Avian gang let’s go v.2 (Grish x Atomic)

[Grish]

@Grish @Atomic Soul

I was quiet, but I was not blind - Jane Austen

It’s safe to say it was a series of unfortunate events. Understatement of the century.

From a life of luxury and lobbyism, executive offices and suits with personal service and marble fucking floors. What can one ambitious attempt cause already? The collapse of an empire apparently. Ivar spent time in limbo between remnants of the life he knew for his first two decades— and the common average tax bracket statistic life.
Who knew the life of the working class is so convenient. His resources combined with the anonymity it provides, finally there was room for ambition. There was a necessity for ambition.

Five years; orchestrating, forging, investing, blackmailing. Ivar managed to drown himself so deep in confidentialities and contracts he’s essentially become invisible. At least that’s the idea— vital for reaching what he’s trying to achieve.

It’s funny it all started with a painting.



Ivar is now a sweater guy: dark and desaturated, worn out coats to blend in, with a special little flap to hide half of his wings. He didn’t think about how his pristine pale self sticks out like a sore thumb. So his wings now have more brown spots, a little dirtier, tucked away. Shit he wears a beanie to cover the bright blond cut— more of a grown out buzz now.

And the bag. A duffle bag at all times he’s outside. Always moving something. Obsessed, maybe.

Ivar’s last checkpoint registration states Ciril Sirota, Peregrine, 27. He’s waited in line, walked through, and found the nearest bar. He doesn’t get to drink often, only when he needs to give himself a reset. Breakdowns are too common for normal people, but Ivar is no common person; he only has breakdowns sometimes.

What’s the most unassuming drink? Beer? Whatever. Pick a spot at the bar in the corner and keep a low head, lower wings, lower everything. Don’t move, don’t talk, take out the small map and try to chart your route to the pawn shop the checkpoint officer arranged. Do not. Do not. Do not start shit. The foam grazes the beard: what otherwise would’ve been a white stubble is plagued by ginger hairs, like blood staining the white feathers at the mouth.

 

[Atomic Soul]

I swoop down in a whirlwind in black and white, the flash of iridescent cobalt and emerald glinting in the streetlight; muscle, bone and cartilage pull against my left secondary scapula, titanium rods and screws tugging at my right. The metal is cold beneath my skin, aching as the prosthetic pulls against biological material. Feet firmly planted on the concrete, I beat my wings once, twice, before settling them against my back: one, the feather morphology of a Pica pica—the other pure black synthetic vanes so dark they pull in all light around them, as if made from the weave of a dark star.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes urgently against my thigh. The sensation is faintly pleasurable, and doubly so as I fish my hand inside, pulling out the device to see an image delivered to my inbox. With a glimpse of my face, the phone unlocks, and a dim image of a man flashes on the cracked screen. A spiderweb of fractures splits his face in pieces, but beneath the broken glass, I can plainly tell: It’s him. The man who disappeared from my life as though he’d fallen off the very edge of the earth, plummeting somewhere completely out of my reach. All these years later and he’s still fucking around right under my nose, dabbling in Icarus only knows what illicit dealings. All the while, I’m left obsessing over him in the dark, the shadow of a domineering Gyrfalcon still holding sway in my life just the way he did back then.

A shit-eating grin plays across my lips, flashing a set of mildly-crooked teeth, with a broken canine and mandibular central incisor: in the months of tracking, tracing, and pure, unadulterated stalking, I've almost found my quarry. The address of a pawn shop, dates and times of an expected arrival—I can intercept him there, downtown, just a few miles from my derelict roost at City Inn. We’ve been running around in concentric circles, orbiting one another yet never crossing paths. Tibec has kept me on a short leash all the years, keeping me tied to the Swallow’s Den fighting rings or running around town conducting errands–hits, mostly, intercepting junkies selling on his turf, roughing up rivals, “reminding” subordinates who rules the roost. But me? I haven’t been too busy to do what I do best: obsess.

I sink into the mattress, a tangle of dirty sheets draped haphazardly across my naked legs. Around me, a haze of cigarette smoke swirls languidly; I lift the smoldering thing to my lips, take a drag, hold the warm toxicity in my lungs for a moment, and exhale it through my nose like a pensive dragon. A vision of arctic wind whirls past my mind’s eye, a shiver bolting up my spine as his face flashes behind my eyelids. A stoic expression resting across noble, chiseled features, platinum blonde hair once combed back neatly a mess around his face, sharp wings as white as snow ruffled behind his back, a pair of rime-blue eyes scanning the room–and finding me, sprawled across his mattress, eyes half-lidded with a goofy smile pulling at my kiss-bitten lips. His own twitch, something of a grin ghosting across his lips. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words come out muted—

I bolt upright into a sitting position, bare chest heaving as my heart races at the half-forgotten memory I've conjured. The image of that commanding, pale silhouette, the one with the baritone voice and the frost-bitten eyes, who threatened death and then granted mercy. No, better: who granted you a dose of Heaven. And then tossed you straight back into Hell, disappearing like an apparition in the fog, gone. And I fell off the top of that Whitespring Tower, hands grasping for something to hold onto, only for air to slide between my empty fingers—there are no wings, no parachutes, no safety nets, just the cold, solid concrete waiting to embrace my shattered body below. You broke me, Ivar. So I’m coming for you. I know you’re out there.

