L O C K E

Lokman Katirci | Hell Hound  

[lockekatirci]

u-jin​:

when:november 13, 2180; chaos swarms onward. where: a back alleyway with little light – perhaps a man finds himself there on purpose. who: @lockekatirci​

Welcome to Wonderland – the other end of the rabbit hole, fallen so far underground that there is no longer any visible light when looking up, neck craned and eyes squinted; the stars do not come here, they don’t shine over this cursed land. There stands the Mad Hatter, more darkness than man, more blood than organs, gorged on nightmare fuel and open veins. He walks the streets searching and devouring, fingers running harshly over exposed brick and cement as he seeps through the city like a dense oil, fingernails cracking and bleeding, slamming metal and tensed triggers. Nothing feels better than the hunting, than the searching, the sadomasochistic process of self destruction and ruination – first he descends, splitting open in the process, then he swallows the enemy whole; skin, bones, and all. 

He finds excitement, indulgence, in the horror vibrating throughout the city, the sound of teeth scraping the ground and clattering elbows and knees, the sounds of fear and no sign of reprieve. The world is rung dark and loud, the crying echoes of both the sirens and the citizens, Ujin’s teeth sunk tightly into the taste of blood and chaos. He doesn’t find that he’s particularly worried about the Night Monster, fear not a sensation he experiences anymore but instead only the thrill of thickened veins and headrushes; exhilaration. 

Then, of course, he sees him. 

He sees him because he always does when he’s off alone, when he finds himself scouring these parts of the streets – his own personal ghost, his stalker. The air around them always seems to shift and move as if it can’t get far enough away, and the darkness hugs close, devours the two men as if starving, as if they stand to be the only meal in all the city, even with lights blown out, shadows searing hot across the entirety of the pavement beneath their feet. 

Ujin’s eyes don’t need to adjust to see him anymore, he can always spot him at a first glance as if adapted to him, as if his gaze sought him out everywhere, always searching – a horrible thought, one he would spit out like poison, one he drowned with his favorite thoughts of what it will feel like when he finally digs his blade into the other man’s skin, when he carves out letters and numbers and fractions of his being. 

It’s a feeling only akin to hatred, to anger, that boils deeply into his chest, leaves molten lava and burn scars in it’s path. He wants to kill him so badly, wants to be the one to shred the man to pieces, to tear limb from limb,

‘ So why, ‘ one must think, ‘ isn’t he dead yet? ‘

‘ He dies on my terms. ‘ A response like a snapping of teeth, eyes caught narrow, tongue red and bleeding in his mouth, fingernails digging crescents into the palms of his hands, lips draw back as if a growl, ‘ He dies when I say so. ‘

“ It’s not you I’m looking for, is it? “ He says, eyes trailing darkly over the shadowed figure. His tone rings conversational, almost a sigh, something mocking deeply buried, “ If it is I’ll have to cut you to pieces sooner than planned. “ He sounds disappointed, but perhaps not for the right reasons. His voice is deep and honeyed, thoughtful, his eyes hooded and narrowed, trailing down his counterpart before meeting back at his face. 

“ You’d think you’d be better at hide and seek than this. Haven’t you heard? “ It’s sarcastic, almost playful, a complete turn around in his tone of voice, his smile like that of a shark, elongated and terrible in the dim light, teeth almost glowing in it, gloating and broken with a noise like a rasp, almost a laugh, “ We have a monster on the loose. “

-

It isn’t a sixth sense that armies Katirci into the covers of darkness – that’s an impossibility too certain that cannot even be humoured as an idea; the shadows are his as much as they are intangible to the rest of Ilbern. He wouldn’t be forced into anything that isn’t entirely on his terms, but there’s a tingling on his arms like a ghost is teasing him, hairs stand on edge, the faintest of goosebumps prickle to surface on marred skin; an unwavering clawing that refuses to lessen with every wisp of a glitch whenever he transfers into a neighbouring obscurity. It’s constant, too realised and Locke’s fuelled by the hunt, swallows the peculiar sensation that he’s close, he must be. A monster chasing a monster under orders. A thrill he craves. The one circumstance where being known but unseen works in his favour. There’s a thought that sits prominent at the front of his mind, the kind that often leads to mistakes; the idea that he wants the monster once found to stare him in the eye – if it, had such things, and figure if the form was like him and wore a personable mask.

A wonderment that creates a myth about creatures; a tale of fear hard driven in by the emperor about how monsters loose are the beginning of the end; the absolute condemnation and decimation of Ilbern. A misconception of capabilities that are created from the natural terror of the unknown. What nobody can possibility understand. Therefore, it must be destroyed; a foolish act to antagonise the same creatures they cower from. But there’s something else unseen in the dark, the only visible tell of its presence the way a tall length of a shadow is cast on the concrete; caught in his peripheries. Locke shouldn’t know, it’s implausible of a gift to simply just know what it is but he should be more adept than most to how easy it is to become a ghost; a watcher with beady eyes and a hunger sparking to the surface of them.

