A/N: I'm supposed to be taking a break after Cheap Trick, but alas... I couldn't stay away. I was inspired while watching this amazing French action movie called District B13 which was adrenaline inducing, madness and plain fun to watch.
I've kicked around the idea of featuring Carson Phillip's from Struck By Lightning in a fic here and there and suddenly was attacked by the muse monster while watching the flick mentioned above. It is definitely an AU to the fullest extent of being an AU. Carson will be one of the main characters (but trust when I say he is not like the Carson we know - like, at all. Um, basically erase in your mind what you saw him as before and prepare for a makeover). Blaine is the other main featured character. He too will be different, in the sense of being badass and completely less dapper, as in not dapper AT ALL... and anyone who knows me, knows I'm not usually into Blaine in terms of writing him but he just seemed to fit in this case and well... why not? I might have fun and want to write more of him, we'll see.
And also of course, Kurt will be a big part as well. I love me some Kurt! It's a Carson and Kurt being twin brothers fic with a twist. And there will be romance and not between the brothers...
This one will be a tad different from my usual, meaning WAY less morbid, lol. It'll be more focused on action (which is new for me since I'm usually more dialogue driven) and generally more fast paced meaning a quicker, shorter fic. Least that's my intention. I have an outline due to the movie but not sure where or how this will turn out since I'm the puppeteer. Disclaimer: Story is both inspired by and based on the movie District B13, I don't own the characters (which are all Glee characters) except the one's I made up. The M rating is due to language, violence, drug use, that kind of shit. All that said... Enjoy!
He was called Goolie to most in the district.
An enigma that perpetuated the scent of stale death; swift, crude, undeniable.
Dustin Goolsby had the district nestled firmly in his iron grip, squeezing it into submission and extinguishing any flare of hope for better underneath the heel of his power and greed.
He controlled everything behind the wall. Not to mention every known official or authority beyond the wall that could possibly do something to alleviate the stain of Goolie's hold, and develop the project into a livable, promising property. They were all in his pocket. The police, the mayor... all of them. Paid in full, and always keen to turn an oblivious eye to the comings and goings of Goolsby's empire.
Things had changed over time. Government corrupted into mere representations of which gang offered the highest pay out. Cities developed into a clash culture of warring projects. Territories were marked, and the worst of the worst areas, caged off behind towering concrete and barbed wire; keeping them "safe" from themselves. It was known as the wall, and every project area or district as they've become known through time, a settlement festering behind it like a dark creature caged against its will.
Carson wasn't born a fool. His father, Burt Hummel, would always blame his late mother for that, a running joke over the years that left a lingering smile on Carson's lips that was completely rare in the present time.
He knew from the moment he received his first bloody nose for simply walking down the street with name brand sneakers - shoes that his father had to negotiate and work extra shifts at the factory just to procure for his sixth birthday - that the world behind the wall where they resided, was simply war. Day in and day out, absolute fucking war.
The blood dribbling steadily over his six year old lip, the tears burning his cerulean eyes, his shoeless feet clad in hole-worn socks, and the cutting laughter of the five boys who were mocking him, shouting out their intentions to make him their bitch and steal his next pair, enough to erase any belief that he could be different than what he had observed of his environment over time. He knew even at an age where naivity was supposed to be a blessing, that he would have to become something pragmatic, cunning and to an extent cold in order to survive this pit.
There was the hypes, doped up and veins heavy with Goolsby's product. The saints, the ironic name sake for whores selling their bodies like the inside of their thighs promised sustenance rivaling the corner store. And worst of all, the gangs. Members wouldn't be a proper term for it.
They were simply known as soldiers. And they were... loitering outside of buildings packing artillery from bulletproof vests to automatic machine guns like a trained army. The power was in their numbers, and Goolsby's name and influence.
In the district, those were damn near the only directions left to ascertain; the only slices of lifestyle allotted in the projects: snorting, whoring, or fighting.
The city stench was thick with gun smoke, and a tangible loss that seeped into your bones like marrow. And Goolsby was the trigger happy smoker, casting his depracating fog over the entire district; district B13, a place that God himself wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.