It’s just

a matter ​

of time.​

Asymmetrical form approaching the entrance with a careless sort of swag, I push through the double doors, palms pressed against the cold glass and muscles flexing beneath black-banded arms as I shove my way inside. Shoulders slouched, ruffled wings folded lazily behind my back, a mess of hair wild around my shoulders and sharp-featured face: the mussed strands frame a pair of narrow down-turned eyes underlined in dark, sleepless bruises, high-peaked cheekbones, a crooked nose, burned lips, a jawline as sharp as a razor-blade. A thin, ribbed off-white tank top hangs around my lanky form, displaying a collection of forty-two tattooed rings cascading down lithe, lightly muscled arms. Dark, tight-fitting pants with holes over the knees and a pair of old, ragged black tennis-shoes complete the look, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter peeking from the top of my back right pocket. In the dim, mellow lighting of the bar, my pallid complexion is diminished, though the criss-cross of shiny pink scarring and rainbow of ugly bruising isn't hidden so easily. Swollen violet-red and sickly yellow-green stipples and smears my skin in shocking variety: semi-circle teeth marks and flushed collections of broken capillaries dotting my throat and collarbones; a constellation of angry red pin-pricks at the insides of my elbows and the webbing of my fingers, fading to green and yellow; vibrant red and purple contusions blooming beneath the skin on my shoulders and forearms—the result of contact with a hurled fist of bony, raised knuckles.

The bar is rowdy and monochromatic. The Avians here only care to show off their bands, rather than the wild hair dye and debaucherous outfits displayed in the clubs: short-cropped, slicked back, tied up; loose-fitting, easy to move in, sleeveless. The array of feathers, too, is far less varied. Black, gray, white with a sheen of iridescence, the occasional bright blue of a Jay. But I stand out, the excessively-banded attack dog loping towards the counter in search of a celebratory drink. I have sway here, power; envy boils under their skin like magma just below the surface, raising their hackles and tensing their teeth—but there's no objection, no challenge, respect fully garnered. But as I slink towards the bar, electricity arcs up my spine, that vision of arctic wind suddenly playing before my eyes. A stoic expression resting across noble, chiseled features—now bearded—with platinum blonde hair enveloped under a beanie, sharp wings covered, dimmed and ruffled behind his back, a pair of rime-blue eyes scanning the room—and finding me.

I sit down next to him, trembling, nearly, as I push myself up onto the barstool. “Ciril Sirota,” I murmur, jerking my head at the bartender to call him over to us. “You’re a hard man to track down. Hard…but not impossible.” I stare a hole in him like relativistic jets shooting forth from a pair of supermassive black holes; there’s no warmth, only the cold near-absolute-zero temperatures swirling inside.

 

[Grish]

Maybe he lacked the sleep.

There’s a moment in time in which a person looks in a direction and has yet to process the information before them. What was an innocent glance around the room became an ambush of the past. It hit his chest first, then his mind, I know that face, I know that voice, that voice knows me—

The whole point of his model is to ensure no one even looks in his direction-- Sure, every now and then everybody wants to pick a fight but he's had the luck of being so unassuming he was never picked out in public. It's easy to manage paranoia when you're on the sidelines; walking through an ocean of people who would come for your head had they sniffed out your identity. It's less easy in the limelight, and Ivar had never realised what disadvantages that exposure brings. It'll be their downfall. Father's corpse will be sooner paraded in the streets. Ivar wasn't wrong, or not as wrong as he could've been.

Maybe it doesn’t know-- the voice. But then he speaks the registration name.
No one knows Ciril Sirota. Ciril Sirota doesn’t know Sirota because there’s nothing under that name— and Ivar made fucking sure; no bank, no social number, no residency, no occupation, no next of kin. Ciril Sirota is a paper company of a man, like the dozen other aliases Ivar skips through. It was time to face the odds, and they’re not looking good within less than a sentence time.

Do not talk, do not start shit. Play dumb, buy time, be smart—

Every single fibre of him wanted to run. “I’m not someone people need finding.” He tried putting on an accent, something that sounds like the language is a struggle, but he was never a theatre fan. If he plays his way through there’s a chance— a chance this walking pharmacy is unhinged enough to buy it. Ivar didn't raise his head, only prayed the building collapses. "You have the wrong man." Another sip from the drink. His hand crept to put away the map, tuck it deep-- eat it if you can.

Had he glimpsed up, would the barkeep be in his favour? Would the patrons let him escape? How deep am I in corvid territory?

 

[Atomic Soul]

“Maybe not people—” I murmur, grinding my teeth and narrowing my eyes at his pathetic attempt to forge an accent in front of me, “but you left loose ends. I want to tie them up.” I look at him, unabashedly burning holes in his face while he tries to hide his eyes, looking anywhere else but at me. Tch. It only pisses me off further, this charade; I want to grab him around the throat and throttle him, forcing him to look into my eyes, those night-black irises he knew so well—after all, Ivar is the king of eye contact.

Is. Tch.

Was. Ivar is dead; he’s been strangled, killed, reconstituted, morphed into Joaquin, and Airic, and Everett, and Ciril.

