Title: New Breed: DOG BYTE
Summary: Sometimes, love is displayed by moral execution. Brutality becomes a mask; the goggles are merely a security factor to strengthen his resolve. [GORE-PRONE MATT-CENTRIC!]
Disclaimer: I don't own DN or anything referenced.
Author's Note: T_T This chapter nearly killed me. I edited it so much, and I'm still not satisfied. BUT, stuff happens and Mello enters the story and our redhead is finally dubbed MATT! I've waited far too long to address him by that name.
...
Time wouldn't stop moving, couldn't stop, just as the redhead himself couldn't stop working.
His thoughts all in jumbles, he had literally bagged his mother's bones and hid them in the basement, whispering under his breath that it was to help preserve her safety. Then, without further delay, he got to work doing some more thorough cleaning, almost desperate to be rid of the awful smells that seemed to soak into the furniture and walls. He cleaned for hours, until his lungs wheezed with the chemicals he inhaled; and then he kept cleaning. Light-headed and nauseous, nothing was clean enough.
He scrubbed and mopped and scrubbed and bleached. And then he scrubbed some more, his fingers becoming raw and shaky as fatigue set in.
At one point, he felt as if he was doing more coughing than breathing, but his lungs seemed to adjust, allowing him quick shallow breaths in place of the long drawn ones he'd prefer. His chest and sides ached, a sure sign of his organs working overtime, but he gave himself little rest.
He could rest with his mother later. There was too much to do.
Had to clean. Had to disinfect. Had to eat, sleep, and bathe.
Food, running low... but he'd worry about that later.
His thoughts tumbled in his head; his focus became strained, his vision blurred. His own flesh was irritated and rashy, itching in some places and burning in others. But it was all for the sake of cleaning and making his home better suited for himself and the skeletal woman who'd raised him.
His mother's skin had been thrown out, trashed and disposed, though a cold and logical part of him considered the uses. The way the skin had toughened in a way that reminded him of lambskin leather, he should have done something productive with it... But once his cleaning spree began, he grew overwhelmed and just pitched it, along with several sentimental objects that might have brought tears to his face: among which was a photo album full of smiling faces and memories that would forever be silenced: captions scripted in sloppy pen and marker never to be read again. The past itself seemed long gone. Clean, gone, disposed of. Just gone. Had to get rid of...
Just clean!
Shiny floors. Walls soaked in Pine Sol. Carpets... vacuumed and shampooed. Blankets and clothes, everything washed.
Purified.
In many ways, his literal cleaning assisted his own emotional cleansing.
Of course, he kept his mother's bones. Safe.
He kept the pile of hair he'd cut from her; he'd braided it into a long and precious cord and tacked it to the wall in a strange memorial sort of thing. It was a comfort, to stare at, to touch, and to smell. He loved that hair, slept near it and thought of it as a sort of dream catcher. Something to protect him against the unknown, unseen, and un-fightable.
He thanked his lucky stars that his mother was a woman who'd planned ahead, and so the utilities and whatnot were always paid months ahead of time.
This fact afforded him the luxury of maintaining a decent lifestyle for as long as possible. He loved television. He watched all the old shows and movies when he found time or just needed a break from his thoughts -rather, the fractal thoughts that came in segmented portions and rarely made sense. But, more importantly, he began to make time to watch the NEWS almost religiously. Before long, he knew all the reporters and newscasters, and even the camera crew. Any time he heard a new name, he quickly refreshed his desktop and started searching, learning everything he could about anyone and everything.
He hated some of the people on TV. The annoying people who smiled so smugly, filthy rich and feeding off the poor. He hated the fat lecherous men who guffawed over the skinny hookers that accompanied them. And more than anything, he hated every cop that spoke solemnly, vowing to catch a criminal... and never succeeding.
There was just too much horror. Arson, murder, thievery... The list went on and on.
A dark pit began to grow in his stomach as he watched the reporters talk it up, witnesses spazzing, tears being shed, and cops confessing that they'd let another perpetrator get away...
People like that cop... People like him are the reason momma was assaulted.
His food supply almost completely diminished, he opened a canister of coffee and ate the ground up beans with a spoon. The taste was bitter but the caffeine had him on high, made him feel energetic and invincible; even helped his mind make sense: the disjointed thoughts gaining bridges and connecting in ways that seemed to click.
