Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 09 - Attached

Desire is a strong vessel. It can either be serendipitous, or stupid. It can bring you solace, or pain. Sometimes, an emotional want (or as many would perceive it - need) is so strong, no vast amount of logic or reasoning could convince you to think otherwise, to want anything else. It blinds you.

Say like how a cat persists to catch the fish despite the risk of falling into the water, or how the bird wishes to fly in the rain although the thunder warns it not to, or how a wooden puppet puts himself and others in great turmoil all to one day become a real boy.

And in the underworld, this unassuming web of crime and corruption and criminals alike, the concept of wants are above all else. Everyone knows what they want here.

Well, almost everyone. There are those little loose cannons, the wild cards, the strays. Those who think twice, in one way or another. Those still in search of their desire. Those who pretend.

Those who are unaccustomed to affection, and thus would think they have found the love of their life after one small interaction or a mediocre act of kindness.

(Perhaps this is why Paper is not kind. Not genuinely, at least.)

Those people are the most blinded.

And they are the ones Paper sets his hidden sights on, the ones whose names he writes down.

There are also those who walk into his field of vision with the intent of manipulating him. He is only giving them a taste of their own medicine.

For nothing amuses him quite like a rat running towards the end of the maze, thinking it has at last escaped, only for it to fall in a pit of nuclear.

It's become somewhat of a hobby of his, actually. It plays out differently every time, and composing his predictions, seeing what happens next, never fails to captivate him.

And his most recent production deems to be the most captivating thus far.

This production shall be named, "The one he never saw coming."

Starring, "String."

He had thought it was an odd thing to name yourself, but then again, he had named himself Paper.

At the very least, the code name String is better than the name he used back when they ran with Ivy. A foolish rebel thug who thought he could step into the underworld with his real name intact, and step out with everything else intact.

String followed his heart more than his head. Unfortunately, his heart had proven to be just as inoperative as his head. Reckless, picking fights with whoever, no matter their name nor rank, all because he felt mistreated. As if his knack for breaking glass for the hell of it wasn't enough of a nuisance.

A fitting trait for a carefree, careless, condescending man, who preferred to live in the moment and worry about the consequences later, not that he ever seemed to worry. Sticking needles into himself like a felt doll, knocking boots like a rampant bonobo, and drinking like a deep-sea fish.

Paper has always had a distaste for those kind of people. People who take the test without any regard of the result, only answering the questions for the sake of answering. People who walk looking down and not forward. People who do it for the bite and not the sweet, sweet aftertaste.

Those kinds of people are not rare in this line of work.

Which was why Paper preferred to work in the shadows, away from those people, yet still being in a close enough proximity to get what he wants, to do what he wants to do, to use the ones unlucky enough to be at his disposal.

And the ones who do notice him from within the dark were the lucky ones to be a part of his mindfuck of a production, unbeknownst to them of how much of a mindfuck it'll be, of course.

That is the system he had put together for himself. A layer of the smiling mask over his face, two turns of misdirection far, and three feet of deception deep.

Nevertheless, there are some who enter his sights silently and leave just as silently, the few he deemed lucky.

Paper thought String was one of them lucky bastards, when the fool approached him from behind, a safe distance still between them, the light he stood in and the shadows Paper remained in separating them.

A rather imposing build, he would've towered right over Paper were they to stand next to one another. Bleached hair, with hints of black roots, messy and unkempt, as Paper had expected from what he's heard. He dressed like he had raided a thrift store and called it a day. (He probably actually did.) And a wounded face, cut here and bruise there, bandage here and patch there. Frequent fights, it seemed.

But despite his imposing exterior, the crease on his brows, the nervous lip bite, the shaking hands he's trying to conceal... String didn't strike Paper as a hesitant man, afraid, of who stood before him. It looks like he's become the exception for this lost young punk.

And though he didn't show it, the power felt good.

Paper did not think about the answer he had given to String when he asked why he did it - sabotage their org. Paper only repeated what was told to him by his last patient, before the monitor displayed a flat line, before he became the disgraced surgeon he is today.

It seemed those words impacted String more than it ever had Paper, and in a much bigger way than Paper had ever anticipated.

He had smiled then. He never would've thought a man so impulsive like String would end up falling right into his hands with a simple little sentence.

And all he had to do to secure String was give him what he's always wanted.

For the highest possibility as to why String began doing Paper's job for him, without even needed to say anything or lift a finger or even show up.

Is attachment.

When someone is unaccustomed to affection, the moment they sense a source, they will latch on. And they will latch on hard.

String doesn't know it yet. But he was attached, looking for validation, a purpose, a need. Desire. It didn't make sense, but it didn't have to make sense. It made sense to String.

So, Paper made it make sense. Blinded him, so he wouldn't need to see. Just listen. To him.

Strings attached. Now, all he sees, thinks of, runs to, is Paper.

And Paper loves the chase.