Should I say it out loud? We fucked, Ciril. It hums in my amygdala in some cocktail of residual adrenaline and oxytocin: The fever of steamy sweat-damped sheets and wild sweat-damped hair, of red-purple bruises the shape of teeth showered in a cascade of sloppy, possessive kisses, and the heat of labored, intoxicated breath caressing the sweat-slicked hollow of my neck—the throbbing ache of forbidden lust. The glow of curling, charred feathers and snapshots of domination and ambition like so many vintage Polaroid photographs, altogether razing a brief moment of short-lived, ill-fated bliss.

A bitter, acrid taste like benzaldehyde on the tongue; there was only ever a hint of something sweet between us, then—mostly just Hennessy and bad decisions. It never had a chance to flourish before he disappeared from my life entirely, one day, as if he just…died. But I never forgot. And now, he’s trying to fake it. As if I wouldn’t recognize those features beneath that beard, or what used to be a full head of hair—a mop I ran my fingers through—covered up with a beanie. A sweater, a bad accent, a fake name—fuck you, Ivar. I’m sorry. Fuck Ciril. Fuck him, and fuck every conglomeration of syllables he tried to hide beneath, not “he,” you, you you you, I hate you, I loved you. Try to kill obsession. It doesn't die so easily.

The bartender approaches, polishing a whiskey glass with a damp rag and throwing me an implying look—what do you want? “A shot of Smirnoff,” I bark, gaze flickering only briefly at the Rook before settling back on the Gyrfalcon. (My apologies—the Peregrine.) Cheap alcohol: what I like best. He would remember that, wouldn’t he? Always trying to ply me with expensive liquor when I’d happily guzzle the bottom shelf stuff, and then he’d screw me, because that’s what we did. We fucked, and you ingrained yourself in my mind and in my body, and then you left. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was an idiot to think you’d stick around, but you lit a fuse in me, and forgot to pinch it out. So I’m going to burn you.

 

[Grish]

Talk about loose ends right? Talk about tying up-- Ivar would love nothing more than to tie up everything into a neat bow and get his life back; his inheritance, his legacy-- And whose fault is it anyway? Who came down like a wrecking ball that chain-smokes crack for a living-- who fucked who really? Ivar's blood boils at the thought alone, gritting his teeth to dust in a minute. When the bartender joined the conversation to get an order in and Fen orders some disgusting cheap shot-- Ivar can't mask his luxury nature all the way it seems, he brings his gaze to Fen.

It's a swirl of all sorts in there: Meticulous calculation, reminisce, and rage that blames Fen for everything that went wrong in his life. At that stage he very well debated smashing a glass and slicing Fen then and there, irreversible enough to keep Ivar unfeeling and on the run, but that wouldn't have worked and he knows it. It would've been a suicide, which wasn't outside the realm of consideration at times. He waited for Fen's eyes to return, to burn his face into his mind again so he has a description for a hitman. He didn't speak, but his jaw shifted around like it wanted to tear Fen's neck. The map to the pawn shop already crumpled into pulp in his sweaty hand.

There was no shred of doubt left at that point. Fen knew, Ivar knew, that's too many people in the know.



He smashed the glass and ran for it.

The good thing about fairly big wings is the momentum they give, Ivar might've lost some of the camouflage hiding his wings but that wasn't a critical aspect: He could lie, and not that many common folk see gyrfalcons about anyway. He propelled himself off the stool and caused some chaos to buy him time with the same flap motion, With long running strides and an already thought out route, Ivar had some idea of where he was running to-- but this is Fen's territory nonetheless. All the zig-zag turns wouldn't save him from a man with eyes everywhere. Fucking run you fuckwit. Run like the million times you do a day. Whatever you do; fucking run. Story oof his life at this point. Kind of funny when you think about it. The messenger bag was slowing him down, not that he had the bandwidth to notice.

 

[Atomic Soul]

He tries to get away from me. Tch. I should have expected this–it’s your forte, isn’t it? Running away? And me? Tibec trained an attack dog: I’m a hunter, a predator, a tracker, a killer. I don’t stop until my quarry is sunk between my canines, bleeding out of its airway into the concrete. I’ll squeeze and squeeze, shake my head, separating tendon from bone, until you’re a limp rag between my jaws, trembling, quivering, begging me to stop. Just give me an explanation. Garble a reason why, and maybe…maybe I’ll ease up, drop you in a pool of your own blood and let you live. Live…is this life to you? Slinking in the shadows, wearing a million disguises, assuming a million identities until you’ve become invisible, a ghost to everyone who ever cared about you, all to cater to your blind ambition? Call me an idiot. Your schemes, I never really understood; I just stood by your side and executed your orders, because you captured me in your rime-rimmed eyes. Your slick, icy exterior–I longed to warm it, thought I’d made an impression with the flames in my fingers, but I guessed you hardened over again.

Me? I’m no ghost. I wear my wraiths in my eyes, a howling haunted house brimming with vengeful spirits and shimmering shadows. They seek you, Ivar, have tormented me for five years, and now that the windows of my soul have captured you like a snapshot to my psyche, they seek you out. I feel them move under my skin, writhing, thrashing, urging me after you. Not before I take my shot; as glass shards glimmer around me, skittering across the polished wood bar, I throw back the shot of vodka and slam my own glass down. Then, I’m up in a flash, and the chase is on.

