Chapter Text
It was getting late.
Even without glancing at his watch, this much was obvious; the streetlamps located on the edges of the sidewalk were the only source of light at this hour, aside from a few off-track vehicles unfortunate enough to get lost in this part of the city. Not even the moon itself was visible, shrouded by the heavy, dark clouds. It was going to rain soon and all the thin man was hoping for was to come back home before the first drops would begin to fall. Apartment buildings stood tall, like some ancient guards, forming a confusing maze of alleys and corridors not even the inhabitants themselves were able to memorize. It was a hideous sight, a half-alive blemish on the reputation of the city, filled to the brim with both the poor and the evil. There was not a single person out there who would willingly choose to roam the dark streets without a solid reason.
Well, maybe some impoverished students, not lucky enough to be in the possession of a car. That’s certainly the kind of a person that would be forced to indulge the city past midnight.
The dark-haired man shivered violently, a quiet curse pushing past his gritted teeth. A few seconds later, a new source of light appeared; born from a tiny spark, which glowed bright red when brushed against the tip of a cigarette. He breathed in, letting some of the smoke enter his lungs. This entire ordeal did not interrupt the efficient pattern of his footsteps. He was used to these late-night walks, having played out this exact scenario way too many times to count.
At a first glance, he did not fit in with his surroundings; in the dim lighting, it looked almost as if the white button-up on his back was glowing, way too clean and put-together. There wasn’t much skin showing, pale neck shielded by a black turtleneck, with the strap of an old camera wrapped around it like a necklace.
At this point in his life, the device was nothing but a noose, weighing his scrawny body down and onto the cold concrete below.
Some more smoke slowly floated up into the air through his nostrils. There was no time to think about it, not now. In less than six hours, he’d be back on his feet, commuting to the city center with the same amount of enthusiasm which, to be frank, equated to none at all.
Fucking lecturers. If he wasn’t this busy, he would’ve already…
His feet almost folded in on each other for a second and his small form wobbled dangerously before restoring the previous stance. The palm of his hand, pressed against a near wall for support, tightened into a fist. How utterly useless.
Just as he was moving the cigarette back up to his lips, the sound of muffled voices reached his ears. The brunet paused, his eyebrows drawing together. It was difficult to make out the words, or perhaps… whimpers of pain, mixed in with the rustle of clothing being pulled on. He never participated in any fights himself, but he’s witnessed quite a few, so this situation certainly seemed oddly familiar. And… definitely wouldn’t be surprising. Not here, not at this hour.
“Fucking beggars…” he scowled, gnawing on the butt of the cigarette with annoyance.
Normally, the student wouldn’t engage, but it was too late to reconsider opting for a different route. He’d slip past unnoticed, pressed against the brick walls like a rat, just one of many traversing the city. Just a couple more steps…
Nimbly, the man hopped behind the corner, his narrow eyes widening in shock at the unexpected sight.
There was no fight, or, if there was one, the winner had already come out on top; a tall man with his back turned to him, hunched over, with an arm wrapped around the waist of a panicked woman. Her hands clawed uselessly at the attacker’s sides, painted nails flashing chipped red and black polish. She was thrashing around, but it was of no use. She stood no chance against the stranger, a fat spider, rolling his web all around her frail body. Her long legs were already giving out, the very tips of her heels caught in the hollow spaces between the panels of the pavement. The alcohol coursing through her veins surely wasn’t helping her break free, either. She called out desperately, the words slurred together.
“Get off-!“ The lady cried out, eyes bulging out of her skull. Like a frog, the purr in the back of the brunet’s head supplied. The ones that make a funny noise when they’re stepped on, exploding underneath the sole of a shoe into a blotch of bloody slime. “Please-!”
He grimaced, feeling himself be glued to the ground. A wave of heat spread across his chest, and yet… he truly couldn’t move, entranced by the scene playing out in front of him.
The attacker leaned in, but from his spot at the crossroads, the murmur wasn’t audible. Whether it was an attempt at providing solace, or a threat, it was up for his imagination to decide.