Slowly, Locke’s head turns, sideways, as though tipping his ear in the suspicious direction, can’t quite see the figure he knows is there, yet finds the smile appearing on his face with a glow off-white teeth. It’s him. The thing that’s in the same dark he is; two beings crossing paths, entirely separate worlds colliding to reap lives in tandem, watch flesh peel off bones, hacked away by something sharp – gnawed on to pry tendons apart and leave a spray a message on a way. It’s as though all thoughts of the chase cease, something better in his sights, another kind of recognition able to be earned. He’d yank his teeth before he’d ever bite his tongue, he’d slice his gums, get struck by lightning twice at once before Lokman would ever miss the opportunity to do the same to him. It’s more just intrigue, a duality of souls – if monsters, again, had such things, clashing hard against one another. Katirci feels that, quiet where shallow breaths keep him unseen, but he wants to be now, the man who’s got such venom in his tongue and a way about him that he wants recognition for the shared ability in knifeplay.

He always does; always wants the man to notice him. And there he stands, interrupts Locke mid hunt for another kind – doesn’t cross his mind until later that the other could be the creature on the loose. The prey of the Emperor and how complicated it suddenly becomes if he’s to recover the other. Doesn’t yet know his name, just that he draws Lokman in. Captured him without even touching.

But he wants to do that too. Even if it’s just to split flesh.

Locke doesn’t answer immediately, can see the way the man’s mouth form words, that the pauses aren’t the end; the taunts that Katirci wants to match are almost enticing enough that if he got closer, he might appreciate them more. Delusions.

“If it were, you’d never find me,” a truth to anyone except the one in front of him, because Locke would want to be found; to be seen by the other, just because it’s him. It’s unexplainable, the attraction that he wants validation from a person he only sees in the more twisted of circumstance, stays ignorant to the crimes they both witness. A silent understanding. The drawl in the message; haven’t you heard? As if the sirens were quiet and the obliviousness to a creature running ravenous isn’t Ilberns fear in play.

The smile, mirrored; deadly and finally, as though Lokman’s set his sights on something else, he draws his entire attention back. A tease unmatched; a ploy that’s as genuine as the wicked glint in Katirci’s eyes; an answer wanted for where they stand:

“But, prowler, you did find one,” calm. “What’s your plans for such a monster?”

Because cutting them to pieces as you say; we know that’s far too easy.

[lockekatirci]

griftercricket​:

lockekatirci​:

It is with gritted teeth that Kaz makes her way down to Butcher Street. In a way, it’s a blessing. The Gutters are free from Sentinels, the Empire’s attention turned to the carnage occurring above ground. Nobody cares about the scum of the earth. If anything happened down here, nobody was coming to save them. Still, getting off of the streets to the safety of the sewer wasn’t a bad plan, as far as plans go. She tried to push aside the fact that she would returning to the centre of danger soon. That was a problem for later on.

Whilst the streets above were empty of civilians, it was a different story in the gutters. Life continued as it always did. The people who lived their, the scrawny, hollow-eyed husks of people, continued much as they always did. Kaz wondered if they were indifferent to the threat, knowing that there was a sort of protection that came from living in the bowels of the city, or if they simply didn’t care what happened to them. If she was like them, poor and desperate and with nothing to lose, perhaps she would feel the same.

Locke is one of those people, Kaz thinks. She doesn’t know him well, but she knows people. She sees the hunger in his eyes and recognises what it means. She has made a living preying on those with little to lose. Kaz herself is the opposite. She has too much to lose, things that she will only let go of when they are pried from her cold, dead clutches.

That prospect is more likely than Kaz would like to admit, given the task that has been assigned. The orders may have stated that she was, for all intents and purposes, on babysitting duties, but only a fool would miss what lay below the surface of it all. The Madhouse Renegades didn’t trust her. They expected her to flee, and to her shame, she had almost proved them right. He was keeping an eye on her as much as she was him. There was a stroke of brilliance in tying together two loose canons, she supposed. Stabilize the ship, or the pair of them would be flung overboard.  

Locke was waiting for her in Butcher Street, his presence menacing in the shadowed light. The picture of a rebel, a renegade. Not like Kaz. Never like Kaz. She darted to his side on light feet, making her presence known by tapping his shoulder. She doubted he was any more pleased by this development than she was. More willing to join the fray, perhaps. Self-preservation was what drove Kaz forward, but Locke was a wildcard, the joker in the deck. Would he be the key to her preservation, or would he drive her off the cliff into destruction? Kaz didn’t know, and the thought of it was enough to make her palms sweat. She needs to be quick and clever, that much she knows. She’s lucky, that much is a given, and by her side, he will be lucky, too, but will that be enough? Kaz is a risk taker, but there’s no room for risk right now.

