it just him, or is Locke's hand shaking?

''I want the company.'' Artamos says, or maybe he's not talking at all. It's not his imagination - Locke is shaking, like a dog in the rain or maybe off the leash. Time slows to a halt, a sedated slide through his veins.

''And I think for your sake, you should help me get it.''

Locke has to do nothing at all. Artamos knows this. He just hides the quake in his hands better.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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“I want the company.”

Locke blinks, his face betraying the flicker of uncertainty settling in the crooks of his brain as he echoes Artie’s words in a perplexed haze.

“The company?”

He can’t grasp where Artamos is going with that statement. What he does understand was that, to some extent, his question has been answered and his fingers release their grip on the man’s collar tentatively. He even musters a half-hearted pat to smooth out the creases in the fabric, sinking back into his seat with a hissed exhale, the anger fading to a dull pound in the background.

Locke knows money. He knows dirty money - bloodied bills that exchange hands under the table, including his. He knows contracts that are signed in the dead of the night with a foot on one’s throat, and he knew the world of gambling like the back of his hand, but he knows nothing of corporations. They lurked in the background, casting their shadow from their place in glass giants lining the streets over his life. Put him behind a desk in an office, and it would all go to shit. All he knows of Murn is that they’ve brought ruin to more than one family, his included.

So he stares, uncomprehending as he prods at the remnants of his food. “Help ya get it, how?” Artie doesn’t seem to be off his rocker enough to suggest that Locke assists with crunching numbers and poring over circuit boards, and Murn has poured enough money into the criminal industry as is. “Man, I’m only good at my job. That’s ‘bout all I know.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: silently raging
interactions: fgh

scroll

‘’I don’t need you to be good at anything else.’’ Artamos shifts closer like he’s in the final stretch of a deal, standing in front of a conference table. He inches closer, nervous or smelling blood. His mind is a cold pressure chamber. ‘’Look,’’ Locke hesitates, maybe distrustful or thinking, and Artamos seizes upon it. ‘’We can go back and forth, threaten each other all we like. But the way I see it, we’re both fucked.’’

He gives a self deprecating smile, waving a gloved hand. ‘’You can go straight to my dad, if you want. I’ll just put your family in debtors’ prison.’’ Void eyes watch Locke now, careful like an outreached hand. Dark, voiceless. ‘’I end up dead. Your family is behind bars for decades. And then what?’’

Locke reels back, burned by Artamos’ threats, putting distance between them in the inches that he can grasp. The table they sit at doesn’t budge, and Artie is still too close for comfort. “Okay, okay.” He’s not convinced, but the threat does its job of forcing him to cringe away, all bark and no bite now. Even his appetite finds a hole to curl up and die in, and he wishes to follow it. Anything to escape this conversation, sticky as it drags him down into poisonous depths.

“I’m hearin’ ya out Artie. What do ya want me to do? Beat ya lil desk mates up? Is that it.”

"And if it is?" Artamos' eyes are shining, now, a primordial sea. "I saw what you did to your opponent. You beat him half to death." He says, though his tone leaves it up in the air if it's an insult or an observation.

Locke rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones. He doesn’t like where the conversation is going, even as he reluctantly agrees, his voice a whisper, “Yeh, I can do that if that is what you want.”

The hesitation makes Artamos raise an eyebrow, giving a lowered look. His smile had an annoyed edge to it, tight lipped and bitter. "You're the one that tried to blackmail me first. Don't act like the victim." A mocking glance, there and gone. "Besides, I thought that's what you're known for."

The biting comments from Artie makes Locke bristle, twisting his expression into one of discontent and annoyance. Once again his reputation. “Don’t push ya luck,” there’s a warning there in the undertones of his flat tone, matching Artamos’ annoyance in stride. “I’m cooperating, ain’t I? I just said I can do it. I ain’t gonna dance a jig in delight.”

Even when tentative, there is a ferocity to Locke that reminds Artamos of the blood dripping inside the ring; it rises in hot-tempered snarls, like gas fire breaking through the earth's crust. He squints at Locke, as if in contemplation. "You've got a fucking awful temper. I guess the forums didn't lie." The barely-hidden insult is covered by an eyeroll and a sniff. "What's your email?"

