A/N: The Apocalypse, Part 1
Heath stared at the little bottles of paint he stole from Heinrich. Long, thin fingers wrapped his guts around themselves, pulling tighter every single time. Heath twisted the cap and poured out the paint on the paper plate. The white liquid readily spilled out over the surface, like white, thin clouds over the white moon. Heath slowly dipped his fingers into the paint and lifted them towards his face. When the paint first touched his face, he jerked; it was cold. Clenching his teeth together, Heath continued sliding his fingers over his face, a white streak tainting his skin. Heath dipped for the pain again, rubbing the second try over his cheek. The paint roughly rested on his skin, creasing over his features like waves on an ocean. Heath's fingers anxiously ran over the bottles, knocking a few of them over, and took out the red paint. His scars hellishly burnt once the paint agitated them, but Heath didn't care. Violently rubbing the scarlet paint over his lips, he stared in the broken mirror with unseeing eyes. Do I look like a fairy? Little Freddie happily chattered, glitter splattered all over her face. Heath, glancing up from homework, snorted. More like a witch suffering from glitter-pox. Heath! O'cmon, Freddie, you know I'm just bloody joking! Heath, don't swear! The black paint circled his eyes, not much different from his actual circles. Heath frowned, the movement cracking the paint. It was already dripping down. Heath stood up, tucking his knife into his pocket. He didn't want to cut the man with his real face.
"Lena?"
The young cat tilted her ears and turned her little face to Heath.
"If I don't come back, the fish is in the fridge." The cat yawned. Heath nodded and walked out. The snow crunched under his feet, snowflakes softly landing on his hair. He walked out early, whistling some long forgotten tune. It was only eleven, he had tons of time. The long, twisting fingers inquiringly tapped on his skull as if on a tabletop. Heath sighed and showed them a middle finger. They recoiled and, for a while, the drumming ceased. Heath glanced to his side, even though there were no cars, and crossed the street. It was eerily quiet inside, waiting for something.
Heath saw Lena first, leaning on the black van and smoking a cigarette.
"Hey."
Lena turned and abruptly jolted, dropping her cigarette.
"Good night, right?" Heath noticed matter-of-factly, picking up her cigarette and, after a moment of examination, throwing it away. "And don't smoke Marlboro, Camel's better."
"As you say," Lena managed to shrug, hiding her initial surprise. Nonetheless, Heath saw her glance at him from the corner of her eyes. He smirked and slightly leaned forward.
"What, am I that terrifying?"
"Like hell," Lena nervously laughed. She suddenly raised a gun to Heath's forehead.
"So terrifying that I wouldn't have any hesitation of blowing those brains out."
"Now Lena, we're civilized people aren't we?" Heath indifferently responded, eyes searching for the rest of the bounty hunters.
"Where're the rest?"
"Inside," Spockey stepped out of the van. He slightly stuttered, noticing the joker.
"I suggest you hurry up."
Lena obediently got in, Heath stepping in after her. He took an empty seat in the third row and glanced around. There were only four people; Calavera in the front, Spockey at the steering wheel, Lena and Gerry in second row. Calavera turned around.
"So, here's the plan," he gruffly said. "Gerry will kidnap Geffy. Lena and I will cover him. Spockey, Joker, you're waiting in the van. We'll then drive Geffy to the garages at the left of Elm Street, and then Joker will interrogate him." His eyes drifted to Heath.
"War paint?" He smirked. "Whatever. As long as you get the information."
"What specifically?" Heath calmly asked.
"What Falcone is planning. In details."
Heath nodded and looked into the window. Spockey started the engine. They drove in silence. Lena was loading the magazine with bullets, crude face absolutely calm. The radio awkwardly hummed in the salon. Gerry was obviously nervous, but refrained to looking out the window. Heath tilted his head backwards, eyes wandering around the ceiling. Anxiety drilled a hole in his stomach, allowing warm and humid nervousness to spill out and glide over his organs. He had to do it again. This time for money. Heath passed his tongue over his upper gum, trying to get rid of that dry coldness. The van stopped.
"Here we are," Spockey proclaimed and leaned back on his seat. Lena wordlessly opened the door and disappeared outside. Calavera also placed his hand on the door handle.
"Be on guard," he ordered. "C'mon, youngster." Gerry hurriedly jumped out. The doors shut on both sides, leaving Heath and Spockey in silence. Spockey quickly switched off the radio. Heath leaned back and closed his eyes. There was time. He could sleep.
[...]
Heath woke up in the mill. He quickly stood up, gaze darting from object to object. It wasn't his mill. There was the table where he wrote his letters next to the window, yes, but otherwise there were the boxes with guns and paint, a container filled with ice which served as the fridge, a ladder, pliers, old coats and car oil, as well as car parts that Heath found in the garage when he first came. Rusty kettles, pots, beams, gasoline, watering canisters, dynamite packs, withering bellflowers, overgrown by thorn-apples*. Winnifred was sitting on a chair in the center of the room. Her left leg was folded underneath, fingers clutching the back of the chair. Heath felt paralysis slowly bleeding through his limbs. Please, not this again. Winnifred turned around. Her eyes were unusually shiny.