And oh, it was running wild.
The student swallowed, finding his throat uncharacteristically dry. His sneaker slid across the wet gravel, recognizing that it was time to run— screw the shorter route, whatever was happening was not his business.
The woman let out a desperate screech, throwing her head back like an animal. “Help me!” Snot was beginning to clog her nostrils, combined with the salty tears. He knew the feeling all too well. Thanks to a last-effort rush of adrenaline, the blonde turned just enough, and their gazes met.
Fuck.
“You-!” she gurgled, the skin around her red mouth stretching in a nauseating grimace. Her teeth were crooked and uneven, the yellow enhanced by the color of her smudged lipstick. Thin lips parted again, tongue curling around another plea, which never fully formed. It didn’t get the chance to.
The glimmer of a blade. Then, nothing but crimson.
With a gasp, the photographer shut his eyes, heartbeat pounding within the confines of his head; at a pace so quick, he couldn’t even keep track of it anymore. By the time his ebony eyes have opened again, the woman was already dead.
A ragdoll, held up by the firm grip of the murderer. Or a marionette, with the strings cut off, dragged around by a reckless child. A gory slit stretched from one side of her jaw to another, a twisted smile… blood has begun to seep out, dripping down her neck and pooling in the curve of the collarbone.
He’s never seen a dead body before. People in a state close to death, yes, but not in a manner this cruel.
A disappointed click of a tongue pulled the brunet out of his thoughts. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he swallowed nervously, gaze travelling up the woman’s limp body. The killer was still encased by the shadow, his hold on the corpse gradually loosening. She fell with a thud, first onto her bruised knees, then, face-first into the damp soil.
A single step. Then, another. The man’s beige coat was stained with specks of blood.
His body was moving out of its own volition, brain stepping off its throne to gracefully hand the reins over to the physical instrument. All of his muscles tensed up. He was ready to muster up the last scraps of energy for the day and flee if the need be. “This… is going to be difficult to get out of.” He heard himself point out, the remark followed by an internal string of angry curses. Of course, you idiot.
The stranger let out a low hum of confirmation, stepping close enough for the student to discern his features. The lower half of his face was hidden behind a face mask, rendering only his eyes visible. Sharp, like the ones of a hawk, with a thick, furrowed eyebrow above one of them. The other looked… weird, to say the least. The little hairs were much thinner, and the eyelid was droopy, a rare shade of red, or perhaps even orange, partially obscured by long strands of hair. “I wasn’t planning to get it over with this quickly.” To his surprise, the murderer has spoken up. The comment was surprisingly calm, albeit with a hint of frustration to it. The tip of his polished boot nudged the dead body, but to no avail. “…Not until you showed up, at least.” His head tipped to the side, like a curious cat mulling something over in its head. “You won’t say a thing about this, won’t you?”
The student hesitated, but it didn’t last long. He pulled on the strap of his camera for support, giving the stranger a sharp nod. “I don’t… care.” He managed to squeeze the confirmation out of his lungs, realizing with horror that somewhere along the road, the cigarette must’ve fallen out of his hand. “Let me go. This isn’t my business.”
A set of muscles underneath the face mask moved. It crinkled, so he must’ve smiled. Wide.
“Go.”
The brunet did not need to be told that twice. He glanced at the mangled corpse for the last time, shocked, but not necessarily… scared. If not for the scarlet seeping into the ground, absorbed by the stomped-on weeds thirsty for any sort of nutrition, she could’ve been mistaken for a passed out partygoer, really. The realization caused something to shift near his abdomen area. It constricted uncomfortably. He licked at his bottom lip, set on retreating back to safety.
He was just about to disappear behind the corner when the raspy voice called out again. “Wait.”
The puny thing stopped, the corner of his mouth twitching in discontent. Waiting, whether it was for an additional statement, or to spring back into action… a chase.
“Your name.” It wasn’t a question, but an order; although, there was genuine curiosity behind it.
The dark-haired man did not turn around. For a split second, nothing but strained silence filled the air.