For all her threating, he seems less than bothered, almost casual as he reaches fir the box in his pocket. She pursed her lips. Kaz won’t begrudge him his vices. Dark eyes flicker to his butchered hands, and the lips that had pressed tightly together twist into a smug grin. “Lose a fight with a pair of scissors?” Her words are innocent enough, as is the tone in which she speaks them, but underneath, it is clear. Kaz is laughing at him, poking at his temper to see how far she can push him. It’s the game of a woman who has never truly known what it is to lose, the first jab of a sparring match, an attempt to put things on her level. This is where she thrives, after all, clutching at a game in which she understands the rules.

Kaz raised her eyebrow. She came on foot, doesn’t have transport of her own, but the way he said it, the way he told her without asking, almost makes her want to argue back. Instead, she sighs, clasping her hands together and stretching her arms in front of her in a show of nonchalance. “Makes sense. Not sure we’re gonna be able to hail a cab, right?” And then, without knowing it, Locke’s stumbled across the magic words. Reminding Kaz of who she is, what she can do, and a switch is flipped. She didn’t quite reach the levels of her usual swagger, but an air of cockiness is back. She is Lady Luck, after all. What bad can truly happen to them with fate on their side? “We don’t have to worry about anything.”

Kaz began to walk. She didn’t wait to see if he was joining her, didn’t look back to check he was on her tail, simply taking for granted that he would. “Apart from the sentinels,” she reminded him. She had managed to avoid them thus far. Every time she came close, they miraculously changed direction choosing another street to stalk. “You sure this bike of yours isn’t going to draw too much attention? Last thing we need is the Emperor deciding to make this a three-monster hunt.”

-

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.

[lockekatirci]

ghcstmcth​:

lockekatirci​:

Chaos was beautiful, it served as the companion to distraction. And distraction welcomed opportunities at its fullest potential. Naturally for a woman who once had it all, erasing elitist privilege was a challenge in itself. But what she wanted, she’d get. And thus, carpe diem - she’d seize the day. 

He was handsome. Against the carnage, crimson never looked so bloody beautiful. Where panic ran rampant, the woman carried herself with unusual composure and confidence. Decisive, her fingers gripped the shiny new toy, she’d take it for a spin - push it to its limits. Her practiced hands were quick to unlock the chains, a pocketed stolen key pressed against her palm as the familiar hum of the machine sang its tune. Perhaps if the motorcycle performed well, she’d spare its impending death. 

The sirens and alarms faded into the back of her head. Like hell she’d ever listen. Her plan of action was simple - get the fuck as far away from the freak creature as soon as possible. She had already lost enough, no way in hell was she interested in entertaining prison as her new residence. Helmet on, visor unsheathed, she was ready to skid through the streets as fast as possible. The thrill of the ride came with familiar reckless abandon, she was never known for her clean rides. No, she crushed in sport - willing to put her very own life on the line when it came to turbo speeding. Nothing felt more thrilling than the adrenaline of impending death. 

The tires of the motor zip through the streets, leaving a trail of dust behind it as it went. Her hands grasped the handles with control, as if she were taming a living beast itself - commanding it to move on her command. Her eyes narrowed as she weaved in and out of the city, going faster and faster. Sharp swerves were made as the machine shrieked with a familiar hum, she couldn’t resist smiling - if the bike could handle this; she’d make the tires scream even louder. 

Astrid hardly heeded her direction, absorbed in the sensation itself that the near contact in the road almost went entirely unnoticed. Not until her eyes caught the moving shadows that appeared in her vision. The bike skidded to a stop, it howled against the ground - forced against its will to be end its joy ride. Ah, it was him. A pang of regret hit her chest, she should’ve ran him over given that the chance had been presented. She got off the motor. “You’re one to talk,” she had nothing to fear from a fellow freak show. She threw the helmet to the ground. There was nothing to hide in front of her favorite fan, her lip curled as she feigned a smile. 

“I was on the brink of welcoming your impending death. Alas, seems like the stars misaligned, shame really,” evenly matched sarcasm as she kicked the bike, disappointed that it had failed to meet her expectations. She couldn’t help but scoff, “I was enjoying the view.” He ruined her fun.  

She eyed him, glowering as she wagged a finger as if she were scolding a child, “I don’t run, or would you like me to remind you again?” Her thoughts flashed to their first meeting, he had put up a fight but Astrid’s competitive streak knew no bounds. She was the Queen of speed and her huge ego would never back down on a race. There was no boundary for a wild woman like her. She wasn’t afraid to pay the price, she’d risk it all. 

-

Heavy boots scrape the ground; worn lacquer peeling from overwear crush chipped gravel of the roads underneath Locke when he twists on the pavement,  follow’s the woman’s movements like an animal on prey. A predator on guard, despite knowing the lack of threat. The crunch of stone is barely audible over the sirens; it’s almost background static now; an adjustment made.

