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: This chapter... BAH! At least it's pretty long.
...
The night air was crisp as the clouds overhead drew in to fog up the moon. A lone fence glinted in the waning light, serving as a barrier between two parties.
On one side, nine individuals lumbered and hulked, bulging biceps and too-full pecs warping their tight clothes and stretching it to fit their Adonis-like figures. One young man, with shoulder length brown hair greasy and crowned with a black bandana, sat back against an old rusted Ford. He had an arm crossed over his midsection while his other hand cradled a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag. Eight other individuals mulled about in various styles of punk dressings- cut off sleeves, dark clothing, and self-done tattoos on exposed flesh. They were paired off into four groups of two as they sparred, half-growling and half-cackling jokes at the expense of each other as they grappled and wrestled for sport. Their fighting was half-hearted and never seemed to go further than grappling and knocking one another down.
Their leader, the guy with the bandana, cut out a healthy belch and tossed his beverage. In turn, his lower-ranking companions hooted and jeered.
A typical night out for these local hoodlums.
Of course, on the other side of the fence were two individuals: a blonde and a redhead, both intruders upon the scene before them.
Mello spared a sidelong glance at the redhead before giving a jerk of his head in the direction of the other group. "These guys are classic anarchists; they call their team Fever Pitch. They don't believe in a fair fight, so be careful." He paused for a moment to roll his shoulders and neck, seeming to work out any kinks before speaking again. "S'go," he said simply, and that was all the warning he gave before he was off, rushing forward and leaping at the chain-link fence that rattled on impact. Threading his fingers through the wire-mesh, he held his weight long enough to grab the top bar of the fence, pulling himself up and slipping over to land in a crouch, metal crowbar in hand held awkwardly more between his fingers than against his palm. He shifted his grip to get a better hold, stepping up and clearing his throat to gain the attention of the opposing party.
Matt bit his lip as the situation fully sank in, his bone-teeth digging into his lip just hard enough to cause discomfort. Then, taking a breath, he opted to join the blonde. He took a few steps back and pulled his Katar from his belt, holding it in his dominant hand- his left one. Closing his eyes and breathing deep to steel his resolve, he lunged forward and jumped; his right hand caught the top bar of the fence and he easily slid his body over it with all the grace of a gymnast. Mid-jump, his thumb compressed the lever on his Katar and split the single blade into three as he landed, knees bent and body low. He distantly noticed how his blades shone in the light while the majority of his body was cast in shadows; the contrast grabbed and held his attention for a fraction of a second before he returned his focus where it was needed.
The leader of Fever Pitch straightened his posture and heaved up his shoulders, painting a scowl on his face as he tried to amp up his ability to intimidate; every muscle in his body seemed to tense up. "Punk ass bitches," he seethed, baring his teeth that seemed too large for his thin-lipped mouth. His own icy gaze caught the blonde's and he let out a gruff sound of discontent. "We kicked your ass already. Back for more?" His snarl morphed into a grin that revealed an empty space between his incisors -a gap where his front teeth should have been- any sincerity in his alleged mirth was questionable. "And you brought a friend," he added, "How cute," he teased, voice low with something akin to venom.
The eight lackeys by then had stopped their wrestling, all turning their attention to the intruders, muttering and smirking and laughing at some private joke they all seem to be clued in on.
Standing at full height and squaring his own shoulders, Mello tapped his crowbar against the palm of his free hand in jest of threat before altering his stance and taking the bar in both hands, positioned as if he were a batter stepping up to the plate. "Nine against two?" He muttered between clenched teeth. "I kinda like my odds," he added. His eyes seemed to both darken and gleam, lips pulled into a strange snarling smile, brow creased and drawn into an expression of ferocity. His breath seemed to quicken on its own accord, taut muscle twitching beneath his flesh in anticipation as excitement rippled through his entire being.