“You think you could just fuck me and run?!” I shout after him like a spurned lover, bristling. I am not a ghost. I am Cerberus, wielding my demons in broad daylight. I breathe fire; I gnash my teeth. Shoving my way through the crowd, I follow his figure as he shoves through the front door and dashes around a corner. He can’t run from me. Now that my teeth are sunken in and I’ve gotten a taste of blood, the iron on my tongue, slipping down the back of my throat, is a thirst that can’t be sated by a simple graze of my teeth across his flesh. I hunt him, taking every side road, turning every corner, dogging his heels–he can try to fly, but the one-winged Magpie he knew has a new prosthetic, and these streets, these skies, I know them as well as his worst nightmare.

The gig is up when we hit a dead end: what appeared to be a side street morphed into a wall, mildew-laced brickwork climbing skyward. I bark a laugh as he turns, like a cornered animal, and puff my wings as if to block his path. But the gesture is more than just practical–I want to show him the new Fen, who isn’t pinioned with his feet cemented to the ground. Once a single-winged, depressed drug addict, I’ve upgraded my persona to an adrenaline junkie strung out on norepinephrine. Oh, the White Wing still has a throttle-grip around my throat; I shoot up to sleep, drown myself in alcohol and choke on packs of cigarettes. I’m still a loser–that will never change. What has changed? The number of bands cascading down my biceps and forearms, a kill for each of the forty-two tattooed rings: faces bashed into the concrete, boot-soles crushing airways, pocket-knives to arteries, fists to the back of brainstems. I’m deadlier than ever, using my fists and my fangs to put down anyone–anyone–who steps in my way. How do you think I tracked you this far, Ivar? I don’t play nice, not anymore.

Feathers bristled, shoulders hunched, and teeth bared, I nearly growl at him, like a hound that’s trapped its quarry. “The Ivar I knew didn’t run,” I taunt, cocking my head and lowering my stance. He’s staring down a rabid dog, and better keep that in mind. “Sorry, Ciril? Is that what you go by these days? Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

 

[Grish]

The streets began to merge into themselves and blend into a blur of damp despair. Ivar would take turns to get away but Fen wouldn’t relent. Let me be. You don’t deserve that luxury, Ivar. He fumbled at the dead end and rolled to hit his wings at the wall, looking up at an upgraded nightmare.

“You don’t know me.” Ivar tried hissing back from the ground, stuck between shooting himself back up to stand and remaining put on the floor. “You never knew shit about me.” I won’t let you, I won’t let anyone. When you really think about it Ivar ran his whole life— way before any of this, he ran towards one thing and away from another, he ran between his family’s legs for as long as he could take a step.



Do you know what jouissance is?

The body has an inherit cravings for things that aren't good for it. Jacques Lacan is one of the most controversial psycho-philosophers to suggest this and it is exactly what Ivar's insides exhibit. Fen's a proud joussance poster boy whilst Ivar cannot stand the idea of being out of control of his body— of his wings being mutilated, of his insides falling out. If body and mind were a conflict every living day is war, so you can imagine what it's like staring it in the face as it towers over you with no escape.

In the past 5 years Ivar had several health scares to cement in his head that his body isn’t his own. Never was. With a mind of its own his vessel protests against Ivar’s controlling compulsion— either in the form of skin rashes or… worse.

In all honesty; Ivar was petrified of what Fen might have planned. And the best way to face your fears, of course, is head on.


“I should’ve killed you when you broke into my hanger.”

 

[Atomic Soul]

I hover over him like a patchwork fallen angel, wings spread wide and stance low, almost as if in an attacking position. He’s trapped, facing down a nightmare who knows his secrets, his identity, the one he tried to erase, as if he could burn it all down and become reborn from his own ashes. But there was a slip, a hangup: an unhinged man named Fen, who idolized–practically worshiped–you like a god, even momentarily after his idol fell off the face of the goddamn earth. If I was the lover of a deity then, I’m his scorned bedmate now, dangling his betrayal over his head as if a physical knife was stuck between my shoulder blades.

I lounge in his bed with a crystal glass of some mellow golden liquid on ice, watching him watch the world: that picture window overlooking the city, snow swirling in drifts past the frigid glass. His wings droop, wide and beautiful, stretching long so that the primaries brush the marble floor. The white, the gray spotting, each feather in perfect form, downy and luscious and beautiful. And his silhouette, pale, hawk-like eyes far away from this bedroom–seeking something greater, something more, something higher. All while I sink into the mattress, at ease and comfortable, guard long gone, ambitions and addictions sated…home.

Those little demons this life has sowed stir in the pit of my stomach. They’ve grown in size and strength, lengthening their teeth and claws, pushing out from my bones and metastasizing into my muscles, into my brain, like a Cordyceps infestation zombifying its host. Some grew larger than others, exercising and exerting their special variety of vice with consistent use, like the sarcomeres of a muscle thickening with repetitive action. Now, two of them stir, wrath and…jouissance. The one that nestled itself inside of my heart awakens, like an infernal engine roaring to life, flexing, stretching, summoned by rage with a voice that licks like flame each time its lips and tongue move inside my psyche.

