MERIHIM ILLUSI, PK-INQUISITOR [DONE]

The evidence placed before them had been inconclusive.

The pieces of paper stapled together, had first appeared to him as a tower of doom. The Peacekeeper’s had smiled at him, each grin tinged with malice and an unwelcoming coldness that had sent shivers down his spin. They’d reminded him of his father, a cold man that had given up on his children, ignoring their very existence before joining the ranks of the Peacekeeper’s. (Was he there? Was he watching as his son was interrogated? An empty face behind one of those masks? Nah. His father didn’t have a son. He didn’t have a father). There cruel smirks had slowly dissolved over time and soon they’d begun frowning at the paper, flipping through each page with more urgency as the clock struck. It was supposed to be there, they’d mumble, the evidence. But it wasn’t. Every remark on them, note on them was supposed to be a step towards losing his tongue and his future.

At first he’d tensed up, uncertain of what they would say to him, but they’d ignored his presence as they had begun reading, apparently unhappy about the result they had achieved. He’d been careful, as always to cover up his tracks, in fact he’d never been shoved into such a nerve-wracking position before, where he was forced to actually think about the consequences of his actions.

Huh. Yeah right. Consequences.

Merihim Illusi had leaned back in his cold, metal chair, gazing at them with the faintest of smirks as he had come to realize that they had nothing on him. He knew, they knew, the entire country of Panem knew that they couldn’t bag him. And that stack of paper was worth nothing more then a rotten apple to a rich man. His lively brown eyes sparkled as he had leaned forwards, hands resting on the table, all too clearly happy about the situation. He was far too smart for them, too smart to get himself caught. He’d never been one to be careless, he was quick to act, reckless and all to shallow, but he was thorough. If he could do one thing it was complete a task without fail. It was why he’d been getting away with all the petty crimes he’d been causing, it was why these Peacekeeper’s were practically foaming at the mouth to dump him in a cell, bash him, beat him and steal his tongue.

His pride ached, however, it had been struck down a few notches as they had burst into his home, handcuffed him and dragged him away. They’d gripped his dignity in their hands and shaken it like a ragdoll, roughly and rudely treating him with all the satisfaction that came from those who saw themselves as superior beings. He’d slipped up, a step too far in his plans, and that was why he was currently sitting in a room with four walls and one door. It was why he was on a cold metal chair that creaked and groaned with his twitching. It was why a man with a long beard, stern face and eyes as old and rusted as nails glared at him through thin, greasy glasses.

But it wasn’t enough. That was clear.

And with that silent admission he’d turned a new leaf, his usual cocky joy enveloping the room as he spoke, ”got nothing on me, pops.” It turns out, however, dickheads don’t like to be spoken to like that. Seeing as he was just some good for nothing rich boy from district One and this was some Peacekeeper who had just lost his gold mine that would have gotten him a good promotion, yeah, he had made a bad move. To put it lightly his first experience in the Detention Centre had ended with a few beatings, fists went flying, teeth broke, and lips split blood spilled. And they never asked one question; he’d have been lying if he had said he hadn’t left laughing. They’d been so pissed and angry that they’d just taken it out on him, and even after being beaten to a pulp his pride was shining through the mess of his battered face. He’d won.

It was after that experience that he had found himself ever so intrigued by the workings of the Detention Centre. By the way the men had enjoyed bashing him and making him cry out in pain. They’d found it funny to grab scissors and chop his brown hair off,, to pull his fingernails out, to cut him, burn him and make him cry. They'd crushed his good likes like a bug on the pavement, a smear of his looks left behind to remind onlookers of who he had been, not so much of a pretty boy now, are you. It was there that he learnt that he could enjoy the same kind of pleasures.

He’d left, been dumped in the middle of a random ass street, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a downpour, hands tied, eyes covered. It reminded him, strangely, of his childhood, with his father dumping him in an alleyway at the age of four and leaving him there. In all honesty he had no recollection of his old mans face, when he pushed himself to remember the image he was rewarded with a fuzzy haze of an image of someone he would not even be able to recognize if the man was two inches from his face. For years now there had never been a lingering spark of recognition that would cleanse the haze of uncertainty from his dark eyes. His father would always remain a mystery, everything except for his voice.

Most people said that it was the voice that you forgot first after you lost someone. It was the way they spoke, the way they lingered on words or phrased things. It was always the quickest thing to pass by and leave you wondering what they had even been like in the first place. That had never been the same for Merihim. The cold, taunting tone of his distant father was like a scar on his memories, a constant, glaring obviously reminder that the man had crushed his heart. It was always the same harsh words (you’re dead to me, I have no son), scratching at his heart and chest, twisting his soul and re-enforcing the fact that he had been a worthless piece of shit.

