13 Years Later.
... 7th of September 2047 ...
The more he would chase sleep; the further away it got. Everything in his skinny body hollowly aches or creaks with sharp movements, the cheap mattress didn't help his weary bones too much either. The man's gaze was now fixated on the empty capsule of Zopiclone grasped in his palm. There was occasions he felt himself drifting into that sweet decay of sleep, but it was either a commotion outside or the chatter of birds that reeled him back into consciousness. This wasn't ever going to work, a gunshot in the distance outside would be the final straw, sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford.
His baggy eyes opened to meet the sight of a creaky ceiling fan above. It spun weakly in an endless loop, around and around he watched it go. It never dared to stop, not even while the silent squeaking in the mechanism was daring to betray it. There was some thoughts about it coming loose and crushing his skull; this entire tenement was a wreck, likewise the town that harbored it.
Sitting up groggily, he accepted the dull reality. His insomnia was growing stronger by the night and his eyes heavier by the day; 'time to do what I came to this shithole to do', he thought.
Suited only with boxers, his fatigued body would clumsily slide to a wobbled stance. Catching a glimpse of his lethargic frame in the nearby dark reflection of a television set. What little composure he had left began to crumble from within; he felt as if the years soaked every manner of beauty out of his spoiled canvas. The deep need to cover up sprouted in his mind like a rotten apple tree, a frown along with it.
With haste, he went from standing to kneeling by his ruck-sack. Sifting through the range of contents within. His small fingers landed upon a neatly folded blue undershirt, organizing an outfit consisting of a brown trench coat, jeans and the blue shirt. The jacket's mute color was closely reminiscent of Jaklo's own autumn brown fur tone; he was often made out to look like a bandit with his dark eye-pattern. Long blonde hair dangled above his shoulders messily, he'd tie it up into a stylish ponytail. Covering up the rest of his body in the clothing he provided for himself.
From beyond the rotten wooden windowsill was a conversation capable of being overheard from the decaying view of the frail town outside."Reckon there'll be a hanging later, they caught the squirt who tried to rob the bookies.. Get this- he tried to run off again into the woods when they found him, hit his head on a god-damn bee-hive of all things"
The two masculine voices from outside cackled amongst each-other.
"Squirt? Sure he looks like one I guess but- but-- I don't know man, heard he killed a lot of the Freed in there. That crafted gun of his took the place by storm, supposedly has the blood of two other good soldiers on his hands as well. Tell ya' one thing- these rats are stepping out of line far too often nowadays for my liking. Makes me wonder why we even keep the roofs over their damn heads, they ain't hardly providing."
They were just two workers having a friendly teenage high-school girl gossip session, exchanging mumbled remarks amongst each other about their lovely community.
"You're right about that, seems to me if you give stray dogs some bread they'll expect the bones right out of your arm along with it."
Wind was kicking up gravel in an otherwise decimated town square. It was one long road outside with tenements, bars and various establishments bordering the crackled asphalt path, some roots were overgrowing in the road, not a car in sight around here.
After accessing the wild west environment outside, the raccoon would tear his green eyes away from the wooden board obscuring the small window. Catching a glimpse of himself in the same reflection smudged with dust, he would smile and wink at the sight of a handsome raccoon in an even better jacket. Captivated by this, he approaches the television with earnest; wiping it clean with his paw.
Instead of clarity on his beauty; the visage of a tired, run-down raccoon with grizzled features distorted by the television's blackness was staring back at him, no beauty to be found besides restlessness. The view toyed with the raccoon's brittle psyche. Smiles dissolved to frowns; quickly coming to a stance away from the sight as soon as he felt confident he knew what he was looking at.
Although the electricity in this trash-heap of an apartment was budgeted, there was still enough volts for toast. The raccoon plants his ruck-sack upon the table, opening the top-strap and reaching in to deposit some bread onto the counter; shielded by crumbled paper right out of a library book or something thereof. The contents within were fresh and an exotic delicacy in this day and age. Unpackaging it, he'd separate two slices for himself and place them evenly in the sun-soaked toaster to fire up. Wrapping any excess in the paper and planting it back inside his bag, it finds comfort atop two Nine Milometer ammunition boxes.