And jouissance. If there were ever a word to describe me, the demon that lives in the pit of my stomach, it's Gluttony: born from a childhood of starvation and insatiable in every desire from physical hunger to sexual appetite. Its maw is broken glass, gnashing, slobbering, ever-starving. I choke on my addictions, shoving carbs down my throat, rocketing morphine into my veins, guzzling alcohol like a fish, fucking my way through town like a cheap whore, just to satiate the desperate cravings. But Gluttony isn’t satisfied, never was quite through with Ivar.

“Should have, would have, could have," I taunt, spitting venom in my words. "It would have been less painful than what you did to me. Could have put a gun to my head and blew my brains out–I’d claw myself back up from the ground and find you anyway.” I pause, grinding my teeth, straightening, crossing my arms. “Where did you go?” There’s something in my voice, something beyond the anger, beyond the hunger…something sad. Something that grieves, loud, and openly. “Why did you go? Did I really mean that little to you?” I should have killed you when you broke into my hanger. Tch. Why are you so vulnerable with him? You should maul him to pieces here, now, forget asking questions. He’ll dodge them; he’s so deft, so nimble, you know this. But I can't help it. I need answers, have been seeking them for years. Now might be the only time I ever receive a shred of closure.

 

[Grish]

Three hours ago Ivar was in a rather confident mindset. When the plan was clear and no.. surprise variables even had to be considered. The fault is his; Ivar had completely and utterly removed Fen from his mind to the point he didn’t realise he was manoeuvering right into his domain. He had to, for if he let Fen roam in his mind any longer he would’ve lost his whole sanity years ago. At least now there’s some to spare.

Where did you go? Far. Further than I ever thought I could before having met you. The realisation backhands Ivar in his conscious— slim remnants, but they’re there, and they’re staring back at Fen’s seething, accusing position of power. Ivar didn’t relent just yet, his gaze remained sharp, and his diaphragm wanted to pump like a steam engine. Is this a panic attack coming? Are you going to do something stupid? His mind searched for the words whilst his hands searched for a weapon in the scattered rubbish.

“It doesn’t matter.” Ivar might not be empathetic, but that doesn’t mean he lacks an understanding in emotions, especially when they’re this… erratic. All he needs is some angle— something that’ll throw Fen off balance and give him an edge. “You.. You’re still a rabid dog. Still a disease.” His hands found broken lighters, damp newspapers.

“So why would—“ Ivar’s focus was spread thin, his breathing became difficult. “Why would anyone stay?”


Finally, a shaving razor.

There was little to no control of that movement: Ivar’s hand swung in Fen’s general direction, hoping to slash something. His body dragged a smidge too slowly behind, but attempted to tackle Fen nonetheless. There wasn’t any slick talk Ivar could think of to make this mess of a move any graceful. It was desperate, he was desperate— for a sense of control again. Or maybe, deep down, a part of him wanted to sabotage himself out of guilt. That same part that was sick of the running.

 

[Atomic Soul]

“Why would anyone stay?”

A shaving razor.

Straight to the throat, cutting deep, ear to fucking ear; blood pumps from my aorta with each thrummed heart beat, spewing down my neck, pooling in the hollow of my collarbone, dribbling and soaking into the fabric of my tank top. You’re still a rabid dog. You’re a disease. Why would anyone stay–

He lashes out with the thing, grazing me in the forearm as I block, moving automatically in response to his stance. Sober, I’m deadly: nothing fogging my train of thought, a ballistic missile soaring across clear, unobstructed skies as it whistles silently towards its target. Something sharp gleams in my eyes, undulled by morphine, unagitated by Vane; I often fight that way, honed like a switchblade, choreographing my deadly dance in real-time in response to my partner’s movements. Many of them fight high, hitting the Razor Vane or Nosedive to surge their adrenaline and dull their pain receptors. The intimacy I have with my own drug use allows me to recognize and anticipate my opponent’s kinetic and physiological weaknesses.

I do it now, a quick once-over, a split-second size-up: pupils, expression, stance, wing position, equilibrium, demeanor. I read his quick-paced, frantic breathing, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the wild gleam in his eyes, the way his pupils dart from side to side, looking for an escape. And when he springs, attempting to tackle me, wings extending wide to trap me, I’m prepared to take his weight. I dart out of the way, ducking as he wildly swings the blade again. He slashes and I dodge, opening my own wings to cut off his escape, before throwing a punch at his shoulder. It throws him off balance, stumbling backwards, but unswayed but the blow–he raises the blade again, and part of me…part of me wants to take it. Why shouldn’t I? A rabid dog, a disease, a thing meant to be put down–eradicated. Vaccinated against.

So I stop. I open my arms wide as if I’m to be crucified, wings spread open so the tips of my primaries brush the edges of the alley walls, a human shield stopping him from the one thing he wants: escape. He rushes me, holding the blade up to my throat, hands trembling, victory so perfectly close. And I lean in, the tip of the razorblade pricking into my throat, as I close the distance between us, almost as if for a kiss.

“Do it. You don’t really think I kept this information to myself, do you?” I purr, cocking my head to the side. The blade grazes my skin, red beading to the surface; a large bead forms, overflowing its threshold and dribbling down my neck. Several strands of midnight hair fall into my face, obscuring my left eye; the other stares back, almost warmly, wisps of Hawking radiation emanating from the black hole abyss of my pupils. There. It’s done. I’ve wriggled my way back into his life like a parasite, the very disease he hoped to cure himself of, a new infection raging against all attempts to heal it. “I’m ride or die, honey.”