The mud had covered his clothing as he had remained perched in its embrace, feet sinking into the sloppy surface. The rain had slapped his clothes, forcing the torn material to hang from his thin, but lean frame. It was all too clear that he wasn’t in the best condition, the markings of abuse and a hard life all to evident. Scars, cuts and bruises a pattern of inflicted pain and a reminder that even though he had survived since the day he had been abandoned he was still suffering. The cuts and bruises never bothered him. Pain was an all too familiar source of comfort, and he found the process of it all rather intriguing. Merihim was not one to wither and shrink away from pain; instead he took it as it came finding the entire process, and the very fact that his body registered it fascinating. So he took it in stride, his over-confident, cocky personality allowed him to quickly adapt to those kind of situations, and the reckless, but stubborn traits he had gained allowed him to overcome the problem of being chucked into the rain bound and broken.

It had taken hours to unravel his hands. By the time the rope fell free to join the mud on the ground the moon had rose and the darkness that swamped the district had become so thick that it was easy enough to hide. It was a perfect night for crime and fun. The entire process of escaping his small restricting prison had been excessively fun, and he returned home that night smiling.

☆ ☆ ☆

The experience had left his body tingling. It had given him an odd sense of pleasure, one that he often lacked, one that he only ever truly felt when he was experimenting with different approaches to pain; delivering it to others, as much as dealing it out on himself. It was never intentional on his own body; he had a strange tendency to spill his own blood on a regular basis. Most people scolded him, telling him that he shouldn’t be so careless. The girls he tended to try and impress with his quick natured flirting often giggled and told him he was clumsy. Which, of course, they found cute. Yes, it did have its advantages.

A few months after his excursion to the detention center he found himself signing his name up to appear at the Peacekeeper academy. For someone of such a short attention span it was a tedious process of interviews, assessments and testing. By the end of it all it was a miracle that he even received an invitation into the academy. Merihim was a standout student academic wise, he was a quick thinker, a fast learner and capable of solving any problem thrown his way. However, behavioral wise it was tough for him to even appear for more then a few minutes at the testing grounds. But his scores saw him through and before he knew it he was being shipped off to an academy of hell.

The first night he arrived the moon was a slice in the sky, its shaky attempt at giving the Earth some colour was just embarrassing. The first night he arrived he slipped into his assigned dorm, before moving outside to sit on the open space of grass between the buildings and a small forest. There he had lain down, the cold bite to the air snapping at his exposed skin. The breeze blew gently over the course of the night and Merihim fell asleep on the grass and he didn’t wake up until it was midday and his name was being screamed across the academy.

Now, the punishment for his actions was nothing compared to everything else he had gone through. There was a fair more yelling (what had they said? Had he been listening?). Yelling was easy to drown out, everyone sounded monotone and grumpy and he’d grown up with that all his life. In response to their behavior he had straightened up, chucked on his most goofy smile, slapped his heels together and given them a salute. “I’m terribly sorry for my actions, good sir,” he’d say, before reaching forwards and pat the man on his chest, his words of an apology stained with hidden intentions of stupidity.

It never ended well.

The students quickly gained an opinion of the troublesome teenager. He was quickly known and recognized as the boy you should avoid if you don’t want to get into trouble. That did little to temper his personality and his habits and before he knew it he was sliding between table and desk, flirting with every girl that came along. He’d stand there, test the waters before throwing on his greatest act, all cockiness and arrogance as he flirted until they told him to piss off. Surprisingly, none of them wanted to play the game with him. They all yelled and screamed and growled, calling him a dick and a jerk and whatnot. Never once did they hurt his feelings, however, Merihim was not a boy to be hurt by being pushed off the edge, the only thing that could hurt him was actual, physical pain. He was dead to emotional taunting and heartache, or so he thought.

”How you doin’?” The cheeky comment was quickly followed up with a wink as he grinned at the girl before him. She was the last one in the class that he hadn’t approached. There had been so many rumors surrounding her appearance in their class, about her skills and her talent. Apparently she was in her last year, just like them, and yet she was only in her second year of studying. A smart, very smart girl, apparently. She was certainly different, whereas he was unkindly shot down with a few cruelly intended words Psyche had simply responded with a no, as he had suggested some sort of relationship. However, she had been a shocker, instead suggesting that they become (fuckbuddies, hell yeah) friends with benefits. If his delighted laugh could have been any louder he’d have gotten into trouble, probably.

That was the first time he met Psyche, and it was at that point that he started to admire her.

☆ ☆ ☆

In the end his affection for Psyche remained at no more then the level of admiration and awe. He respected her greatly, and that was all it would ever be. It wasn’t hard to give up on her, especially after he met her. Yes Her. Laufeia Pots. After graduation Merihim was assigned, with three others to run the detention Center, it’s short comings over the years had been reason for drastic changes. And thus the four horsemen were placed on top, told to deal out the punishments and interrogations, and Merihim met Laufeia and he was in love, unrequited love, but still love. Most people would probably summaries it as a crush, childish affection, but Merhim had never had a crush, so the fact that he was awkward, and giddy all at the same time in front of this girl was enough for him. The fact that his hear beat grew quicker and he couldn’t even force out a small flirtatious greeting was enough to fool him into thinking he was in love.

Move over, fuckbuddy, Merihim’s found his gold.