The one school that was present, was nothing more than a conjoint prison, cattling the population of children from the projects into a boiling pot of gang affiliation, trauma, and an unabridged dousing of any hope for actually learning useful information other than solidifying that they had no real chance at life; not as a child behind the wall anyway.
Carson Hummel, a born loner was determined to be more than a punching bag, or some runner for whatever thug had threatened him into risking himself.
He had to be smarter, had to be more. But not just for himself.
He'd lost his dad just after his twelfth birthday. A sudden and fatal heart attack swooping in and collecting his father like an overdue bill payment.
He would've dropped out of school completely back then.
If it hadn't been for his brother that is... his twin brother, Kurt.
He had to be more in order for his brother to make it too; a diligent presence and source of protection.
Carson was only seventeen minutes older as it were, but he took his role as the eldest seriously in every capacity; always had.
And Kurt was just... well, different. He always had been really; an oddity amongst a culture of beasts who would claw out their own eyes just for a hit.
He was soft spoken, caring, good-natured, loved to sing...
He was everything that wasn't meant to be confined behind the neutral gray pallette of life offered within the projects.
Carson learned very quickly that physical violence was a necessity.
He trained with an ex-martial artist who used to help train young up and comers at the police academy - a man most in the neighborhood had wrote off as a wasted vagabond who'd lost his mind long ago, begging for scraps and living on any corner he could for shelter.
Carson remembered, sometime around his third year of school, seeing the man called Cyril, huddled in a tight ball on the curb as he trekked the long way home from school; several teens making a point to verbally pester the old coot as a means of entertainment. It wasn't until one of them had attempted to steal his tattered blanket from around his shoulders, that the old man had grabbed the thin wrist, twisted it until a resounding snap was heard, and ordered the rest to bugger off before they all scampered away, the broken one trailing behind with tears glazing his dirty face.
It was then that Carson had made a pact to steal food for him in exchange for lessons.
From the ages of eight to fourteen, he spent many an afternoon running errands, which basically translated to him stealing what he could and getting his ass knocked in the dirt by a toothless beggar.
But it paid off, because he'd quickly built himself a reputation, one built around him knocking out teeth and taking out a group of opponents simultaneously and quite alone; one that peeked the interest of several gang leaders.
He didn't fall in line and engage in being recruited. He simply used his cunning to remain reclusive, recruiting several of his own people, but refusing involvement regarding the drug trade or prostitution ring.
It was through this reputation that he was able to keep himself and Kurt alive in the cest pool of bilge and destitute life, doing what he could to pay bills and keep them sheltered.
Most considered Kurt to be a fluttering faggot, but not one person who'd grown up around their block would dare say it to Carson's face. Not these days. They'd learned that scorning his brother was like scorning him personally, and it was better for all involved to refute the urge to goade the strange figure.
Even if Kurt was an easy target - what with his effeminate mannerisms and high pitched tone, pale skin stretched over a lithe, delicate build, his penchant toward tight fitting jeans and a genuine grace that didn't seem to belong on any woman or man living in the district.
He and Kurt were the same in terms of their physical features - mostly concentrated within their face. They were identical after all. But the sameness stopped there. Carson had developed a more muscled physique, taut lines riding through his abdomen and cutting across his shoulders, though his skin was just as fair as his younger brother's. His brunette hair was much shorter, tossled and unkempt, while Kurt's was brushed off of his face in a rather fashionable coif that only further contributed to others inclination to label him a pole hopper - which coincidentally, Kurt in fact is.
Carson doesn't have a problem with it. He's always known his brother was different, and him loving men intimately only strengthened his resolve that Kurt's uniqueness was too bright and all-consuming to be appreciated behind the wall. This being another attribute that sets them apart as Carson has made a habit of finding the company of women most enticing. None worthy of keeping long term, but to get his dick wet occasionally.
He knows that Kurt has been sexually active as well, a thought he doesn't like to dwell on too long. Mostly because he knows that none in the district would risk being open about it, and Kurt had probably only served as a quick fix of flesh under tight wraps, unworthy of having some sort of legitimate relationship - if such a thing even existed behind the wall. He knew those encounters had done more to harden his brother than he'd ever admit, and it saddened him grievously to think of him being used that way.