 

[Grish]

It all happens too fast for him to really follow. One second Ivar was convinced he cut an artery, the next he’s tumbling with a sharp pain in his shoulder, and finally he’s staring at a blade etched into Fen’s neck, firm in his hand.

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. Fen might be a junkie but not a dumb one. He could’ve told others, he must’ve told others. The realisation weighs heavier to the point Ivar feels his ribs snapping. While Fen taunts and stares eagerly, on the edge, anticipating, Ivar’s hand shakes. Kill him, find the rest later. Do it. He’s nothing. Don’t. You’re hurting him. Obviously. Ivar throws the razor to the ground. He wants to scream. He’d rather slit his own throat. None of this should've happen, but he could either spiral into a frenzy and lose his grip or be useful and adapt. You're balls deep in this now, and it's about damn time to accept it and move on. If whatever empire he's built collapses, just start anew-- and do it better.

“Who else knows—?” It wasn’t easy being on the losing end. Having to play by someone else’s game. For so long Ivar has a taste of true freedom and now— he’s almost back into that suffocating suit, the bleeding disciplinary wrists. The anger didn’t yield, but the shakiness slowly transitioned into a calm understanding of his position. His feet itched to push his way, taking a slow but persistent step to at least speak at eye level with Fen. Maybe barter his way out. Maybe… maybe worse. Ivar had a bit more height to Fen, so he let out a breath. Close. If he wanted you dead you would’ve been lying cold in a dumpster by now but no— he wants to be involved.

Ivar didn’t really see a way Fen could play a part in he’s scheme, not a significant one anyway: the whole foundation is to act anonymously, and Fen is a very… loud? Present individual. Hard to ignore in a public setting. This could be detrimental— the only way Fen could help is by being a distraction, a fall guy. There wasn’t an easy way of avoiding this conclusion, at least not in Ivar’s current state.

A pivot in the plan emerged. Hatred turned to contempt. … you still have some power. “Fine…” a battle is lost “Ride or die.” But the war is long. “Tell me who knows.”

His voice pleaded.

 

[Atomic Soul]

“Insurance.”

It’s a single word Ivar should understand well. He just swung at me with a shaving razor, straight for the throat. He just uttered those venomous words, I should have killed you when you broke into my hanger. And his eyes…cold, deadly, hateful. I could see it: he wanted to erase me from existence, scrub every fiber of my being from his past, present, and future.

I lounge in his bed with a crystal glass of some mellow golden liquid on ice, watching him watch the world: that picture window overlooking the city, snow swirling in drifts past the frigid glass. His hawk-like eyes are far away from this bedroom–seeking something greater, something more, something higher. Don’t I know that he could grab me by the shoulders and toss my pinioned body out of that window in a mess of refracting, shimmering glass, body hurtling towards the ground among wisps of frozen raindrops. I’m nothing more than a fleeting fascination. Disturbed, I bring the frigid crystal to my lips and take a sip of Scotch, chasing my fears with notes of honey and candied fruit.

The memory resurfaces, a residual sweetness brimming on my palette. The longer we were together, the harder he pressed his thumbs into my windpipe, the darker his shadow loomed over my figure, the tighter the leash choked around my neck. But let’s not pretend that you don’t relish the restriction of your airway, the cold prongs of a spiked collar digging into your throat as your head is yanked left and right, up and down, yes master. Or the painful buzz of a shock collar wrenched tight around your neck, punishing, dominating, when your bark gets just a little too loud. He was domineering, paranoid; you grew paranoid alongside him, watching him watch the world, and looking over your shoulders the whole way. But I lacked something then, didn’t I? And when he dropped me, there were no repercussions. Insurance. If I had been smarter, if I had been less trusting, less idolizing, less of a pet and more of a man, I’d have protected myself; five years wouldn’t have passed between us, I could have handcuffed him to me. Trapped. The way I bind him to me now, forcefully tangling a red thread around our fingers in a crimson spider web of willful fate. I do it roughly, bitterly, on the same plane of paranoia he vibrates at. Who wears the collar now?

I look up at him, register the pleading tone of his voice. My own is hard, matter-of-fact, business-like. “I need insurance. I can’t trust you yet. Not after the way you dropped me.” What, Fen? What are you going to do? Blackmail him back into a relationship with you? You really are a sickness, a hysteria, with demons writhing in your bones and ghosts howling behind your eyes. You are a rabies-ridden hound.

But I never claimed I wasn’t crazy.

“So contract me. Make a deal with Tibec–I need to get away from him. You clearly need protection if you’re going to be fucking around down here. If one idiot can figure you out, imagine what an actual tracker can do.”

 

[Grish]

Figuratively speaking, they were at eye level; equal in powers and motive. In reality, Ivar towered over Fen in height and width-- A bigger bird of prey. How pathetic is it that he's got to treat a measly, seed-picking, corroded magpie like he's an equal. Maybe it's his old self creeping in the back of his mind, the old Ivar that would kick down anyone that wasn't as strong, and scheme to topple anyone who was. Now, Ivar has an understanding he lacked before; what it's like to be on the losing side of society. It provided yet another layer of consideration, one that Fen seems to forget. One he's not experienced in a long while.