A wire thread unravels from around muscles underneath scarred flesh; a living barbed wire that he tortures himself with if only to keep with himself a reminder of the war he came from; a fight through the metaphorical no man’s land that was once the sitting room, barrels through like he’s dodging enemy fires, comes in the form of something thrown from the kitchen – an eternal coil that he can’t even yank from within; it only tightens and loosens to keep him grounded. It never untangles from his skin in its entirety. The mark of a survivor. That predisposition kicks in when that mechanical contraption near takes him out.

Locke’s only in the shadows for a moment, an instinctual response to ensure survival; primitive almost. It’s already a new battle of words; wits that roll of snarky tongues like vipers on the offence. Katirci’s tongue snaps against teeth almost in the same moment Astrid’s helmet hits the floor. He’s smiling again, even through the narrowing vision that moves a fraction to keep watchful eyes on the speed demon. There’s an interest piqued whenever Lokman meets her; so bitter is the woman who fell from grace; chases the life of old, the kind of one Locke intends to create himself. A world who knows who he is; even beyond the darkest of shadows. Just as they know Astrid – even as she is now. He finds something there that touches him deep, cannot comprehend it enough to act on it but remains lucid to its appearance.

“The stars much prefer me to you, Ast, they favour the greater ones,” not a far of notion, given her plummet and how Locke considers his continuous rise through the ranks of infamy in the ever growing underworld of Ilbern. Deluded, who? “You mean the music isn’t your thing? It’s practically a celebration,” for what, you ask? Another warped and perverse fête for a man hellbent on playing hunter to the monster free.

Whilst the sirens continue to deafen the residents, he enjoys the distraction it offers on the senses. Less complications for those who want to pry on intention when he goes in for the hunt. Astrid bailing in the other direction earns his laugh when a defence comes spilling from lips; an appeal in how they move in some kind of tandem under the sounds of blaring. He doesn’t quite find the truth in them; a belief, perhaps, but he’s aware from their former encounter that she’s wiley.

“You’re not running? Just following the crowd like a sheep then?” he tips his head towards the last of the stragglers fleeing the square, bodies trampling over one another to escape to any vacant building. There’s a calmness between them that counters the chaos in the distance, two entities either side of a motorcycle that abuse it as a barrier of sorts. Locke’s not short of shadows, sees them in every direction; an affinity for where they spread, though is well aware that her attention on him; her rancour for his existence is a rivalry of faculties. He understands that, but doesn’t want to waste time conversing when a monster that can greater his name runs fecund in the streets. “But you never answered my question,” he reminds her, steps towards her as though he’s ever going to be able to carry the imposing presence to Astrid of all people; an intimidation tactic lost on her blind confidence.

Lokman’s eyes divert momentarily to the bike, faster than on foot, a fact that isn’t questionable – even if he utilised the shadows,  he can’t be seen that way. A wryness comes about his grin; an ignorance to the helmet that’s left on the ground when he closes the distance between the two beings. “Keep running why don’t you?” he taunts, cracks a finger as though preparing to wrap calloused hands around handlebars. Katirci knows how to ruse and spark a response; yearns for it if only to be remembered by such stories in the mouths of many: “Didn’t realise you were so afraid of monsters Astrid,” the underlying meaning, evident, “in which case, i’ll put your bike to good use,”

[lockekatirci]

LUCK OF THE DRAW.

Location: Butcher’s Street, outside MHR HQ. Time/Date: 13th November 2180. Orders given from MHR & SR.  Closed for: @griftercricket​

Redemption; a concept that’s thrown around in the mouths of the ones convinced petty crimes are such atrocious acts that secure a death sentence; a stolen soju or two as though it’s going to traumatise children before they go to sleep. Put in the same bracket as those who hold icy blades to the throats of the same youths and cut cavernous holes; leave finalising marks that stain the same hands enacting that kind of crime. Redemption becomes such a lie that it seems foolish to ever mention it; to whisper of such promises becomes an insult to those who house regret, sorrow for their mistakes as though they didn’t themselves choose to unsheathe a knife and watch light vanish at the pointed end of something so sharp, it’s final. Redemption’s a manifestation to make those with guilt cheat their way into alleviating it.

Lokman laughs – spits even in the face of the idea and then wonders why he’s the one assigned a supervisor in Kaz when orders a acknowledged and the hunt begins. Concealed is the true opinion of: Nothing goes wrong when Kaz is around, works in your favour. Encourages the chase to come quick – to not be dragged out where Locke can bring it home and earn impressed eyes for being the esteemed hunter among the Renegades. Kaz is the key, really. Though, the prominence of the orders, alive being a particularly notable part of the given command. It’s also the toughest part of it; alive means the likelihood is unharmed. Locke’s not entirely equipped to fit as most suitable for that job.

And then he glances at Kaz like he’s answered the question for himself. Right.

