D2 :: Hatchet Laveau

something's different
we encounter like two sharks
say no more — clearly we're not cool
snatch one bite

When Hatchet comes to, she's flopped on a gurney in the medical ward with one arm dangling off each side. Her return to consciousness is greeted with wrist restraints, tight like clammy gremlin hands clamped down on her skin.

"Hold her still," someone growls. "Sit on her chest if you have to, I don't care."

Head swimming, it takes effort to twitch her exhausted muscles, but there has never been a moment when Hatchet Laveau wasn't ready to fight for her life. These idiots forgot to cuff her legs to the bed. Rookie mistake. Steeling her core she lifts the lower half of her body in one sharp movement and brings her muscled calves crashing down on the poor souls who've realized their error too late. Half a dozen tiny glass bottles smash against the tile floor, the sound of shattering mixing with a messy chorus of shouts.

"Hatchet!" Sevyn's voice slashes through the pandemonium of the room with absolute authority. "If you smudge our masterpiece I will end you myself!"

Eyes snapping open, Hatchet tries to process the situation. It's an emergency gathering of the A/V club. To her left is Sevyn, her signature I-don't-give-a-fuck-that-I'm-indoors sunglasses slipping down her nose as she jerks on her friend's arm, both hands clutching her wrist in an attempt to keep her from flailing around. To her right is a graphic split of half-navy, half-bleached white hair: Rageon, similarly struggling to maintain a grip on her other arm. Gremlins indeed. The person getting the smackdown from Hatchet's legs turns out to be Salem, a girl who would never hurt a mouse because mice are pets that don't deserve violence, they deserve tasty cheese treats for being cute puzzle solvers with soft little heads. It's this last realization takes the wind out of Hatchet's aggression, remorse gutting her at the sight of the most harmless person she knows trying to hide the fresh bruise on her arm as if the important thing right now is ensuring that Hatchet doesn't feel hurt over hurting her.

Hatchet is a piece of shit. She deflates into the tangled sheets and wills her body to melt away into nothingness, like old piss-stained snow surrendering to the passage of seasons.

The air smells sharp with lacquer fumes. Sevyn's nostrils flare as her attempts at deep, calming breaths only serve to draw more attention to how a significant portion of her cherished and obscenely difficult to source nail polish collection — that she painstakingly barters little pieces of her soul for on their school's black market — has been smashed by Hatchet's thrashing. "That had better not be my duel-toned galaxy glitter polish all over Wrenley's shoes." If anyone hadn't yet realized that Sevyn was mentally debating murder before this moment, reverting to last names tips the stragglers off. It's a tell. It means: EVERY WOMAN FOR HERSELF. SHOVE YOUR OWN MOTHER INTO THE MOUTH OF THE BEAST IF YOU HAVE TO, MAYBE THAT WILL SLOW IT DOWN AS YOU RATRACE YOUR BESTIES FOR THE EXIT.

"Noooooooo," Rageon lies badly, panic-swirling her toes around in the wreckage in an attempt to muddle exactly which colors have become smithereens before awkwardly shoving her feet into hiding beneath the gurney, "it's probably not that one." Honestly, she has no idea which color Sevyn is referring to, but there's definitely a star-shaped fleck of glitter in the splatter on her ankle and that's enough to instill a deep, deep feeling of dread within her.

"Yeah. So. She's definitely lying." A less familiar voice interrupts from the next bed over, consonants dulled by the lollipop rolling around in her mouth.

"That two-v-one didn't shake out so well for you," Sevyn snaps at Wilder's unwelcome intrusion. "Do you really think going four-v-one will better your odds, Zombi?" The smatter of laughter that Wilder responds with sounds more than a little unhinged, but she refrains from giving this unknown enemy another jab with the proverbial stick. Turning her attention back to Hatchet, Sevyn rubs at her temples for a solid minute before breaking the nervous silence that has fallen over the room. "Your half of the scalping-cash is mine," she informs her, "for... damages. I'll also be stripping you of your Certified Kinky Whip^TM because if I don't do something petty now then I'll have to tamper with your school records later and I don't like working angry. I get messy." Sevyn doesn't do messy. The idea of that is somehow scarier than imagining exactly what she would do to those records.