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Locke’s patience snaps as if it had never had any strength to it the moment Artie comments on it, face twisting in a snarl. Harsh and unyielding, refusing to be reined in as his hand twitches in a desire to reach across the table again.

The play at politeness melts into something far more smug, Artamos raising his chin triumphantly. He looked darkly satisfied in provoking Locke, having the audacity to fold his hands on the table to lean closer. "Well? Email?" He was half the mind to tell Locke he's overreacting, but even Artamos' destructive arrogance knows its limits.

The desire to reach across the table to wipe the smug look off of Artamos’ face grows, the expression feeling like a taunt in Locke’s face. Another point to the bastard Murn. Instead he fishes out his phone, pulling up Nikolas’ spare email as he shoves the screen across the table to Artamos with a scowl. “Here.” He hadn’t got around to making a new one yet; work going through Nikolas and the rest going to the spare he’d offered him out of safety. “Why?”

"How about this," Another sharp grin before he goes back into cool indifference, typing down the email on his phone. "A safety net, for the both of us." With some care, he pulled out a tablet from his bag; a sleek, almost translucent thing, proudly branding a sneering black panther. He slides through the tabs, glancing up at Locke.

"If we both upload the," A barely perceivable look away, "blackmail to a cloud, well. If one of us fucks up, we both get thrown to the wolves."

Artamos’ sharp grin tells Locke to never turn his back on the man lest he earn a knife in the back. It reminds Locke of the panther on the tablet; a sleek predator lying in wait. It’s unpleasant and Locke has to stop himself from bristling, eyes narrowed as he scrutinizes both the tablet and then the owner of it.

“What do you have to upload,” Locke is almost afraid to ask, fearing his own trailing past, as he picks his words with utmost care, “on me?”

Artamos hesitates.

Not for long, not obviously. But he takes a moment to speak, his lips thinning. Would Locke call his bluff if he were to lie? He's got no proof of debt yet, though he might be able to scrape some up in a few days. Takes too long. Locke is obviously no rocks for brains alley fighter. Artamos wasn't all too willing to risk him knowing he has nothing to show for his threats.

"How about you check it out later?" He turns the tablet towards his chest. "You might not want the whole place to see it."

Locke felt as if he had been doused in cold water. His body stiffened, panic rearing its head as his eyes flickered downwards to bore a hole through the tablet itself, as if trying to see what Artamos was referring to. There was too much, simply too much, and from Artamos’ phrasing he feared the worst. He’d hung onto Artamos’ hesitation with the hunger of a starving dog, looking for a moment to sink his own fangs in and regain a hand, but now he felt kicked.

“Is it,” he betrays too much, fear uprooting his ability to stay calm, “a video?” He had to know; the uncertainty was driving him insane.

Artamos pauses. The contrast between the enraged warning and cringing submission is like splashing ice water on a burn; shocking, almost uncomfortable. He was taken aback for a moment, confused on what the hell Locke is talking about. This feels like their first meeting, when Artamos stumbled on… something.

A secret. Something gnawing on Locke's mind, driving him crazy. A video? What could be bad enough to make Locke so scared when he was ready to tear a throat out a few words ago?

"And if it is?" Artamos' voice is vague, face giving no real answer.

If there had been any hope, it was dwindling by the second. Locke was beginning to feel resigned to his fate, muttering under his breath, “Then it is what it is.” He should have expected it, prepared for it even, but he still searched Artamos’ face with his last hope clutched tightly in hand. “I suppose you won’t tell me where ya found it at least?”

Silence. Should Artamos risk a lie? Pretend he knows more than he lets on? He feels now, all of a sudden, as if this was no longer about the debt. Locke is nervous, like a bad leg or a frayed nerve, staring up at him with terrible anticipation.

"I suppose not." He settles on no camp at all, neither confirming nor denying. Artamos taps endlessly on the sticky table, staring back at Locke with something enigmatic in his eyes.