Eying the spectacle, a strange feeling of urgency wrenched its way through the redhead who stepped up beside the blonde once more, arm outstretched and Katar tight in his grip. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, instead pulling his lips back to reveal his gristly teeth as he wrenched back an arm, ready to strike with his blades at any moment. He forced himself to remain calm, heartbeat steady and resolve firm. He had to be there for Mello. Numerically speaking, the odds weren't in their favor, cockiness and vanity be damned.
The leader of Fever Pitch chuckled darkly. "Two kids, a crowbar, and a silly looking claw? We got this. Snaps, you, disarm! Defend! Fuck 'em over!" He jerked his head in the direction of one of his own boys and gave a demanding look that met no resistance.
Then, a young man -one apparently called Snaps- with a shaved head and too many facial piercings to count barreled over, one wide and callous hand swinging wildly as he made an effort to knock the crowbar from Mello's hand.
Mello swiftly dodged to the side and rounded on his foe, crowbar striking Snaps in the arm and causing him to cry out through gritted teeth.
Injured arm pulled instinctively to his chest, Snaps heaved back and slammed a wayward kick to Mello's ribs.
Mello stumbled from the impact but regained his footing with little effort. Teeth bared, he reeled again, the metal of his crowbar flashing against the rays of moonlight.
Matt stepped back, his own stance poised and ready in case he was needed. As much as he wanted to help, this fight was not his and he would not interfere unless absolutely necessary. His grip on the H-bar of his weapon tightened instinctively and his thumb quivered near the lever that would shwick the blades; he tested the sensitivity again, pulling the blades together and releasing them again. And again. Together... Release... One blade... Then three. One blade, three, one, three. He kept his distance from the others, his attention divided between Mello's fight with Snaps and the other lurking gang members that were caught between being attentively silent and jeeringly encouraging.
Seconds turned into minutes, time lapsed into something thick and almost tangible that seemed to weigh the fighters down as if they were wading through a thicker atmosphere, almost but not quite as dense as water.
Mello had struck Snaps multiple times and dodged almost every attempted attack on his own person; he did so with uninhibited grace, landing each blow to Snaps on a limb or in the chest, never striking his head or face or anywhere below the belt. He aimed to wound and warn, not to kill. Not to punish. He aimed to draw out the experience as his own breath turned into gasps of excitement and his snarl turned into a lighter expression akin to something gleeful.
Revenge hardly seemed to be the thing he was after. This fact was only further articulated when Snaps landed a bruising fist to Mello's cheek, and Mello fell back with a bark of laughter followed by a wince of pain.
"Everybody gets one!" Mello mused loudly, composing himself and side-stepping another swing. He grinned as he gave his weapon an unnecessary twirl, came around and behind his opponent and tapped him on his denim-clad ass in a joking manner.
Snaps let out an indignant yip as he juked, turned and caught the crowbar in his palm.
For an immeasurably short amount of time, Mello and Snaps both stood stock still, each gripping an end of the bar and trading glares, neither wanting to budge as they waited for the other to make a move. This pseudo-stalemate lasted seconds but it felt like a small eternity.
Mello, brash and impulsive and impatient as fuck, was the first to break the silence. His hand still gripping tightly, his gaze fixed, he just barely managed to repress his grin and blank his face into a serious expression, brows drawn and jaw tight, as he spoke: "Y'know, the way you hold that bar makes you look experienced in pole-play."
Snaps visibly faltered, eyes wide and face pulled into a scowl as he slackened his grip and jerked away. "I-I'm not a fag, if that's what you-"
Mello ignored the other's words, pulling the crowbar back into a firmer grip. He looked his weapon over in appraisal before releasing an approving sound. "Almost as long as my dick," he joked, inwardly rejoicing in the expression that his words had caused to cross Snap's face. "You look constipated," he muttered, readying a swing.
Matt found himself stepping back, shoulders sagged and expression lax; he watched with ever-lessening apprehension, his stance anything but tense. His thumb notched against the lever and pulled his blades into a single spit-edge point and his shoulders further slumped. Watching the fight, his once aching and clenching gut that coiled and twisted and churned from stress and agonizing guilt was now settling into something of ease. Watching this scene, his mind slowly emptied and allowed itself to fully absorb what was going on.
