Disclaimer: All Characters and Dialouge herein are sole property of Mr. Simon R. Green, and I am merely borrowing them because I was struck by a twisted fic idea. I'm sorry if I offended or disgusted anyone to any degree. Most of all I'm sorry to Mr. Green for what is probably a very very bad reason to hijack his characters ^_^ No matter how much I may like them. For the sake of clarification, it might be important to note that this is set during the beginning of 'Guard Against Dishonor'. A familiar scene from a different point of view.
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The sound of flesh tearing was really quite intriguing. It wasn't so much a ripping noise, like a sheet of parchment violently torn in two, or even the sharp hiss of cloth separating from its weave. It was really more like the soft sigh of a dying person's last breath; light, with a sort of sharp undertone that whispered of pain and damage done. All of this occurred to her, lightning quick observations racing pelmel through her drug-heightened senses. She drew her nails again over the flesh of the drunkard's throat, tilting her head slightly to the side as she wondered at the unique sound. Curiously, she curled her fingers into a fist, just to see if tearing muscle made any noises quite so interesting. Without unclenching her hand, she withdrew it from his neck, gazing blankly down at the trachea displayed on her palm. Bone-white it seemed, gleaming palely past the violent red of blood. She ran her thumb across the precisely spaced intervals, smiling like a dreaming child at the feeling of it.
She climbed to her feet, finger still curled around the tube in her hand. The tavern's common room lay in shambles; tables overturned and scored with deep, clawlike marks. Chairs and benches reduced now to strewn splinters crunched beneath her feet as she looked around, breathing harshly through her nose in much the same fashion as a labored animal. She trod upon the bodies of her victims and did not notice. It seemed at first glance that she stood the sole living occupant of the low-ceilinged room, but she knew otherwise. Breathing as heavy as her own came from above. She leaned her head back and smiled the same dreamy smile at the man clinging spiderlike to the rafters overhead.
He dropped, hitting her hard. The bones in her legs crunched and gave way; shards of milky white punched through the skin of her shins and thighs, but she didn't feel it. Her mind was whirling, lead on a crazy dance by a partner named chacal.
She sprawled to the floor, dark, gore matted hair splaying out around her face as he crouched on her chest. Their eyes met; eyes that had once held as much humanity as anyone else's, now stripped of any vestige of conscience, inhibition, or rational thought. It had seemed a sensible trade at the time; give up all the cares and aches that came with extreme poverty. Leave behind the sweatshops and the pitance wages that were all to be earned in the Hook. Exchange it all for a few hours of blissful animalistic brutality. It had been his idea in the first place.
His hand plunged wrist-deep into her stomach, tearing loose a fistful of her innards in much the same fashion as she had removed the other man's trachea. She lay on her back and stared glassily at the ceiling, feeling no pain, nothing at all past the dizzying steps the chacal laid before her.
He retreated back to the ceiling beams, springing off the countertop of the bar and back into shadow. She attempted to stand, only to remember for a fleeting second that her legs weren't bound to work anymore. She crawled away instead, pulling herself behind a table that had been turned onto its side. Another man, clad in the familiar cape of the Guard, lay sprawled across the rim of it. She had killed him, she thought, but she wasn't sure. Not at all.
Hunger set in as the drug reached the final stages of its lifespan. She cast about her for anything to devour, and found nothing. The coppery scent of blood filled her nose, driving the hunger pangs to new heights. She looked down and almost casually dipped two stained fingers into the gaping rip in her stomach. Shakily withdrawing her hand, she lifted the scrap of flesh to her mouth and placed it between her lips, chewing slowly.
Not even the sudden bang of the tavern door flying open and striking the wall shook her from her daze. She continued to feed, listening as Leon dropped from his place amongst the rafters, attempting to repeat the attack he had used upon her. Loud shouts and crashing followed as someone fought off the drug crazed ambush. All the while she wondered that she could recall Leon's name, when a few moments ago she hadn't even known herself to be human. She realized she couldn't remember her own though, no matter how hard she thought about it. She continued the rhythm of lift, chew, dig, lift, chew, dig, though now her whole body was wracked with shivers. What happened next?
The noises of brawling grew louder. There came a bestial snarl, suddenly cut off by the wet thunk of a blade biting deep through skin and muscle and bone. It was quiet for a while, though she thought she heard the faint murmur of breathless voices. The driving urge to rend and tear was gone now. So long as they left her alone, she would remain safe behind her table.
