There’s something about the way a burn stings for so long; how the skin prickles under heat and screams for reprise. Locke knows and where it would haunt and devour most men when subjected to it; ruin flesh and leaves a nasty discolouration on olive skin, he imagines the same kind of thrill in the way the smoke of a cigarette leaves a sticky blister on internal organs, bubbles up a throat that incites a cough out of lips; spittle spread on the ground and an infection self-given completed. And then he repeats. As though hacking down the walls of oneself is a thrill, on his terms that isn’t leaving stains without consent. If he does it to himself, it’s a sick need to shorten life for a little pleasure. To leave scars like sweltering scorches by others, a horror of the past; a mistake for the ones inflicting. It crosses Locke’s mind in waves; how he chokes his lungs on his own accord but looks at the scars on his skin in another light.
A burn lingers a little long that one would like, doesn’t let someone forget they’re there til they’re done. He’s like a piece of the structure in Butcher’s Street, the furniture that’s always there; blended in so carefully with the background that he doesn’t even need shadows to hide. It’s as much a blessing as it is a curse, Locke’s destructive, without morals and allows all job opportunities that even the sickest of individuals would refuse. It’s what he’s known for. A tale he imagines to be told even decades from now; legacy in its real form.
Lokman remains as indifferent as he can about Kaz’s supervision, it’s established in its benefits as much as its hinderances. Katirci doesn’t spend an awful lot of time with the woman – not surprising, considering his allies are sparse outside of the Renegades and few even then. Instead becomes just a ghosted name that haunts the dreams of the unsuspecting. Locke’s ears find the padding of footsteps before his eyes find the source of it. It’s a gentle acknowledgement; the tap on his shoulder, fast brushed off as though a line’s crossed that he didn’t first instigate. Shrugged off, levels the simmer that wages conflict within him about whether he should bite the hand that touches him, or embrace it where it cannot escape. Suffocate such a thing so he never has to be without control of it again. He has orders and the soldier that he’s growing into understands the consequence for refusal; that’s not the type of name he intends to create.
The laughter is near silent, only evident by the way Locke’s chest rises quickly to indicate the hilarity to Kaz’s comment. It’s the only manner in which he can process it, doesn’t even glance to the cuts on fingertips; he is entirely aware what’s there and where the gentle thrum of pain reverberates and sobers him when pressure is applied. “If it were scissors, I think the digits would be missing, don’t you?” he returns, thumb dramatically flicks the butt of the straight to drop ash to the ground in front of him. Almost invisible with the way it butterflies down. Locke’s accustomed to the sideways jibes, most aren’t brave enough to comment; but Kaz’s just lucky to bypass the temperament when it’s known a sentient force gifts her and leaves her near untouchable.
He takes one more drag and then tosses the smoke, lets the orange glow dissipate to the dank of Butcher’s floor and glances her expression, doesn’t expect an argument over the choice of vehicle. It makes sense. “Of course it does,” obviously, I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. Withheld, the reassurances that she provides moments after earning a toothy grin; remnants of the cigarette smoke escape between the cracks. She’s already following his gesture for the garage when he says: “Alright, lucky number seven, let’s move, monsters don’t wait,”
Katirci’s feet automatically move to trail behind her, thumb picking at the hilt of the formidable blade strapped like a belt behind him as though he might suddenly need it; that luck would suddenly fail on them at the mention of sentinels. “Hmph,” a grunt of displeasure at the thought of having to dismantle a sentinel; yank wirings if they were first able to pierce through metal shells and reach the cores before they alerted fatal units to dispatch them. He almost misses the lack of confidence in her words when he’s caught up in thoughts, drags his mind from the dirt and his hands find his sides again. “Even if it does,” he starts, finds his bike where he left it; parked, clean – somewhat, bar the few streaks of red that he calls décor. (cheaper than vinyl, huh?) “What’s a little chase both ways? If they can’t even catch one fucking monster, three’s going to do more than ruin the mighty Emperor’s evening plans,” And if that’s the case, I’m all for it.
He laughs again when his foot kicks the stand, hands finding the bars, warm hands around rubber handles when he swings over, fiddles naturally with the engine’s key to incite a roar of a beast coming alive; another monster of its own, a mechanical warrior to ride into battle. “Besides, you said it yourself Kaz, we don’t have to worry about anything, right?” there’s a sliver of mockery in there, not for the doubtfulness of the abilities she possesses, but for the way she seems to not quite trust it herself.
A growing concern that Locke picks up on and keeps on the backburner for now.