From his assessment, the blonde wasn't trying to truly harm his opponent, rather he was toying with him. He was attacking with more amusement than malice as he swiped the crowbar into the back of the other teen's knees and made him trip in an almost comedic manner. Then he offered a taunt, baiting his opponent.
Matt held back an almost-laugh as it all played out; for the first time, he could see the appeal in what Mello wanted: the sheer pride and grace and feinted-naivete that came with this one-on-one tryst.
Mello's eyes were alight as he seemed to thrive from his actions. As Snaps returned to his feet, the blonde threw the entirety of his weight at the larger punk, slamming the crowbar horizontal across his throat as they collided with the ground and gave an exchange of 'oof' grunts. Holding the crowbar against Snaps' throat and applying enough pressure against the windpipe to stifle breathing, he held his position until Snaps' eyes slipped closed and he passed out. Finally, Mello got shuffled around and up; he had finished this foe off and announced it by placing a heavy boot to his chest, holding him in place as he spun the crowbar in his hands rhythmically with a show of expertise. He was just showing off now, chest heaving with his heavy breaths as he pulled the bar to a hard stop, the pry-end pointed downwards at an angle. "Who's next?" he asked, cocky smirk in place.
The leader of the gang growled. "Mouth, Hark, go," he said through clenched teeth.
On cue, two stepped up. The one called Mouth had an impossibly wide grin that took up over half his face and could easily remind one of a Muppet; his legs were long and his frame was sleek though his calves were thick, implying some form of endurance training that involved running. The one called Hark had wide shoulders set on a thin frame- he looked like an exaggerated action figure with his scrawny legs and too-big biceps and bulging deltoids; he was the kind of meat-head who probably couldn't do much more than simple addition in terms of mental math.
Mouth raced forward and picked up a small handful of rocks, throwing one in Mello's direction before running to circle him, showing off speed that would rival the best Track runner as Hark clambered forth with a grunt and swung his arms like an angry ape. Mouth continued tossing another and another pebble until his hand was emptied.
Mello ignored the flying pebbles that either missed or pinged as he crouched, grip tightening on the weapon as he kept wary of both opponents' movements. One was fast; the other was nothing but brute strength on toothpick legs...
Matt watched, suddenly anxious at this two-on-one shift, biting his lip with his faux teeth, so intensely focused on the fight before him that he didn't feel the pointed bones stabbing into his bottom lip and drawing blood.
Mouth was the first to strike, almost gliding as he closed in on Mello and twisted his body with acrobatic skill and landed a swift kick to the blonde's gut, causing him to double over and back up a few paces.
Hark was there next, large fist hulking towards Mello's winded form. Slow but harsh, meandering and decisive.
Panic exploded in Matt's gut and stars danced behind his eyes. He acted on instinct, thought no longer present as rushed into the mix. Looking over Hark's large mass and slim lower body, he saw the legs as a point of weakness and attacked accordingly, ramming his head into the brute's hamstrings and knocking him forwards like a top-heavy child's toy.
Hark stumbled and flailed his arms like a pinwheel, catching his balance at the last moment. But Matt wasn't done. The redhead lurched and dropped down, doing a baseball slide towards Hark and tangling their legs together as he drew to a stop; then with a firm twist of his own hips, Hark's legs went out and sent him toppling over like a wailing tower.
Hark flailed and belted out his anger as he pounded the ground with his angry fist before scrabbling to his feet; Matt kept his focus and compressed the lever on his Katar, the blade separating into three.
Mouth, seeing the redhead interfere, changed tactics. Ignoring how the blonde wheezed and clutched at his abdomen, he made a break for the redhead and swiftly kicked him in the back square between the shoulders, sending him forwards and onto his stomach. Matt hit the ground hard, Katar slipping from his grip and sliding out of reach as his hands scraped the asphalt. His body trembled and he reached for his weapon, heart racing.
Hark was less than a foot away...
Just then, every gang member encircled the small group before closing in, imposing.