“Scaramouche.”
“Holy shit…”
Scaramouche groaned quietly, pulling a polyester blanket above his head and squeezing his eyes shut. Unfortunately, this makeshift shield wasn’t quite enough to drown out the insistent ring of the alarm clock wrecking havoc in the enclosed space; a flat, or rather, a painfully small studio, with barely enough space for one person to live in. And black mold, apparently. Black mold was doing quite okay in this environment, much to the current tenant’s dismay.
Lazily, the man parted his eyelids, blinking away the last bits of sleepiness and pieces of crust which had formed in the canthus. With an abrupt slap, the alarm died down, but the shrill was still ringing in Scaramouche’s head. He pulled himself up carefully, hands letting go of the sleeping mat. He had no choice but to get up and start the day.
He dreamt about…
Scaramouche winced, running his fingers through the thick, black hair. No, it was much too early to start thinking about the events which transpired the night before. This was the type of shit one was supposed to work through at a therapy session, if he was rich enough to afford one. And if he believed that those greedy assholes actually had their clients’ best interest at heart. Throughout his life, he’s seen a bunch of ads online; those smiling women dressed in formal attire, sitting in their cozy offices, spewing promises of healthy coping mechanisms, processing… healing.
Bullshit. He’s known that ever since the teachers first dragged him into the school psychologist’s office, where they sat him down and forced him to listen to all the obnoxious shit spewing out of her. Most people in the world were idiots. Some were just able to hide it better; usually under the pretense of talking all slow and clear, as if the kid was too dumb to see through it all. It’s been over a decade, and yet… his opinion hasn’t changed.
This was the first and last attempt his mother had ever made at repairing his flaws.
But it was much too early to think about that bitch, too.
Scaramouche rolled off the mat and pulled on the set of clothes he’d prepared on the chair the evening prior before wandering into the tiny bathroom. He hasn’t scrubbed the mirror in over a month and the sight of the dry drops of spit mixed in with toothpaste was getting on his nerves. He spattered himself with some water and soap before straightening up and taking a deep, calming breath.
Flat nose. A couple of beauty spots on his cheeks and neck. The very same, piercing eyes and the perpetual scowl. This was the kind of beauty people admired, but never dared to compliment outright, at least—not anymore. It helped Scaramouche get past the hell that was high school, but with time, it was getting more and more difficult to keep up the charming façade. He’s given up on it a long time ago. It was a pathetic reminder of what people truly saw him as.
His hand twitched.
Within a couple of minutes, the man was out the door, waving his camera around like a weapon. Just in case. He wasn’t planning on choosing the same route as yesterday, for obvious reasons.
He wondered if the body had been taken away… and if it was gone, then if it was thanks to the police, or the perpetrator himself. Stabbings weren’t unheard of in this part of the city, yes, but usually, it was between drunk men stumbling out of some cheap bar to take a piss. A crime of passion, a knife in between the ribs, but with a relatively high chance of survival. In most cases, the officers would wave their hand dismissively at the offender, tell them to shut up about the whole situation and let them go with a warning. This was different, though. Much more intentional and with seemingly no reason… unless Scaramouche happened to interrupt some sort of sick foreplay. The lady’s skirt was short, it wouldn’t be an issue to hike it up a little and have some fun, even if the other party wasn’t a willing participant.
Feral and uncivilized, like animals. Scaramouche didn’t need to hide behind moral excuses to consider this sort of behavior extremely degrading. To stoop this low, and for what? A fleeting moment of pleasure?
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She died.
A few stray rays of sunshine managed to break through the clouds, landing on his face and bringing upon a pleasant tingly sensation. Scaramouche stopped for a second, placing his hand on top of a metal fence lining the sides of a bridge and leaned out to watch the river underneath move. Restless ripples on the surface would transform into fully fleshed-out waves and hit the shore, eating away at the tiny, persistent patch of sand. For a moment, he’d considered snapping a picture, but decided against it.
