chapterone. stained transactions.
Apr 9, 2011 13:02:22 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Apr 9, 2011 13:02:22 GMT -5
This ain't a scene, it's a goddamn arms race
This ain't a scene, it's a goddamn arms race
This ain't a scene, it's a goddamn arms race
I'm not a shoulder to cry on
But I digress
Perhaps he had been too cocky his entire life - waltzing through danger like it was a simple dance, and that it would be over in a few minutes. He had tango-ed with death, practically kissed it after his arm had been lost. But he had survived, and maybe that was why he felt invincible at times, making careless mistakes, leaving a small trail of breadcrumbs for the Capitol to follow, and eventually they'd catch up with him. If only he had known that earlier; perhaps he would have reverted to his sneaky ways, avoiding the torture that he delighted in giving his victims. He'd just steal and get out. That's what all of those famous robbers had done - stolen a few goods, then fled the scene.
But no. Malachai was always an attention hog. And that probably explained why he left a trail of blood wherever he went, leaving the ones he robbed from sobbing on the floor in a pool of blood. Perhaps he wanted them to feel the pain he had felt, or maybe his sadist tendencies just caused him to go a bit overboard, like with that man that he had murdered (even to his grave, he would swear that it was an accident - that he was clumsy and inexperienced, and that the man was threatening and overpowering). The image of his life just stopping, of the eyes glazing over... It had been too much for him, so he had become more reserved, more paranoid. Of course, it was difficult to do so with the arm that he had also lost that night (he swore, that if he ever saw that peacekeeper again, he'd torture him so badly that he'd lose his mind before being shot quickly with a bullet to the brain), but he had last this long.
Stained Transactions changed that. He went from a meager blip on the Capitol radar to something much bigger. Something was going on in District 6, and even though it was led by a goddamn twelve year old, it was something to be reckoned with. Undergeround drug trafficking, murders left and right - he had felt at home here. He became less careful, even willing to taste a bit of the blood that had made him feel so alive back then. And then lust became another part of his robberies, and it wasn't an uncommon sight to see him wandering home after a heist with a guy who was high as a kite stumbling along side of him, hands groping, reaching for clothes that could be ripped off in an instant, mouths smashing together - that kind of stuff.
So he became a scene, noticed by a good chunk of his neighbors. That was probably the leading factor to his demise. But how was he to know? He was drunk every night, not merely with alcohol, but with the adrenaline that flowed through his veins when he heard the screams as the knife slid through skin, as blood leaked out of cuts and scarring wounds. Powdered drugs and such didn't aid him in becoming sober - if anything, they only heightened the senses, making every movement against the ones who had been so elite seem like euphoria. A smile so wide he could have seen insane, a chuckle or two, gasps of ecstasy; all of this was on the man's (he was already nearing the end of his teenage years) face as he slashed and robbed and engaged in intercourse. So he was oblivious to how easily recognizable he was. And now he was here.
I'm a leading man
and the lies I weave are, oh so intricate,
Oh so intricate
and the lies I weave are, oh so intricate,
Oh so intricate
They had snatched him up rather quickly. He had barely enough time to utter a muffled cry for help before everything went dark and then he was here, in this warehouse or sorts. Oh how he wished now that he had just gone home with some guy or something instead of schlepping all the way out here, to this godforsaken rich neighborhood. Perhaps it was Peacekeepers who had drugged and kidnapped him, dragging his limp body to this spot, tying him to a chair in the middle of the large expanse of space. But no - the Peacekeepers would have dragged him down to the Detention Center, torturing him there, showing him that he simply can't break the laws or something. But this felt different. He wouldn't have been drugged, he wouldn't have been kidnapped, so this was different.
Worse.
He groaned once before it began, the hoarse sound turning to cries of pain. He wasn't a masochist; there was a large difference between liking the pain of others and liking the pain that you received. He hated pain actually, wincing when he got the smallest paper cut. This was the most accurate torture technique to reduce Malachai Rogers to a whimpering mess, except it was obvious that this group planned to go farther than that - the cuts were deep, ones that could easily kill, and it seemed like he'd have no chance of getting out of here. He'd die alone, bleeding out onto the ground, head lolling down, eyes staring into space, empty. Oh how he wished that Shiep or Bear or even Ethan and Shael were here to bail him out, but obviously that wouldn't happen. This was the middle of the night. The four of them would be asleep in their beds, or out at a club or something. In Lane's case, he would be in the Capitol, forced to serve others for the rest of his existance.
And he'd die here. Simple facts such as these wriggled their way into his mind, causing the adrenaline to rush, and for him to squirm, trying to escape the blows of his tormentors. But it was no use - the ropes were tied too tightly, the lacerations too deep, the blood flowing outwards too quickly, and the only thing he could do now was just give up. So he did, head dropping down, trying in vain to resist showing any more signs of weakness. But fatigue was wearing him down, and he just wanted to sleep and let this all go away, fading into his distant memories, waking up the next day to find that this was all a dream, a mirage, a figment of his imagination. And then, the severing began. White hot pain shot up his legs as they detached themselves from his body, and flashbacks of peacekeepers groping for his body, finding out that this wasn't a girl, taking something else in exchange all came back to him, and he sobbed. The tears slid down his face, dripping off of his chin one by one.
The last thing he saw was their faces.
I wrote the gospel on giving up
But the real bombshells have already sunk
But the real bombshells have already sunk
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