xii. hands of a killer / 77 a.d.d
They're still not quite sure what just happened. Fifteen minutes ago, Lalo was an innocent person, or at least, as innocent as somebody who volunteered for the Hunger Games could be.
They hadn't killed anybody in the bloodbath, nor in the following days. Yes, he tried, but she just… she couldn't do it.
But now, as Lalo walks past… one… two… three… four corpses, they're starting to wonder if he was lying to himself for eighteen years.
"Damn, Ferragamo," Osman from Two says, clapping them on the back. "I didn't know you had this in you."
"I didn't know I had it in me either."
It was all so fast — the two of them were on a "hunt" when four outliers sprinted towards them. Before Osman could prepare his bow and arrows, Lalo's knife was in the first one's throat. When his blood leaked onto her hands, something about it felt so right. It felt even more correct when she killed two more.
She's always been a lonely person. It's what happens when you spend your whole life trying to mimic your mother, who then dies in and leaves you with nothing. It's hard to comeback from that, but Lalo thought maybe volunteering would give him some form of purpose.
In a way, it already has.
Previously the Queen Bee of Valhalla, Lalo's oddly thrilled with the prospect of being a hornet. They have the hands of a killer now, now that they're not completely covered in blood, they tingle craving more.
Before Lalo can fully conceptualize a plan, his knife flies into Osman's eye. As the boy shrieks, that same warmth from earlier fills her stomach.
One hand covering his eye, Osman hisses, "I should've known you were a freak. You fucking fa–"
A second knife, this time pressed up against his throat.
Lalo chuckles. "A what?" They use the blade to trace down his neck as he makes a pathetic, squeaking sound. She knows what he was going to call them — most people in One did.
So that's another reason why Lalo was lonely. Another reason why now, the blood on their hands is their very first friend.