Mello by then had caught his breath and found himself away from Hark and Mouth; instead he was paired against the leader. He wildly golfed his crowbar at anyone in range, more or less to keep them at bay as he tried to reinstate the fairness of of numbers in the fight. As far as he was concerned, the leader of Fever Pitch was his priority. He didn't really give a shit about the lowly underlings; fighting them was like child's play... and at this point, he was starting to get tired of playing. His gaze flicked towards his fallen companion and he felt compelled to let out a cry of: "Dog Bite, get up and fight!" Done playing games, he stepped over one fallen punker and slammed his bar into the leader's head- once, twice, THREE times, each time harder than the last. With little hassle, as unceremonious as it was, he'd knocked the bandana-wearer out cold. It was decidedly anticlimactic, but Mello just didn't care; he was no longer having fun. With the redhead's safety on the line, his tactics and priorities changed. Wasting no time, Mello next landed a solid kick to Mouth's groin before spitting a thick wad of phlegm at him. Swinging wild and hard, he fended off a few other seemingly faceless individuals and watched them back off slowly before turning his attention towards Hark.
Hark had pulled the redhead into a crushing hold, his arm gripping and tightening around the younger's neck and cutting off his air supply.
Mello willed himself to be calm as he stared.
"One more step, Blondie, and I'll snap your little friend's neck," Hark threatened.
Mello narrowed his eyes and took half a second to assess the situation. The leader was down. Mouth was on the ground. Snaps was dealt with and unconscious. A few others were off to the side, bruised and wary but willing to step in if necessary. Matt was defenseless in the grip of Hark. Taking a deep breath that coated his lungs like ice, Mello shook his head and knelt down, bending his knees and slowly lowering himself. "I'm putting down my weapon," he said, tone even. "Let him go." Slowly, so slowly, too slow for his own liking but with the justified intent to make no sudden movements, he let his fingers release the crowbar. Then he cautiously began to rise and erect his posture. "I'm defenseless," he said, arms rising with his palms facing outward in jest of surrender. "Your fight is with me. Let Dog Bite go."
"Dog Bite?" Mouth ground out, voice slightly high pitched and face still scrunched up in agony. "F-Fuckin' Mutt!" he shrieked, eyes widening as he craned his neck to look at his brutish comrade. "H-Hark! The redhead's with the Mutts! Don't let him go!"
Hark acknowledged Mouth's words with a glare and a grunt. Regarding Mello, he snorted. "Your friend 'Dog Bite' isn't much of a threat. I'll let him go... if you take his place."
Mello bared his teeth before opening his mouth to say something nasty, but a thought occurred to him. His eyes darted around and an idea came to mind. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "At least let Dog Bite breathe. When I know he's okay, I'll take his place."
Hark shook his head. "No negotiation. Boss made it clear that Fever Pitch don't negotiate with your Kennel Corp."
"We ain't that stupid, Blondie," Mouth said, finally getting up but walking stiffly.
"No," Mello said calmly, nerves jumping beneath his flesh and hairs standing on end, though he made an effort to visibly concealed his unease. "Look." He kept his arms crossed as his gaze went towards the crowbar. His enemies followed his gaze. Mello moved his boot towards the bar and kicked it further away. "I won't fight. Just let him go. He's a KID! For fuck's sake, look at him!" He said, voice rising. "He's not with me." At his last sentence, his voice took on an almost desperate tone as concern flashed in his eyes.
"Bah, you called him Dog Bite," Mouth spat. "Your crew is known to give fucked up names like that."
Mello rolled his eyes and let out of huff, exasperated. "Fuck you. You won this fight. Just... let him go."
"He had a weapon," Hark said, jaw squared.
"And now he's defenseless!" Mello snapped angrily. "I know you don't believe in a fair fight, but you can't involve an innocent kid in-"
"He ain't innocent," Hark said. He paused for a moment, releasing his crushing grip on the redhead in favor of grabbing him by the front of his hoody. "He's got blood on him. Had it before he even stepped in to fight. I don't think it's his blood either."
