eat us alive; gunner/noah [ day one ]

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eat us alive; gunner/noah [ day one ] Jun 18, 2015 19:27:26 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jun 18, 2015 19:27:26 GMT -5

N O A H B O W E R S

Blinding, he bleeds. Eye full of sun and veins full of smoke to replace the lack of blood, he nearly believed that he was a corpse reanimated already. He was nothing but broken and bloodied - black eye, busted lip, ravine on his leg and two cuts on his chest like parallels, and a constant throbbing in his left hand "o'fuck me." Blood tasted like rust, and up until now he almost thought he was accustomed to it. When he heard the crack of a blunt and his hand shattering like the reality that "this'll be okay, inhale, exhale, break, inhale, exhale.

"This can be okay."

Of course, somewhere he wants to believe it. That limping across the dirt and sand and bleeding like a trail, that somehow he'll be okay for another eight days. This is what he wanted, right, a chance for a new- something. A new anything, a new breath a new heart, anything but Noah and smoke and factories, and somehow even again, that's all he has. Noah, and smoke and blood, and it's a new pain at the very least. Now it's not the same palindrome that is a boring life, now it's just breathing through new cuts and knowing that you're purely alone.

Noah bit the rust, drinking back blood and the pain - did he have anybody? People have people, that's how they survive, and part of him hoped that he had nobody. That he'd die without a sanity or a conscience, that he'd be able to die without the pain of leaving anybody, but he's never been content on being alone. He had factory boys and nuts and bolts, and Bailey, and at one point he had Maya, Sue and Kiena, and Lethe. Breaking for a crown or breaking for ashes, either way he was doomed days of rust.

Sue and Maya and "Wyatt- that was a new name, new letters sour on his tongue because before the day he had given him no thought, no name or title. Now he was one of three that didn't have Noah etched at the top of their hitlist, and now he took his place in a wealth of gold meant for kings. It was fitting, Noah was no king and he never was, gold fit around his hands only if he was the one crafting, and with axes in his hand he was only breaking.

"I'am no king," the axes in his hand made him retch. He was no king, he was a murderer. One of two, and only two, and it felt like he was on the wrong side of the axe. Blood and brain and a crack, it rang in his head like the one of his head but it wasn't as subtle, it was bolded. Emphasized, memorized, highlighted in the back of his mind a repeat of the sound of a person being ripped from their skull and released soul first into the world and his heart ticked to his veins, to his fist and cuts and it all hurt.

She was the 11, one of two, one of the only two, and somewhere was her people, because 11's don't just happen, people have people. 22 people, Noah included and somewhere in the mix 22 people wanted him dead, there was a Lyon and a Krigel and a Hammerfell, and he fucked with Orion once unarmed and there was no hope there. There was no hope, he held his hand to his mouth, clenching his other on an axe. Noah was an entity of chaos, and his heart screamed and his veins ached, with the pounding of his head and the seize of the word fuck repeating on his brain, nothing but screaming and blood and crack, that splitting of her forehead and he couldn't even say her name.

With the seize of his body, he fell to the ground - bleeding and screaming hysteria. Crying with knuckles in his mouth to contain as much as he could - ("Momma, Momma where 'm I, please tell me,") - Noah bit the rust, bit the edge of his mouth and the blood on his teeth and with the cracking of his hand, the cracking of a skull and the cracking of his heart he stayed as low to the sand as he could, head tilted to the sky and a beating in his throat.

"Momma, who'm I."

Sin, a body of chaos, mass hysteria of smoke and blood, tears and cracking and I'am no king. It's a new pain, breaking.

L△LIA
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eat us alive; gunner/noah [ day one ] Jun 19, 2015 19:16:55 GMT -5

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Post by L△LIA on Jun 19, 2015 19:16:55 GMT -5

GUNNER LA TORRE

everybody's suicidal
they don't even need my help

Even though the landscape stretches out in heartbreak, Gunner La Torre doesn't have anything within her chest worth being concerned over. It's the chests of others that are armored up with worry. One by one, all across the Arena, children are holding their hands to the sky, pleading: Save me, save me, save me. Gunner isn't worried about protecting herself, because she's the thing they're all scared of.

This is not her game. Her idea of playing around involves a lot more skin and ends with everybody winning. She makes it a habit to claim that victory more often than most, but even the worst casualties can't complain. It's only when play time is over that the shivers turn to fear and her touch becomes something no one in their right mind would curl into. Noah Bowers isn't given the option.

She doesn't see his face, his sobs, his pathetic trembling — only the death certificate of his throwing axes. Elya's blood is still on them. "You fucked up good." It doesn't matter that he's already on the ground. Before he can so much as blink away a tear, the dead-eyed girl is already slamming the butt of her musket into his head. It's lights out and when he wakes, the world is in darkness.

Hogtied with a backpack over his head, he's stomach-down on the rubble of the earth and stripped shirtless. Minutes tick by in silence as she leaves him to listen to the echo of his own breathing, to wonder how much oxygen can fit into a leather bag occupied by his head. She gives him just enough time to wish there were less of himself taking up precious space before she reaches out to grant his request. "You know what's worse than death?" Yanking that backpack off, she begins smacking him back and forth across the face with a fat stack of hundred dollar bills, as if to say: Pay attention, dipshit. There's going to be a test. "Me."

This is not the face of someone who believes he's going to live. "I'm not going to kill you today," and the statement might almost sound comforting if it weren't for the too casual way the word kill crosses her lips. "Maybe I'll kill you tomorrow. Maybe I'll kill you the day after. I will kill you. Today," a pause, a silent breath, an ungrateful shiver down his naked spine, "I'm just going to let you pick how."

Sitting cross-legged on the ground, as if bringing herself down to a child's level and speaking in the simplest of terms, she studies his face and bursts into a grin that borderlines madness. Except she knows exactly what she's doing and the practiced methodology of it shines upon the pale bullets of her teeth. "I could start with your hands —" Leaning forward onto her elbows, she speaks like a Sunday afternoon spent eating sandwiches with the crusts cut off while listening to her mother wax poetic about bird watching. It's a voice from a world where calm nothingness still exists. In this world, however, Gunner La Torre has never known her mother, only a father who taught her everything he knows: "— peeling your skin off one finger at a time and then up your arms, chest, face, legs. If I'm careful, you'll get to live a long time. Or maybe we do it quick and dirty, slitting your throat and hanging you by your feet to help the blood drain." She lists deaths the same way she'd recite her ABC's. "If I’m in a good mood I might even cut the arteries in your arms and thighs; mercy for a slaughter animal."

Her Sunday face fades. "You don’t put me in a good mood, Noah."

The blades adorning her knuckles catch sunlight as she pulls out the six-barrel flare gun tucked into the waistband of her jeans, emergency signals and weapons alike glinting with all the wicked edges that have been masked by her deadpan voice. "There's always the option of finding out what a flare tastes like." Noah's mouth has already been duct taped shut and she reaches out to pull it free, sticky silvered plastic hanging from his cheek as she forces the gun into his mouth, her finger on the trigger. Past lips, past teeth — far enough to make him gag. "But swallowing fire is too easy and I'd hate to miss out on our precious time together." She jerks the gun free, unconcerned about whether or not she might have chipped his teeth, before tucking it back into her jeans and pressing the tape over his mouth once more.

"Instead, I could tie you up for a few days," a fingertip trails down his cheek, too sharp to be loving, "collecting your tears in my water jug until I have enough to flood your lungs and drown you with your own fear. Only, that might be too much like letting you commit suicide." A deadly soft laugh escapes through the cracks between her cheshire teeth and it only grows the longer she looks at Noah — tied wrists-to-ankles and beyond the help of mercy, even the slaughterhouse kind. "On a scale of one to me, how scared are you right now?"

Amusement flees from the sound of her voice and she returns to the monotony of Noah's options for his future. "We could cut your limbs off one by one just to see how little you need to live." Picking at the dried blood beneath her fingernails (and only some of it his), she holds her hand out for examination as she drolls on, impressed with how well her last manicure is holding up. "Bash your skull in all messy with a piece of rebar, castrate you, shove my fingers so far down your throat that you puke blood, make you swallow it back down, and then do it all over again." Her nails are gilded in gold and neon, without a single chip to be found. Fabulous as fuck. It's inspiring, really, and she flicks her eyes up to meet Noah's once more. "I could punch you in the face until you forget your mother’s name and I’m the last memory you have left."

When Gunner looks into Noah's eyes, she doesn't actually see anything. She just feels vaguely empty. That emptiness consumes the air until the only thing left to do is swing her knife-bright fist —

There are endless ways to kill a man and Gunner La Torre knows them all.

— forcibly punching through the rope binding his ankles. It falls away to free his feet and she immediately hauls him up by his hair. He sways unsteadily without the help of his arms to balance him, but Gunner slings the heavy weight of his satchel around his neck anyway. She knows all too well the bag won't be enough to break it. "Think about your choices, Noah." A solid minute passes without him moving a muscle and she arches an eyebrow at him before flicking a perfect fingernail against his lower back, where she inked words of warning while Noah laid unconscious. A tramp stamp. There's probably enough adrenaline pumping through his system that he can't feel the soreness yet, but it's amazing how easily permanent damage can be done with just a sewing needle and a marker. The block lettering of her serial killer scrawl reads:

GUNNER'S BITCH

Noah Bowers belongs to her now. Marked for death, nothing can save him. "Run."

[Gunner duct tapes Noah's mouth shut and hogties him with rope]

[Gunner gives Noah a prison tat tramp stamp with a needle and sharpie: GUNNER'S BITCH. Don't fuck with her things.]

[Gunner punches through the rope binding Noah's ankles with her brass knuckled fists of doom, but leaves his wrists and mouth bound]

[Run, boy.]

Last Edit: Jun 19, 2015 19:21:09 GMT -5 by L△LIA