Patreon LogoYour support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)

The Songs Are No More (Chantho/Misanthropic)

M

Misanthropiclove

Star
Joined
May 4, 2009
The city is diseased. Everything about the culture and the people is coated in enough rot to make doctors quail at the idea of doing anything about it. That is why everything is glossed up and made to look so pretty, because rot is perfectly okay if no one sees it.

Yet sometimes the corruption drives people out to reclaim the small, pristine wonders of the world. That is why Damien was running after the single mother through back alleys and drug addled hookers desperately seeking some kind of release. Damien was not visibly troubled thanks to his mask, a generic model of the Repoman that had been handed out after that notorious backfire of one of the surgical soldiers years back.

His suit was impressive and it didn't let any of the filth he walked on into it, boots crunching over empty zydrate bottles like they were nothing and pushing past rusted metal and broken glass to allow him a quicker path than the woman who had to focus on not dying thanks to the environment on her hunted run. It was both the suit and the environment that ended the hunt early with Damien's prey stepping on the glass seal of a syringe and the glass embedding itself in her foot.

Damien caught up to her and placed his large bag of warrior-surgery tools down as he began to prepare himself for the work.

"Please no! I just don't have the money! Johnny had to get a replacement knee! I will have the payment, I promise! Please! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS!"

Damien used to feel sorry for people, and in a way he still did. Yet he still pulled out the scalpel and slammed the woman's head against the wall as he pressed the knife to her face. Well, it technically wasn't HER face anymore, but one of the grand "Pavi Brand Fetish-Skintastic Masques" that were so in vogue. Of course, hers was the previous popular model that were filling the vats of synthskin that reworked the masks into the newer model. It showed she really wasn't an addict and perhaps she just had fallen on bad luck. Still, he had a job.

The masks had been made to be removed with simple surgical skill as those who followed the eponymous maker of the masks switched their faces out almost as much as he did. This is what happened when medicine was almost as much fashion as a life saving operation.

The face ripped off with a sicking sound along the lines of wet cloth being ripped in half and was drowned out by the pained scream from the woman. Damien placed the face in a bag and looked down at the woman weeping tears and blood. There was a chance she could survive, one of the rare ones who could survive a visit from a repoman. She most likely wouldn't. The place was filthy. She was covered in grime and now her body was exposed.

Damien turned and walked off, leaving the woman to writhe in the alley and howl with impotent pain. He had long since learned how to drown out the cries. His feet took him to a tall and imposing building, his special repoman key giving him access to the special employee entrance of his kind. He stood in silence as the elevator music, a bastardization techno remix of the final Blind Mag performance, played. He stepped off and went to the returns office, placing the face down on the table in front of a slightly overweight woman who was busy playing with her fiberoptic hair, changing the color from brown to purple.

"Ah, Damien, good job. Such skill. And such a shame too, she only had two payments left on it. Ah well." She tapped into the computer, her fingernails clacking against keys as a little chit of paper printed out, "Here is your commission slip, don't spend it all in one place."

Damien took the paper and walked away, his mask hiding his hatred for the woman. She was the niece, grandniece?, of the people who had supplied his medical school payments and ended up forcing him to work in this job. He walked into the employee locker rooms and dropped his bag with a crash. Work was done for the day.

With the helmet off Damien looked a lot less imposing. His skin was nearly albino white thanks to a case of vitiligo that he had inherited from some great-grand relative way back in his past. He could easily have any type of melanin injected into his skin and thus emulate any race but he knew better than to try that path. His eyes were a dull brown which further hindered attempts at figuring out his natural race, as was the brown hair that hung limply in his eyes.

As the suit cum armor came off he didn't seem like the typical repoman recruit. His muscle had been built up solely on the past two years hunting down organs and parts in the streets. He had been a simple man hoping to become a doctor. He placed those thoughts away as he hung his suit up in the washing department and began to clean off his helmet. He sat down on a bolted down bench and looked at his reflection in the helmet and wondered for the nth time how it had all come to this. Still, there was always the upside. He WAS a doctor. This was a side job that paid off his debts interest free, unlike the rest of his work.

He opened his locker up and placed the bag inside it before noticing the single vial of zydrate he had left in the top where he placed his helmet. He briefly thought about taking it now but remembered the "party" he had to go to and thought better of it. He just needed a nice shower and maybe a good meal.
 
“Another eventful night, huh.” This new voice came from another row of lockers opposite Damien. Standing there was a man not much taller than himself with shaggy dark blonde hair still damp from the shower he'd just taken. Tired dark eyes appraised the other briefly before looking away again. “It just gets better and better.” Currently, he was dressed only from the waist down and the standard Repo uniform could be seen peeking out f a worn brown duffel bag that sat on the bench behind him. The man was obviously strong, however he was more well defined than muscular. As he turned away to reach into his locker it could be seen that his entire right arm was missing completely.

Ezra had lost his arm in an accident almost four years ago. Then he'd been working as a freelance artist and a talented one at that. The loss of his dominant arm put an end to what initially looked like a bright career. It killed him. Art was Ezra's passion, his livelihood. Having grown up in the slums and received no formal education, the young man had hoped his artistic skills could pave the road for a better life. Without the means to put those skills to use it felt like a light had gone out.

When Geneco developed Synthelimbs it seemed like a godsend. They not only looked real, but through advances in neurosurgery doctors could reattach the nerves that allowed the prosthetic to feel and function like a normal part of the body. Advertised the next step in medicine, each prosthetic was carefully designed to fit the individual. They were detachable and bar-coded like the organ transplants. It was in signing up for one of these limbs that Ezra made his first mistake. The procedure was ridiculously expensive, he was poor and unemployed. Not a good match. But he was bound and determined and so it came to be that he found himself working for Geneco alongside his friend Damien.

Withdrawing from the locker, Ezra sat down with the damning limb in hand. The arm was perfect, unscathed in contrast to the rest of the man's body which was, in short, not. Reposession was not a job that came without its risks, targets fought back, often violently. That night in fact, Ezra had earned himself a few bruised ribs and a black eye while retrieving a liver from a man twice his size.

Quietly and without any ceremony he began to reattach the limp prosthetic to his shoulder. At the juncture of both his shoulder and the arm, were light metallic structures similar in makeup to a ball and socket joint. Joining them was almost like plugging prongs into an outlet. Once connected there was a crackling static-like noise and Ezra was wiggling his fingers and bending his elbow to test. He'd long since learned to ignore the discomfort of his nerves being constantly attached and taken apart.