Through the wooden walls and thin insulation, the droning sound of sobbing invaded the raccoon's apartment from the wall across. He'd listen with perked ears in his own silence. It was difficult to discern any words other than sorrowful mourning. The man behind the wall was on his own, nothing can mistake that quiet cry, a wounded animal in a forest of carnivores.
It was almost annoying to listen to, His ears fall flat against his blonde hair with agitation; pressing his paws into the dusty counter and lightly digging his claws against the marble. This display of hurt was only serving to make him uncomfortable, even if it was completely walled off from him. "... Fucking grow a pair, like the rest of us." He seethed hatefully under his venomous words, looking to the side and jumping in a startled manner the moment the bread deploys from the toaster. It was crispy and good looking enough to devour in a matter of a few bites.
Finally, his slice of heaven was now dissolving in his mouth and hugging his taste-buds. Providing the warmth he craved at last, closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of warm bread melting. It was nourishing, it hit the spot for now. Only crumbs remained on the last bite, as such the muffled sounds of sobbing next door would follow back in like a bad joke. Someone from across the hall-way had enough of the performance. Sending a hammering fist against the wall, yammering and howling their complaint. With every crash of their fist it was like the building was shaking with it.
"Quit your fucking CRYING! Skip town if you can't take the heat you fucking PUSSY! You slacked! Your fault! Your fucking FAULT! I'll be there when they fucking HANG YOU! See how much you like to whine and bitch n'.. cry dangling from a rope. All that coulda been avoided if you put your DAMN back into it! I do! I work my WAGE! DAY IN AND DAY OUT! I STAY AFLOAT! CAN YOU SAY THE SAME?!"
The dishes in the sink rattled in tandem with the crashing racket, the raccoon stared through what felt like empty sockets towards the leaking faucet. He'd gulp the last mouthful of toast crust with little to no satisfaction and made his way towards the front door. It seems now the sobbing has come to an end, the man on the other side of the apartment could be heard grumbling in pity for himself. 'Perhaps in another life they are best buddies', the raccoon thought.
"Too bad they don't have a therapist in this town, I guess." With spite dripping from his hushed tongue, he'd click the door open with the old key to step out into the narrow hallway. An illumination of bright sunlight was cast like a flare from heaven from the dreary window at the end of the bleak corridor, a coffee table held an arrangement of flower-pots, each of which held a variety of flowery corpses, even with pretty ceramic designs on the pot it could not make up for dead flowers.
On the door of the crying tenant was a stapled piece of black fabric with the symbol of a White-Hand labelled upon it in ash. The raccoon averts his eyes and minds his business, it was like staring at an eviction-notice except with a more lethal consequence.
Descending the stairwell to the simple receptionist office beneath, a drunk resident laid at the bottom of the stairs with an empty bottle of rum hugged in still arms. Further ahead towards the waiting room area; two men were conversing with one another against the office counter in a shady manner. The entire room reeked like the back-alley of a fast food restaurant, even the rooms upstairs had better care than this vandalized and graffiti ridden excuse of a reception.
Most of the wallpaper was torn and faded, a equally hollowed logo was visible just below the receptionist counter reading the words 'Turner Turn Inn'. Vandalism made a name for itself over the years; the logo was displaced with a tag in red spray-paint reading 'FREEDOM FIRSTS' followed by the same symbol of a White Hand below it.
Before his approach, the raccoon decided to eavesdrop on the two just in case he picked up a valuable piece of information or two, never a crime to stand away and look busy.