Locke lowers his gaze, unwilling to meet Artamos’ eyes any longer. There are no answers in them, only a soul-sucking abyss. “Right,” his swallow does nothing for the sandpaper in his throat, so he swallows again, resisting the urge to crawl out of his skin and leave.

Instead, he clutches at the conversation before for escape. “How do I upload to the cloud?”

Artamos raised an eyebrow, seemingly holding back a comment. "I'll invite you in. You do know how to use the internet, do you not?"

“Uh, probably?” That sounded like a question. Shame burned through Locke and he was ready to bore a hole in the table with his eyes. He’d figure it out - hell he’d ask Nik - but he refused to admit to Artamos that he had no idea how to do what he wanted. “Are we done.”

Are they done?

The battle lines have been drawn, but Artamos knew better than to trust their hold. But for now, there is nothing to do but brace for the bite that might never come - Artamos gives a thin, self-satisfied smile, gesturing towards the door. "For now. Watch your email."

He rose from his seat, picking up his bag; he dusted imaginary dirt from the pristine lines of his suit, giving Locke one last, disdainful look. "I'll call you soon."

This isn't over. They both know this. They both understand this.

And yet, neither of them say a word more.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: hngh
location: their room
interactions: Sear

scroll

This time there is no fire.

He's laying on the ground. Gray reflective sand sinks underneath, the surface of a frosty alien planet sifting through his fingers, soft as flour. Though the cracked wooden ceiling he can see a darkly throbbing sky, pulsing like stomach lining. His leg is laid out, all proper and polite, crushed beneath a fallen beam. His knee-cap peeks through gore and black gear, red on red on white. There is no pain, though Taurus understands it will come later.

Orion is trying to push it off, but his eyes are too covered in blood to manage.

''I won't leave you here, Taurus.'' Orion says for the fifth time, arms shaking from his struggle against the weight. Black alarm. Every man for himself. Orion could leave Taurus here to bleed out and mercifully die by smoke inhalation, and Taurus wouldn't blame him, but still he's trying to free him.

A low whistle escapes his mangled throat. His gear's tough - war dogs' teeth are just made to tear metal apart. A single mistake can end it all, out here. A stray bullet or stepping on the wrong square or tripping on a canister. He will either live or he will die; if he dies, they will feed the footage from his helmet to train recruits and tell them 'this is how he fucked up.'

Taurus accepts this.

''Hold on. God, just hold on.'' Orion is talking all wobbly, like through pudding.

Beyond the building, out on the streets filled with bodies and exploded cars, there is a BOW. Taurus hears it more than he sees it; panicked shouts for more gunfire and gurgling screams, the scraping of metal and the stench of blood. Black alarm. BOWs deployed. They do not differ from allies and enemies. A siren goes off down the roadm rather belately. They have maybe two minutes, less if the BOW works fast. He will either get the beam off or he won't, but Taurus might still bleed out on the way.

Taurus doesn't mind if he dies. It's a shame to drag Orion down with him.

Orion gives him a frown, the corner of his lips pulled down by fish hooks; outside the BOW draws closer, and so does Orion's face. They had a closed casket; the details of his features are vague now, sanded down by memory. He's talking again, but Taurus is no longer listening.

The siren drones on, echoing inside his skull.

***​

It's cold. So fucking cold.

He's shivering before he's properly awake, clutching his meager blanket. The phone's alarm vibrates in the dark room, barely illuminating the snow-storm raging outside the thick window pane. It boiled and howled outside like a beast gone wild, scratching ice flowers into the edges. The room is pitch black save for the phone and a sliver of moonlight, tomb frozen. Consciousness returned to him sluggishly, as if it didn't want to return at all; sense ebbs back into the valleys and hills of his brain, settling like a thin filter. Taurus blinks, waits for a moment or two for his nerves to catch up.

When he's feeling a resemblance of alive, he rolls over. Three AM. One hour to eat and get ready.