The contrast in between the districts was truly staggering. Forty minutes later, Scaramouche was trapped in between examples of quality architecture, as well as an overwhelming amount of expensive cafes and restaurants, not to mention some greenery: bushes and trees meant to impress the passerby. Scaramouche snickered, patting down the sides of his pants. It was a shame that he forgot to grab his cigarette pack. It was some sort of a ritual to scatter the ash and eventually, the stub, near the roots. Wasn’t a man allowed to have fun, after all? Especially on a day like this… after all that’s happened.
Soon, Scaramouche became just an insignificant part of the sea of walking students. Most of them formed small friend groups and, sometimes, the commotion would be interrupted by an occasional loud laugh and a dumb joke. They’d stumble into each other, apologize, focus their energy on greeting close friends and distant acquaintances alike. No one seemed to notice him in the crowd, and for that, Scaramouche was extremely thankful; his gaze was set on the building near the border of the campus. It was, perhaps, a little underwhelming, but made up for the lack of height with its width; the institute of arts, ironically, wasn’t too artistic in its appearance. His own little prison for, what, how many years…?
“Hey!”
Scaramouche jumped at the exclamation, the familiar sense of doom creeping up his chest. Not that guy. He didn’t need to turn to know who the remark was aimed at. Instead, the brunet shuffled his legs a little quicker, tearing through one of the friend groups gossiping underneath a massive oak tree.
“Kunikuzushi, wait!”
Ever the enthusiast. Scaramouche pursed his lips, accepting the defeat in total silence.
“Why are you rushing this much? It’s still a while before the classes start… God, you’re quick, eh?”
Soon, a freckled face entered his field of vision, alongside a mess of fiery hair and a wide grin. A few drops of sweat rolled down the boy’s forehead, but his cheeriness did not waver; he looked straight out of a cartoon, with denim overalls and neon yellow gloves on, stained with mud. Scaramouche scrunched up his nose, looking his new companion up and down. “Childe.” He muttered with resignation. “You stink.”
The ginger made a stunned expression, bringing his hand up to his nose with an experimental sniff. One of the fingers in the glove was hanging pathetically, tied into a knot right at the base. “Oh, that’s right.” Childe nodded, his tone serious. “I was sorting out the fertilizer when I spotted you.”
Scaramouche let out a heavy sigh. “And you came running here because…?”
Childe smiled and almost invisible wrinkles appeared in the corners of his big eyes. “To say ‘hi’. Why, is that forbidden?”
“You’re slacking off during work hours. I’m sure I could report it somewhere…”
“Oh, but you won’t.” Childe remarked with a light-hearted chuckle, staring straight ahead. Scaramouche noticed with a degree of satisfaction that the youth, alarmed by the earthy smell, would swiftly disperse and create a passageway for them to pass through. “Besides, I’ve worked my ass off yesterday… One of the guys had to travel back home, so I volunteered to grab his shift. And guess what? I have no classes today! Which means, I offered to work overtime at the pool, too. Busy day! Good day.” The man proclaimed with pride, forgetting the current state of his attire and wiping the tip of his long nose with the back of his hand. “Oh, shit.”
Scaramouche glanced at him, wholly unimpressed. “Great.” He replied dryly, slowing down as the two reached the main entrance of the institute. Childe scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Something else?”
The redhead smiled again. “Well, I was thinking… Since I’m gonna earn a quick buck, maybe you’d agree to go out w—”
“No.” The shorter of the men intercepted sharply. “I’ve told you already. Fuck off.”
Chile groaned. “Kunikuzushi, you’re truly something e…” The man trailed off, lips parting. His azure eyes unfocused, clouded by thought, following something- or someone?- moving behind Scaramouche’s back. The brunet raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t unusual for the younger of the two to get distracted, but in the middle of a sentence… this was new. “Hm.”
“What is it?”
Childe pondered something for a while. “Nothing. I thought I saw something, that car… pretty sure… ahh, nevermind. You’re busy.” The boy blinked, pinning his attention back on the photographer. “Either way, you know how to reach me if you change your mind, yes? Good luck in class.”