“You look exhausted”, he commented, rolling his shoulder before pulling a thin grey shirt over his head. “I'd suggest taking the day off but...You know.” He forced a smile and gathered his things. After each beginning their employment at Geneco the two had grown more and more distant. Even now it felt slightly awkward to address the man who'd once been his closest friend.

Like Damien, Ezra did not have the luxury of being able to head home just yet. He still had a meeting with one of the Largos about their new ad campaign and after that..... Well he preferred not to think about the parties until the time came.

Part of his contract was that he helped the family with whatever design ideas the had for Geneco. More than once he'd been tasked with finding a new look for some advertisement or holoboard commercial, because it was less expensive than hiring a licensed designer. That was what his talent was reduced to until the debt was paid off. Sometimes he had to wonder if it was worth all the trouble.
 
Damien smiled at Ezra. He remembered when they were younger and had had more fun. They had been pretty odd together, especially that time Ezra had traded him a Blind Mag first edition cd to pose nude for a few sketches for a week. They had been teens and Damien had almost thought it was going to lead to some odd pornographic story but Ezra had just needed to work on his art. Nothing had come of it.

He also remembered the accident and wishing so badly that he was a doctor so he could perform the operation. He had been as shocked as Ezra to find his "coworker" in the Warrior Surgeon ranks. He had thought they would get to see more of each other, yet they had just grown apart. Perhaps it had been because of what they knew each other did. Perhaps it was because both of them were "honored guests" at the parties.

Ezra was used to make sure Damien's surgery was "aesthetically pleasing" and made sure that he took no liberties with the corpses and victims for the guests. Perhaps it was just hard to look someone in the eye that you knew knew your own dark secrets. It could also be the fact that neither of them had much free time at all thanks to their debts.

"I have to prepare for the party tomorrow. I...I think you'll be there too. You know, if we ever get some time off we should hang out again. Did you hear they rebuilt that old golf and arcade place we used to hang out at? New owners but I bet it has some of the old nostalgia." Of course they hadn't gone to that since they were both in their teens. The place had been shut down when the owner killed his wife who had been supplying the young kids with illegal zydrate. He had gone to jail, the place foreclosed, and there was nothing left.

Damien still felt awkward. He walked by Ezra, his own clothes now missing as he decided on a shower. He was lucky in that he had never gotten as roughed up as Ezra, so far. He had a few scars of course, everyone in their line of work did after two weeks, but his body looked more whole. He also had no surgical marks at all. He was one of the rare few people who had never gone under the knife. He had his own tonsils, he had his wisdom teeth, he had everything. He just had never decided to get anything.

"I-I guess I'll see you later, okay pal?" This was another reason he hated the people he owed money. He and Ezra used to be the best of friends. Sure they were the odd couple, but they still had each other. Now, with those debauched parties and over worked hours, they almost never got to see one another outside repo work or preparing for the "parties." The both could obviously use someone to talk to now. The job didn't come with a counselor, which made turn over more profitable.
 
Ezra smiled tightly and nodded back as e slammed the door to his locker shut. He had to admire how the doctor tried to keep things cordial in light of their situations.

"That sounds nice Damien. I'll call you sometime." An empty promise. He never called anyone. The truth was, doing this job had changed Ezra. He'd become withdrawn where as he'd once been friendly and outgoing. Meeting new people had been exciting, but now there was no telling when he'd run into a target in a shop or on the street. There was no point in getting close to someone you might have to kill later. This revelation made any kind of interaction outside of work very unappealing, Most of Ezra's spare time was spent painting and tinkering with his arm.

It was impossible for him to look at a person as anything other than a victim or a monster; no gray area existed. Except for Damien. Damien teetered on the line separating black from white, because Ezra knew him. He knew the other wasn't like the Largos. He didn't enjoy killing or preforming fatal surgeries for audiences too jaded to appreciate simple pleasures. He was just another guy who'd fallen on bad times with only one way out. Geneco.

After a few minutes passed Ezra followed his friend's path to the elevator, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Repo lockers were located six stories beneath Geneco headquarters. Far enough that the modern day bogeymen were out of sight and out of mind. People weren't supposed to think about what they could lose whenever they looked at the monolithic structure. They were supposed to see possibilities.

Leaning against the cold metal wall, the blonde pressed the button for his floor. Entertainment and Advertising were thirty seven stories up. That would give Ezra plenty of time to work out what to do about Damien. The doors slid shut and he pulled a small notebook from his bag, flipping past opera set designs and costumes for Mag til he found a blank page. When would he be available? ...Tomorrow? No, tomorrow was the party, he didn't like to socialize after those. The day after he had three marks overdue for payment and Thursday they were launching a new line of face implants. ...Friday could work.

Ezra tapped the pen on the notebook and chewed at his lower lip nervously. It had been so long. What would they even talk about? He could always ask Damien to pose for him again. He hadn't done any portraits in a while. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. The other had been so fidgety the first time he'd been asked to pose, he'd found it immensely funny then. Perhaps this was a good idea after all.

A polite ding announced to Ezra he'd reached his destination. He sighed and closed the book. Pavi was waiting, Amber too if she saw fit to show up this time. Personally he hoped she didn't. He could only design so many clothes for her, only paint her so many times before the so called "Face of Geneco" began to make him sick. Though she wasn't much worse than he creep of a brother. At least he didn't have to deal with Luigi in all of this. The man was a psychopath.
 
Damien gave Ezra a generic kind smile, one of the ones he saved for the people he actually knew. Then it was straight into the shower. He turned the water on as hot as he could as if he could boil away the memories he had. He scrubbed himself while trying to forget about the day's work. At least he was finished for the next two days. The bosses never gave him a job on the day of a party just in case he would lose his "artistic edge" that made him so popular.

His shower ended after he cleared his mind and he walked out, waving to one of the other repomen. His white skin was now an unhealthy looking red from the steaming shower. He grimaced a little as he grabbed his surgical outfit and his pay chit and walked out. He could wear enough that no one would notice until his body cooled down. It was one of the benefits of being a doctor.

With little fanfare he inserted the pay chit and watched as his massive debt was taken down by two hundred and fifty dollars. Lovely. The face that, when new, had cost 250,000 had netted him around one percent of that. He sighed and walked by the pay machine while slipping on his surgical mask and head covering. His outfit was a lovely white and he had blue gloves that gleamed with the latex shine they had.

He took the elevator to his correct floor and signed in. A nurse ran up to him and handed him a patient chart. A Ms. Espanoza had been admitted after someone had ripped her face off it seemed.

Damien gave a wide eyed look at the chart and walked in on the same woman he had just cut up less than an hour ago sitting in bed with blood running into her and a rep talking about how synthskin faces were so much more affordable and cheap now and that if she'd just sign on the dotted line that she could go home interest free for six months.