With some hesitation, he lifts off the quietly creaking bed and pads through the darkness to the light switch. It sprang on, yellowish and sickly, casting a damp light over the corners; he was half-startled to find the BOW sleeping in the corner, laid out on the futon like a body on the autopsy table. Dead or sleeping? Their chest falls and rises ever so slightly, face still and movementless. Taurus' arm hurts with the memory of yesterday and half-sluggishly he trots over to shake them awake, careful not to get too close. ''You. Wake up.'' He grumbles, shivering through the cold.

A higher-up once patted Taurus on the shoulder and said;

'There's really not much to you, Taurus. Believe me, that's a compliment.' Where others feel rage or insult, Taurus feels not much at all. He's learnt his lesson from being bit, but his mind is blissfuly blank from anything deeper than that; sleep deprivation has turned him pliable, and awards lead him around like a puppy on a leash. Unthinking, Taurus steps into the bathroom to wash his face with mild water and brush his teeth. Bruise black bags lie under his eyes and he's a week away since his last shave, a pale figure in his own mirror; he runs a hand over his tired face, feeling as blank as ever.

In the other room, Taurus could hear the beginning of noise. He hurries back to his own bed and closet, sliding out of his pjyamas and into his gear. Behind him, Mephitis awakens; distubingly still and quiet - only now does Taurus really take in their appearance, washed out like a ghost in the bad lightning. Loose, ink-black hair frames their face and the features he couldn't quite place. With some embarrassment, Taurus finds he's not quite sure what gender to place them with - not that it's his business, but he still stumbled with some uncertainity.

With no ceremony, he shifts on his helmet and stares them down.

''We're going to medical.'' Taurus tries to wave some feeling back into his hands, the undergear still working on heating up. ''Am I going to have to drag you there or are you gonna wear the handcuffs? Your choice.''

He's not dumb enough to try anything less than them being restrained; that poor guy that almost got it yesterday and his bite wound are reminders enough not to trust this BOW in particular.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

MEPHITIS.

holy water cannot help you now,

thousand armies couldn't keep me out

the weapon

and what has been done cannot be undone

seven devils

— florence

mood: muddled mind
location: taurus room
interactions: mother of sorrows

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The room is dark.

A singular lamp dangling above a table and the still shadow curled over it, still clutching onto to life even as a hand paws at the switch on the wall.

The lamp shudders in response; casting an eerie, sickly artificial light over the enclosed space and the body barely breathing. The room itself is meticulously clean, the sterile scent burning sinuses, and Mephitis recoils from the chemicals assaulting their senses.

“Don’t you like the sight?” The briefest step they took backwards is stopped, a familiar voice sending unease prickling across their skin. It’s hot on their ear as they’re shoved forward, stumbling blindly and biting back a groan at the light from the lamp.

Even squinting doesn’t stop the light from awakening the searing pain at the base of their neck; scratching through their consciousness. It tears through any clarity that they regain, and they still, much like a compliant dog.

The body curled over the table twitches. A rasp of air through the bag on their head tells Mephitis that the person is still alive, even if barely, the shift in their breathing imperceptible to see.

Mephitis stares, and stares, but the faceless figure rings no familiarity in the gaping hole in their memories.

Or does it?

“Kill them.”

There’s the voice again. It’s flat, bored, and the drop in their stomach tells them that they’re taking too long.

They tilt their head only to glimpse of a white coat rustling around legs in the corner of their eye. A hand comes to rest gently on their shoulder, digging into where infection wiggles underneath their skin but the pain doesn’t register. The pressure from where their shoulder blades meet each other, hands twisted behind them uncomfortably with biting metal, eases at the man’s next words. “Kill them with your hands.”

Slowly, Mephitis nods - like the beaten down animal they are.

***​

There is still the taste of bleach on Mephitis’ tongue. Acid bites at the back of their throat, and their stomach reminds them of missed meals as they twist on the thin mattress as they’re shaken awake. Forcefully dragged from the memory of a crumpled body at their feet and praise whispered into their ear into the freezing cold of the dorm.

Or at least, they assume it’s the dorm; they can’t tell.