"Not my Kinky Whip," Hatchet whines. She whines about this because she knows it will make the punishment feel more fulfilling to Sevyn, but also because she really likes that stupid imaginary whip. She hasn't even gotten to cast leather aesthetic with it yet! Not once. "Do you really have to bring Ephialtes of the Damned into this?" Wilder's eyebrows raise at the exchange of gibberish, but she just gives her lollipop a twirl and squints at Hatchet, trying to utilize this bizarre situation to gain insight in preparation for their inevitable rematch. Never forget the long con.

The truth is that Sevyn knows perfectly well that Hatchet is embarrassingly invested in the tabletop role playing game she invented, despite her perpetual efforts to play down that she cares about literally anything at all. That's why they've become good friends with the energy of an unlikely animal pairing: the judgemental hacker loner and the self-destructive hot girl bullshit barbarian of the varsity combat team. They're besties. Because of a shared love of elves and shit. How humiliating for both of them.

Salem raises her hand abruptly. "May I dibs the whip?" Hatchet visibly balks at her prized make-believe weapon being re-gifted to the pacifist of their ragtag party.

"Sure," Sevyn responds without a single moment of contemplation.

"No-oh!" Hatchet objects, switching into full-on brat mode. "What would you even do with my whip?!" She's now causing a scene. Officially.

"Cast leather aesthetic," Salem responds, devastatingly matter-of-fact.

A childish whine chews at the air, like baby teeth gnashing and slobbering on everything within arms reach. "Leather aesthetic doesn't suit youuu." Resorting to shameless begging, Hatchet turns back to Sevyn and bows her head while rubbing her hands together in a frantic prayer of the repentant. "Please take my Suit of Sexy Deception instead. Pretty please. My Cursed Cupid's Crossbow too! You can even have the arrows I enchanted with Slutty Kitten Costume energy during last year's All Hallows Eve moon quest that I've been saving for a special occasion. I'll strip naked and fight the reality tv star swarm without any buffs! I'll cleanse my fertility aura and take a vow of celibacy! Just... don't take my whip. I haven't gotten to play with her yet, it's not faaaaaair."

Everyone in the room does their best to choke back their giggles and maintain an expression befitting the severity of the situation; well, everyone except for Wilder, who is cackling openly with such gusto that she nearly chokes on her candy and only attempts to reign herself in upon realizing that no one in this room would attempt the Heimlich maneuver on her behalf. Not today. Hatchet is clearly in actual pain over this. "No." Sevyn's judgement is final. She smacks her palm against the gurney like banging a gavel. Not only did Hatchet break one of the laws of their friendship, but Salem dibsed the whip fair and square. Salem basically never asks anyone for anything. Refusing her would be an act of cruelty. "The Certified Kinky Whip^TM is now officially the property of Moan, the Martyred Nun of Darkadia."

Hatchet's full-throated scream of misery is piercing. Ten damage to everyone within auditory range.

"Did that death squall make you feel better?" Rageon checks in once the tantrum settles, petting Hatchet's hair with gentle, steady strokes.

"Mh-hm," she sniffles in reply, wrapping her arms around herself to wallow in self-pity. She has lost so much today. The hurt of it all finally sets in.

"HEY!" Sevyn screeches and everyone in the room jumps, their blood prickling with shared shock. This situation was supposed to be resolved; no more yelling. "I warned you not to fuck up our masterpiece."

It's too soon to fuck up again. Hatchet jerks her head around erratically, trying to figure out what she's doing wrong now. Apparently today the answer is: Everything. Whatever it is, she needs to stop. Immediately.

A heavy sigh is released. Sevyn is too tired for this. She flicks Hatchet on the forehead and then again on the hand clutching her side. "Hands out of your pits, girlie. I have no energy left for funeral arrangements today."