Scaramouche shoved the wooden door until it opened, disappearing inside without saying goodbye.
Ajax, better known under the nickname ‘Childe’, was a recognizable persona around the campus. He appeared out of nowhere one day and stuck around, and for some reason, Scaramouche has fallen victim to his flirtatious endeavors. Most of the faculty teachers took a liking to the man, praising him for his vigor and kindliness; he was everywhere, all the time, scooting through the halls and whistling to himself. A self-proclaimed polymath, eager to fix anything for a chance to earn some extra money. He’d made up for his thick accent with a rare boyish charm, impossible to replicate, and played on the heartstrings of his peers with dramatic stories of how he’s been forced to abandon his family, move abroad and work hard to keep them afloat… including legends about how he’d lost his finger. Apparently, he’d tell everyone who asked a completely different version of the tale. Scaramouche has never asked. He wasn’t going to feign any interest and stroke the redhead’s massive ego.
For now, Scaramouche had to concentrate on his lesson.
The truth was, he’s been attending them for… long. Far too long. The memories of his old classmates were already starting to blur together into one, formless lump of foggy faces and hushed voices. All of them had either graduated or dropped out years ago, leaving him behind: growing older, uninspired, tired and so dreadfully bored. Every now and then, he’d decide to take a break, pull out of college and attempt to walk an independent path. And yet, every single time, the results would be the same. Always the same thoughts, haunting him, whispering into his ear at night. Informing him of how barren his life had become. Hinting at a way out of this mess.
The truth was, he was a twenty seven year old with no diploma nor any palpable plans for the future. One day, he wouldn’t be able to dance around this realization any longer. That day was not coming soon, even if time was mercilessly slipping through his fingers like sand. It was difficult to accept the passage of it, to internalize its flow. Count the losses, be put to rest. All of that was still ahead of him.
Twenty seven wasn’t that old.
Aside from the earlier encounter with Childe, the day passed rather peacefully, with no more surprises in store. He settled down in the back of the classroom, slumped in his chair, toying with the settings on his trusty camera. He fished a few dirty coins out of his pocket and paid for a watered-down cup of coffee, anything to fill his stomach for at least a few hours. He was staring, completely dead-pan, at a presentation which he had seen at least twice before, read word for word, with no useful insight from the lecturer.
He almost regretted waking up in the morning at all.
First, he waited for most of the other students to leave, wanting to avoid any more crowds. Then, he picked up his bag and wandered outside, almost immediately hit with a breeze of cold air. A girl ran out after him and cursed, pulling a coat over her blue curls and rushing in the direction of the parking lot. How lucky. Instead of following her, Scaramouche walked down the stairs, head hanging low. For some reason, he’d started feeling… uneasy. The images of the dead woman flashed in his brain out of nowhere. It would be a while before he’d be able to fully comprehend what happened.
A stronger gust of wind almost knocked him off his feet. A loud thunder rang out in the distance, the rumble echoing through the district. The photographer looked up just in time to see a branch of lighting sprawl out across the vast skies. His button-up fluttered on the gale, black strands of his fringe flitting furiously in front of his narrowed eyes. “Fucking hell…” He complained, chewing on his bottom lip. If he decided to venture back into the institute and take cover, he’d end up walking home late again. It was much too soon to take that risk… especially if the police force has already been dispatched to scout the area where the murder had occurred. With an exhale, the man pushed forward.
With a great deal of effort, Scaramouche parted his eyelids, trying to make sense of his environment. He’d have to tread the path carefully, preferably move alongside the buildings and take cover under their roofs. He was just in the process of analyzing where the next best location was when he noticed someone.
Despite the unforgiving weather, the person was standing tall, able to withstand the constant pressure of these conditions. They were leaning back against the side of a car; from far away, it wasn’t possible to accurately discern the brand. It looked to be silver, though, blending in with the gloomy background. The stranger was wearing a black coat, one that reached all the way down to his calves, tied tight around his waist, which helped it not give in to the force of the brutal winds. But what piqued Scaramouche’s interest were the messy locks of graying hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, tucked safely under the wide collar. Half of their face was hidden underneath a layer of breathable fabric.