He's still Tibec's bitch.

Luckily Ivar hasn't lost the poker-face stiffness, the Botox-infused stillness that makes him look like a marble statue. For had he not been a master of masks his eyes would've glistened at the revelation that Fen still only works for others, never for himself really. That's why Ivar left; Fen isn't as ambitious-- not yet at least. Before Ivar had no interest in lowlives, but now he sees potential in everything around him. It would be the simplest thing to mold Fen to his image, like a project car: Replace the old faulty parts with brand new, shiny hydraulics and a fresh coat, and Fen will be ready for the race tracks.

Insurance. Nothing is assured, Fen. Not even the most incriminating piece of blackmail can guarantee obedience. When you back a rat into a corner you can be sure it'll realize there's nowhere to go, nothing to lose, and will jump at your face with claws and teeth bared. Ivar was better than a rat though, at least for now. There's things Fen doesn't know in motion, he could've exposed a lot worse. And so like an IV infusion, Ivar is going to drip out to Fen steady and-- so painfully slow. Because you're so trustworthy, aren't you? The words left a corrosive trail and a bitter taste. You'll sing for anyone with a little blow, I know this firsthand.

"Fine." Ivar collected his belongings, whatever documents and items spilled out of the dropped bag were shoved back inside so quickly as to not leave a trace of them ever being exposed to oxygen. "I didn't plan on being here for long anyway. Tibec can't know I'm here." Ivar shoves his way through, uncrumpling the pocket map from earlier. "I'll get you your contract, and freedom--" He turned, a gaze of a prosecutor, "Not that that's what you want, really." Ivar put the beanie back on, wrapped the scarf over his mouth.

"Tibec's got nothing on me. That stays that way."



Ivar led Fen under broken streetlights flashing through a dense night sky; the clouds reflected the immense modern-industrial, sickly light, and robbed anyone of a glimpse of the stars. Between abandoned shop fronts there was a small establishment wedged so deep, corseted, barred by metal gates and plastic wraps to keep the dust from settling. It was tough for Ivar to cram his wings between everything in the way, but eventually, he found the string inside that turned on the ceiling lamp-- and fan. Dust went everywhere, draped furniture and shelves with homely belongings, and old memories of others. A pawn shop.

Ivar was new to this establishment himself, only having descriptions and floor plans for reference. Whatever this place used to be is now a passing memory Ivar didn't have. He only had his visions for the future. He B-lined to the nearest desk and dropped piles of paper by the handful, one rough pile after the other. Ivar couldn't think of small talk or anything else useful to say for a while, after all he still had to create the information hierarchy in his mind, and decide what Fen was privy to.

"I take it you're still uninterested in art history" he began making sense of this workspace, implementing his own system of tools laid out. None that'll make much sense to Fen other than the fact that some are sharp and could be used as a weapon. "That's fine, I don't need you to be studious." It wasn't the same meticulous and calculated tempo like before, instead Ivar's movements were more erratic; an edge, a rush to get things done fast. His obsession was letting slip, on an unhinged hunt for something specific. Fen's personal would be reduced bit by bit in favor of miscellaneous items and papers, all which were just sitting here gathering dust, but seem to hold much value for Ivar.

"I'm gonna give you a contract job-- something... something unassuming." The dirty snow wings fluttered at every turn of his pacing around the shop. "Tibec can't know you're ditching just yet, it's too close to my arrival. I need to do this wisely. I need--" Ivar darted to a corner of the room, dragging a whiteboard. "I need to shift the focus, and you're going to do just that for me."

 

[Atomic Soul]

No. We aren’t figuratively eye-to-eye: Ivar still towers over me, and like a bitch I roll over in Tibec’s shadow, attempting to claw my way out of the grave he dug me. He tossed me a shovel and had me hollow it out myself, each time he hurled me into the ring, each time he sent me on a hit, killing my soul and my humanity as I knifed airways and cracked skulls. Now, he stands above me, jeering and toppling dirt onto my head as I hunch down in my pit, cackling as I spit up dirt and wipe mud from my eyes. I want out. In Ivar, I see a rope, a ladder, a path to freedom, to rebirth with no parentage or lineage–no mother, no father, no brothers and sisters, no past. An orphan again.

Tibec Livia. The man who plucked me from that Corvid group home when I was thirteen, who saw potential in a broken-toothed, bloody-nosed youth with split lips and split knuckles, rabidly refusing to let his bigger peers piss on his dignity. Even as a boy I was rabies-laced, with fire behind my eyes and froth flinging from my maw; I still grind my teeth and beat my head against the wall the way I did back then, in that orphanage, clenching my fists until nail bites into skin. I was born diseased; Tibec simply harnessed the hysteria, caging it until it became a whirlwind tugging at the bars and fighting mad to escape–and then he’d sic it on others, point a finger, and send my fangs and claws to maul his target. Every bruise, every scar, every band, a memory of death–of murder. And I drown myself in blow, in liquor and cigarettes, whispering at the fractured mirror,

I am not well.