"Hey there," she amiably said. Heath smiled in return, not sure what to say.
"Can you help me paint my face?"
"What?" What a great question, genius. When will you learn that asking questions is useless in dreams?
"For Hallow's Eve," Winnifred raised her eyebrows. "It's today. Remember?"
"Of course," Heath easily agreed and, taking a bottle of white paint which miraculously appeared next to his side.
"Which color do you want?"
"Red."
"I only have white." She indifferently jerked her shoulder.
"White then. Doesn't matter."
Heath kneeled down in front of her, never tearing his eyes from her face. He knew that lesson well; as soon as you look away, everything changes. Winnifred calmly watched him without a smile. Heath poured the paint into his hand, not feeling it, nor how it dripped down his hand. She was wearing a plain white T-shirt, rolled up black pants, and black tights. Heath dipped his fingers into the paint and carefully touched her cheek. He did not feel her skin, just like he didn't feel the paint. Her eyes drilled him as he applied the paint to her face. Unlike his, her paint didn't crease or ruffle, but stayed put, until a completely white mask stared back at Heath.
"God, Freddie, you look terrifying," Heath chuckled, lowering down the paint. The mask smiled.
"Shall I act terrifyingly then?"
"You can," Heath easily agreed, tilting his head. "I know anyways that it's not you who's acting terrifyingly."
"Who then?"
"A thought-up persona created to suit the mask."
The mask sighed.
"I disagree. Give a man a mask, and he'll become his true self."
Heath jolted awake. Spockey hurriedly turned on the engine. There was a sound of a shutting trunk, Lena and Gerry stumbled into the salon, Calavera shortly following them.
"Go," Calavera breathed out, tucking his gun into his pocket. Gerry had a greenish tint to his face, but his eyes were triumphantly blazing.
"How was it?" Spockey asked out of curiosity, foot crashing into the gas pedal with all the might.
"Not as good as it could've been," Lena shortly responded, branding away her gun.
"Catch Gerry a break, Magdalena," Calavera smirked, flicking on his cigarette. "Not every bounty hunter lives long enough to have so much experience like you."
Lena snorted, but didn't answer. Heath stretched his arms to shake off the sleep and stiffly yawned. Lena glanced at him.
"It's you next."
"I know."
The van turned into the garages where Heath lived. Heath slightly tensed, eyes darting at Calavera. They didn't know he lived here. Let's hope they didn't choose his.
"Stop," Calavera ordered. Spockey jammed his other foot onto the brakes, and the van abruptly halted.
"This seems good. Spockey, Gerry, get the man out of the trunk. Lena, Joker investigate."
Heath quietly swore. They chose his garage. Very well. He and Lena quickly stepped out of the van, while Spockey and Gerry fumbled with the unconscious mafiosi. They entered the garage. Heath felt his palms sweat. A young cat poked out of one of the boxes and happily ran towards them. Before she could approach them, Lena nimbly took out her gun and aimed. There was a dull shot, and the cat fell dead.
"Would be too much trouble at the interrogation," Lena lazily responded.
Heath felt his paint melting on his face. Lena. His little kitten Lena. A strange feeling, something mixed between coldness, belated pity, and grief mixed in his chest. Heath wordlessly turned over a chair for Gefoltert. Spockey and Gerry entered the garage.
"I have this strange feeling that I already seen it," Spockey slowly said, desperately trying to both look around and carry the body.
"Idiot, you couldn't have been here," Lena snorted.
"Fuck off, bitch," Spockey snarled. "What if the owner comes?"
"Then you'll shoot him," Calavera impatiently answered. "One more bum, one less, who cares?"
Spockey nodded and rudely tossed Gefoltert on the chair. The mafiosi quietly whimpered, face covered in blood. Heath silently raised his eyebrows. So much for clean work. Gerry tied the man's hands behind the stool and stepped back. There was a long silence.
"Well?" Calavera sarcastically asked. Heath wordlessly stared at the man. He didn't know his name. He didn't know how far his criminality reached. Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy. The thugs were saying something, but he didn't heat them.
"Where's the tape?" Heath suddenly asked.
"In the car," Lena answered in surprise.
"Fetch it."
Lena nodded to Gerry, and the youngster quickly ran to the van. Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy. It was an accident. An intended accident. A second later, he returned and handed over the tape to Heath. That one wordlessly turned it on placed it on the table.
"Everyone get out."
"What the f-" Gerry defiantly started.
"I said get out."
Calavera nudged Gerry into the doorway, Lena and Spockey slowly followed them out. The garage doors closed. Heath was left alone.
Mark, Riley, Sammy, Charlotte, Jacob, Billy.
Fuck them.
The blade flicked in his hand. Heath leaned down to the man, examining him with his dark-trimmed eyes. Then, he suddenly slapped the man.
Gefoltert abruptly jolted, eyes wildly moving across the room. They reached Heath and widened in horror.