Damien felt his heart dropping as the woman signed the contract for the newer face even when she could have gotten another model for a quarter of the price. And he knew he shouldn't say a thing or it would be added to his debt. He gave up and walked to the medical center and grabbed a zydrate gun and vial and placed it against his neck, the click releasing the calming drug into his system. He felt the numbness and apathy spread through his system as he released what could almost be judged an orgasmic sigh. He tossed the gun down and then left a nurse's glove on it to implicate her.

He walked back into the room and pulled his mask down, knowing the woman wouldn't recognize him, "Hello my dear, let us get you your new face!"

It was several blissfully uncaring hours later when the drug wore off. Damien was a good surgeon, good enough that zydrate just took the edge off his own feelings. He had put several people back together today, and had operated on some man with enough money that he bothered to spend it on flesh pockets in his abdomen to carry his wallet and watch around in because some man on a soap opera had gotten the surgery. Looking back on it it was just sick and wasteful.

He stumbled home and tried to focus on the good he had done. It was what made him feel better about himself. He unlocked the apartment and jolted in to fall on the couch. He rubbed his head and looked at his answering machine. Surprisingly there was a message for him. He reached over and pressed it, wondering who still cared enough to call him.
 
As he pressed the button a holographic image of Ezra flickered to life, directly followed by a recording. The artist's voice was a little distorted by the machine and sounded as if he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Ah.... Hi, Damien? It's Ez...obviously.... Uh, I was just... I wanted to call and see if you were going to be busy on.... Friday? Yes, it was Friday. You said that we should hang out again, so...yeah. That's why I'm leaving this message, I guess." The slowly rotating image flickered as a cough interrupted Ezra's awkward spiel. "Right..... So, ah get back to me when you can. I'll see you." With that, the recording ended and the hologram disappeared.

Back at his own apartment, the man in question was getting ready for bed after a night that had already gone on too long. The dwelling was small and crowded. It probably hadn't been clean since he moved in, if even then. Books and papers were littered everywhere. Painted canvases covered in dust leaned against the walls. Art supplies turned up in the oddest of places; tubes of paint under an end table, brushes in coffee mugs, even a few palate knives in with what little silverware he owned. The sink was full of dirty dishes and boxes from precooked dinners were spilling out of the trash receptacles. If Damien did agree to come over, Ezra was going to have a lot of cleaning to do.

For now he didn't trouble himself and picked his way across the maze of trash and spots of paint to his bed which was really just an old double mattress on the floor. The sheets were the last thing he remembered actually going out and spending money on since the surgery. Paints and food didn't count since those were essentials. Vaguely he could recall going into a store and picking out a sturdy set of blue sheets. The clerk had gone on and on about how good for the skin the new synthetic thread count was, but he wasn't really listening. He'd just wanted something of his own, something he paid for that was just for him and no one else. In a way those sheets were the only things that really, truly belonged to him at this point.

Ezra dropped heavily onto the mattress and let his eyes finally slide shut. It felt amazing to be able to just lie there and not have to think or speak. Too soon, it would be time to get up again and go to work. At least now he had something to look forward to.

Within seconds he'd drifted off to sleep, prosthetic fingers curled tightly around the blankets.
 
Damien was pretty shocked, he had never expected Ezra to call. He had wanted to hang out but since the man had shown little initiative he always figured Ezra didn't want to do anything. Now he had to let him know that he was still interested. He called Ezra back but found the line going to the answering machine and he stumbled a bit, "Hey Ez, it's Damien. I'd love to get together on Friday. That would be perfect. If you want we could go to a bar or something...I have some extra cash saved up for a night out, I bet we could split some drinks or something. If you want. Give me a call back, okay?"

The next day was the party. The majority of the day was normal, minor surgeries and checking up on patients, at least one he had put in the place. He had been called in somewhat early by those throwing the party, they had a new gimmick. He was met by a rather normal looking man who had a book and held it up, "Sis wants this done to the living meat. Get it done before the surgery. They are in the back next to the freezer. They are knocked out now but get to it. Chop chop."

The man was an adopted relative of the family, one of those used by the near matron of the house. The surgery to be performed was a splicing of the vocal chords to produce music and brilliant song the more the victims were hurt. Damien gave a low whimper as he walked to the three patients, two girls and one boy around the ages of twenty, and began to work. The people were completely unresponsive as he snipped and chipped at their bodies, leaving the vocal chords mangled into a thing of horrendous beauty. It was a real monument to his skills that he could even do this, especially after just reading about it. Yet Damien was nothing if not a good surgeon, and it only took one hour per person to get the surgery done right.

He would be brought his "special" surgical jacket and be forced to dress in it. This time, for the Valentine's Day Special, he had a bright red and black latex man thong that was visible from an open red and white rubber surgical jacket. His surgical mask was done in the shape of a heart with the arrow that kept it attached to his face. Even his scalpel was in the shape of an arrow to keep in theme with this wicked degradation of Valentine's Day.

A new face came in with Ezra and motioned towards them, "People will be arriving in a few hours. Get the corpses ready first and then just add a few holes to the live ones. I think the people are going to want to add their own flair to it. Ezra, make sure everything says Valentine's Day, okay? Damien, baby, the Marquis just LOVED the corpse vaginas you crafted on the corpses last time, do that again for him, okay? And make sure the male corpses can hold an erection that won't break under...hmmm...Mr. And Mrs. Adlestein...take the...five hundred and sixty pounds, okay? It would have been somewhat embarrassing last time if they weren't drunk. Okay boys, now get to wooooooooo~ooooooooooork!"

Damien looked up at Ezra and looked like he was grimacing. He hated these outfits he was made to wear, he hated defiling corpses, and he hated his bosses. He took out the first corpse, a rather beautiful man except for the place where his face was skinless from trailing on the road after his motorcycle accident. Damien looked up at Ezra one time and decided it was better to start now than get penalized, "W-what should I do to this one?"

He looked forward to starting on the live patients with a morbid paradox of great proportions. He disliked that part of the job the most yet it was also when he allowed himself to become emotionally deadened by the zydrate he got special order from Ms. Sweet. They had been something of an item before, though never as much as the tabloids had suggested. She had taken a shine to him because he was the only person she had ever met that didn't have any surgery done to him. The infatuation had lasted almost three days but she liked him enough to send him free zydrate still, plus he offered her a free surgical hand for her addiction. It was a mutual "friendship" that didn't have that messy necessity of talking to one another except on the rare blemish on their relationship.
 