It wasn't to happen that way though. Footsteps came her way, hands pulled the dead Guard Constable off the table, and slowly rolled it away, revealing her hiding place. A man and a woman stood there, staring at her in something like fascinated horror. He was tall, dark and lean. A set of old scars marred the side of his face, and a black silk patch covered his right eye. She stood behind him, taller by several inches, long blonde hair hanging past her waist. She looked disgusted. He looked shocked.
He reached forward as she dipped her fingers once more into the rip of her belly, gently pulling her hand away.
"Don't. Please don't." He said softly, eyes darting back and forth between her face and the still bleeding wound. She licked her lips and watched him do so, confused. She could see that he had taken her hand, but she couldn't feel it. She felt detached, and she didn't know why.
"Get away from her Hawk," The woman cautioned, shifting her grip on the bloodied sword she held. "She's still dangerous. We don't know how many people she's killed here."
"Get a doctor," The man said, not turning to face her.
"Hawk..."
"Get a doctor!"
The woman watched him grimly for a second before nodding and turning away. She vanished out the door, leaving the two alone against the wall.
She looked up at the one-eyed man, blinking sleepily. He reached out and brushed her hair away, tucking it carefully behind her ear. He still held her hand away from her wound, though her fingers twitched towards it. In his eyes she saw his horror at what had been done in the tavern room that day. Something inside of her twisted; he was so nice, she didn't want him to think she had done it to be cruel. It wasn't her fault, really, what they had done. He had to know that. She wanted to tell him.
"Something went wrong," She murmured quietly, her voice small and scared in the blood-rank air. It was hard to organize her thoughts enough to be coherent. Very hard. She licked her lips and tried again. He leaned in to better hear her, the one eye urging her to continue if she could.
"This wasn't supposed to happen. They said it would make us feel like Gods," She tried to explain. Everyone had been so hyped about this new, better form of chacal. They had all said it would take you higher than anything before, without the risks, without the boundaries. She blinked again and tried to move her fingers. "I'm cold."
"I've sent for a doctor," He said "Take it easy. Save your strength."
"They lied to us," She felt a burning behind her eyes, and in her throat. Tears rose up, tears of betrayal.
"Can you tell me what happened?" He questioned her anxiously. "You said something went wrong. What went wrong?" He chafed her cold hand between his, heeding her soft gasps of the chill.
"It was a new drug," She explained, forcing the words out past leaden lips. "Supposed to be the best. Like chacal, only stronger. We were going to be like Gods," She had to pause to swallow. Her throat was thick and coated with blood, both hers and others'. "We were packing it up at the factory, readying to ship it out. Leon took some, for a lark. We tried it here, just a little," The tears threatened again. "And then everything went wrong."
"Tell me about the factory," The man urged her quietly, eye intense. "Where is it."
She reached towards her wound again, the hunger stabbing at her unmercifully. He pushed her hand back down into her lap, holding it there. She looked at him, hurt. "I'm cold," She whimpered. Didn't he understand she could feel warmth when she reached inside?
He took of his cloak and wrapped it around her shaking shoulders. She wondered at the act. He didn't know her. It seemed to be a nice garment. Rather expensive, if she was any judge. And here she'd be getting blood all over it.
Now she felt overly hot. She was sweating and shaking and couldn't seem to stop. The breath didn't reach her lungs. It came in short, shallow pants, barely seeming to draw within her mouth before being expelled again. She refused to be stopped though. It wasn't fair, what was happening.
"Morgan's place," She said at last. "The Blue Dolphin. In the Hook."
"All right lass, take it easy," He smiled gently and touched her cheek as though to calm her. "That's all I need. We'll get the bastards. You rest now. The doctor will be here soon."
She smiled. He was so nice. She wished she'd met him before, differently than this. Would he have been so nice if he hadn't needed what she could tell him? Somehow she thought so.
"Would you hold my hand? Please?" She begged, clenching and unclenching the fingers in her lap. Or at least she thought she did. She couldn't feel them anymore.
"Sure," He removed one of his gloves and took her left hand, giving it a tiny squeeze. Blood ran between his fingers, but he didn't seem to care. "All right?"
She frowned, suddenly realizing something. "Hold it up where I can see it. I can't feel it."
The breath ran out of her lungs. She felt her hand begin to rise as he fulfilled her request, and smiled as a different sort of feeling suddenly ran back into her body. She no longer felt the chill of the chacal in her veins, or the heat of others blood spilled across her skin. She felt the gentle pressure of his hand, and then nothing.
She never knew he sat there with her, holding her small hand in her lap until the doctor finally arrived. Too little too late of course, as per usual in Haven.