In time -though it had taken months- the power had been cut, bills no longer paid. No more television, no computer, nothing. For entertainment, he was reduced to reading the newspaper that came with the mail.
Stock markets, obituaries, and an ever-climbing crime rate.
Someone, stop this. Another break-in. Another mugging. Young woman found dead...
Bile rose in his throat as he considered the atrocious things that greeted him as he processed the words and contemplated.
His own mother's name - Anna Lisa Jeevas- was never in the paper. And the redhead was glad... because as far as he was concerned, his mother was just under the weather, not dead. She was just quiet, bagged up and sitting in the basement. But he could visit her. He could smell her hair if he wanted. He could play with the dentures he'd made.
Oh, how he grew to adore those dentures. Silly, almost novelty, but precious all the same. While he refused to wear them save for precious occasions, he rarely parted from them, keeping them on hand or nearby.
When he ran out of things to do, he filed them to make them sharper. It was his pride and joy: a piece of his mother he could always have with him...
...
As much as he detested the idea, he would have to find a more appropriate way to support himself. The matter was unavoidable. He was technically squatting, though he told himself otherwise.
This is home.
Food was a necessity, and while he didn't mind literally eating coffee grinds, it was hardly nutritious. Plus, he needed more Bleach; the smell of the cleaning agent had become a calm and familiar thing, soothing him in ways that no warm blanket or hug ever could. If he had it his way, he'd sit next to his mother's bones and inhale the chemical all day, but alas it wasn't probable. Too much to do, too much to worry about.
Another newspaper. Another crime report.
He needed money and food. And he'd need it soon.
At his age, ten -he'd forgone the celebration of his last birthday- a job wasn't a likely option. After mulling it over, he decided to try his luck at the local pawn shop.
He recalled with fondness, how his mother and he would take a walk and find themselves there. Not for pawning or even purchasing, but just to look at the antiques. She would point at various items and proudly declare what they were and their intended purpose. Then, she'd give him a pop quiz, orally asking if he knew what time period said item was from.
He loved those quizzes, almost as much as he loved seeing the pride in his mother's eyes when he answered correctly. It was the best kind of history lesson.
But for now, those history lessons were at a halt. He needed money.
That was his focus.
He knew his mother had a small collection of jewelry, and while he wasn't sure of the value, his mother had said it was 'priceless.' Priceless either meant it was worth a fortune... or it was worth pennies but held emotional value. And as he grabbed up the necklaces, rings, and little studded trinkets, he hoped to pull in at least a little bit of money.
Enough for some food, and maybe a coat. But food first. And it wouldn't hurt to get the water turned back on...
Slipping the shiny gems, chains, and bands into a cloth pouch and securing the pouch to his belt like a makeshift fanny pack, he grabbed an old raggedy zip-up hoody and decided to walk the short distance to the shop.
His shoes felt tight, squeezing his toes uncomfortably. His feet had grown. He was a growing boy, so it only made sense, but he was loathe to the idea of anything about him changing. Change was a terrible thing. He'd been affected enough by it to know how bad it could be. And while something as trivial as a shoe size wasn't much to worry about, it left him unsettled and wondering what other changes awaited him.
To his surprise, he found the weather to be warm for that time of year. It was late in the Fall, but the temperature was still in the mid 50's.
As he walked, he kicked at rocks and occasionally stopped to watch a bird fly overhead. Cars passed, sounds whistled in and out of his ears, and he was almost content. Almost felt normal. Almost... a lot of things.
He thought of all the times he and his mother would walk together. She'd hold his hand while he tried to run ahead of her due to excitement, but she always held him firmly, gently, refusing to let him go. He remembered pouting because he wanted to run, but she'd only give him a soft smile and gentle gaze before releasing his hand and asking if he'd pick her some wild flowers.
At the memory, his eyes trailed to the grassy patches along the side of the road where wild flowers once bloomed, but at this time of the year, they'd been replaced with dying weeds of varying shades of brown and gold.
Even the flowers are dead...
That thought made him ache dully and he pressed onwards.
They'll bloom next Spring, bright purples and yellows on leafy greens...
