no church in the wild

human beings in a mob, what's a mob to a king? what's a king to a god? what's a god to a non-believer who don't believe in anything? will he make it out alive?

[dvnhams]

In the hour or so he's spent observing the gala, David's seen shit most could only hope to catch a glimpse of through photographs and from behind velvet rope barriers – and he's not just talking about the sculptures. Philanthropists rubbing shoulders with the billionaires who necessitate their charitable contributions, blue-blooded politicians toasting to the red state motherfuckers who will go on to libel their asses via tweet tomorrow morning. The so-called best and worst of society, depending on who you ask, all abandoning the pretense of morality to bitch about the homeless over hors d'oeuvres.

The hypocrisy would only rankle if he weren't one of them.

His attention shifts from the great hall to a guy that materializes before him, asking for permission to claim the empty seat beside him like he's the keeper of barstools. "What if I said yes?" David wonders aloud, sipping from his second rocks glass of the night. "You just gonna stand there like an overdressed coat hanger? Drinking by yourself? Sounds like a fun time, big guy."

And then, when he's had his fun: "I'm fucking with you. Sit, I don't give a fuck."

[izaakwclker]

He doesn’t know this guy, but that doesn’t stop Izaak from hating him immediately. The thing is, Izaak knows guys like this one too well, because he spent his formative years growing up with them. One in a million rich, smug assholes – the kind who always made those violent urges in Izaak flare their ugly head. On top of that, there’s an extra layer of smarm about this guy specifically, like if he stepped too close to a playground some alarm would blare immediately.

“I’m sorry, ‘overdressed coat hanger’? This coming from the guy wearing a bow tie. What are you, a geriatric magician? A country doctor in the age of rugged individualism? Glass houses, my man,” Izaak says as he takes a seat. He gives the guy a once-over, eyebrow raised. “You look familiar.” Beat. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

[izaakwclker]

Izaak doesn’t know who it says more about that his first instinct when Lee steps up to him is to lean back slightly. Call it a force of habit, but historically speaking, there was often a solid chance that Lee was closing the gap between them to sink a knife further into his flesh – old habits die hard, even when Izaak feels good about the fact he’s walking away with both kidneys tonight. 

Perhaps even more alarming than the knife Lee could put in his back, however, is the embrace Izaak receives instead. It hurts on impact, Izaak’s head colliding harshly with Lee’s chest, but then it’s over as soon as it begins. This is Lee showing affection, Izaak recognizes that much, but it still looks slightly off, like a puzzle piece getting forced into the wrong slot.

“This is a nice fucking place,” Izaak says as he steps in, looks around. “Do I want to know how much they pay you to slit throats and make jokes?” Izaak drifts naturally towards the large windows after so long spent in the dark. He doesn’t acknowledge Lee’s questions at first, just watches life pass by for all the people in the city below him, the night’s mist casting a serene eeriness. Up here, the New Yorkers look like bugs – from this view, it’s easy to contrive how Lee has smushed so many of them throughout his life. 

He finally looks back at Lee. “I ate, yeah,” Izaak replies. “I could do a drink, though. Whatever you have that’s cold.” And then, Izaak remembers a luxury he’s lived far too long without: “Holy fuck, espresso. Do you own an espresso machine? I don’t need that Italian shit, I’ll take bodega quality or lower.”

[izaakwclker]

location: gala @ the brooklyn museum for: OPEN

It feels good to be back. 

As he enters the museum, he arrives alone, though he knows he’ll have plenty of people trying to keep him company throughout the night. He can feel eyes on him as he enters the large building, light streaming in from the ceiling's windows. There are whispers, too, his name daring to form around people’s lips. Tomorrow, his face will be splattered on the fifth page of the Times and everyone will know he’s back, but for now, he’s enjoying the slow confusion crossing the faces of some members of the crowd – he’s been a ghost for so long, it’s refreshing to be closer to a deity again. 

Izaak’s never been a big drinker (he knows better than to let his inhibitions fall when thousands of people want him dead at any given time), but he figures one drink can’t hurt. He slides up to the bar, orders one of the generic IPAs they have on tap, and waits for the bartender to pour something brown and bubbly into a large cup. In the meantime, he looks to the one open seat at the very end of the bar, then the person sitting next to it. “This seat taken?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. 

[izaakwclker]

IZAAK WALKER @ THE BROOKLYN MUSEUM

Izaak Walker makes his debut back into society as The Brotherhood's very own Apollo, though it's been a while since he lived up to the golden boy that he's dressed as. Here comes the sun, and all that.

[designedonchaos]

There’s a cheap smell of pine in the 2023 Audi- the culprit dangles from the rear-view mirror and Mars already hates it. In a fit of excitement for the day’s big event, he had been hoping for something to make the car smell better. But instead, it’s tacky and pungent- he’s already ripping it off the cord and tossing it out the side window as he’s driving as safely as he possibly can when his foot is trigger happy to get there, faster. Faster. 