It was almost like getting shot. The abrupt understanding, tearing through the slimy mounds of his brain like a lead bullet would.
His baffled expression must’ve caught the man’s attention. Slowly, and with almost surgical precision, his fingers stretched out, gloved wrist moving smoothly. Beckoning him over, as if he was summoning an old friend for a friendly chat and not leading a lamb to the slaughter.
Scaramouche stared in shock, laughter erupting in the back of his mind. You fool. You really thought you’d be left to your own devices? You’ve been dead since yesterday.
There was nothing to fear. Even if he was truly living on borrowed time, he would not cower like a worm at that pervert’s feet. Begging for mercy was out of the question. His fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the camera dangling from his neck, seeking the comfort he’d grown so accustomed to throughout the years.
Then, Scaramouche started walking in the direction of the car.
The stroll felt much longer than it must’ve actually been. His shoulders shivered from the cold, but for some reason, there was not a single seed of worry making itself known within his mind. Whether it was thanks to his stubborn nature, or the confidence he’s been blessed with at birth, Scaramouche was ready to confront the murderer. If he was to go out, he’d go out on his own terms. With pride, never fear.
“What are you doing here?” He inquired, crossing his arms over the flat chest. “You told me I was free to go. I haven’t told anyone about what happened.”
Up close, and in a much better light than before, the condition of the other’s profile left even more unanswered questions. A patch of sickly yellow flesh was stretching from the bridge of his nose across the cheek, going far beyond where his hairline should’ve been. The odd texture reminded Scaramouche of dead animals, sprawled out from a butcher’s hook or stuffed onto a cape stretcher. It looked tender to the touch, puffed up and swollen. In a way, Scaramouche recognized the older man’s fortitude. It must’ve been risky to go on a killing spree with a birthmark this unique and easily recognizable.
His thumb slid over the handle of a car door. “Come in.”
At first it was Scaramouche’s plan to wait until the other elaborated, but it didn’t seem like this scheme of his was going to work. Instead, the murderer turned around unceremoniously and scrambled into the driver’s seat. His movements were intentional and calculated, but stricken with something which wasn’t that easy to pinpoint. Age, perhaps?
Scaramouche’s jaw tensed. He glanced over his shoulder at the campus before getting in with a huff, not even bothering to look around for a seatbelt. The irony of it all was slowly starting to catch up to him through his haze of delusion. “Where are you taking me?” He grumbled, glaring at the reflection of the blue-haired killer in the spotless rearview mirror.
His large hand wrapped around one of the electrical components. “Just some business talk. I’m sure you won’t mind.”
His eyelashes were light enough to pass as completely white, surprisingly long, although uncurled. The hooded eyes flashed bright red as the reflection stared back.
“…Do you?”
Scaramouche did not answer.
“Pick whatever you want, I don’t care.”
One thing Scaramouche did not expect was for the infamous criminal to drive him to some sort of a pub. At first, he was determined to memorize every lane and street sign, in case this turned out to be an elaborate attempt at a kidnapping, but gave up after a few minutes, getting dizzy from the insistent ogling out of the car window. After this unanticipated journey, he was led out of his seat and into the unassuming den. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why this was the stranger’s pick—it provided a lot of privacy. Everyone within was concerned with their own affairs and did not spare the peculiar pair even a single glance. The man held the door open for Scaramouche to pass through and if he didn’t know any better, maybe he would consider him to be a true gentleman. They sat down in the corner of the pub, separated from the other guests with a cheap, off-white folding screen. The lampion hanging over their heads cast vermillion onto both figures. A menu card was slid across the smooth, wooden surface of the table by his captor, but Scaramouche refused to pick it up.
Eventually, the murderer shifted, crossing his legs. “I said you can pick whatever you want.”
“I heard you the first time.” The brunet fired back, squinting with suspicion. “I am not going to accept any scraps from you.”