Their brain is blissfully blank, their consciousness eaten away by the remnants of the drug sluggishly moving through their body. It squirms through their veins, picking away at each piece with the intent to break them down from the inside out and Mephitis can feel themself being turned inside out. Grit dries out their eyes as they blink them open, staring up at the ceiling washed out with the sickly yellow as they continue to lay there.

Where were they again - maybe they should move.

It was a bad idea. Muscles and limbs scream in protest as they push themself up, attempting to work out the aches in their shoulders even with the cuffs still twisting the scarred tissue on their wrists. There’s a jacket draped across them, bleeding heat into their frozen stiff body and if they didn’t feel like a walking corpse, maybe they could have even felt surprise at it. As it is, they feel empty, a hollow shell functioning on commands beaten into its control panel. They watch the man’s back with detached interest, head lolling as they willed drug addled neurons to begin firing as he speaks to them.

“Medical?” Mephitis echoes back, voice hoarse and eyes unfocused as consciousness ebbs in and out. It shifts over sleeping panic and Mephitis can feel it rouse. Even with the sedation tempering it down, it rears its head, thrashing in response to the the white coat drifting in the corner of their eye at the mention of medical.

No. No. No.

Slow. Steady. It flickers into their sight and Mephitis snaps their neck to the side, lucidity returning briefly to sharpen their gaze at the empty corner before they drag their look slowly back to the soldier. Taurus, if they recalled right? Although, it appears they don’t even know how he looks. Only a mask stares back. Cold and unforgiving.

They don’t want to go to medical.

“I’ll walk there myself.” Shoulder muscles twitch in the position they’re held in at Mephitis’ attempts to roll them. “Release me. I need my hands functioning.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

mood: shitty + tired
location: medical
interactions: sdfgf

scroll

The BOW spasms like an insect with its limbs plucked off.

Taurus watches in silence. Words spew out of them like motor oil and it slips right past him, dripping out of their mouth. Consciousness returns to them in odd stares, in hazed eyes that remind him of a dead animal. They don't look happy about the prospect and Taurus really doesn't care. He shifts in his boots, staring down at them with distant thought. He doesn't react save for a pop of his teeth, grabbing them by the nack of their shirt to drag them up. Forcing balance on their knees, he lets go just to grab their arm. If he has to drag them through the rising snow by the hair, then he supposes he will. ''It's cold outside.'' Voice sensors distort the neutrality in his tone, voice coming in a low, foreign drone.

A heating jacket is thrown on their shoulders and no more, before he drags them outside.

Biting winds whip his face, spitting on the metal of his room floor. Blue-tinted darkness screams on the horizon and Taurus grits his teeth, kicking away an icy clump of snow that's crawled its way up to his door. White flakes melt on his armor and he steps into the windy, morning-clad courtyard with a huff. Machines of war lumber up and down, their heavy steps crushing the newborn snow under them. A few soldiers shouted in the distance, an airlifter taking off somewhere in the sightless skies. Taurus picks his way through to the medical building, dragging Mephitis along like an after-thought.

The inside is chaotically sterile, bleach and old blood passing through his air-filter. The dead and dying are out of sight and a pale nurse desperately mops up the dirty floors, her hands raw from constant disinfection. A few soldiers sit in plastic chairs, gazes cast to nowhere or talking in hushed voices. Taurus tags down a vaguely familiar doctor, mumbling a quiet 'good morning.' He pushes Mephitis closer, still holding them by the arm with a firm grip.

''They need a medical before mission. Something about, they have a file?'' Taurus doesn't know much about that and nobody in this shithole tells him anything, anyways.

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

MEPHITIS.

holy water cannot help you now,

thousand armies couldn't keep me out

the weapon

and what has been done cannot be undone

seven devils

— florence

mood: wtf
location: medical
interactions: mother of sorrows

scroll

It is of no surprise that the soldier, Taurus, doesn’t free their hands. Even still Mephitis lets a complaint slip, glowering at the soldier bruising their arm like a dog gone mad. “Are you deaf?” It appears he is. Mephitis is dragged, their weight irrelevant in the face of brute strength, and yet they fight every step of the way if only to protect the fact that they never showed their belly to the sky and let the military feast. Even with the heating jacket fighting along with them every step of the way, they still can’t feel their face by the time that they are forced across the doorstep of the medical tent, clumps of snow dragged behind them. They give a jerk in Taurus’ grip, quieting like the final twitches before one passes as he continues to drag them along.