"All I ask of you is to be compliant and answer my one question," Heath quietly said, ignoring the terrified gaze.
"W-who are you?" Gefoltert frantically mumbled, eyes darting from side to side.
"That doesn't matter. I offer you a choice; either speak or be forced to speak."
"A-Aabout what?"
"Falcone. What is he doing?"
Gefoltert was quiet for a long time, eyes going up and down on his executioner's face. Slowly, he calmed down, the initial terror eroding.
"So you're one of Calavera's men," he finally smirked. Heath held himself from rolling his eyes.
"What I am doesn't matter," Heath fixed his grasp on the blade. "What matters is the option you choose—"
"So listen you white-faced scum, I don't give a damn of what you're going to do, I'm not losing my reputation at Falcone's to some freak!"
Heath wordlessly stabbed the knife into the man's ankle. Gefoltert screamed. The scream crashed into the metal walls, filling Heath's mind with a resonating echo. Heath presses harder on the knife, and the warm blood spilled onto his hands. A strange sense of sensation and animal lust rattled against Heath's temple.
"Whenever you're ready to talk," Heath calmly said and began driving the blade upwards. The scream became louder and louder. Dry, covered in crackled red paint, lips stretched into a wide grin. Suddenly, a woman screamed. Heath abruptly tore the blade out of the man's leg. The scream ended. Gefoltert, choking on his own breath, saliva drooling out of his mouth, stared at the man in front of his in inexplicable, raging fear. The man stared back at him, but his eyes didn't see Gefoltert. Winnifred. She was standing there, kneeling down and staggering around, hands squeezing her ears. Blood dripped from her nose. The knife trembled in Heath's hand. Winnifred glanced up, the white paint smeared across her face. Heath felt something snap in him. Those eyes. He had seen that expression before. Not in a human. In a bird.
"Are you ready to talk, Mister Gefoltert?" Heath asked in a hollow, broken voice. Gefoltert wheezed, trying to breathe out words, but before he could answer, Heath plunged his knife into the man's stomach. The man's screams mixed with Freddie's, tearing Heath's mind apart. Heath wildly maneuvered his blade, blood splattering onto his shirt and jeans, Winnifred crouching down from pain. The knife abruptly turned to the right, then to the left.
"There, There, Freddie….nothing's bad, nothing's bad….look, I'm carving a squirrel for you, look, that's her little bushy tail, here we have to make a stroke more deep to create a contrast, there are her tiny feet, c'mon, take your hands away from your eyes, c'mon, I know you like squirrels, remember how we fed them with cereal flakes, c'mon, Freddie, stop crying, nothing's bad, nothing's bad…."
The blood splattered on the floor, streaking the chair's legs in crimson, but Heath continued cutting, scars twisting in devilish agony.
"Do you not want to see me, I don't understand, what happened, you know there was no choice, I had to do it….or do you love them more than you love me….I told you never to get familiar, Freddie, I told you a million times, Freddie, they would've told someone, anyone, but I can't hide anymore, Winnifred, I'm tired of hiding, I want to do whatever I want without having to hide, god damn it WILL YOU SPEAK OR NOT?!"
Heath tore the knife out of the flesh. The blade clinked down in the floor. Heath's entire body was shaking, dark eyes drilling into Gefoltert.
"WILL YOU SPEAK?!"
Gefoltert weakly breathed, eyes rolled up in the orbits.
"W-wh-what…?"
"What is Falcone planning?"
Gefoltert twitched, lips barely moving.
"S-Something with Crane….and drugs….there's a larger employer….." The body twitched again and fell still. Heath stared at it. The lightbulb dully flickered, the sound of wheezing electricity flocking it. Heath slowly stood up, joints numbly stretching, before grabbing the tape recorder from the table and staggering towards the entrance. His jeans were soaked in blood, the warm liquid dripping off his hands. Heath roughly yanked the garage door open, cutting his palm on the metal and walked out. It didn't matter that he cut his palm. His blood wasn't different from others' blood. Lena was standing there, worriedly smoking her cigarette next to the van. Once she saw Heath, she hurriedly approached him.
"You were so fucking loud, man, what the hell happened?"
"Get the man out of here," Heath sharply ordered her. By that time, Calavera jumped out of the van.
"Did you—"
Heath tossed the mafiosi the tape recorder.
"There's you information. Now order your men to get the body out. I'm staying here."
"But what if the owner comes back?" Spockey's head wondrously popped out of the window. His piercing shimmered in the moonlight.
"I am the owner," Heath coldly retorted. "Give me the promised share, I don't have any more money left on fish, and roll out of here."
Spockey and Gerry quickly ran out of the van. Calavera meanwhile observed Heath with narrow eyes.
"Come back tomorrow, Joker," He dryly said. "I have another deal for you. Then we'll talk about money."
Heath spat on the floor and walked back into the garage. There were blood stains all over the floor, the chair's seat was absolutely red. Heath stepped over Lena's little body and collapsed on the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard the distant flapping of the crow's wings, escaped once more.