Ezra's face was blank as he moved to stand beside Damien and stare down at the corpse. He hated this part. It was bad enough to take lives indiscriminately on behalf of the company, but to further desecrate them like this... It took getting used to and even after all this time he still wasn't there. But that didn't mean he would do his job.

"The body is well sculpted and almost immaculate. I think it would be best to focus on the face. Shave away the rest of it so that it's flat." Fitting. It's not as if these bodies had identities anymore after all. Their faces made no difference to the customers. In a sense, there was a kind of sick humor in it that maybe the others would fail to recognize, maybe they wouldn't even see the jab Ezra was making at them. His mouth quirked a bit and then settled back into a stony line. Just another canvas, that's all it was. "Don't leave any defining features. We'll remove the hair too."

He circled around to the other side, lifting the body's arm and examining its hand with a detached interest. Perfect. Smooth, unblemished.Without warning he tightened his grip and broke each one of the fingers before repeating the process on the other hand. What did it matter what skills any of them had if in the end they'd only be taken advantage of? It didn't need talents, a sense of self. It was a corpse. A toy.

Silently Ezra stepped back and tried to ignore the sickness rising in his stomach.

"It's still not enough. We should paint him read or something. But don't cut him anymore." The others didn't matter. They'd slice gaudy designs into the flesh, remove a few hearts and strategically arrange the other organs. Holidays were the worst. Even he'd been given a tacky costume to wear and his only job during the party was to stand off to the side and observe. The main details were similar to Damien's, but without the medical gear. The main differences were the black fishnet sleeves and a red leather collar was wrapped round his neck just a notch too tight. He'd have fix it later, they were on a time crunch now.
 
Damien did as Ezra requested, though he added the love holes to the people, crafting false vaginas and penises as he worked. He removed facial features but on several of the corpses he had to expose the heart for special fetishes that would be required. They worked and made the "artistic improvements" for over two hours, leaving only a few minutes for the live victims. This really mattered very little as the people who were invited liked to do their own ministrations to the live ones. The male was injected with a powerful viagra-like stimulator that would keep him hard no matter how much blood he lost or what pain he went through. The women were injected with an aphrodisiac that would keep their vaginas moist and ready for the fucking.

Right after he injected the drugs Damien ejected the small canister and popped in his final case of zydrate. It was time for the blissful drug-addled oblivion that allowed him to get through all this work. "Well, it's about to start, Ezra. I guess I'll wake up somewhere at home." He placed the injector to his neck and pressed, letting out a minor sigh of relief as the drug rushed into his system. Luckily the parties were far enough apart that he had yet to reach an addiction to the drug that so many people had found. The work he did was just too horrendous for him to work with normally.

The three live people were woken up and their gurneys wheeled into the center of the huge room. It was decorated with lavish ornamentation and had two large spiral staircases leading up to what could be thought of as the VIP room that overlooked the grand ballroom. It was almost the size of half a football field, with the various corpses placed at different intervals and angles in the room. There were places for food and several servants were running about. People with make up came out and primped up the corpses and added different types of lubricants to both corpse genitalia and the live people. Different sexual devices were arranged at strategic locations; from the simple dildo to odd things that looked more akin to power tools than anything that would stimulate a sexual need.

Damien vaguely heard the guests milling outside as he walked over to the first live woman and tapped her stomach. He made an incision on her stomach, a very bland love hole, and took up arrow-shaft shaped clamps to cut off arteries and veins that he snipped. The woman awoke and began what should have been a howl of pain. The surgery to the vocal chords came to light then: she sung a beautiful melody. He cut again and the song grew even more delightful as he worked, his mind fogged enough that he just heard the song and didn't think of it. The throats were set in such a way that the more agony inflicted on the person the greater their cries would turn to singing. From low pop music sounds to the greatest opera singers known to the world. Of course, the last breath would sound the sweetest, Damien had done excellent work. He just didn't want to think of that now.

The woman was left with a few love holes in her, enough for people to poke and prod and even place drinks in should they want. Her whimpers of pain were transmuted into light blasts of musical prowess as Damien began work on the male. The viagra had worked and he was sporting a huge erection, it even lasted as the first cut was placed on his side. More clamps, more screaming. Damien left two marks on him and went to the final girl, slicing places on her breasts for people to violate thanks to their size. It would be quite popular.

It was time for the people to enter. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, but generally just one income bracket, came through the doors. Many crowded around what appeared to be the favorite corpse or went to check out the live ones. No one touched yet, that would be a terrible idea. Instead, they milled about and shared food and swapped stories about submissives or the latest kink described on the blog of the woman who ran this. It was said she had been funding leper porn in some far off country with all sorts of disturbing action sequences.

Then the woman of the hour entered. In her earlier life she was known as Lucretzia Giovanni, one of the Giovannis who had a connection with the Largos. Her great grandmother had slept with Rotti Largo when he was a young child, her mother when he was closer to her age, and Lucretzia had done it just because it was a habit. But, where the Largos worked with organs and doctors the Giovanni managed business and the repomen. Well, they had when dear Amber decided to expand the organization. Of course, good Lucretzia didn't work much with that business, her drive was sex. Sex was power and she was nothing if not ruthless. That is why she had shed her given name when she came to power. There was no Lucretzia Giovanni anymore, there was just Gigaslutsix9er.

She had tan skin from her Italian heritage and wore her black hair up in a bun. Her dress was a black rubber mockery of Victorian style and showed off her back. Her back had various scars and staples in it to hold the skin together, a surreptitious "L" shape to one of the scars. No other "flaws" touched her body and her face was completely beautiful in the way a predatory animal was. Her eyes were a green that bordered on toxic while her lips pursed with a special black lipstick for the engagement. Her bracelets trailed off into slender silver chains that wrapped around the necks and arms of slaves who followed her, two of them holding what looked like a grand trophy filled with feces behind them. Her nails were lacquered with black and brass hook paintings on them. She looked every bit the impressive royal with all the sadism of Elizabeth Bathory coursing through her.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Whores and Sluts all! Welcome to the Valentine's Day Special of Gigaslutsix9er!" She yelled, her hands held up for emphasis. She allowed the crowd to clap and whistle before she silenced them, "I have invited only the most debauched and degenerate of those who follow me. Those of you who impress me with you dedication to true depravity! Remember, my flock, sex is everything, and I am sex!"

There were more cheers as the rest of the Giovanni motley arrived. Her oldest brother was followed by a pack of genetically and surgically altered men and women who looked like the old trope of "furry." He had a lust for anthropomorphic animals and paid his sex partners vast amounts of money to be transformed into their shapes. Of course, he was also extremely jealous and if any of them dared like anyone better than himself, well, his sister had ways. He was Niccolo Giovanni, and he had ceded his title of the family to his eldest sister instead of ceding his balls. He got a good stipend and got to exercise his fetishes, so he was pleased.

