He breathes in, and out. In, and out. He wheezes in pain, the sting of the old creaking device burning his lungs like hot ammonia being poured directly into his throat. He looks into the cracked shard of mirror in his hand, carefully touching his mask. his calloused fingertips grazing the rusted machine. He no longer recognized the person he saw in that damned reflection. The metal tubing puncturing his ribs like dozens of stingers, sticking out his sides and back like spikes on some creature in fantasy. He pushes the thought of punching the mirror out of his head. Resting it on the small once a school table. replacing it with the mantra that's kept him sane for the last two and a half years. Don't think, just work. He thinks as he tightens the strap of the old breathing device on his neck like a collar on a dog. It hurt and burned like hell and made every second agony, but it kept him breathing so who was he to complain. He tinkers with his pile of assorted scrap, the room dimly lit with an old oil lantern. The light dancing on the wooden shutters like malicious entities from his past. Don't think, just work.
''Hey wheezy! those weapons done!?''
a man yells in a hoarse voice as he bashes on the old wooden door of the house.
''Jesus christ Aven, unless you want to build weapons with nothing but scraps, be patient!''
Horace signs erratically when the man bursts into the cramped tiny room. Horace is perfectly disguised in the hoard of junk. The man looks like a pile of scrap that came to life, his skin on his torso scarred and pulled taught. Malnourished muscles give him an even more uncanny frame. He looked like an old toy thrown out years ago. Horace was truly a terrifying sight from years of fighting and only getting the bare minimum nutrients from the sludge he pours down his feeding tube. His skin is taught from such a low body fat that he could barely function properly. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, his eyebags evident even from under the mask, as if dark near black half circles are painted under them.
He digs around the mini junkyard looking for something. Horace produces a large weapon into avens hands. The strange device looks like a strange mix between a crossbow and a shotgun. The jagged edges of the metal and splintered wood somehow made a functional machine.
''You know wheezy i can never understand how you can make this shit.''
he says, aiming the weapon at a wall and shooting, the wire springs and metal shakes unsteadily, a small piece of metal scrap shoots out of it. the piece of metal scrap lodging itself firmly into the wooden wall.
''Well it's make you guys weapons, or try to survive this hellscape of a city alone. I don't like my odds in the city.''
Horace signs frustrated towards aven, clearly annoyed and signing before thinking. Then moving his hands like he is weighing his options.
"What did you just say? I'd like to have you know you'd be dead without me! I'm the only one who can understand sign language! Your only value is your skills!"
Grabbing his collar Aven spits angrily at Horace, his bad breath goes unnoticed by Horace, but his spit on his goggles doesn't. his every word filled with spite as he drops him with a clank against the old grey hardwood floor.
Horace picks himself up and walks back into his pile of scrap, pulling out more weapons. Although none as powerful as avens, all of them are still deadly. The small weapons look plain wrong, like they shouldn't work, but yet they somehow still do against all odds, and Horace liked to think they're much like their creator. All the other members look at them perplexed, shooting a few shots at the walls of the old rundown building.
''wheezy this stuff is awesome!''
The other members shoot the weapons with reckless abandon like a bunch of toddlers with new toys, the metal hitting the walls with loud clanking and the high pitch screech of metal against cobblestone grating into Horace's eardrums. The house was dimly lit even though it was nearly sunset. The tightly cramped building around it made the former schoolhouse feel small and dilapidated. The place smells of burnt wood and sweat.
''STOP WITH THOSE BLOODY THINGS! THEY ARE NOT TOYS!'
' Aven screams banging an old door with a pipe, the loud noise making Horace' ears ring in worse pain. The whole gang stops and stands up straight, their posture like the military. except nothing they had fought for was honourable. The whole scene was almost surreal. One gang member twitches and shivers slightly, and Aven turns towards him, walking calmly like a predator moving towards his prey, his eyes sharp and cruel.
''And why are you moving?''
Aven asks a little too close to the man for anyone's comfort. His dank breath on the man's neck.
"I'm sorry boss but see we's haven't our had a fix in a while.''
the man says shivering, his whole body covered in sweat. His hair looked messy and covered in grease.
"We're going out today anyways, you'll get your bloody fix then!''
Aven yells at the man, the man's whole body crumpling in fear, folding like a piece of flimsy leather. Horace goes about as usual while aven is screaming. putting on his goggles, the thick glass allowing him to see while also obscuring what is left of his face.
Aven gathers everyone up like a pack of wild dogs, hitting some of them and pulling others by the collars of their shirts. Horace walks behind everyone, the group following aven in a mismatched mob of addicts, alcoholics and misfits. They walk through the streets, and people close and lock their doors in hope of not being noticed by the gang. The crew of miscreants walk straight past them and towards the town square. The old town square had someone wealthy coming in, or that's what their tip said. They arrive in the shadows unbeknownst to anyone, and they see no one except a small, no not small, thin, almost skeletal woman sitting at the edge of the fountain. Her clothes give the air of structure and class. even better, No-one was around…