Some had joked that Kurt should just take up whoring. Some also ended up nursing a broken jaw at the implication by Carson's hand.
Carson made ends meet with his thievery and eventually with creating a lowly, but legal in their parts, gambling trade.
Eventually Carson had dropped out of school, like eighty percent of the population tended to do, and focused on managing his territory; their apartment building making a prime location for the numbers ring and for harboring stolen goods from car parts to household electronics.
To his credit, Carson never told Kurt what he did, and Kurt never asked.
Kurt became a clerk at the local grocery store after graduating, and found a way for his natural warmth to be cultivated. It wasn't long after that the school had officially been closed down; the last government building standing after the loss of the postal offices and the police stations within the area.
Carson knew it made Kurt happy to be working there, but he didn't miss the longing gleaming within the depths of blue. He knew, despite Kurt's constant attempts at reassurance, that the other boy yearned for better, that he was meant for greater things than this life.
The way he could make people light up with a simple smile was a rare quality in such a place as the district.
Quite simply put, Kurt was meant to go beyond the wall.
But the truth was, it wasn't that simple. It was anything but, in reality.
Everyone born behind the wall, was bound by law to remain there. Like tagged sheep, corralled into a sweat-box until their number was finally up. Any attempted escapee's were arrested and sanctioned into a facility that some claim made the projects look like paradise. That or they were gunned down and written off as just another faceless number.
So as it were, they were trapped.
Carson was nineteen years old, and already destined to die in purgatory.
Until it hit him. The idea that would change it all.
If he couldn't get out, why couldn't he change it from within?
He'd gotten in contact with an old colleague of Cyril's who owed the warped bastard some favors. He counted on that to be enough.
The plot would begin with Carson's trademark skills as a thief, and end by way of a pact made with Captain Druegen of the police force.
He was going to put a stop to it all. And it all came down to one thing, or rather his act against one man: taking down the Goolie, himself.
An insane notion that now felt as necessary and inevitable as breathing.
So fast forwarding past two months of careful planning and communication, Carson starts to second guess his own lunacy as he currently stares down at a bathtub full of packaged dope - at least half a million dollars worth, stacked in neat bricks.
He hears the stomping, the sounds of rushed movement hurdling up the staircase and knows that his men that were watching the main entrance were already dead, and that Goolie's soldiers were on their way to greet him with smoking barrels as way of saying 'hello'.
Carson feels the panic start to erupt, easily seeping through his sense of calm. He starts frantically cutting open the bricks with his switch blade, dumping the powdery substance into a white heap and washing it down the drain with hurried sweeps.
But it's taking too long; Goolie's hounds were only mere moments away. He couldn't get rid of it all by the time they would overtake him. So he grabs a gaggle of cleaning products from underneath the sink, spilling the contents of several bottles over the open packets, subsequently turning the powder into a contaminated sludge.
He throws the last of a bleach bottle into the tub just as a gun shot bursts through the door, splintering part of the wood. Carson huddles behind the freestanding tub, crawling over the floor and hiding alongside the door, waiting with a hammering heart to make his move.
"We know you're in there Hummel! And we know that you got something that belongs to us! You come out now, I promise on my word as Big D, I won't cut your balls off and feed 'em to you."
There's muffled chuckling sounding just outside the door. Carson exhales, then silently clicks open his switch blade. He closes his eyes, blocking out the thundering beats of his own heart, pushing the thoughts of Kurt aside, and focuses on the feel of his own being - making quick work of inhabiting his strategic mind.
After a mumbled exchange, he distinctly overhears the audible sound of gun's cocking, and shifting bodies likely readying themselves for attack.
"A'right you fuckin' coward! I warned you!"
The voice softens again, the sound of counting, and then a sudden outburst of, "GO!" breaks apart the silence, along with the door, which was bashed open in one fell swoop.
A/N: And yes... I'm leaving you hanging like that, lol. So... thoughts? I'll need the feedback to, A.) know if I should continue, and B.) know if I should continue. And guess who Big D is? ... and no not from Potter. Thanks very much to you all!