Mouth quirked a brow- if one could call it a brow; it had been shaved and the entire ridge was lined in shiny metal hoops. "Good call, Hark," he praised, grin splitting his face. "Dog Bite dies. Tonight."
Mello wanted to retort, to yell, to scream, but once he thought it over, he couldn't deny the facts; Matt did have blood on him, and it was splattered. Something in his stomach grew heavy like lead and he let out a frustrated growl. "He's not with me, okay? Let the fucker go!" Without waiting another second, He made for the crowbar and grabbed it hastily, throwing it as hard as he could in Hark's direction.
Hark saw the futile attack coming; he snarled and pushed Matt to the ground before moving to the side and widely avoiding the bar. "Missed me, Blondie. Was that a last-ditch effort?" His voice was full of amusement. "I ain't that smart, but I know NOT to throw a weapon away."
Mouth shook his head, eyes wide and body tense. "Hark, MOVE!" he shrieked.
Hark had kept his attention on the blonde, not realizing that once he'd released the redhead, Matt had quickly commando-crawled over to grab the Katar.
Matt got to his feet, eyes steeled and lifeless as he clutched the horizontal bar and played with the lever. Three blades became one, then became three as he lunged. Holding the weapon in his left hand, arm bent so that the blade was held near his right shoulder, he leapt at Hark and slashed the blades down hard through his enemy's forearm, cutting through flesh, tissue, and muscle and just barely missing any arteries. "C-Clean," he said with a wheeze, eyes appearing glassy and distant yet trained on the blood that began to flow from Hark's arm. But Hark didn't have time to do anything about the wound as another slash cut into him, this time on the thigh. And another, across the chest, and finally... Matt punched the blade forward and the tri-blade ripped through Hark's abs, searing into his flesh and muscle and tangling in his organs, slicing. Severing.
Twisting the Katar, Matt plunged it a little deeper before pulling it out.
Hark came down, hard, body flailing and a roaring cry tearing through him.
As Hark laid with his back against the asphalt, Matt moved to straddle his waist. With a shaky hand, he pressed the blades to Hark's throat, adding just enough pressure to break the skin and call forth a thin streak of red. He pulled the blades down the collar bone and kept going. He shredded the shirt and the flesh beneath it before peeling the clothing aside and getting a better look at the damage he'd done.
Mello watched with wide eyes and parted lips.
Mouth was beside him, speechless, both hands raised to cover his own flapping but soundless maw.
Hark was bleeding out, no more sound escaping him as his head thrashed back and forth and his body grew weak.
Matt's shoulders shook and his face took on a strained expression. "C-Clean," he choked out, holding back a sob. "Contains... Sodium hypochlorite. Avoid c-con-contact with eyes... skin... and mucous membranes. Do... not... mix with... acids, ammonia, or other... h-household chemicals. T-Toxic... gas... may form," he choked out the words, reciting blindly the words on a WARNING label he'd read too many times to count. He dipped the Katar blades into Hark's stomach and ripped it back out, taking flesh and innards with it. He dipped the blades again, eyes filling with tears. "C-Clean... P-Poison control... Sodium... hypochlorite... Ah!" With a startled cry from the redhead, the blades were entwined with the large intestine as he ripped and tore at whatever he could. His slow and deliberate stabs grew numerous and fast as he shredded the guy's insides, almost hollowing him out. More blood spattered his hoody and soaked his pants. Finally, a wretched sob broke loose, loud and wailing, as if he were the one dying. He gasped and hiccuped and cried, pulling the three blades into one and then collapsing on top of his attacker-turned-victim. Eyes closed tightly, he whispered: "M'sorry, momma." His body trembled with the force of his sobs.
Mello watched, chest constricting. He hadn't intended this to happen. He thought he'd knock everyone out and leave. Thought he'd make a game of it. With the redhead involved, he thought it would be a little more fun. Now, he wasn't so sure. He stole a sidelong glance at Mouth and quietly said: "You and your friends should go. Before the cops show up. Because they will."
"Wh-What about H-Hark?" Mouth asked, voice strange and tight.