Cerise irises were burning holes into his body, the bizarre shade enhanced by the lantern dangling from the ceiling. “Fine.” He said simply, letting the matter go with surprising ease. Scaramouche suspected that if he had taken the face mask off, the corner of his mouth would twitch with anger, and the thought caused a shiver of almost perverse satisfaction to travel down his spine. “Cutting to the chase, I see.”
“I see no point in staying here any longer than absolutely necessary. What do you want from me? If you’re trying to blackmail me, then I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no money. Even if I did, I wouldn’t give you any of it.”
He watched the man lean back in his chair, balancing himself on its’ back legs. “I don’t need your money. In fact, I think it’s quite the opposite, no?”
Scaramouche frowned. “What?”
“If anything, you need mine.”
Silence.
“I’ve been doing quite alright on my own. You don’t know… anything about me.” His growl cut through the eerie quiet.
“Quite the contrary.” The man shook his head, not hiding his amusement. “Giving me a fake name didn’t really do anything to help you, Scaramouche, especially because it was rather easy to follow you home. I cannot help but wonder what a person like you is still doing at university, too. You could use some extra money, right? Establish connections… Well, I know when to give credit where credit is due. You have the potential to be useful and it would be a… symbiotic relationship.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t need any of your dirty money.” Scaramouche snapped, leaning forward so quick, the table moved with the sheer force. “Why would I put myself in danger for your sake?”
The outburst did not affect the murderer in any capacity, for he was still as calm as ever. “Oh, are you sure about that?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I think you could benefit from this. You could finally pay for your medical bills again, continue the--”
“Fuck you.” Scaramouche hissed, nails digging into the wooden board. “How did you even…”
The man shrugged casually. “I am a doctor. I know what the long-term effects of suddenly stopping the replacement therapy are. All I’m saying is, I could set something up for you, not only regarding this, but a surgery as well. This is me trying to help you out. I know that… medical matters push people to do the most drastic of things.”
Scaramouche rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperated. He didn’t know how the man found out about this struggle of his, but… it would be a lie to say additional funds wouldn’t change his life for the better. Being forced to put his transition on hold due to financial reasons almost killed him, rendering him an empty husk of a man for… what had to be months. It was an embarrassing period of his life. Terribly humiliating. Kicked out and disowned at nineteen, he truly had no other choice.
He still remembered the expression of betrayal on his mother’s face as she stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance to their house with her body. It was almost like a… mockery, for this to be the final straw that pushed her decaying form off the bed for the first time in years. Nothing had ever worked this effectively: begging, pleading, oftentimes humiliating compromises, she was deaf to all of them.
“And what if I refuse to assist you?”
The blue-haired stranger clicked his tongue. It seemed to be a habit of his, one that would probably get annoying real quick.
“Well, I’ll have no other choice but to kill you.”
Scaramouche wrung his hands, staring down at his own lap with discomfort. Fucking hell. Who would’ve thought walking into the wrong alley at the wrong time would lead to a mess like this. But…
“You win, you sick fuck. I’m in.” He muttered, pressing cold hands into the depths of his pockets. “But you better keep your promise, because I don’t have anything to lose if you decide to fuck me over. Now, I didn’t catch your name.”
Slender fingers moved upwards, hooked underneath the face mask and carefully pulling one of the strings off, letting the piece of material fall to the side. Scaramouche watched as the man divulged the secret that was his face, the scorched and scarred flesh finally exposed in its entirety. Half of his face must’ve been blown off and it was a miracle that he was not only alive, but able to talk. The left corner of his mouth was elongated, clumsily stitched back together thanks to surgeons that surely meant to do well, but didn’t have much to work with. The disfigurement travelled down the doctor’s neck and the damaged skin formed a web of irregular shapes and textures. His sharp teeth were exposed too, a string of drool shining in the dark. When he smiled, his thin lips stretched around the gaping maw and Scaramouche shuddered, unable to tear his eyes away from the grotesque display.
“You can call me Dottore.”