Katirci doesn’t like to wait too long, eager to be seen hunting on the streets, he gestures with his head backwards as if to indicate: get on. The man’s hands twist to rev the cycle, it grumbles under him with a readiness that speaks of its own desire to be used. He can take it to the shadows if he needs to; when the monster in the streets becomes in sight, they stand a better chance than any sentinel that’s without prowess.
He’ll take them all to the shadows if it means he can catch the light at the other end of it.
Locke makes Kaz uncomfortable, but not for the obvious reasons. It isn't because he is dark and dangerous and cloaked in layers of grit and grime. No. Kaz has known many people like that in her life, and it does not bother her, for the most part. What sets Locke apart, earning him wary glances and doubt, is how similar the two of them could be, if Kaz let it happen. But where she sought the thrills of a good time to remind herself that she was alive, he took refuge in pain. He was complex and indecipherable, but she had seen enough of people in her time to know that, at least. Had she not worked so hard to polish herself, to smooth out the hardest of her edges until she was shiny, luxurious marble, perhaps there would be little difference between the two. But she had, and he was still raw, jagged rock.
She dodges the glob of spit he leaves behind delicately, light on her feet as ever. The life of a thief has left her agile, able to react to the most sudden of stimulus. It's necessary to keep herself polished, her body as unmarked as it had been the day she was born. It occurs to her in that moment how different their skillset truly is. His brand of destruction relies on hiding in the shadows until he is ready to strike, but Kaz works with different tactics. She presses forward from plain sight, manipulation and mind games her bread and butter. She took what she wanted, but these days, more often than not it was given freely, and she was long gone before her marks realised they had been played. It was what worked for her, and the violence of what she was being asked to do was pricklingly unfamiliar.
And that's how she knows that her assignment isn't as simple as it appears. Locke isn't somebody she is equipped to help - not when a talisman or two would do the same job, with the added bonus of not being a living, breathing monster who, if it came to it, would need protecting. If they were to stumble across a sentinel, she wasn't certain she could put up enough of a fight to help fell it, and most Night Monsters were not capable of doing so alone. They are here because they are both a liability, and rather than burden anybody else, they had been foisted on each other. Did he know this? Was he aware that he was playing the role of babysitter as much as she was.
"We don't have to do this, you know?" She offers. "We can always take the bike to my place, drink ourselves stupid, and say we couldn't find the monster at all." It was clutching at straws, a last-ditch attempt to keep herself as far removed from the situation as possible. Kaz is fearless, reckless at times, because fate has taught her that she has little to worry for, but she is no fool. Throwing herself in the path of danger isn't on her to-do list, no matter how many lucky charms she takes with her. Thoughts of escape are driven from her mind by the movement of his chest, and a chuckle rumbles up her own throat. "Is that a laugh?" She teased, resisting the urge to jut out an elbow and nudge at his side. More than likely, this will not be well received. "Not if you used kiddie scissors," she retorts. "I'm not sure the scissors in my kitchen can cut through bone, either. They can barely cut through pizza." She's rambling now, filling the silence in the only way she knows how.
She's already halfway to the garage when he speaks, and flicks her hair over her shoulder to shoot him a grin. "Hurry it up then, Snake Eyes. You're lagging behind." Always goading, always pushing, even when she shouldn't. Kaz wonders how long he will put up with it. How far can she force him to bend? Will he snap, or does he have it in his to smooth over those rough edges as she has herself? She doesn't know him well enough to make a guess, but until she can, she will continue to feel him out, to push his buttons until she finds the one that tips him over the edge.
"Maybe," Kaz isn't convinced by his words. She's confident in her abilities, but her idea of luck is avoiding the sentinels entirely. Was luck any match for sheer power? Could fate stand up against technology hell-bent on their destruction? Kaz hopes so, but it wasn't a theory she wanted to put the test. "Except it ain't just one sentinel out there, is it? Sky's full of them." Getting here in the first place had been tough enough, but maybe his bike would have them moving fast enough that they could avoid detection. Somehow, she doubted it.
Once he's seated, Kaz hops on the bike behind him, hands fumbling for a strap on the seat to hold on to. She doesn't bother with a helmet, no regard for her own safety. What need has she for it? They both know she won't fall, and with her on the back, crashing isn't likely. Even if they do, it'll work out find for the both of them. It always does."We don't," she confirms, taking a moment to find her balance before nodding her consent to move, to press ahead with the task assigned to them. "Go on, then," she urges, and this time, she does make contact, moving her hand to slap at his shoulder. The contact is gentle, but enough to make it's intentions known. "Whisk us away. Unless you've changed your mind."