Mephitis drops their chin, watching the surroundings through the hair sweeping into their face even as their headache throbs through their bones. Sterile cleanness from bleach scrubbed floors doing nothing for it, or from the bad dream they can’t seem to wake up from. A full-body shudder wracks them, eyes blinking away blood-stained floor underneath them and replacing it with the murky metal of the military hospital.

“Name?” The doctor peers at them, lines set into their face from a continuous frown. Mephitis misses the question until they repeat it, this time louder. “Name?”

Mephitis grits their teeth enough to hear joints creak, spitting it out. “Mephitis.” The doctor’s frown deepens, fingers flashing across the tablet before looking up at Mephitis. “Code M-31T15?”

Deep inside of them shreds of humanity rot even further away as they jerk their head in the resemblance of a nod. Humans paraded around names, ones gifted to them with smiling parents during birth or ones chosen till the soul agreed with them, but Mephitis didn’t even remember when they had been named or when they’d become simply a number. The doctor’s frown deepens, and they shift backwards, eyes moving between the screen and the two of them before the corner of their lips twitch in a dry smile.

“One moment please.” Mephitis doesn’t react. Doesn’t react even when the doctor flags down security with the same dry smile, before pointing the two of them towards a room with no window. They had long since been peeled out of their own skin, left to watch the proceedings as a passerby to their own life. The hate builds, boiling hot, and it simmers as the doctor locks the door behind himself and Taurus, Mephitis in tow like a ragdoll.

There’s a pause as the doctor shuffles around the room, before turning to Taurus by Mephitis’ side. “My name is Dr. Russ. If you could please provide further identification due to the patient’s status, and then I can pull its file up.”

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

TAURUS.

the face of evil is on the news tonight,

but have we ever really lived in better times?

the soldier

no one saw the blood on my hands

good luck

— broken bells

scroll

He knew he got fucked over; but by the doctor's too blank stare, Taurus can tell he's stepped into a sinking hole whose depth he's still figuring out. Dread makes him reel back, wary irritation in his voice. ''Identification.'' He echoes, looking at Meph. ''They have their tags.'' The metal gleams off their neck like a noose and Dr. Ross doesn't even look at them, pining them instead both with a clinical dissatifaction. He gestures at Mephitis' shirt in a voiceless order, on that takes a second to catch on in Taurus' early morning brain.

Is that why the room needs to be locked? A sense of violence ahead makes Taurus hesitate, shifting in the trickle of water his boots have trailed in.

''What, do you need to physically see their ID?'' He asks the doctor, who shakes his head before Taurus even gets to finish their sentence.

''There should be a brand.'' Dr. Ross kisses his teeth, pushing his hands under a disinfectant dispenser. Red rawness stinks on his hands, probably from seeing a dozen more patients before they even woke up. He snaps on a pair of blue glues and steps closer, yanking Mephitis closer by the arm like they're a vaguely interesting object - there is no softness to it, all rough professionalism, and Taurus feels the tension before he even takes it in. Before he can bring up his concern, the doctor is already yanking up their shirt in one stiff move.

Mephitis doesn't attack. There is a strange limpness to them, one that takes Taurus by surprise; he expected the brutal outbursts from yesterday, the flash of inhuman rage. Them being so mild about it all makes his stomach clench with nerves, not knowing what to expect. He follows Dr. Ross' hands, blinking at what he sees.

There, in their flesh, is an engravement. Old enough to scar, but fresh enough that it smells like surgery; raised skin bumps in a jagged line, deep enough that it makes Taurus imagine a tool peeling back skin. It's so utterly unexpected that for a second he goes silent, mind catching up to his eyes. What the hell is that? A brand, yeah, like the doctor said - but for what reason? Not that Taurus goes around peeking down BOWs' shirts, but he's almost sure not a single person he's been partnered up with had something like that. It looks like a damn cattle mark.