"It's a pure delicacy man, perfect condishhh too! You know what it takes to find babies like this in functional condition nowadays?" Scratch spoke proudly of his product; the Gila dragon's enthusiasm was working it's magic on the nervous, yet desperate wolf before him. Watching as he waves that box around like it was the final golden ticket, describing it as such too. "I dunno, Scratch.. You sure the body won't reject it or anything? I've heard stories about things like that-"
A deceptive grin ran like wildfire up the lizard's face, he resisted the urge to snake his forked tongue and replied instead "Shouldn't do, all the same tissue. Look, Sticks.. Whatever the fuckin' case I'm sure those fancy German doctors will work some futuristic bullshit out. I've seen people runnin' around with the hearts of pigs before, you know. Shit is bound to work, trust me."
The wolf, Sticks would find himself worried sick"I mean it's got to fucking work! It's for my girl back in Stardown. Her body gets worse every damn day; country's best surgeons are waiting on that damn cereal box. We've done right by Dime for a long while; so I'm just hoping our good reputation with the brass calls for.. a discount? Would you do that for me, Scratch?" The raccoon silently judged Sticks and Scratch from the stairway as they haggled a deal over the delicious breakfast treat; what kind of lunatic bargains for cereal in perfect condition in today's age. Sticks took the box from the Gila dragon to temporarily analyze it, a slab of white paint was streaked across the his backhand.
Scratch had an interesting outfit with a unique leather coat. The front flap was riddled with pins and badges; each of them being representative of Anti-Outsider protest. All of which are a direct indicator of an extremist view of those born psionically altered. The term 'Outsider' was adopted as a slur for said people, often used as a harassing figure of speech to berate individuals that possess mental abilities from their birth-right. "C'mon, discount?" Scratch hissed impatiently "You think I make my dough slicing my bargains into quarters for petty fucks like you?"
The lizard cocks his head to the left with a knowing grin; Stick's defense was starting to crumble down, like Scratch was talking the bills right out of his pocket."You said it yourself, boyfriend- yer girl's life s' on a' line, you either pay full price or I find someone who will" He cackled manically with a sick sense of triumph "like a cannibal. Hell, e' might even pay me a nickel er' two more!" Any possibility of a discount was off the table. Sticks could only frown at him the more he spoke. "So, what are we saying Stickie? Deal or no deal? You don't skimp on price when it comes to love, a fella suffered for this to happen- I expect a little bit of compensation for the dirty work that had to be carried out to land you this meeting."
The item of the hour is named 'Pawcle Dusters; Punching Flavor with a Crunch that'll Rattle your Teeth Today!'. A faded visual of a smiling cat resided on the box alongside it's colorful rectangular design. He couldn't analyze it for long before he felt four pairs of eyes boring into him from across the room; now was the time to act like he was walking towards the exit. He strutted along with fleeting smoothness, it wasn't long before they spoke up about his unwanted presence.
"Do I know you? This'in looks familiar, doesn't 'e? What's your name Skeletor? Fuckin' Green eyes too- already off to a bad start, ain't we?" Scratch was the first to bark out at the stranger, pointing enthusiastically and showing off long claws.
".. Green eyes? Outsiders? Here?" Sticks sounded almost relieved on the contrary. Something inside him was glad another soul was around to take the frenzied attention of his overcharging dealer.
Green eyes. The things all Outsiders share in common is that they adorn Green eyes, this isn't always entirely accurate however. Regular people can also still have green eyes and become target of misdirected discrimination, people sometimes use contact-lenses or glasses to avoid any and all altercations.
Jaklo reached for the door but something told him that he would be followed or worse, a cold sensation of chills ran down his back. He'd rather avoid anyone and everyone with the White Paint on their hands. Normally, in his experience the fellas with the white hand symbol don't tend to recognize him ever. It was the Gila Monster who was currently eye-fucking him, he lacked painted symbols entirely.
Finally the raccoon turned around to face the music, a two-man DJ stood before him in this sorry excuse of an apartment complex. It's tough speaking with a twitching tongue, hard to sing your way out of something with a lump-like feeling in your throat. "I'm a familiar and unfortunate face, these are just normal green eyes, I don't have any type of gaze. I'm new here, not looking for trouble either. Here for a friend."
