The Kiss of The Deep:: Deadmen's Reach

We Need To Talk

I didn't know what to expect when The Kid said those words—We need to talk. But I knew whatever came next, it wasn't going to be good. No one ever wants to hear that. Not from a friend. Not from a family member. Not from someone you trust with your life. And as we finished our feast, I tried not to let the growing dread consume me. I kept telling myself that things couldn't possibly get worse.

We left the bar in silence. He raised his claw hand, a clear signal to me that this was something we needed to handle alone. Then he snapped his fingers, and the shadows around us shifted, expanding, pulling us into darkness. I didn't fight it. There was a part of me that just trusted him, completely. Even when the world around us became nothing but shadows, I stayed calm, knowing he had my back, just like I had his.

The next thing I knew, I woke up on a leather couch. My head throbbed, but it wasn't too bad. As I propped myself up, I looked around the room. It wasn't anything fancy, but there was something comforting about the simplicity. A desk against the far wall, a shelf full of guns, and a coffee pot quietly dripping coffee into a mug. But what stood out the most wasn't the décor. It was The Kid. He was sitting off to the side, drinking from a mug, watching me with those dark, bug-like eyes of his, waiting for me to come around.

When I finally sat up, he let out a long sigh before speaking. His voice, rough with unspoken weight, cut through the silence.

"You don't even know my name," he began. "And yet, I trust you with my life." His gaze dropped to his mug as if the words were too much for him to face directly. "I've watched so many friends die. Hell, I've killed some of them myself. I may be young, but I've seen more than most would in a lifetime. And there's a part of me that wants to take all of it to the grave, but another part wants to tell someone. To let someone know the truth."

His words hung heavy in the air, like the room itself had darkened even more. The Kid's story wasn't one I was prepared to hear.

"The first thing that comes to mind when I think of home," he continued, his voice strained, "is hunger and violence. There wasn't a day that went by where I wasn't fighting for survival, for food, for something better. I was born poor. Hell, I was destined to die poor. That's the way the world works. But when you're born at the bottom, the only way to go is up, right?" He smirked bitterly at his own words. "So I did. I robbed stores, sold drugs, anything I could do to make it. And then I raised enough money to get a gun."

He paused, staring at his hands as though trying to pull together the courage to go on.

"I know I'm still a kid, but that doesn't matter anymore. When you've got a gun in your hand, there's no gap. No power imbalance. Not when you're holding the reins. So when my old man tried to beat me again—well, I unloaded a clip into his chest." He said it like it was nothing, but there was a darkness behind his eyes, the weight of that moment pressing down on him. "You probably think my mom did something, right? She didn't. She just threw me under the bus. They charged me as an adult."

I felt the tension in the room thicken. His story was unraveling before me, piece by piece, and I wasn't sure I wanted to hear any more of it. But I knew I had to.

"I remember signing that contract," he said, his voice quiet now. "I took the deal to reduce my sentence to just 10 years. It was in my first year that I met big bro. He taught me everything—how to survive, how to navigate the world around me. We worked for Miss Banshee for a few years, until we decided to strike out on our own. And you know how that story ended."

He stood up slowly, his claws clicking against the floor like they were made of metal. The room seemed to grow colder, heavier, as the shadows seemed to pulse around him. I knew something was coming, something I wasn't prepared for.

"You're gonna hear things about me," he continued, his voice breaking. "Things you won't like. Things that'll make you hate me. But... just know this..."

His voice faltered as blood began to pool around his feet. His hand went to his chest, eyes wide with disbelief. I couldn't move—couldn't react fast enough—before he whispered in a strained voice.

"Shit... I thought I had more time." He staggered, his form flickering, like the very light around him was fading. "Don't come after me. It's too dangerous. That's what she wants. Just... run. Run far away."

The blood pooled faster, creeping up his legs, and his form began to fade into the shadows, like he was slipping away from this world entirely. I knew then—whatever had been unleashed inside him, whatever secret he had kept buried for so long—it was taking him.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

"Kid, no!" I called out, but the words seemed to have no power.

The last thing I saw before the shadows swallowed him whole was the cold, empty look in his eyes—a look that spoke volumes about the burden he carried. And I knew, deep down, that whatever he was running from, it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

I couldn't just let him go. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He wanted me to run. To leave him behind. To let whatever was hunting him have him.

But I wasn't going to do that. Not now. Not ever.

I swore to myself, as the last traces of his blood soaked into the floor, that I would find him. Even if it meant facing whatever darkness he was running from.