He sees Izaak often, but its behind plexiglass- uncomfortable fluorescent lights making glares across plasticky material so he can barely see his friend’s face without shifting his head back and forth. And it’s always loud with others and their loved ones while Mars tries to speak quietly about the goings-on in West Manhattan. And his life, and his dead wife, and all his fucking work. 

But today is a celebration, and the stoic Marshall Gaffney finds himself with a genuine smile on his face as Izaak walks to him. His arms encapsulate the smaller man in a fierce and protective hug before he nods and slips back into the car. “It’s fuckin’ great to see you.” He tells him honestly, grabbing his shoulder with a grin. “Fuckin’... fantastic. You doin’ alright?” He shakes that same shoulder affectionately before getting the seatbelt on. “Got a full tank of gas and I’m sure we could hit a Burger King on the way. Maybe an Arby’s, actually. Their shakes are better.” He rolls down a window and pulls out of that shitty parking lot. “On to freedom- what’re we eating? I was just fuckin’ about, you pick whatever you want, mate.”

[izaakwclker]

Ordinary things feel extraordinary – the warm embrace of someone he knows (someone who’s stuck by his side in the Brotherhood for the last decade), sitting on lush leather instead of on cold steel, the sudden lurch of a vehicle moving underneath him. “Is that… pine?” Izaak asks with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you invested in a new cologne just to see me again. You ain’t gotta try that hard to seduce me, Gaffney.” He’s grinning as he says it, and even that feels a little foreign on his lips after so long of stifled smiles.

They pull out of the parking lot, and Izaak can’t help but stick his head out the window like an overeager dog, the wind raking through his hair as he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s met with the sight of the prison getting smaller and smaller with every mile they pull ahead. After a few seconds, it looks so tiny, it almost feels inconsequential. “Oh fuck, food,” he says. “You know what I want? A real New York slice. I’m pretty sure the pizza they doled us out counts as a human rights abuse. I want a thin slice, some cheese on top that doesn’t taste like rubber, and a sauce that nobody spat in. You think you can get us somewhere that fits that criteria?”

[izaakwclker]

location: lee's apartment for: @leemalkovich

It’s late. After Izaak gets dropped off at home, he sneaks into his own bedroom, careful not to alert his dozen or so roommates. There’s time to make his presence known, there’s time to celebrate, but that needs to wait. After a year of war, Izaak needs a night of peace. He sheds the clothes that same clothes that he was locked up in and considers burning them, but decides that the Canadian wildfires have already brought enough air quality problems without Izaak setting another thing on fire. He looks in the mirror at his naked body, and he’s struck by how different he appears than the Izaak he remembers. He’s leaner around the waist, meaner behind the eyes – the result of days filled with not much beyond exercising and brooding. His gaze darts to his hands, to the deep scar still remaining on his left palm from where Lee Malkovich had stabbed him two years ago. He pauses at the thought, and he starts to wonder if maybe it’s not too late to turn in tonight yet after all.

And so he finds himself in Brooklyn. He changed into a new outfit (an entirely orange streetwear look, a play on the orange jumpsuit he was still wearing twenty-four hours prior) and snuck back out of the house, feet leading him to the MTA before he could quite stop himself. He takes the elevator to the top floor of Lee’s building, realizing suddenly that he’s never been here before. Somehow it’s always Lee breaking into his home and never the other way around.

When he gets to Lee’s door, it’s quite plain. Izaak almost expected it to be black and haunted with spiders, like something out of the Addams Family, or deep red and splattered with blood. But the door is just a door, not a terror; maybe, at some point, Lee was also just a man, not a monster. Three solid knocks, then Izaak steps back and waits. “Hey, killer,” he says when the door swings open. “You ordered an enemy of the state, right? Extra sauce, hold the pickles?”

[izaakwclker]

location: release and departure @ rikers jail complex for: @designedonchaos

There are things that nobody told Izaak about getting released from prison. For example: before he can officially be let go, before he can be ingratiated into a society he hopes hasn’t forgotten him, before he can put this nightmare behind him, Izaak has to sit in a golf cart. The last time he sat in a golf cart he was sixteen, maybe seventeen, and he was next to the elder Walker, father and son pretending to be as white as the men surrounding them. Now, he sits in this golf cart because it’s the only vehicle that transports prisoners from Rikers to the Release & Departure area, and needless to say, Izaak feels entirely different than he did as a teenager.

Questions are asked. Paperwork is filed. Izaak complies. Things pass by in a blur, the kind of moments that feel like memories even as you live through them. And then there’s – well, there’s Mars, reliable as ever, waiting to pick him up and carry him out of Hell, Izaak’s own makeshift Orpheus. “Hey, it’s good to see you,” Izaak says, embracing Mars quickly. Mars visited him while he was behind bars, of course – every Brotherhood member that meant something to him did – though it’s so different to see him like this. “Got any room for a fugitive in that car of yours? If we leave now we can probably hit the border by midday tomorrow.”

[hollysdekker]

[tygaryen]

[izaakwalker]

tygaryen​:

#okay…. that sounds fake but okay…