Jaklo caught a glance of the contents within the cereal box; through the opening in the top-segment contained a collection of strange objects. Shapes colored in shining crimson; wrapped in tight plastic to be preserved. But the Gila would close it off once he realized the cat was out of the plastic bag.
"No trouble?-- ... Fuck are you looking at?" With offense, he'd hold the box out of reach "What do you think you saw there?" Something snapped inside the dealer, he would energetically race forward to mightily force Jaklo against the wall by the throat. Scratch's unrelenting strength forced a wheezed grunt out of the weak raccoon. He didn't have the muscle to resist, Only the momentum of his heart strumming in symphony with the tension; this was Jaklo under pressure. "I didn't see f-fucking anything, should I have fucking saw something? L-Looked like a dead baby in there to me, I don't f-fucking know, g-gah! Maybe it'd still be kicking if you just put it into a stroller like a normal person, ghh..- t-that what all this fuss is about? Dead Babies?! Let fucking go of me!--"
Playing dumb wasn't working, that smart-ass comeback earned Jaklo nothing but a solid sucker punch to the jaw from Scratch. Knocking the raccoon off of his feet and to the marble flooring to receive a mouthful of dust, the skinny Gila had the expression of a madman drunk on pure adrenaline and instinct; the wild look in his eyes was incredibly telling of how much he relished being in control of every situation. It was noteworthy to Jaklo, he'd grunt and clumsily slide himself to his knees with an overbearing feeling of agony racing across his skull.
Scratch talked down on the raccoon's slow recovery, he wasn't giving him any chance for a breather."What gave you the right to backtalk me? I look like a politician to you? You want to fucking argue?! Huh?! It's a Fresh Heart in this box you moron.. Who the fuck would jam a dead baby into a cereal box?" A short-lived chuckle escaped Scratch from pure bafflement, he quickly composed himself though. "Are you fucking nuts? Doesn't matter, brain looks the same when it's smashed into the floor."
With haste and without mercy Scratch deployed a straight razor; the blade itself was stained with so much dry blood it might as well be rusted through. He closed the distance with a slice, pressing the rundown blade directly against his jugular. If the wincing raccoon didn't speak up when he did the Gila would've made swiss cheese of his neck there and then.
"H-Hey! Hey-..What makes you the Man? You're so full of yourself you might as well have your own cock stuffed up your ass.. But then again, snakes are a species known to fuck themselves, isn't that right?" It was a barrage of insults so forward and confident that it temporarily talked the blade back from reaping it's victim. A boiling surge of rage was flowing through the Gila, he was giving the reaction that was expected.
Even Sticks was baffled, sharing surprised looks between the two and noticing those two bright green eyes borrowing into his soul, a feeling of intense and unexplained paranoia washes over the wolf. All of the sorrowful feelings he felt about potentially losing his wife were starting to manifest as tears running down his face. Confusion was the emotion that closely followed the onslaught of silent crying, the sadness felt like it was being amplified by something else entirely.
"Stand the hell up you fucking weasel I'm gonna carve you open and pull out your fucking KIDNEYS! Where the fuck are your fancy powers now?! Gonna stop me? I've killed more Outsiders than I CAN COUNT on BOTH HANDS!"
Fury ran rampantly over Scratch's mind, any regard for the cereal box was gone the moment it was thrown to the side. Fabric began to tear as the Gila lurched and desperately pulled the raccoon by the coat, attempting to stand and gut him as though he were a fish.
The moment the raccoon was stood, his back was pressed to the wall once more. Forced to watch the blade race through the air directly towards his gut, honed instincts would catch firm hold of Scratch's fist, utilizing every ounce of weak strength into keeping that blade from penetrating his stomach. All the while staring the Razorblade reaper himself in the eyes; Scratch had the same look a Lion would give moments before catching dinner.
Amidst the struggle, Sticks did nothing but kept his sorrowful face and stillness like a spectator. In truth the depression had frozen him like a statue and now all he could focus on was the neglected box of cereal along the floor. The two fighting would become a blur as every sad thought was now about taking his key to his wife's survival and leaving those two to kill each other.