The walk itself was mostly uneventful, but upon arrival at a small shop with a poorly shingled roof, he couldn't help the instant notoriety of something being wrong.
Glaringly obvious, it was; his heart did a flip; his empty stomach clenched.
The lights in the store were out, though the neon sign out front declared: OPEN. A front window pane was busted, shattered, glass more on the inside than out, suggesting either vandalism or a break-in.
So much crime in such a small town...
The redhead's heart thudded as he wondered what had gone on, but he willed away anxiety with a deep inhale and slow exhale. "This is nothing," he whispered. His mind fast-forwarded through a montage of TV reports and newspaper clippings, all about the growing rate of criminal activity. And, he reasoned, it was only a matter of time before he came into contact with something of the sort, be it on a trip to a store or an attempted burglary of his own homestead.
Taking a deep breath, he approached the broken window and peered inside, curiosity out weighing the cautious part of his mind. What he saw made him sick.
Mrs Mendez, the store clerk he'd come to know fairly well with her bright blue eyes and soft brown hair that fell in long curls, was held face down with her hands behind her back as a masked assailant slammed her face into the counter and murmured a series of expletives.
The redhead bit his lip and shook his head. Images flashed behind his eyes like a moving-picture show. Images of his mother on the kitchen floor, her insides spilling out. He choked on something intangible as the memory flooded him, hitting him with full-force. Snapping his eyes open -when had he closed them?- an almost feral growl left him.
Something had to be done.
One particular thought came to mind, and that thought seemed to awaken a deep, dark part of him.
That thought...
Avenge my mother.
He'd tried any number of times to recall the face of his mother's attacker, but each time, all he could surface was a blurry and indistinctive figure that hardly seemed real. In his mind, his mother's murderer could be anyone. And everyone was a threat and a suspect.
This masked man, the one attacking Mrs Mendez, he could very well be the one that tried to take his mother away from him, and the mere possibility drowned him in rage, slaughtering the innocence he had left and reviving a monster in its place.
"This is for you, mother," he whispered harshly, reaching into a pocket and pulling out his finger-bone denture, slipping it into his mouth and securing it to his upper palate. With a quick snarl, his pressed his hands to the glass-splintered window sill and leapt up, propelling himself through the shattered opening and into the pawn shop. His hands took slices and gouges from the glass at his own carelessness but he hardly registered the sting as he landed in a crouched position.
He growled again, animalistic as his saliva built around his fake teeth and dribbled down his chin.
The masked man's physical form tensed up, rigid, registering the fact that he was no longer alone with his victim. Bashing her head one final time and effectively rendering Mrs Mendez unconscious, he turned to face the intruding redhead.
Seeing a young boy crouched there with an angry snarl, the man chuckled, unfazed. "You're just a kid," he said with a bite of amusement. "Why don't you go home and come back later?" He spoke in a calm voice, though his tone radiated with condescension.
"F-Fuck you," the redhead half-stammered before slurping up some of his pooling drool. He glanced around, quick, looking for something to aid him. For some reason, while he'd thought about and even fantasized a chance to avenge his mother and dispatch her killer, it never occurred to him that he should arm himself with something other than novelty teeth. Still, he focused on what he wanted to do, refusing to be intimidated by the lack of equipment on his person.
A car drove passed, not stopping or even slowing, apparently having a destination in mind. But as it passed, its lights shone through a window, the artificial glow caught a gleam on something shiny.
Something metal.
Something with a blade that wasn't too far from the redhead's reach.
With another growl, the redhead decided to catch the assailant off guard. Starting with a question. "Who are you, and what did you come here for?"
The masked man shrugged, taking on a casual stance, clearly not threatened in the slightest. He gave no answer, though he did glance about, as if looking for something. Something valuable.
Seeing this as a distraction, the redhead inched to his left before pouncing and grabbing the shiny metal object that had caught his attention. He'd never seen anything like it in person, but he wasn't stupid; he could tell well enough what it was.
Part of his mind was already detailing it, documenting it and reciting what he knew.
16th Century South Asian push-dagger... Known as a Kattari, later called Katara, and finally dubbed a Katar. It was a precursor to the 17th Century Gauntlet-sword...