The third eldest of the current Giovanni generation, Catarina Giovanni, was dressed like a cyber-punk princess. Her hair oscillated between colors that were patently unnatural and her eyes were modular pieces designed specifically for her. Today they were spinning images of sapphire hue. Her clothing consisted of wires glued to the skin that barely covered her body, leaving more flesh exposed than anything. She had a small battery pack that sent electrical charges through the wires so she could get her fix. Her boots were made of panda fur and her gloves were each made from the skin of their dear departed father who she had fucked to death so the kids could ascend the throne. Thus she had gotten dibs on his remains.

The youngest Giovanni was rather bland compared to them all. He had black hair and olive skin and his eyes were a bit tamer than his sisters. He wore a general business suit and black gloves so he wouldn't have to touch anyone here. He was Antonio Giovanni and he was rather disdainful of all this. Personally he liked to fuck his corpses in private and not share with anyone. Still, he needed to show up.

Damien had settled to the back as soon as Gigaslutsix9er showed up. He said nothing as she spoke and a servant placed wires on the living party favors, "Now, let the night begin! WE SHALL SHOW THE WORLD THE TRUE MEANING OF KINK!" With that a switch was thrown and the three people were electrocuted mildly, their songs reaching the crowd who oohed and aahed with delight. The party began.
 
Ezra hung back from the crowd, watching with apathetic disapproval. It was this that he hated above all. These people were the monsters. Their appetites for the depraved and dissolute were insatiable. And society accepted them without question. It disgusted him to the very core of his being, because he knew these people saw nothing wrong with what they were doing. When the victims’ screams for mercy turned to song, they laughed in delight at the craftsmanship. No mercy, no hesitation.

Keeping to his darkened corner so as to avoid the festivities, the man hoped that perhaps tonight no one would bother him. The holidays always brought out the worst in the guests. More than once someone had tried to purchase him, or mistaken him for a live toy. He wasted no time in setting them straight, but having to do so was an annoyance. So he did his best to stay out of the way and wait until the night was over. Did Damien ever have to deal with this? He’d have to ask him.

It wasn’t long after Gigaslut6niner arrived that The Largo brothers followed. Amber was no doubt too busy getting her zydrate fix or some new surgery to show up. Even if it wasn’t for the right reasons, Ezra appreciated her for that. Pavi skipped off to investigate a neglected woman whose skin had been peeled back to reveal her ribcage and beneath that, a still beating heart. Meanwhile Luigi made his way to stand beside Gigaslut and pull her into a violent embrace. The pair of them were known to often take part in relations privately and publicly that most involved with Luigi Largo could not survive. They tolerated one another to an almost alarming point. More than tolerated. And somehow, neither of them was dead.

His lip curled in revulsion and he dropped his gaze to the floor, but only for a short time. He’d learned from many times attending these parties that to keep one’s eyes lowered indicated a sort of submission and would give the wrong impression. The last thing Ezra needed was some forty something soccer mom with a dom complex asking if he was available. Deceptively beautiful music swirled around the room, filling the air with the dying cries of those still living. They faded only to be replaced by new voices that begged for mercy and received none.

One day he'd burn this place to the ground along with everyone in it. When he could afford to live on his own time, paint what the wanted to paint, be content that he wasn't going to return home each night with blood on his hands. Ezra allowed himself a small smile at the fantasy. How beautiful it would be to see these people suffer, to hear their agonized screams for help as the flesh melted away. All their painstaking effort in maintaining a perfect appearance for nothing. Because what good were all their expensive surgeries when they were dying?

He folded his arms across his chest and scanned the crowd for the one person he had any interest in looking at. It was unhealthy to dwell on such ideas anyway. If he continued to harbor that kind of violent resentment he'd be no better than the people who employed him. Ezra's gaze finally found Damien amidst the crowd and he relaxed a little. His friend always did manage to have that calming effect on him even when they weren't speaking.

Awkwardly the artist tried to adjust the uncomfortable codpiece he's been suckered into wearing. Overall the entire get-up was very uncomfortable not to mention revealing. There wasn't much to be ashamed of considering the state of dress some of the guests arrived in, but he felt nervous all the same. Why did he even need to be hear for this? His part was done.
 
Gigaslut6niner didn't much mind when Luigi came up to her. She also didn't mind getting slapped and having him reveal her breasts to the entire crowd. He knew not to ruin the outfit, which was what truly mattered in all things. She absolutely loved when he smashed her face into a table and held her down, his other hand ripping her panties low. It was ecstatic. She was not always dominant, of course, but she was very selective to whom she submitted to. Not to say she never dominated Luigi, it was just rather fun to swap up every time.

She gave the most wonderful moan when he slashed across her back with the knife, her blood beading up with the shallow cut. He was a filthy tease to start things out with. The bastard. Her legs felt the draft of air and she was vaguely aware of her disgusting sycophants running to gather up vials of her blood. The piteous wretches would do anything to get a piece of her. She snapped her fingers and the two slaves with the giant cup of feces ran up, the young lady speaking up first.

"We have the personal scat cup of the Mistress herself, just filled before the party!" That sent a clamor of miserable bastards after the poor slave, knocking the unaccustomed one over as the pro just moved out of the way. The one being trampled would likely die, or at least be maimed. Nothing big, she had just been a pretty face. Nothing great.

The sex went harder and she felt her flesh part at the first REAL cut. There was that odd sensation of a cold burn that just grew sharper as the copper scent hit her nose. The blood was warm on her flesh, something she almost never noticed as she focused on the cuts themselves. "DO IT AGAIN! I AM YOUR WHORE! I AM YOUR SLUT! OWN ME! OWN ME!" She cried and bucked, feeling full even as she bled out. Luigi was good, she wouldn't die. But she would enjoy it.

Damien had been left all alone as the stampede for the fecal matter of the hostess had drawn so many people away. He looked up in a haze wondering where that nice lady he had been talking to had made it to. He was a bit slow, his head turning this way and that as if he was in water before catching sight of Ezra. He knew that man!

His coat billowed behind him and showed off his nipples thanks to how loose it was when he walked. He skipped when he was cut in front of by an excited person who decided to get his hooks into a free corpse before falling. Damien looked more surprised than hurt, his eyes dilated as he searched around for where his legs had gone. In a few moments he was up, dusting himself off from muscle memory as he tried to cut through the haze in his memory. He had been walking for some type of reason, he just couldn't fathom it for now.

