🐱 saber . five [fin - cb]

S   A   B   E   R

"Where's-"

ruby,

"the-"

scarlet

"money?"

red.


His nose cracks under the weight of that last punch, bubble wrap bone under tissue paper skin and it crashes into itself, blood carving down his chin and he tastes the iron and steel he normally spits. There's something comedic in the way the neon light of the bar above, flashing in pink and blue, perfectly carves out the delicate features of a person with a curled fist but dealt a shit hand, jaw like marble and green eyes looking through him. White-knuckles to gut and the world goes dim for a second, brought back by pink and then blue and then a hand through his hair, pulling him harsh back up to form. Death outside of the fucking Kitty Kat Lounge, what a coffin to be buried in. But he's seen worse, and he's definitely seen better.

Pink, blue, "Answer me, boy." And he thinks the pain speaks for him, or maybe the blood loss, both. "Y-you look b-better in pink." 

Fist to skin, something new shatters.

Five is full of brains but he ain't one of them, thrown into the seedy underbelly of a District that takes more than it gives. Power, it clings desperately to it in more than just output, sewn into the flesh and the blood of every low-life scum that stands cold in the wake of the reactors that tower above them, casting shadows far too deep not to breed something sinister. He's no better than the life he's been given, learning what to take and never to give, who to work for and where to sell, learning to catch but never get caught. Still working on that last one. His back slams into brick, pink and blue and now red.

"Money by Monday, or it's fucking over for you, Saber." 

Pink, blue, red, grimace and grin and curled fist kissing flesh.






Lights out.