Butcher’s Street is alive with those dispersing, some running with frenzied eyes; covers the fear that easily shows in the sweat lining foreheads, a glisten that sparkles of streetlamps which cast moving shadows at a speed that makes Locke feel like he wants to make a game of the movements; to race the lucky Ace that’s at his side. She’s just as clever as you are, and she’s got luck on her side where you don’t. Katirci knows to pick his battles wisely and to start painting negatively on his name to SR because of a minor nuisance isn’t how a great legacy is to be left. He’s beyond redemption, he craves knowledge; to be known as the man without morals, a shadow in the night that’s worshipped and can bring the world to their knees with just being able to catch a glimpse of him; the hound that hears his name over the sounds of even the brassiest of sirens.

Locke’s boots scrape on the uneven gravel when he pivots to look at the woman at his side, he sucks on his teeth thoughtfully; attempts to strategise an approach that benefits the duo sent on the hunt. All he’s come up with in the two seconds of attempting is:

Fuck I need a cigarette. Rough hands find his jacket pocket, leather squeaks and a cardboard box finds scabbed fingers; obvious slits of a blade leave patches on overworked hands; matches the ones that line arms, chest, back – the rest. He almost expects a comment to come from Kaz’s lips; something snarky that gives him ammunition to fire back; jump into the provocation like he doesn’t have every kind of raging fire to leave burns on her in response.

A cigarette is then propped between pink lips, the corner ticks to form a smirk, eyes watchful on the woman where peripheries note the hasty bodies that vanish in the distance for shelter. The lighter isn’t fast found when he searches the first two empty ones, shreds of curled paper; tossed to the floor, unimportant until he finds another kind of metal he favours.

“We’re taking my bike,” he mutters around the stick, a sputter of failed sparks as he attempts for a few moments to ignite the smoke. It’s a simple fact he’s provided; it’s faster, I’m faster. The cherry lights red and the drag is welcomed, a therapy really, the closest Katirci will ever get. Cancels all desire in murderous fingers when busied with another kind of self murder. His lungs would argue. “Figure with you on board, don’t have to worry about speed, right? Find the monster, bring them here and try not to, y’know, break it,” not that accidents happen with you around, Kaz. A notion that Locke doesn’t quite realise it’s magnitude til he sees it in action; how an impossible feat is dodged; a non-fatal blow that should have been life ending; darkening.

“Streets will be empty anyways, those sirens could shut up at the very least. We get it; message, loud and fucking clear,”

Find the monster, alive, bring it back; how hard can that really be with a luck fuelled, monstrous shadow team? Locke knows he’s the latter of that Frankenstein; thrives there as anyone of his nature would. Katirci exhales, the smoke forms a similar shape as his grin; a tell of where his mind has gutter-balled and eyes flicker to the garage; doesn’t waste time in motioning towards it, wants to be the one known to find the creature and play. Fuck redemption when he can have this kind of fun.

[lockekatirci]

WHEN GHOSTS COLLIDE.

Location: Million’s Square, side street.  Time/Date: 13th November, 2180. Not long after orders received. Closed for: @ghcstmcth​

It’s a poor idea to shoulder the belief that Locke has anything melodic inside his head; something that negates the thirst for knowledge and the criminalistic creeds that place him in a particularly virulent of positions. A harmonious rhythm doesn’t find home there even above the scars of horrors that do take up residence in the crevasses of brain matter and skewed neurons. Sirens that reverberate from every street, building and sentinel assisted vehicle do penetrate through; the only kind of sound that earns a tip of Katirci’s head, cigarette between calloused fingers lowering as though the sound is a momentary inconvenience. An opportunity is more fitting a descriptor. It’s an easy order – at least in the sense of understanding; approached like a job, failure seen as weakness is any regard. But a game of chase to Lokman that appears to have potential to end in red. Last resort, only, Locke. The sliver of a loyal soldier to SR that reminds him that he can still find the fun in hide and seek. A grin that’s a little too wide splits the opening of his face to reveal tobacco stained teeth; an off-white, yellow tinged shade that deters most from approach; but never stops them looking.

He’ll pretend it bothers him; but craves their eyes whether it’s absent adoration, unimportant. Fear still means he has a legacy; a name.

A man with a memorable one; known to the underworld by notoriety; off-kilter and barbarian in some ways, though, hidden in the stealth and grace of shadows that provide a mystique that isn’t quite matched anywhere else. Well, perhaps by a couple – those who he hasn’t entirely pieces puzzle pieces together of, yet; the rest of the Renegades. Whilst the dials of Katirci’s mind crank, he’s discarding the smoke against a brick wall, pressed like a squished accordion, grey ash marks the bricks and he lets it fall; crumpled, used. The grey mist from his sly grin breaks through the cracks in teeth; the slow wispful escape of a beast inside, fighting for escape.

It’s released when he turns to see the panicking crowds that desperately search for a haven of their own. Dispersed like ants fleeing a boot that’s come down on them, crushes hope and reminds them how breakable, squishable they are; how they run in fear when that sound screeches through the roads of Ilbern and evoke the cortisol response in all.