Then Ezra hit his field of view and he decided to go talk to him. Ezra was a nice guy after all. He managed to make it this time, the dusty haze of his trip making his movements a little shaky.

"Ezra, hey. I am glad you are here. I don't know many people here. I was talking to a nice lady though, said she'd color all my skin purple for free. I didn't know they had body painters here." He was lucky, in a way, that he had remembered that woman wanting to beat him bruised was in his mind as a body painter.

He draped an arm around a chair and sat down, looking rather cute. At least as cute as a zydrate addled vitilligo suffering doctor could.
 
Ezra blinked in surprise when Damien dropped into the chair beside him and smiled up through a zydrate induced haze. They never made contact with one another at these parties, always keeping to some designated spot for the rest of the evening until it was time to go. The artist thanked his lucky stars that he wasn't part of the clean up crew, that would have just been too much. As he looked down at his friend and listened to the almost childlike way he spoke, it struck him that he'd never seen Damien act this way at the benefits before. He seemed almost cheerful. It was kind of amusing. This would be the first time they'd ever really talked on the job before. Perhaps it was something they should try more often, since it made a welcome distraction from the chaos going on around them.

"I'm always here", Ezra pointed out patiently, well aware of Damien's habit. How could he be not when he saw him taking vials from his locker after a job? To be fair, he couldn't blame the doctor for wanting some way to separate himself from his work. He personally had never experienced the drug's affects, not even in surgery, when they had replaced the bones in his shoulder with metal alloy needed to connect the new arm. The pain had been unlike any he'd ever known, but Ezra had point blank refused to be put under. He'd seen what happened to zydrate addicts on the streets where he lived and he was not going to end up like that. As a result, the joints still ached at times and occasionally woke him from a sound sleep, but it was worth it to know he wasn't selling his belongings to satisfy an addiction. Of course he'd never mention any of this to Damien who he worried might take it as an insult. "We just never talked before, that's all. So which lady off-"

Luigi's voice rose suddenly, calling attention away from the seedlings of their conversation. By now, he was through fucking Gigaslut6niner and was currently engaged in what looked to be a shouting match between him and Pavi. The younger of the pair was grabbing his crotch and making some lewd comment that caused Luigi to bellow and slam his fist into the face of a GENtern who'd made the mistake of standing too close. Ezra snorted and turned away again. Those two were positively absurd.

Once his attention was back on Damien, the blonde could feel a fresh heat rising in face. Earlier, when they'd been preparing the bodies, he hadn't really gotten a good look at the costume his friend was wearing. Like his own, very little was left to the imagination and he couldn't help but not that the other truly did have a very attractive body. He'd seen Damien naked before, but it had been so long ago. At this stage in his life Ezra determined he had no business reacting to partial nudity like this when it was something that surrounded him even at this very minute. Looking at the doctor this way made him very aware of his own state of dress and he cursed whoever had been chosen to design the costumes for tonight. The worst part was, that because he lacked any kind of shirt, the juncture between his clavicle and prosthetic was clearly visible. It was a little thing, but it made Ezra feel more self conscious that he was used too.

"I can't believe you get to wear a jacket, man. I'm freezing my ass off in here."
 
Damien was oblivious to most of what was going on, which was lucky in its own way. He looked up at the two brothers having a scuffle and then winced, "Maybe she needs help. He is always so crude. I'm glad I never have to work on him." He didn't move to go up and help the woman; no amount of drugs could persuade him to do that and still keep him even barely lucid. He watched as the woman fell to the floor and rolled about. She would probably not die but she might re-decide her career.

Gigaslut6niner was bleeding rather profusely and had a doctor come out and start stitching her up with brass thread. She gave the most disturbing moans as her flesh was forcibly knit back in proper placement. She gripped the edge of the table in sheer ecstasy as it happened, her knees going weak slightly. Many people crowded around and others dabbed up drops of blood with handkerchiefs and other unmentionables to try and sell later or even as a souvenir of the nights revels. They were ignored by the lady of the evening as she felt the multifaceted stings of the needle and pleasured herself to it, delighting the crowd on the floor that was not in the throes of necrophilia.

The chaste looking brother of the Giovanni line looked at his sister once and shook his head, turning his attention to a dead boy of around nineteen years old. He gently rubbed his still face and gave a light sigh. They were so much more beautiful when they had died. None of those tricky emotions to play with, no fear they were going to find someone else and run away, and there was no need to take care of them. Maybe it was an egotistical selfishness or the ultimate fear of betrayal but Antonio just couldn't stay away from his precious corpses. He unzipped his pants and grabbed some of the nearby lube, readying himself.

Damien turned to Ezra when he spoke and looked extremely concerned, "You should have told me earlier. Here." He stood up and pulled his fetish coat off and wrapped it around Ezra, hoping that it would warm him up, "There. That should be better. It's not good if you get sick. Then Friday might get canceled. I've missed being with you for so long." The drug was loosening his tongue, but Damien was still a good friend. He patted Ezra on the shoulder and then heard "Doctor!" coming from somewhere. Clad now in boots, a surgical mask, and a thong Damien grabbed his doctor's supplies and dashed off to where he was called to.

He got more looks now, even if most of the people were more interested in the party favors. Still, Damien and Ezra weren't technically off limits, the mistress just didn't like them being toyed with. Damien almost deftly countered touches to his body as if he was some acrobatic germaphobe and all these people were just tainted beyond reasoning.

Soon the party came towards a culmination, leading up to the grand feast. All sorts of random items were brought out, and the supposedly "delectable" items of cooked human flesh. It was still a minor taboo at least and these people did love shattering them all to hell. Damien and Ezra and others would be left while people shuffled off to dine.
 
Ezra blinked in mild surprise when he found his friend's coat draped around his shoulders. He hardly had time to mutter a thank you before someone called for Damien's attention. Wrapping the long coat a little tighter around his body, the man rose to his feet and returned to the spot where he'd been standing before. His eyes remained on the doctor as he jogged off to attend to whoever needed him. It had been a while since he really looked at Damien and he'd forgotten how attractive the other man was. Ezra had never really thought of himself as gay. Woman tended to be the main source of his interest most of the time. However that didn't stop him from admiring his friend from time to time, not that he'd ever let on.

This time he didn't draw much attention and it wasn't long before the festivities wound down. As people trailed out of the room, he finally let himself relax a little. Now was the time when maintenance took care of the bodies and cleaned up what other messes had been left behind in the guests' enthusiasm. A small break room was provided for others like Damien and Ezra, and that's where he was headed now. He'd have a little something to drink to dull the memories of the evening's events and wait until it was time to go home. Lucky it wouldn't be long now, his arm was beginning to ache.

