Disclaimer and Notes: I don't own Mortal Kombat, a fact for which I'd suspect Midway Entertainment Ltd. and Ed Boon are eternally grateful. This is AU: one possible ending for the events of MKII. Mileena's viewpoint. (Like I ever write anything else. Please.)

Abattoir

By DS84

Now that blood's been shed
There will be no crowds today
Tell them Taurus killed the tamer

--Splashdown, "Lost Frontier"

I: Now

There's a certain smell to fresh death. It's an assault, a punch in the face. Strong? Gods, it reeks. It's as if someone grabbed a handful of shit and blood and rammed it up my nose. Only that's not quite right—that's not all of it. There's rot in it, and vomit. And the blood is so much stronger than the others. Real and almost wet down the back of my throat, heavy and thick, like molten glue. It always makes me want to sneeze and gag at the same time. And human blood, in particular, is like metal. Iron. Copper. Rust. Rats in the alley, rats in the garbage, rats in the dark.

That's all we are, really. Rats in the dark.

Oh, we pretend otherwise. We play soldier, play royalty, the good daughter and the loyal general. We pace and strut, we give and take orders as if we know what they mean. We do our duty by daylight, and make plots after nightfall. We have words in the dark, whispers in the dark. And now and then, in the dark, we reach for each other.

That's what this is about, isn't it? The scrabbling of rats.

No, he says. That's not it at all, he insists, a little desperately. He tells me again how beautiful I am, how perfect I am, and how wonderful it is, everything we do.

Stop lying to me!

Why am I crying? Damned if I know. I think it has something to do with the body at my feet—the scraps of body, really. We did a number on the poor boy. If I could move, the rug would squelch and slurp underfoot, thick and dark as mud. If I could move. I can't. I'm reeling from the stink, knees quaking, but I can't pick my feet up and walk. I don't think I could take the sound--the slurping, sucking pop of setting body weight against soaked cloth.

So much for Earth's champion. Odd that it should bother me now, now, afterward. Revenge is sweet. Of course it is. I know that better than anyone. Let's not mince words: he was like a mouthful of silk. That was what it was like, eating silk, wet and heavy and too rich for its own good. Certainly too rich for mine. It was too easy to kill him. Does that make any sense? I was too willing.

I enjoyed it. A lot. A few minutes ago.

I feel sick, now. Standing here like this, staring at what's left of another planet's one true hope. My insides are squeezing with the urge to turn themselves upside-down. Maybe I really do have morals. Maybe.

Personally, I think it's the smell.

The feeling of living hands on my shoulders helps. Steady pressure meant to get my attention. Dry palms—Baraka had the forethought to wipe them clean. For me? How nice.

His words are soft, a warm, gruff litany past red-rimmed lips: "It'll be alright. It'll get better. It always gets better. It'll be alright."

You would know, darling. You bit him first.