Taking the H-shaped hilt into his hand, his fingers wrapped around the horizontal bar, he momentarily examined the sharp split-edge 12inch blade that stuck out. His thumb locked around a strange little lever that seemed almost out of place, and with the slightest bit of pressure on that lever, the blade 'schwicked' out, separating so that the single blade morphed into three sharp claws.
The redhead was awed for a fraction of a second before he took a stumble forward, intending to be more confident and graceful in his step, but failing. He hissed his annoyance as he took another step, this one more solid and careful.
Tri-blade in hand, he continued forward at an ominously slow pace.
The older man looked at him with more curiosity than fear. "That's a sharp toy for such a little boy," he said with a bored tone. "Why don't you put that up and go find a nice firetruck to play with?" Not really waiting for an answer, he reached over the counter and grabbed a handful of green bills- money, and not much by the look of it.
Then, turning and planning to leave, the man didn't expect the redhead to lurch forward.
But the redhead did, he lunged, blade-wielding arm outstretched as he rammed the aged weapon into the man's thigh.
The man screamed and crouched down, dropping the money and using both hands to catch himself by grappling at a display case that tottered under his weight.
But the redhead wasn't done. An almost manic grin formed on his face, his lips cradling the filed finger bones. He jerked the weapon back and slashed it at the man's arm once, twice, three times before punching forward in a stabbing motion, getting him in the chest.
The man flailed and gasped, bloodshot eyes wide with surprise and something akin to fear. "F-Fuck, what's wrong with you, kid?!" He shrieked in hysteria, eyes glazing over as shock began to set in. His body so pained, it was beginning to numb over. Nerves twitched as his breath started in gasps and grew into labored sputters.
The redhead jerked his weapon back and panted, exhilarated at the little bit of exertion. He let his arm dangle at his side, limp as the weapon weighed him down. "M-My mom was attacked unfairly. Sh-She didn't get justice. B-but now, justice is served," he said through panting timid breaths. He forced his eyes not to widen in surprise as he watched the blood seep from the man's wounds and dribble down into a puddle on the floor. "S-Someone needs to p-protect people." Taking another few breaths, he added, "a-and maybe that someone is me."
The man slumped to the floor, body already weakened and limbs shaking without his consent. "But you're just a... kid," he said, voice sounding far off and drained.
"I have a name," he said pointedly, straightening his posture and wiping the bloodied blade against his hoody. "I'm not a stupid kid. I know how the world works." Tears built up behind his eyes and threatened to spill, but he kept them at bay. "People... will take... everything," he said, voice cracking. "And then, what's left?" Clearing his throat and giving a shake of his head, he added: "I lost everything. Because of people like you. Y-You can just... die... motherfucker," the last word came out before he could stop it just as he raised his foot and slammed a hard kick to the dizzying man. His foot went straight for the man's face, heel digging into his nose and pressing the bone and cartilage through his nasal cavity and into his brain, effectively silencing him with a murderous blow.
And, panting more, the redhead's body visibly sagged, disheveled and emotionally drained.
"You're safe now, Mrs Mendez," he said, voice barely above a whisper as he gathered the stolen money and placed it on the counter.
For a brief moment, he considered taking the money as a reward but quickly thought better of it.
Heroes help because it's the right thing to do... NOT to gain a quick buck.
With a small sigh, he turned away.
He originally came for money. He'd come to pawn off his mother's jewelry -he'd come back and do it some other time, surely.
For now, what he'd accomplished, while it made him partly sick, it brought him a wicked sort of satisfaction that he couldn't quite name. Slurping at his drool once more, he turned and walked right out the front door, tri-blade in hand.
Yeah, maybe he'd stolen it, but he saved a life, and that had to count for something. Glancing at the weapon as he began his walk home, his thumb toyed with the lever on the H-bar, and at the slightest touch, the blades pulled together to form a single split-edge blade once more. Another touch of the thumb, and they split into three again. He played with it several times, testing the sensitivity and reflex. Closing it into a single blade, he opened his hoody and sheathed it in his belt next to his pouch of jewelry; he quickly zipped up said hoody to keep it hidden.
He had blood spatters on him, and he should've been sick and disturbed, but... he felt oddly comforted.