The break room wasn't well furnished by the standard the visitors were held to. All the furniture was old, and there were stains on the couch cushion. The garish red paint on the walls was peeling and the floor looked as though it hadn't seen a good cleaning in months. None of this bothered Ezra. He'd seen and lived in far worse. With a wide yawn the artist dropped onto a vacant love seat and closed his eyes. Damien would no doubt be along shortly and they could discuss their plans for the next day. Since the doctor would still be a little high on the zydrate, he'd probably be more honest about what he wanted to do.

So thoroughly exhausted, Ezra didn't hear the footsteps entering the room until their owner was practically standing over him. Opening one eye in irritation, he glanced up to see who'd interrupted his thoughts. Sneering down at him was one of the other designers he worked with at the parties. Harold? Henry? Something like that. The younger man had been one of the interns most likely to earn a permanent position before Ezra had been hired. the never talked, but Ezra wasn't foolish enough to believe he was in the other's good graces.

"You really must be more full of yourself than I thought" Harold/Henry snorted while the other gazed up at him boredly. "Just lying around like you own the place. Anyone else would be scared to even blink on a night like this." Ezra rolled his eyes. Was that all? This was, what... The second time this guy had ever approached him of his own volition? It was like being back in high school.

"Maybe you didn't notice, but everyone just left to eat. What do I have to worry about? Why don't you just take a load off over there and quit bothering me." He let his eye slide closed again and missed the look of fury that washed over his colleague's face.

"Don't fucking brush me off Valens! Chirst... I'm so sick of your shit. We all are. You have more to worry about than you think." That last statement confused him a little and he opened his eyes just in time to see the other man pulling a switchblade out of his pocket. Shit. Ezra watched the kid closely, tense. The other made no move to attack him yet, perhaps he was just trying to intimidate? "Do you know how hard the rest of us had to work to even get into this joint as a fucking janitor?" Harold/Henry's fingers curled around the weapon. "It's not like your ideas are any better than ours. No way. I here they got you workin' up at Geneco advertising too. How many cocks did you have to suck to get that job, huh? some uneducated shit like you."

Ezra's eyes flashed from the man to the door and back again. This guy was all talk.He'd just let him run at the mouth and wait for an opportunity. Still the words were getting to him. The second he got a chance he was going to beat the living crap out of this asshole.
 
Damien was actually helping clean up a little as the party dwindled. He also went over to the final surviving member of the choir he had set up and mercifully killed her as swiftly as he could with a stab to the heart. He liked to imagine he could see some amount of happiness in her eyes but deep down he knew he was deluding himself. She would have been happy if he had never touched her, if she had never been captured. While he might have given her a small mercy it was nothing compared to what he could have done if he had only freed her instead of allowing her to be a plaything of these people.

He groaned and held his head as the thoughts of guilt raced in his mind. The zydrate was wearing off and his jovial attitude was fading. In another hour he'd be at home curled up into a ball as he shivered himself to sleep. He touched his shoulder and realized he didn't have his coat on. He thought back with some difficulty and remembered he gave it to Ezra because his friend had been so cold. He looked about the party floor and saw no Ezra so he figured checking out the 'waiting room' might be his best bet.

He fetched his doctor's bag as he knew he had to return them to Gigaslut6niner or else he would end up in a world of crap. He wandered towards the waiting room as he avoided the puddles of blood, semen, and less palatable items that sometimes defied description and even reality. He poked his head into the room to see a confrontation between Ezra and some minor artist who was mostly used to scout locations for good people to pick up and abuse.

Damien fought the fuzziness in his head as he strained to listen into the conversation. There was jealousy, yes, but he could not figure out over what. This artist was yelling at his friend for some reason, some jealous and as far as he could tell petty reason. Damien didn't much care for how the man was spouting off nonsense as if Ezra himself personally set up his position and kept other people from it.

Then came the switchblade. Damien was already hidden enough that he couldn't be noticed but now he definitely didn't want to be seen so he ducked back outside fully. He opened his doctor's bag and searched carefully for what he needed. He pulled out a syringe and a scalpel and readied both of them like some kind of macabre warrior before he burst into the room.

Of course bursting would be a very friendly descriptor. Damien fell in like some kind of drunken sailor and jammed the needle into the mans arm so hard that the needle splintered off before the full syringe was emptied into him. Of course that didn't matter as the numbing agent was exceptionally powerful and given to him in case any of the lovely patients of his matron decided to try and escape from their imprisonment.

Damien fell onto the table and propped himself up with the arm holding the broken syringe and swiped the scalpel fiercely across Harold/Henry's face. The wicked arc sliced through skin and even bone as it finished its descent, leaving no sign for a second. Then a vivid red line appeared and the artist's eye oozed the viscous fluid inside as it started splitting apart. Damien watched as the artist started screaming. He gave a little sneer and slashed at the artist again, this time over extending himself in his stupor as his slash missed and he fell on the floor.

The artist ran out of the waiting room, leaving Damien with the time to turn around and look up at Ezra, "So...hey...I need my coat back. And are you okay? I didn't want him to hurt you. You're my only friend here."
 
Ezra had been so engaged in figuring out how he was going to get out of his current predicament he almost didn't notice Damien's entry. A cool relief swept over him for he knew it would only take a word to get Harold/Henry to disperse with his threats and scamper off. He wouldn't want to risk getting reported and probably wasn't violent at heart. It was all very well to intimidate but it was rare for someone like him to actually follow through? A different matter altogether. However it seemed that just having a quick word with his would -be assailant was not Damien's preferred course of action.

In a flurry of motion the doctor had launched himself drunkenly at the younger man, the tools of his trade glinting in the room's sick yellow lighting. Harold's cry of shock at the needle embedded in his arm soon became a pain filled shriek when the scalpel blade slashed across his face. The second the knife had been removed from his immediate vicinity, the blonde rolled off the couch and hurried into the midst of the fight. Damien's clumsy brutality, and Harold's panicked efforts to escape kept him from getting into the thick of it, which was probably for the best as he wasn't quite sure who to side with. Even like this his friend had a clear advantage.

Not being nearly as incapacitated as Damien, the terrified man dashed out of the room, clutching his face and shouting promises of retribution that Ezra didn't hear. He made no effort to stop him and instead knelt on he bloodstained carpet beside the other man.

"No, I'm fine. I don't think he would of actually tried anything. You shouldn't have fucked him up so bad." Of course given the opportunity, Ezra would have turned that asshole black and blue for the things he said, but that was before Damien took a hack at his face. "You ever thing maybe this zydrate thing's getting a bit out of control?" he asked gently as he peeled off the coat and returned it to its rightful owner.
 