Even with dwindling grip strength on the Gila's hand, Jaklo was gazing with glowing green eyes in the depressed man's direction, he watched the man with a falcon focused expression, simply waiting for something to happen. The razor sliced the fabric of the raccoon's trench coat briefly, he'd grunt desperately in Scratch's face as feelings of doubt and panic overwhelm him. It pleased the venomous killer to see fear, fueling his strong muscles against the ragged raccoon and watching as the tip of the razor begins to jab past fabric.
Finally, Sticks began to move behind Scratch. In one last ditch effort the raccoon would use the only thing that's ever been of any use to him, his mouth. Hoping to throw off Scratch's intense fixation on stabbing him.
"Y-You're.. Gonna have some b-breakage if you keep trying to kill me.. Your guy is currently trying to grab a bite of that c-cereal for free.."
Scratch cackled at Jaklo as if believing it to be a bluff until the scrape of a footstep behind him told him otherwise. The raccoon's eyes widened almost like receiving a high, the wolf would rope the aggressive lizard into a choke hold and soon enough to the neglected floor. The lizard writhed and squirmed but it wasn't enough to break the firm elbow locked on his neck, it didn't take long until Stick's reckless decision knocked Scratch out completely.
Scratch's flat cap laid opposite his unconscious body, the panting wolf would rise in victory to dead-eye the raccoon once he noticed the handgun he held, aimed directly towards the wolf's head. Jaklo's finger was nowhere near the trigger, however.
"You won fair and square, you got what you need for free." Jaklo spoke in full sincerity, never once breaking eye contact with Sticks "I think we both agree that the Freedom First never needs to know about this Deal of yours, I'm willing to make sure they never do hear about it. I'm giving you my word that you can leave in peace, but I don't trust you. I'm keeping my gun on you until you're out of here."
Sunlight danced in from behind the clouds outside, rays of light poured in from the window facing the receptionist office to illuminate the unconscious body separating the two men currently staring each other down.
Sticks was the first to make his sluggish move, bending down to pick up the cereal box and raising again in a depressingly slow manner, letting his arms dangle by his sides uselessly.
"Sure.. It never gets any easier, does it?"
The question came directly from a wounded mind, two sorrowful eyes were locked onto Jaklo; who didn't expect to ever see such a reaction out of the member of such a brutal gang. A pang of remorse infected his next words.
"No, friend. I'm afraid it doesn't."
With that there was one more burning question on Stick's mind as his eyes traveled over the body of the Ripper he just knocked out effortlessly.
"Did you do something to me? Being that you're an Outsider and all-.. Nevermind- Couldn't give a shit what you are. He should've gave me a discount.. Got angry I guess, don't even have the full amount on me anyway.."
The two met eyes one more time, Jaklo would silently nod and look off to the side as the man slowly walks towards the door calm and collected like nothing ever happened. A draft of cool air rushes in from the open doorway as the wolf makes his exit with a quiet slam to the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, the raccoon creeps toward the unconscious Scratch and kneels before him. He'd individually pluck and remove all of the hateful pins on his coat, reaching for the flat cap nearby and carefully placing it atop his sleeping head with a smile.
"You look handsomer already, sunshine. Maybe you'll wake up in a better mood without those weighing you down."
The raccoon raised the buttons to some light, admiring the pretty design of the bloodied white flowers on the pins. They would be thrown into a nearby trashcan as quick as they were removed. The only thing left for Jaklo to do was deliver a sharp kick to the ribs, listening to Scratch grunt as he did so.
"Nah.. You'll always be a cunt."
He barged his way through the wooden door with force, leaving it swinging on the squeaky hinges as he descends the few steps of the porch outside, gravel begins to crunch under his boots and the hot sun above glimmers down into his lime eyes and threatens him with heatstroke under enough exposure. It was one of the warmest days of September in one of Ash-Valley's most deplorable towns.
However, the need for an afternoon medicine dose burned hotter within than the blazing giant high above in the sky.