We traverse a concrete jungle shrouded beneath dense cloud-cover, smog drifting in the streets like smoke; buzzing streetlights, flickering neon, and lurid light pollution illuminate our path as the Gyrfalcon guides us over broken concrete and past boarded storefronts to an innocuous building with bars bolted over the windows and door. He unlocks the gate and leads us inside the blackened building; as he shoves his way through plastic-wrapped piles, I deftly weave between furniture and art frames, dust gathering along my wings where feathers brush against detritus-laced plastic and cardboard. As he illuminates the space, I squint, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim. I watch as Ivar gets to work, dumping his bag down and rifling through papers–documents, maps. And tools, laid out just so. He works at a jittery, erratic pace, as if his very thought process is disorganized; I see him orient himself in real time, gathering information, planning, scheming, and quickly–frantically. (I snicker at his comment about art history, a nod to the night we met, his poor burned Klimt and the torture he inflicted as a result.) As he does, I pull out a cigarette from my back pocket, sticking the thing between my lips and letting it dangle there as I light it up; the Zippo flickers as soon as I flip the lid, a reliable, silver lighter etched with the name Tristus Scald. Giving my cigarette a puff, I inhale, holding the warm, toxic air inside of my lungs briefly before letting it billow from my nostrils like a pensive dragon.

“So let’s hear it, boss,” I say around my cigarette, crossing my arms over my chest and watching as Ivar pulls out a whiteboard from the corner of the shop, setting it up on top of a stack of cardboard boxes. Interested, I reach out and grab a black dry erase pen, uncapping the thing and doodling a poorly-rendered magpie on the right side of the board. “Give me a play.”

 

[Grish]

"Figure out something-- maybe some unlicensed underground fighting, or any other operative to make sure Tibec is busy." Ivar's hands dug and sifted through all the random, loose items in the shop to keep his train of thought flowing. "My-- our, however invested you are-- goal is to get him real focused and occupied so everything else falls in line."

None of his rambling had any detail when you picked it apart: it appeared as though there's definitely motion, but Ivar didn't bother even using nouns. It's all left very vague, very corporate in nature. Promises that lack tangibility. "You know Tibec, think of some grand scheme he'd typically come up with, and make him think he wants to do it. Keep him busy for just long enough and I can guarantee you your escape." It's almost... exciting-- he's almost excited to see it through, and just twenty minutes ago Ivar wanted to feed Fen's corpse to the pigs. Something big must be keeping him this dedicated. And he wasn't letting it slip just yet. "Actually-- Do what you do best, fuck up, and get him distracted enough." It wasn't just a collaboration out of necessity anymore, it bloomed into something inspiring. But why?

"You're not an ambitious man, Fen. So it doesn't make sense for you to take an initiative." The pieces slowly come together, like the world's most convoluted jigsaw except every piece is different on a molecular level. "You need to stir shit-- in a way that makes sense for you. Your warden's gonna have to be creative, and here comes the project where you make it up to him: By taking over a business front-- make it look like a favour for him and a burden for you." It was almost impressive how quickly Ivar's mind was placed in Fen's shoes purely for the sake of strategy. That wasn't something he was capable of before; putting himself in someone else's shoes, too blinded by familial pride and status-- his plans worked out of privilege, but now they operate out of insight.

Obviously his plan was to make money: More money than was fathomable even by his predecessors. Ivar had this grandious scheme to topple high society by shattering their pillars one by one, starting with his biggest fashion. Economy is still up in the air-- nothing tangible. History is already set in stone, and ripe for the taking. The longer he spoke and paced around the longer Fen had to realise Ivar's foundations have completely shifted: It's not the same man he developed this deep obsession with, but it was a new specimen to be infatuated with-- Plus, with the way he's talking now, he may be even more welcoming than the snowy tombstone of a man before him. There's a spark of hope for a future within, and that future just might have a little extra room for one more. Almost too easy to romanticise.

The pawn shop sure seemed like a vital chess piece in this four-dimensional game of chess: It was an innocent establishment wedged between much bigger buildings, cluttered to the brim with memorabilia, and most importantly very well known to be abandoned. The previous owner was a little dove fella called Shauli-- with a thick accent and a plump build. His family couldn't reside safely enough in the corvid borough, and so Ivar managed to trade off one of his safe-houses in a lovely columbidae neighbourhood with integrated appliances. Honestly, Shauli was convinced he was the one who swindled Ivar, dumping a bankrupt business in favour for a fully furnished and paid for accommodation.

"Here." Ivar handed Fen a burner phone, a pretty bulky one too. "Use texts only, and don't show up here directly. We're going to arrange meeting points around the area and then make our way back here separately. I have some business whilst you'll be stirring shit." His wings ruffled again, maybe a tick built up with the time. They were always so... stiff, as if the less they moved the less chances they had of falling off. They now feel like more of an extension of himself rather than an accessory or a mark of aristocracy; it's notable in how he uses them for momentum or to reach items on shelves, there's more to them now-- the brown speckles forming a gradient towards the tips of the feathers. About 3 feathers dropped to the floor with all his movement and fussing about, and they glistened a little at the root reflecting the ceiling lamp.

"I don't trust you-- make no mistake. But if you prove yourself useful enough we may just be able to arrange this 'ride or die' deal of yours. Tell me something of use."