Mello shook his head. "Your choice. Either take him, or leave him for the cops to find. Me, I take care of my own," he said, tone clipped as he moved over to Matt. "Hey, Dog Bite, c'mon." He lightly rested a hand on the redhead's shoulder.
Matt didn't move. He just cried and practically clung to the corpse beneath him.
"Dog Bite," Mello tried again before shaking his head. "Matt, we need to go." He didn't wait for a response this time; he grabbed Matt by the back of his hoody and roughly yanked him away from Hark. "We need to go. Now." He let Matt go, expecting him to get to his feet and follow, but instead... Matt just collapsed in a boneless heap of blood and tears.
"C-Clean," Matt said after a long moment, his cries quieting. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the blonde. "B-Bleach. C-Clean. Disinfect. Protect. Need to... Please?" He looked down in dismay, staring at nothing, eyes taking on a distant glaze. "Momma... would be... not proud, would she?" His words were whispered, tone broken and fragile.
Mello closed his eyes tight but said nothing. He breathed deeply several times before finally opening his eyes. He could hear sirens in the distance. He couldn't be sure who'd called, but the members of Fever Pitch were carting off their unconscious comrades and the police were coming. Mello shook his head abruptly and moved to grab his crowbar. Once it was in his grasp, he glared at Matt. Seeing the helpless look on the redhead's face, his own expression softened. "Dog Bi- erm- Matt, it was either you or Hark; you did what you had to. Don't beat yourself up about it. Okay? We need to go. Come on." With that, he slipped an arm around the redhead and forced him to stand.
Matt's legs were like spaghetti, weak and wobbly and not wanting to support him, but with Mello's help, he was able to take a few steps and regain his strength. Once he was able to walk on his own, he pulled away from Mello's assisting arms and mumbled something under his breath.
"What was that?" Mello asked?
"I-I need... to go... h-home," Matt answered.
Mello stopped for a moment. "Home to see your mom? Y'gotta go back to your mom, right?" He sighed heavily. "S'fine, I guess. Just- Don't you wanna clean up first? So your mom doesn't see all the-?" He vaguely gestured to the redhead's crimson-stained clothes.
Matt shrugged but said nothing.
Mello hung his head, shoulders slumped. "C'mon. We'll head to the Kennel, and you can get cleaned up. After that, just... pretend this didn't happen. Okay?"
Matt shrugged again, wordless.
The moon overhead was almost completely blocked by clouds, darkness nearly engulfing everything in sight.
But from the shadows, a pair of red eyes could be seen. "Mello, that was quite a show," a seemingly disembodied voice said eerily.
Mello completely ignored the voice, slinging an arm around Matt to offer comfort.
But the voice wouldn't let up. "New playmate? Taking him to the Kennel? Does L know?"
Mello finally growled his answer to the hidden figure. "He's none of your concern, so fuck off, Beyond."
A dark haired figure stepped from the shadows, pale skin almost glowing, ghostlike. "But I'm so bored! And you got to have so much fun tonight with Fever Pitch... Plus, if I heard correctly, you just said you were going to take your friend to the Kennel."
"So?" Mello glared harshly; he was in no mood for games.
But Beyond persisted. "I'm going to the Kennel too. I'll come with."
Mello turned to face Beyond, clutching the crowbar. "I'll hit you," he threatened.
But Beyond laughed madly, almost cackling. "And I'll cut you!" he chimed, lips spread wide to accommodate a toothy grin, amusement evident in the way his body swayed and he skipped closer. "Play nice, Mello." He made a snapping gesture by clicking his teeth together before grasping the crowbar and wrenching it away from the blonde. He carefully wiped the bar in his sleeve, removing much of the fingerprints and rust-colored spatters and smudges of evidence before giving it a hard toss. He watched enthusiastically as it whirled off into the distance. Then he turned his red gaze onto the two younger boys. "Mello, introduce me to your friend."
...
So, rival gangs: Fever Pitch and Kennel Corp. More to come. Next up, most likely some quality MxM time. Nothing too crazy, I think. I dunno. This chapter gave me a hard time though.