A distant uneasiness fills the space between exhaustion and silence. Taurus stares from the mark to Mephitis' face.

He finds nothing staring back.

''Why do they have that?'' He clenches out, watching the doctor's hand go closer.

© reveriee

 

[mother of sorrows]

ARTAMOS.

The first thing God made was love
then comes blood and then

the thirst for blood

the sinner

heaven never heard a word I said

the balancer's eye

— lord huron

mood: : )
interactions: Sear

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Had he made a mistake?

Steam burns his forehead. Sweat collects in the hollow of his throat and behind his ears. An expanse of steel throbs under where he's forced into a crouch, the ceiling low enough to hit his head if he stands up. The maintance tunnel is tight and run through by primitive wiring, an earthly hell. The electronic panel is mild; all the lights are on, and even taking it apart to look into its bowels reveals nothing.

All powergrids are prone to accidents. Too many parts working at once. But Tartarus, the only thing keeping New York City alive, has failsafes. The failsafes have failsafes. If one tunnel doesn't work, it will start to drain another, and if that doesn't work each tunnel has a dozen generators keeping it running.

Tunnel BA-081 is not working. It's not charging. It's not reaching out to the other systems, either.

The failsafes work. The generators work. But something, somewhere, has falled out of its well-oiled place.

Artamos wipes away the perspiration on his cheek, borderline frantic. He takes short little puffs of air as he struggles with another casing for the fifth time, eyes flickering around like marbles in ink. His stomach clenches into a fist. Even through his work clothes, he is being burnt alive. He puts a feverish hand to his forehead and closes his dry, burning eyes.

Tunnel BA-081 is not working. Artamos Murn, twenty-six, hardware engineer, is the man responsible for it.

And he has no fucking idea what to do.

---​

New York City smells like a dead toad left to ferment in vinegar; this is a truth that not thirty inches of hard, gray tugs of snow can cover up. The gutter systems have never recovered from the Fall and any city worth putting on the map has its own collection of trash. Fumes slick the sky like bottom of an oil pit. You can't see the stars, here; only the shine of cars and neon, the darkness not so dark.

Artamos shifts in the alley of a restaurant. It's bitterly cold, snowing and disattached from noise. It reeks like a slaughterhouse and he lights a cigarette partly to cover the stench, and partly to soothe his overblown nerves. He hesitates to call his boss. He hesitates to call his father. He has been waiting an hour for Locke already and he felt as though he's going to get skinned alive.

He has encountered problems in his work before. Anyone does, eventually. But hardware is so profoundly logical that Tunnel BA-081 still hunts him even a day after his last shift. It will be hours before he descents down into the tunnels again and he's going through all he knows, even as he waits.

Faulty wiring. It could be that. Or a software issue. Electrical. Meeting Locke puts him in a far worse mood than he should be, too; idiot, probably got a concussion in the pit. He should have been here by now.

Or maybe the hardware is too old. Too damp?

Artamos flicks ash from his gloves and takes another drag, and refuses to think.

The air swishes in a bite. Artamos watches the drunk and lonely walk past, hidden in his shadow. Even with no one to see him his face is blank, distantly disinterested, aware; he gives a look upwards to see figures move between the windows of the apartments above, the only life he's subject to. It's silent. He doesn't want to ruin his clothes, so he doesn't lean on the wall.

Where is that useless asshole? Artamos seizes like a bear trap. Oh, God. It could really be too damp. That could start a fire.

Somewhere, someone yells. A crunch of footsteps makes the man finally lean over; a streetlight devours the black road, morphs it, cuts through like a knife in butter. A form stands beneath it, still - in hesitation or observation, malicious or terrified, anonymous in the night. Their boots make a thin line into the alley, the snow ruined.

Artamos bares his teeth into a smile.

If he glances fast, he can almost believe what he sees glistening is blood. The light reveals colored hair, untrusting eyes; a puff of breath, a cheap jacket made to be destroyed. Locke, an hour and - Artamos glances at his watch - a half late.