Furrowing her brow, Hatchet raises the hand up for closer inspection. It's only then that she notices her nails, one freshly-painted letter decorating each finger. At first the meticulous font looks more like ancient runes than any alphabet she's familiar with, acid green upon a subtly shimmering black background. The second letter is impressively detailed and, in contrast to the others, is shaped like a poisonous kiss mark. That must be an O. "S-O-" Hatchet murmurs for the benefit of the room, her concussed vision slowly piecing the puzzle together. "Hold the fuck up." S-O-R-R-Y. "You know damn well I've never apologized in my life. Not even for the sake of my whip. Where's the acetone?"

Turning to Rageon, she gestures for the bottle on the side table to be handed over. "You know I can't do that," her Judas of a friend says, mouth set into an attempt at a stern line that mostly just emphasizes the lingering hint of baby fat tucked into her cheeks for safe keeping. Hatchet's hand hangs in the air in disbelief over the rejection. That's when she notices her other hand.

L-O-S-E-R. The tips of these fingers are edged with tiny drips of blood red oozing toward her nail beds, like she just clawed someone apart with her bare hands. Nice. This O is a vein-y eyeball. The other letters are all wriggling worms mimicking a full-on Comic Sans font because everyone knows there's nothing scarier than that. Hatchet frowns at Rageon's trademark horror handiwork for a moment, suddenly conflicted. It's a term of endearment between the four of them; a reclaimed insult turned fellowship. She forcibly swallows a deep breath, nasal passages burning from the chemical scent still filling in the air.

S-O-R-R-Y L-O-S-E-R. Ha ha. Fine.

It's obviously a jab at her misconduct, which is... fair.

But it's more than that. It's something supportive too. It's her friends' way of telling her that they also think it sucks that she lost today, but without coercing Hatchet into having some kind of icky feelings conversation about it. There's an invisible comma between the two words, perceptible only to players level twelve and up. Reading this small love letter makes her feel a little bit better somehow. "All of you suck."

"Not as bad as you do," Wilder taunts, unable to bite her tongue any longer. Jumping off her bed she jerks her head at Rageon to scoot out of the way. (Second stringer, Wilder assesses automatically, but fast. Too fast. Always takes the first opportunity to strike instead of holding out for the best opportunity.) POP-ping the lolly from her mouth, she gingerly taps it against Hatchet's forehead. "Boop!" It leaves a satisfying sticky spot right where Sevyn flicked her earlier. Hatchet growls. Too soon.

"I'd tear you to shreds for that if only you were worth ruining my manicure for."

"Oh, I'm definitely worth ruining a manicure for," Wilder quips, relaxing more and more as Hatchet bristles. This just got fun. Plopping the candy back into her mouth as she struts out the door — "Mmm. Salty." — there's something undeniably ominous about the understated exit. Murder has been threatened a lot today.

"What is that stabbed into your leg, Hatchet?" Salem points at the barb of metal everyone else has apparently decided to be oblivious to. Do not be fooled by the glasses. While she is blind to most social constructs, she is excellent at seeing things that actually exist.

It's quiet for a moment. "...next to my leg," Hatchet corrects, willfully ignoring how closely it pressed itself to her skin, and pulls it free. In her hands it becomes obvious: it's the broken blade of Wilder's sword. Inexplicably, she beams, as if holding a hard won prize. After all, isn't that what it is? Her prize. Like keeping the tooth of a slayed dragon as a trophy, Hatchet clutches it to her chest and swells with joy. Some embarrassing things may have happened today — which will never be spoken of by anyone who wishes to keep their tongue — but so did this. Hatchet Laveau broke a legend's sword. It's a legend of her very own now.

Unseen, a small scrap of paper flutters off the side of the gurney, sticking itself face-down into the spilled nail polish before adhering to the sole of Rageon's shoe. Its death rattle cries out: Give back the honor you stole from me. And the sword. One week. Or else. No one hears it, because no one speaks the lost language of voiceless things. Not even level twelve dominatrix succubi with sexy duel classes in primordial blood sorcery.

everything between us looks just right
i don’t need more desire
shake it, dreadfully
tame it, chokingly
guess what i'ma do



^{deep by hyo.}