Orders are flexible, just as he expects the Madhouse to have spread fast through the lanes and alleys on the hunt for the monster let free. There’s an envy there somewhere, because the attention to be seen; Ilbern on guard from something without a name; a face, but is spoken in the mouths of all. Once more Locke, alive. He knows; doesn’t ever forget.

He steps into the road, boots hit concrete and a hand naturally reaches for the rear of cargos, the cold of a blade a comfort, curved fingers tease to slide and split flesh; like a fuel he doesn’t admit to anyone. A reason to begin the pursuit of the monster that’s leaving carnage in its wake; admirable, if only to Locke himself, a quiet approval.

It’s the sirens that confuse senses, takeover one of the five and deafen even the most perceptive of entities. Leave the other four on overdrive to somehow pre-empt the world around them. A ripping of tyres; a overpowering scent of burning rubber slaps those in the streets with a nauseating aroma – unless they’re accustomed to the more foul of things, it’s probably quite pleasant. But, Locke’s only just catching it over the blaring that rips through the town on the beginning of his hunt, and as though the only response if to become the ghost, the mechanical structure that barrels at speed carries a shadow on its left side like a monster it cannot detatch. He moves, flickers like a glitch in the matrix to stumble to the rear of the motorcycle; misses being taken out by the metal bike hurtling at him.

“Fuck,” quiet, unasked for through gritted teeth when he whips around, same dangerous fingers wrapped around the hilt behind him. It’s another second for another sense of sight to fully kick in, recognises the person skidding like a racer in the heat of finishing as champion of a street – ah, Locke knows. The visor of the pristine helmet worn is open, the glint of the woman’s eyes unforgettable and the tension once coiled in stiff muscles ease, breathes a laugh like it’s the most amusing of situations.

“Speed racer not only fallen from her podium, but has found pleasure in running rampant in the streets to take lives of innocent civilians now, I’m kind of envious,” the jibe is said lighter than it’s implications and Lokman’s met the glorious Astrid; found comfort in the ghost that’s his soul partner in playing in the acts of shadows, but hers, light where his is shrouds.

But there wouldn’t be any shadows if there were no sun to cast them.

“Where you running off to, Astrid,” a tease, tongue sliding along drying lips where cigarette smoke sticks like a slick layer of tar, “it’s not because you’ve seen a monster around, is it?”

[velvetkisses28]

Under the heavy downpour of the night, our swords clash.

Petrichor and metal striking; holy heavens!

I hold it tight, lie to you with my eyes and like that loud flash of lightning I make the move and let the blade slide under your chin and let it linger there.

Anticipation and apprehension electrifies the nerves making the chapped lips quiver as they asunder and you let out a warm sigh.

I lift up your chin and look into your eyes, your soul, my soul, truth and lies.

Quick yet hesitant, I pull the sword to strike it back. I swear I heard a gasp.

It rained and rained and rained in deep red and darkest hues. And so now ... I should get up and walk away for your blood was warm but the night, too cold.

[u-jin]

IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci  situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

Keep reading

[nightmonstersrpg]

NAME : Lokman “Locke” Katirci

AGE : 28

PRONOUNS : He/Him

LOYALTY : Madhouse Renegade

FC : Alperen Duymaz

ROLE & MARK : Hell Hound

✗ SNAPSHOT ┅

The Hellhound was born deprived of acknowledgement and recognition, thus beginning the obsession with attention in the darkest corners of the world. It wasn’t long before he walked the crooked criminal road, rising in notoriety for a number of illegal acts. He basked in the growth of his reputation. And as if by a stroke of luck, the burgeoning powers he acquired only gave further rise to his prominence. His powers allowed him to use dark shadows to transport himself or other materials from one shadow to another, an ability ironically filled with stealth rather than pizzazz.

✗ BIOGRAPHY┅

TW: abuse, alcoholism, violence

You were cast aside the moment you were born. In a family of eight, you were the youngest of the brood. Your father paid no heed to you unless you misspoke, his rage fueled by liquor and pompous laze. His callous hands acted as a whip, marring the flesh of those who dared stand out of place. And so you learned early. Your dark eyes watched, daring to only peek between the small fragments of space between your bangs. Your head bowed and your tongue chewed, you gnawed on until you tasted the liquid oozing from your own flesh. A clever quiet child that should’ve been cherished, and yet you were ignored and forgotten. Even your mother watched in silence, her own hands wrapped in bandages as she looked elsewhere - her gaze passed through you as if nothing ever occurred. The sounds that echoed from the place you called home were dismissed as howls by the frigid wind. 

You were a mute witness in the house of terror. Lies upon lies you spun, convincing yourself that all would be gone on a miraculous day awaiting to come. Success was close in your grasps until one evening when your father decidedly drank too much, ate too little, and arrogantly picked a fight with the youngest cub. The seconds that passed by felt like a death sentence for eternity. Your breath had hitched, the haggard breathing stirring, your eyes sharpened - hatred spilled forth. You felt the fragility of life for the first time that night. A monstrous thing stirred from within, a hoarse laughter distinctively fell from your curved lips. The liberation of the horror that transcended the room execrated the speed of your heart. They called your name and recognized you. For the first time in your pathetic life, your loneliness was quenched by your rebellion. 