''There you are.'' Artamos' voice is like boiling sugar as he nods in greeting, the side of his smile twitching. ''I thought I lost you. No watch, I take it?''

© reveriee

 

[Sear]

LOCKE.

from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them

that is eternity

the cursed one

we are the underground

I'm dangerous

— EVERLOVE

mood: not feeling the vibes
location: hell, hopefully
interactions: mother of sorrows

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Locke hadn’t expected the man to fucking lob the bottle straight at his face.

A Courvoisier bottle no less, kissing his skin and shattering into tens of reflective pieces thrown about the lounge room. It deserved a far better fate than that, but the rich and drunk didn’t care for gold coated bottles and measly paychecks of bartenders. He could see the dip in his income to replace it from where he was standing, drenched in cognac that seeped into his clothing and bitten to bleeding pieces by embedded glass. Crunching the rest of the bottle beneath his feet he made quick steps towards the man still seething. He too smelled like the cognac, but it clung to his breath instead, and Locke’s nose wrinkled both at the smell and as he watched the man go patchy in splotches of red at his hand closing around his shoulder.

“Aye, I’d get your hands off of me before I call your manager here, boy.” The man was ranting. Each word of his sending spittle spraying in Locke’s face as he wrestled him towards the door, watching as from the corner of his eye he saw a shadow peel away from the wall and begin to move towards him quickly. Blue most likely, but until Blue appeared, Locke had to keep the man under control himself. Easier said than done, considering the man proceeded to slam a well-oiled shoe straight into Locke’s fraying pants where his knee poked a hole in his work uniform.

“Sir, if you’d please-” It was futile. Locke could see the way each of his words bounced off of the man’s ears, only winding him up further, feeding the greedy void that all patrons of the Coliseum harbored. After all, in their world, they stood above the employees of the Coliseum. Employment ending devils that wielded their power with hefty bets and donations. If these devils told them to dance, they were to dance, if they were told to bark, they were to bark, and if they were told to beg for lowly scraps like mutts thrown out on the street.

They were to beg.

Locke was thankful when Blue finally peeled the man out of his hands, casting him a look tinted with pity as the man launched into a new spiel about the place falling into shambles. What had happened to the Coliseum of before, where staff respected the patrons and bent to their every whim. Locke wiped his hands, smearing the cognac further across his clothing, as he swallowed back his words.

The Coliseum had always been a festering wound in the belly of the city.

Nothing had changed.

---​

Locke didn’t change either, but more in the literal sense, with the wet stains on his shirt and pants having dried quickly into cardboard fabric in the stifling heat of the backrooms.

He didn’t shower either; only spending enough time to pull pieces from his skin and douse his hands and cheek in antiseptic that sent his eyes rolling back and tongue choking his throat. The water ran red, but in the stained sink, it didn’t even matter — blending right in with memories of past injuries. There was no time for more. He was already so late it was pathetic, if the clock (that he knew ran at least fifteen minutes behind) was true, and every minute longer threatened the wrath of the son of capitalism.

He desperately did not want to test how far the stick up Artamos’ ass went.

Cognac, and now snow clinging to him, Locke made his way through the twisting alleys that still echoed the remnants of a time before the Fall. When the city didn’t cough up twisted tumors of neither man nor monster and bleed from every orifice. The city was dying. Maybe it was already dead, but Locke didn’t pursue the thought further as he stepped into the alleyway with his heart in his throat.

The relief was a welcome first. It rushed into his body as he saw the familiar shape of the man, thanking whatever stars had aligned that the man hadn’t left and aired his dirty laundry to the masses online. He'd done his duty too before appearing — uploading to the server Artamos' had set up, so he was actually cooperating along this new partnership. The second emotion, annoyance, was less welcome, but it was becoming a staple served on a platter each time the two of them interacted.

He decided to ignore the comment about his lack of a watch. Cowardly, he knew, considering the watch was front and center on his wrist, but he had shown up.

“I showed up, didn’ I?” Locke jerked a chin at the alleyway, “What we doin’ here though. I didn' take ya for someone who liked these places. It stinks like ass.”

© reveriee