scintilla

i. no rest for the wicked

Ultimately, it's the set of heartbeats that wake you. One, two, three. So panicked, pumping fast, so fast that you think you could hear it several meters away. But it's right above your head -- how else could it be so loud, a cacophony that nearly drives you into a fit because your stomach starts curling uncomfortably at the mere thought of food? Sound peels back in layers, starting with those heartbeats and going to your attempts of speech, your attempts of saying, "Go away." Except, it isn't successful at all; blood spills from your throat instead, and your voice comes out as a strangled gurgle. Fire lances the line of the weeping wound, and you shudder through it, fingers digging into the dirt as your hands clench into fists by your side.

Ah, you think. That's why it's so hard to breathe.

The city's lullaby comes back to you before a voice -- her voice, as it turns out -- does, and when you finally hear the words they sound as though they're traveling through water. Open those eyes of yours? You think that's the request, insistent and concerned. Too bad you can't -- you're already drooling from the smell and sound alone, already feel veins bulging around your eyes, and you know that all she'll see are black scleras gleaming in the night.

Her voice finally clears as her fingers suddenly prod at your throat, causing you to flinch and grab at the wrist, to squeeze tight tight tight until she lets out a small cry, until you realize she's pulling away.

"It hurts, stop!"

Good. Except not. You're drowning in your own blood and you're fading fast despite the world coming alive to your senses. You'll be alone alone alone, rip out your organs and feed yourself, eat everyone in sight --

You release her wrist and crack open your eyes, and at the sight of her holding her wrist against her chest, of her body kneeling and curled slightly over yours, of her bulging stomach? It's a wonder you don't eat her then and now.

Or maybe it's not. Pregnant women are said to taste good, binge eaters calling them two-for-one meals, gourmets calling them delicacies, but the sight of them only makes you tired. Your hunger stabs at your sanity, but now it's not targeted at her. It's targeted at you.

You don't taste good; you taste like rotten fish, and the nutrients do little for you when you're just reusing what you got, but your hunger doesn't give a shit. Eat. It says. Eat eat eat, demolish those fools and hang their spines from fishing lines --

Eat. It says. Eat or you'll die.

You attempt breathing again, instead. And blood merely spills out of your throat without abandon. Only then do you realize she hasn't left. "Shh...save your strength." Her voice is pained and her eyes don't shy away from yours -- is she stupid? She must be. Only smart enough to not touch you again, it seems.

And suddenly, the smell of rotting fish floods into the air, drowning out even her own delicious scent.

You suddenly convulse under her gaze, shuddering and attempting to tell her to go away for a whole other reason, but she doesn't get it, only panics and tries to console you until a grimy hand grabs her hair and pulls her up up up, throws her to the wall opposite of you and pins her with a sharp green claw. Kagune.

It's so fucking noisy then. Can't you die in peace? No, apparently. No, no, no. The ghoul is talking, you see him turn his body slightly to spit at you in derision.

"Weakling. Letting a human coddle you? You deserve to die." You're unsurprised and uncaring--the derision is normal for somebody like you, even more so because of your young age. But then he's looking back at the woman, smile kind and evil all at once as he says:

"Join her, will you?"

The set of heartbeat speeds up up up, and her eyes fearfully and shakily try to go back to yours, even as the ghoul crushes the space just to the right of her head. You want to scream at her to run, to scream. He's playing with his food, and she might just make it if she can get away and into the public eye. But she stays, eyes on you, refusing to move even an inch.

You're tired; it's not your fight, you've been there and done that. Your mask was crushed and you were left to die, so you're not anybody special: just a rabid upstarter. The thought has you almost closing your eyes, even as he presses a hand against the source of that precious, second heartbeat.

Instead your eyes widen and two wings begin to bloom from your back -- cracking as you force yourself up, a hoarse groan rippling and ending at the gash at your throat. He swears and lets her go, but by then you've already bitten through his elbow, tasting rotten fish and grimacing. He knocks you back for your trouble, and he spears through your collarbone with his kagune.

It's desperately close, even with surprise on your side. Your throat closes up and your hand goes into his chest, but he tears the arm off just as you grasp at his heart. Your ears ring, hearing those fast heartbeats and focusing on them, and there's just enough rage left inside you to fuel your efforts in ripping off his head.

And then? You feast. You swallow down bile and flesh alike, hand pressed to your throat, rubbing it idly. Your eyes flick to the woman as you devour her would-be-predator, focused on the ashen face and white knuckles. She stays all the while, flinching with each crack and crunch of bone, and you can't understand why.

When you jerkily move into a standing slouch, blood staining your face despite your best attempts to wipe it off, you register her raspy breaths and suddenly understand that she couldn't move due to hyperventilating. You're not surprised--what she just witnessed would traumatize a grown human for years on end--but you still turn away, as though hiding the vicious qualities of yourself would comfort her.

Her hand snakes out to grab your tiny wrist loosely, her voice panicked as she rasps out, "Wait!" For some reason, you do; you stand there, not looking at her as she tries another word and fails, cutting herself off to breathe deeply. Minutes pass, just like this, until she finally says, "Thank you. Thank you--Thank you so much."

You look up at her then, numbly surprised. To her credit she doesn't flinch away from you, and instead she bows low, once. When she straightens again, her expression is hesitant and hopeful alike, and you feel cold dread pooling into your gut as she asks the question that will ruin you forever:

"Do you need a place to stay?"