Damien slowly got to his feet with help from Ezra and took his coat. He dusted himself off in a rather knee jerk reaction as the floor had no dust or dirt and anything that this party might leave as refuse would need a scalding bath and sanitizer to properly get off of one's body. He looked at Ezra and seemed to get very serious for a second, his eyes focusing completely on his artistic friend. Then the mood disappeared and he replaced the scalpel back into his bag. The syringe was expendable as he was help if anyone should get out of hand.

"You are so cute when you worry, Ezra. I am glad he didn't hurt you. I just look forward to Friday now! Really, I do!" He laughed jovially and moved forward, kissing the artist on the forehead, "You did so well today, even if you were cold. I do hope my jacket helped. And the zydrate is fiiiiiiiiine. You don't have to worry about a thing!" Of course if he had been more lucid the needle wouldn't have broken and he would have just had to threaten the other artist. As it was this was mildly more than he had intended to do.

He gave a final little wave and took his jacket and supplies as he left the room. He would turn in everything he had been given to the servant who was making this party go off without a hitch. She took the items and handed Damien his clothing back; it was a bit of a failsafe that kept the people in the party. If they ran off they'd have no clothing besides very unstable and unprotected party clothing that would get them noticed and killed by the dangerous people of the street.

Damien wouldn't see Ezra again that night, his zydrate rush having worn off and his memory of kissing Ezra on the forehead flooding back to him. He had realized he liked his friend in a sexual way after posing naked for him, perhaps a few months after that. Really he was the only person he had formed any real strong bond with. His mom hadn't approved of his "slumming it" with his friend but she had also cut him off from their money as soon as he turned down being his father's successor in the business.

He was still too embarrassed as he got home to call Ezra and apologize, and he was too embarrassed to see if they were still on for the next day. He went to bed worried, hoping he hadn't fucked over everything.
 
(Hey! So, so sorry for the long absence. I was going to reply when I got on today, but I wasn't sure if you were still interested since I was away for so long. If you want to discuss it, you can go to my quest thread so we don't clog up the roleplay with OC posts.)
 
By the time Friday rolled around Ezra was more than ready for a break. The Largos had been running him ragged with this new ad campaign and on top of that the Repo excursions that followed were getting more and more brutal. Time really was money and he couldn't afford the time it took to be neat.

It was ten o clock in the morning and he was now staring uncertainly at the phone, willing it to ring so he wouldn't have to make the call. What if Damien wasn't interested anymore? He'd been awfully high that other night.. Sighing he ran a hand through unkempt blond hair and abandoned the phone to return to the kitchen.

The stove was gathering dust from months and months of neglect, and wrappers were scattered across the floor. Ezra stood up on his toes to reach into an already open cabinet and remove a dehydrated dinner box. He lived off these more often than taking the time to make actual food. Cooking took too long and he wasn't all that skilled at it. Boxed meals and bags of chips were much easier to deal with.

Crossing back to the phone with a jerky strip dangling from the side of his mouth, the artist eyed the device with heavy disapproval before he picked it up and punched in Damien's number. Come on and suck it up.You won't know if you don't fucking ask.
 
Damien was getting ready for work, his actual and legitimate work, when the phone rang. He walked over and picked it up almost last minute because his pants weren't fully on, "Hello, Damien Kumar speaking." He was elated to hear the voice of his friend. Or who he hoped was his friend. He was also delighted that the first few words were not "I AM SUING YOU FOR SEXUAL HARASSMENT!" It was great.

"Of course we are still on! I was sort of worried you might not want to get out. I am sorry, I get very bizarre on zydrate sometimes. I didn't want you to think I was a hardcore psychopath...as much as you can say someone in our profession isn't. It's just a job, right? One that has no choice to it." There was humor to that but it was a bitter and sour type, one where they would both laugh awkwardly while desperately thinking of something nice to say to lighten their spirits if just so they didn't dive into the moral quandaries in their own heads.

Damien thought and brought up what to do, "I have to work a bit late, but meet me at the Golden Light Pub. It is on the corner of Write and Cornerstone Street. I should be there around nine tonight if everything goes well. If not, well, perhaps around ten. I cannot wait to see you there." He hung up the phone after all the talk and wondered if he came off like some pedantic boy with a crush. He hoped he hadn't.

He finished getting ready and walked out the door, his hat hiding his skin from the sun. Not that the smog and muck of the city let much sun in, but there was enough that the albino felt uncomfortable. He dashed to his car and slid in, driving off to the doctors office. He parked in his much too special spot and went into a special elevator that led to a special hallway. "Special" was how he saw it as no patients were allowed back here. Doctors needed to feel important, what with how much they were needed by people clamoring for surgery faster and faster and the special additions being grasped at like water by a woman who had been crawling through the desert.

He checked his chart and smiled under a mask he had applied before he walked out of his "special" hallway. Surgeries that were life saving, not unnecessary developments for disgusting people. Perhaps today would be a good day.
 
Well that had certainly been easier than he anticipated. Damien had been so eager, he just let him do all the talking until they agreed on a time and disconnected. Placing the phone back in its cradle, Ezra finished his breakfast and returned to the kitchen area, where he made a halfhearted attempt to clean before giving up and going to get dressed. It wasn’t as if he’d invited his friend over. No one was going to see the mess but him.

Once more he glanced at the clock and realized that nine was still quite a ways off. He felt unusually fidgety, uncertain of what to do with himself. A shower wouldn’t be out of the question but it was so early, it seemed like it might be better to wait. He could always practice his painting. That was what he used to fill his spare time with, but after a number of less than desirable results Ezra’s motivation had dwindled.
Pulling on some old work clothes, he flexed his mechanical fingers and stared at the empty easel at the other end of the apartment. Stacked behind it it were rows and rows of failed projects. Months worth of his effort to adjust to the artificial limb that replaced the original.

He pursed his lips and approached it like one might a potentially dangerous animal. Even after all this time he could still feel a hint of that old spark that had driven him to pursue art, to spend endless late nights devoted to his craft and come away covered in paint and sweat with a sense of pride and satisfaction nothing else could provide. Another look at the clock. He had a little over ten hours before he’d see Damien. Ezra took a deep breath and began uncapping his paints.

Eight and a half hours later, the man had transformed a blank canvas into a burning abstract of a cityscape, not quite finsished and not quite dreadful. In fact, Ezra felt rather pleased with the results. His nails were caked with dried oils and his hair was a stringy, sweaty mess, but for the first time in many months he felt like he’d accomplished something. He was reluctant to turn in his brush in favor of a quick shower, hiowever the prospect of seeing Damien was enough to fuel him into taking a break.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom