these shots don't ricochet; python

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a e s o n kight .

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They've dipped your hands in tarnished ichor and told you it's a double-edged sword. Perhaps it's the lack of fear that thrums a heavy rhythm in your heart that confirms the madness festering in the back of your mind, it's rare that indifference can imply suicidal and yet here you stand, remembering the inquisitive look your grandfather gave you as he spoke his orders like they were scripture.

"You know what I'm telling you to do right?"

"Of course."

"And where I'm telling you to go?"

"Yeah,"

They weren't difficult orders. You always considered fear to be the mind killer, your Ava made sure you knew backing away was synonymous with weakness and your held the philosophy that if someone has to get their hands bloody and their fingers dirty then it would be you. After all, you were never a star --despite everything you wished-- and when you died you would drown in your own blood and sputter, not throw off your outer layers and become a supernova to never be observed at face value.

They act like it's certain that, that entering into a den of lions necessarily means you won't leave with your throat. Fucking pussies, no one's banished your soul to the grave in eighteen years and you see no reason to be afraid now. Just delivering some serious shit, you're not black angel with black wings today and nor are you a reaper bearing a knife and scythe -- you're here to deliver packages not collect debt. The fuck's so hard about that?

Granted, last time someone was sent to the cartel they left without their ears and tongue, and the guy before that never came back at all. Something about them being disrespectful and threatening, 'we doesn't like that shit' was the typical response anyone would give when questioned. They call their boss Amity; the name itself sent shivers down their backs and you couldn't see why, you'd never so much as seen the bitch before. Only heard of the beautiful atrocities their cartel did in the night.

You remember wondering if your grandfather would retaliate. You wanted him to tell you to find one of theirs and cut their throat and you could flourish in the street war that would ensue. War's in your fucking blood.

But he never did -- something about being outnumbered and the peacekeepers.

Now here you stand, breathing beneath a starless night and thunder. Lightning creates white fissures in the sky, splitting the clouds and rain pelts you from above, hitting and rolling off your hoodie and you can only bring yourself to smile. If this is your last day seeing the sky then you'd quite like it to be dark and miserable, that way you can tell yourself that the sky's weeping for you.

Your feet tap against the ground and you're excited. Excited to meet this Amity you've heard so much about, who even your grandfather seems hesitant to fuck with and people only talk about in hushed tones and whispers, as if this cartel's blade could find their throats by a simple whisper one note too loud. You wish you could be feared that much, not just among your peers but among the entire criminal world, the name Aeson to only be spoken in whispers for fear you might be watching.

Fear's sharper than any blade could ever be and this little garden of yours doesn't have nearly as many thorns as this cartel.

Your feet come to a halt with a splash! in a puddle and you stop and stare. "Definitely the place, this has to be it." You say with a whisper, you followed his directions to the absolute letter and you don't dare miss the mark. You squint through the rain and sigh, stepping forwards without so much as a hint of fear in your eyes. You just want to be out the rain.

They stop you before you've fully seen them, the guards standing outside the door and you know exactly why. No weapons; your grandfather never even lets his own family into his house with weapons of their own. You know there's no use in hiding it so you pull out your knife and let it clatter to the ground; you're still a strategic thinker and you know that if you hand it to him he might sink it in between your ribs.

You pull off your hood and they let you in and you step into a paradox. Their little building is well-lit and ominous all at the same time. Within this den of wolves, you will not be a lamb. You're heart doesn't race and fear doesn't wrap itself around your throat. Mutilation and never seen again; you suppose there are are worse fates. You let a lazy grin play across your lips as you pull the package from your jacket and lazily wave it up above your head. "Hey, I've got your shit."

You hear the crack of thunder outside and find yourself wondering if hell will be something like this.