In time, you were released from the place you once deemed hell. You made your peace with the dirt mound, spitting on the nameless grave where your dead man laid. Alone once more, you craved for solace in the faceless crowds. Yearned for the warmth of another’s embrace, embittered by the aimless wandering of your impermanent destinations. You loathed the havoc that sparked excitement through your veins, feared the sensation then. But it was time that changed your heart as you grew into your rugged skin. You believed bliss awaited you on your path of mayhem. But it was your obsessive craving for genuine affection that would begin your self destruction. 

✗ SOCIAL NETWORK┅

Demon Cat: You’d never forget the first sight you caught of him, his angelic features, his radiance and his confidence. You had thought an angel descended. But you knew all too well that scarlet stained his fingers. Yet despite all the chaos that follows him, you’re drawn like a bee to honey. None of it mattered. You earnestly believed that he was your path to atonement. Nothing deterred you from your obsession. Even his hatred you returned with arrogance and teasing humor. You fear none of his threats, instead welcoming it all with open arms. Your stare never faltered as you’d goad him. Each word sharpened and coaxing him one dare after another. Never in your life have you ever felt so seen. The pleasure unmatched, a love twisted so deeply that you’d give your life for it. 

Electric Wasp: They said family was blood and yet you shared none of that with him. Nevertheless your history was bound together. While he was your elder step brother, you hardly had much of a relationship. You two were as different as day and night. His joy was worn with innocent naïveté, something you had long envied. Where he was praised, you were treated as an invisible shadow. You could’ve easily hated him but you didn’t. Rather, you accepted his distance and somehow understood his choices. If it was easier to smile and live without pain, you would’ve chosen that option too. 

Ghost Moth: Everyone knew her name and her accomplishments. She had been hailed as an elite champion, beautiful, talented and wealthy. Yet ever since the ugly truth came spilling forth, it had irreversibly dented her reputation. You’ve seen the swift change in public opinion. You find yourself quietly wondering how heavy the world feels on her shoulders now that everything she once had was gone. You could imagine it. You knew the fleeting feeling of attention all too well. Perhaps she wasn’t all that different, ripping at the seams as you did, begrudgingly accepting loneliness. There was something tragically comforting in the sentiment itself. 

✗ HELL HOUND IS PLAYED BY NOVA┅

[krobelus]

[lockekatirci]

LOKMAN “LOCKE” KATIRCI

ROLE: Hell Hound CHARACTER’S NAME: Lokman “Locke” Katirci AGE: 28 GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cismale / Bisexual FACECLAIM: Alperen Duymaz

[trigger warning for: blood, mild gore description and continued implied abuse from skeleton]

HEADCANONS: 

·         A thumb drags away from serrated metal; a clean protrusion opens for crimson to ooze from the fleshy tear. Lokman’s hand rises to his lips, quick tongue laps up the spillage like he might miss a drop; wasteful. Iron against the roof of his mouth; harsh reminder of where he came from, what he once was compared to the man he is now. Taste of defeat; of weakness reminds him that hell was once his and where he once was a demon; a spawn, expendable. He’s instead the devil’s personal hound, risen through the ranks and where metallic honey sticks to the roof of his mouth, fuels him like an aphrodisiac. He will not forget; for that means he can forgive and Lokman will never lose sight of what the own blood on curved lips means. Not long apart from a blade, secured at the rear of cargo-like trousers and it’s shine dulled.

·         As all that have a twisted mind; deluded over time where lies to oneself become so believable that there’s no longer a line to cross. Blurred to ash and burnt away is morality, no niggle in the mind for pity upon prey. Katirci blends through crowded circles in Butcher’s Street as though he isn’t privy what’s beneath; perhaps he isn’t, truly? That his knowledge that it houses a second place that accepts the youngest child who frequents Million’s Square like the monster he is; fast fingers, scabbed to gain bare necessities; hired by benefactors to enact a perverse kind of justice. He redirects simmering rage into creativity; and his favourite colour’s sangria.

·         A mind that works overdrive requires amble distractions, previously negated, Lokman’s mind flourishes in collecting tendrils of knowledge; absorbs it like a sponge and drags somewhat desperate eyes across inky paper; reads every historical word on crinkled pages, throws them away when finished, never keeps them. Always remembers their contents and where trickery is his element; mastering the forever growing need for knowledge is as impossible to sate as his wits.

