Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 06 - Ivy

Before Hemlock, there was Ivy. Screw a drug cartel, though they did dally in drugs, but what truly turned them on were violent, noisy public death rallies, trafficking (not just the highway kind) and getting on the copper's nerves - a staple of the underworld. They were what people would expect from a thing called a gangster organization.

But they weren't careful. They underestimated reality. They thought they were at the top of the world, and yes, they were. But the underworld's peak is only high enough for the sinners to see you.

Inevitably, their height was going to be their downfall.

Regardless, that wasn't how a young String first thought either, just as blinded by power and bloodlust as anyone else in Ivy.

Well, almost everyone. String had always been aware of the man standing in the shadows, watching them, watching everything. He knew this man didn't like the ruckus although it was the org's signature, for he was always the one to put a stop to it. String knew the blackout was no mere technical difficulty. He knew the wailing sirens weren't cops but a trick of hidden speakers.

String did manage to ask the shadow man why he did it, why he kept getting in the way of Ivy's regular foils of fun. But in contrast to String's stacking questions, the shadow man only answered with five words.

"Dead men make no deals."

And that was Ivy's weakness. They cared about the present and not the future. They cared about what they want to do and not what they should. The seven minutes of joy seemed more appealing to them than the paradise that could've come.

Strings were attached right then. Even before String knew him as Paper, he's already wrapped around the shadow man's icy little finger.

So whenever he wasn't around to execute the deed, String would. He didn't need to be asked to do it, he just did it, because he believed in the shadow man's ideals more than Ivy's. He began sabotaging their weapons and supplies, anonymously helping the men in blue teach careless Ivy thugs a lesson, did everything he could as a good-for-nothing underling to poke holes in their boat.

This was going to bite him back sooner or later. String wished to this day he had anticipated that.

The higher-ups got to him eventually. Hands chained above his head, blood dripping down his face to his chest and to his feet that barely touched the ground. He was numb to the pain at this point, every throbbing bruise and stinging cut telling him he's fucked up, but he doesn't listen, doesn't regret.

He wasn't expecting anyone to come for him, to save him. He was planning to die on this hill, to go out this way, to be set as an example of either a rebellion or what happens when you mess with Ivy. He knew this wouldn't be for naught, even if he ends up another limp body in a ditch.

Then, by a miracle or consequence, Ivy's leader - the man who held a knife against String's neck and threatened to slit his throat nice and deep - dropped dead.

A small gash in the back of his neck - a single, lethal blow.

String mustered up the last remaining energy he's got in him to lift his head up. The perpetrator holding a bloodied scalpel, standing over the body of someone who had so much damn power over him, now a lifeless body, just like that.

He wanted to say something to the shadow man. He didn't know what he wanted to say. He just knew to say something, anything at all.

But the shadow man lifted his finger to his lips, shushing him.

He couldn't recall what happened next. But he did wake up in a familiar bed, white sheets and white lights, a curtain obscuring the rest of the room.

A hospital room, he figured, String's been here several times.

His vision cleared eventually, head still trobbing, he wasn't sure of the tight bandage wrapped around his head, the wound it covered, or the anesthetic. It was then when he noticed the silhouette on the other side of the curtain.

Stunned. He thought he was alone. He shifted in the mattress, ruffling the sheets, and the noise caught the silhouette's attention.

Slowly, the curtain was pushed aside to make way for whoever the silhouette belonged to, and there revealed a man in an inverted black and white suit seemingly a size smaller than his actual size, complimenting his slender figure. Like that suit wasn't enough of an indication, his clean appearance was finished off with a perfect posture, slicked hair, and a gentle gaze.

But there was something eerie about that gaze, like he's seen things he shouldn't have, like those eyes were a mask. The gentleness only seemed to enhance it.

And it was definitely the eyes and not the bloodied scalpel in his hands.

He didn't say anything, only set aside his scalpel on the table, then sat on the side of the bed, watching String, waiting.

String didn't realize his breath had picked up in pace. How else was someone supposed to react to seeing the man who's killed in front of him?

But there was something told in said man leaving his weapon at a spot so vulnerable, out of his grasp and within String's. It gave String the impression that he wasn't here to finish the job.

Though he definitely could if he wanted to.

So String propped himself up with his elbows, a slight sting in his arms from the mass amount of cuts, but they were tended to, healing and bandaged. He just needed a few seconds to look at the man.

The shadow man, String's never actually seen him in clear light before, but he knew it's him.

His savior.

"Why..." String started, voice slurry like he's woken up from a lifelong sleep. "Why did you save me?"

The man tilted his head, his little grin followed by a quiet chuckle. The reaction surprised String. All he's ever seen the man do was stand in the dark and somehow change the entire scene.

Then, the man spoke.

"Dead men make no deals."

String's hairs stood on end, but it wasn't unpleasant, not of fright nor petrification. No, nothing like that at all.

It was exhilirating. He didn't know how else to describe this feeling other than it had him hooked.

"My name is-"

"Shh," The man pressed his scalpel lightly over String's lips, cutting him off, startling him. He didn't realize the man had picked it up again.

"Paper," The odd smile on the man's face remained as he continued. "Call me Paper."

Paper.

String knew that name was going to be engraved in his mind for a long damn time, if not forever. He knew moving forward, he was going to do it entangled, in whatever he - Paper - decided for him to be entangled in, however he expect it to be, that he will be pulling the strings, his strings.

Look, the strings were already delicately binding Paper's fingers.

"And that would make you...?"

That was how he's come to name himself String.