Heroic!
On his trek home, he thought of his mother, how proud she'd be to know that he saved Mrs Mendez.
He smiled widely, finger-bone teeth glinting as the darkness began to settle and the moon cast a glow.
He felt strangely giddy, warm, almost elated.
Picking up the pace and breaking into a full-on sprint, he had to get home, had to tell his momma about what happened. In all his excitement, perhaps he should have paid more attention.
He didn't notice anyone else around. Not until he collided headfirst into someone and promptly fell back onto his bottom.
"Watch where the fuck you're going!" someone screamed, causing the redhead to flinch.
"I-I, uh, s-sorry?" the redhead stammered, adrenaline and excitement leaving him too quickly and the slightest bit of nervousness washing over him. He glanced at the other, seeing a young blonde about his own age.
The blonde's hair was a particular shade, similar to that of the dying gold weeds. His eyes, a lightning blue, visible even in the stale light of the moon. He was clad in a black T-shirt that had a wicked clown printed on front, and his jeans were tight and black and bunched into his mid-calf boots.
The redhead took in the blonde's appearance and- "What are you-" he began but his question was cut off by the blonde's own mouth.
"Fuck you, kid! Can't you see I'm busy?! I got shit to do, and you can't get in my way or I'll bowl you over!" And he certainly did look busy, with that metal crowbar stained a rusty red, gripped so securely that it almost looked as if it actually belonged there in his grasp.
Finally getting to his feet and dusting himself off, the redhead began to piece it all together fairly quick, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing. "You... What are you doing? You look like you're going to-"
"It's called a fight, dumbass. Loser punks jumped me the other day, and I'm giving some payback," he spat angrily. "Cops don't do shit, so I gotta!" With that, he shoved the redhead harshly to the side, walking passed.
With wide eyes and a series of images rapidly flashing behind his eyes-
Mother. Blood. Everywhere. Gone. Entrails. Bones. Mrs Mendez. Her masked attacker. More blood, so much of it. The Katar dagger being punched through his chest...
In a fraction of a second, the redhead's head spun and he was trailing after the blonde. "I-I'm Matt," he said before slurping up collective saliva once more. "C-Can I come and help?"
The blonde paused, body visibly tensing, shoulders squaring. He turned a glare to the redhead and regarded him with a quirked brow. "You... want to help... me?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he turned away and continued on with a grumble of "Alright, c'mon Matt... I'm Mello, by the way. And if you try to make a pun of the name, I'll kick you so hard, your balls will find a new home in your throat."
The redhead, Matt, took a breath before releasing it with a shaky laugh. "F-Fair enough, Mello-Yello," there was a tease in the way he spoke, daringly so.
The blonde tensed again but his stride only faltered slightly. "Whatever, Dog-Bite," came his retort with a light and airy tone.
"D-Dog-Bite?" Matt wondered allowed.
Mello gave a half shrug. "Yeah, Dog-Bite, because you're kinda following me around like a lost pup, and you've got those crazy teeth."
"Oooh," was all Matt bothered to answer with as he tagged along.
A small part of the redhead was racked with anxiety for what was to come, but another part of him recalled how useless the cops were, and how... just maybe...
Maybe...
He didn't bother finishing the thought as a chain link fence came into view. Behind the fence, a group of well muscled teens were grappling and pushing each other around, shouting and throwing beer bottles.
A sly grin etched itself across Mello's face as he gripped the crowbar tighter. "Well, game on," he said in a loud whisper as Matt stepped up beside him and the duo traipsed onto the scene.
...
This chapter ended up a bit more psychological rather than violent. Matt's thread of mentality is more exposed, and he took his first life. He's just met Mello and things can only get... more entertaining? I have a lot of love for the Katar, so it'll likely be Matt's main weapon. As for Mello, he currently has a crowbar, BUT I intend to have a fair amount of killing in this fic, so I'm kinda hoping to change it up. I want Mello to use various weapons in creative ways, if possible. But NO GUNS! Can you believe it? Mello without a gun. I dunno. Lately, guns just seem cheap and too easy. It's more fun to use close-ranged weapons. I'll happily take suggested weapons into account.
-The focus of this fic is officially turned to MxM. So, let's see where it goes!