SAMPLE PARAGRAPH

Profligate fingers draw marks against delipidated brick, darkening mahogany stone stains murky streaks when thin layers of flesh peel off fingertips. Lokman’s skin absorbs a strange comfort in the shadows; embraces it like a friend who’s never able to part with him. Yet the familiarity tinged in brisk air remains so different in every bated breath exhaled; the prominent aroma of carcinogenic cigarettes lingers in the atmosphere; hooked in by constant regeneration of exposed tobacco. It’s haphazard in its method, following the scientific laws of diffusion and how it swarms to fill each empty crevasse; spreads white wings of mist to swallow bodies in its choking hold. The alleyway of shadows offers a home Locke’s never possessed; he couldn’t grasp it then, found resentment in mistreatment and on this intangible turnaround, the shades of night that light obscures remain as untouchable as ever.

But he doesn’t mind this time; tells himself that even though he wishes beneath the cold underbelly of his soul that he desires, it provides the skin trace that such physical needs require; that masochistic desire that sits in the hidden depths stays hungry, but only bloodied fingertips induce it to surface.

Accustomed to the cold of Ilbern, the paved streets beneath heavy boots are the only tell of Lokman’s presence when he treads through narrow alleyways. Natural to vanish in the darkness, assimilate in others, swift; presents a danger that brings notoriety to those that know of how it’s abused. Eyes of the monsters cannot look away, won’t blink – only then to miss the ghost in the darkness and along with that, other precious artefacts vanish. Appendages clean cut; a brutality that’s bubbled over and spills that alluring red on twisted streets, leave marks as permanent as inky tattoos on skin.

Like legacy – one that’s born of malicious and agonised hatred, it’s something to leave behind. The attention that Lokman craves for his work. Old scars smear rough skin, remind those wandering eyes of the world that jagged edges come with Katirci’s criminalistic ideologies. Necessity for fear; a survivor of more than just the outside world. The carvings that Lokman looks at; cares for that serve as stark reminders of how the inside world moulded him so far past the new one and that encourages those looking too deep about how such a man manages to forge a path of destruction in his wake.

Then they look at those scars, and they know.

Infamy comes in just as many forms as legacy; history and to him, the driving force of pursuit to the one thing not so easily bartered in even the underworld of Ilbern. Where such trivial hunts for yearning fulfilled comes an irrevocable knowing that it’s not bought like the falsified need some can front. There’s no buying being wanted and beneath the curved grins and silver-tongues jibes, he knows only a true tortured soul would pick up fragmented pieces of twisted morals. A rage that sits below the surface, constantly utilised to enact savage chaos and brutality where it had once been forbidden in a room of eight.

If he were in a new room now – another dozen sets of flesh and bone, he would exist to be the last man standing. Nobody had suspected him then, only scarred the silent ghost as it built walls of rebellion around its soul.

Still a ghost, only Katirci will not be cast aside and discarded. He will be known to all as the reaper; a name in the mouths of even the farthest and holiest of men. Lokman knows well the brittleness of existence and expects the look behind fearful hues when the criminal hands puncture bone and break ivory. He’ll whisper:

“To bleed is to feel,” in the ears of the unsuspecting, as though one would be like him and as virulent. From within shadows, insanity can be found; a mind so dangerously clever, Locke’s spent years learning how to quieten and watch through obscured visions. “Tell me what it’s like,” an order so lost in its meaning that it’s never answered before the light in eyes departs. Though, if it were to ever be countered, he’s not sure he’d recognise the words that leave trembling lips. Because with all those wits, the smarts and the learned information quickly acquired, he’s never been asking the right questions.

He traipses through narrow gaps in slick bodies; a definition of seen by many but not seen at all. Locke doesn’t see them either, lets only the slow trickle of the scratched fingertips be the tell amongst crowded places that there’s something more in the ghost that walks among them. Gone in one moment, appears elsewhere in the next; haunts and makes those ones adore him for such clever mastery of the persuasive arts.

Hidden in the depths of Millionaire’s, a rickety sign; neon and shameless is nailed into those mahogany bricks flags Locke’s destination, a place beyond petty theft; too aware of a residence to permit crimes like arson in its walls. All that dare venture, know what it is; and Lokman craves the looks they give him when he steps inside, wooden door slams against the rear wall when he heads inside; an entrance that isn’t shrouded. His heart is steady against ivory ribs and the thin layer of sweat that beads at his hairline is as slick at the smile he wears on wicked lips. Like a golden cape draped over his shoulders, he laps up every eye that turns his way, visualises how the place now is his in the new world; haunted to still compare to the one locked in a cage at the back of his mind.

But you’ll never forgive and forget, will you Locke? It’s the one side of his Cerberus head, coaxing the aide-mémoire into him.

Lokman orders a drink, figures well deserved when his opprobrium doubles as notoriety and the same dark eyes that shift around the room with a confidence unmatched is every telling tale of how everyone knows Katirci by name, understands what it represents. But none ask about the crimson that stain shredded fingers. The devil’s hound winks, like a bullet fired: “Have you ever thought of the consequences of a man who’s had to wait too long for his drink?”

[demctozdemir]

[lockekatirci]

demctozdemir​: