#fringestarter

[nicolas-haseley]

"I'm sorry, no. Not doing that."

[callmeferal]

"...The hell are you lookin' at?"

[nursewallace-blog]

"No, no, I didn't throw it at you, I swear. What? I didn't! Would you tell him I didn't?"

[hungryxyes-blog]

"-- get that thing out of my face."

[jason-lakha]

"The streets would look better in red." 

[maddoxmagnus-blog]

"What do you mean, no?"

[huntingalexia]

"I'd rather rip your hair from your scalp and eat it than do that."

[jason-lakha]

Brawl

[ It wasn't often that the gatherings were this lively. The energy was palpable, people shoving, jumping into the air to see their leader, and shushing others so that they might hear the fervor in her voice. People jostled about, the stench of their bodies hanging heavy in the air, and Jason watched. He watched from deep within the crowd, stiff and uncomfortable in the thickness of the throng and how its insistent movement denied him of his very ability to remain still, motionless, as he so yearned to be. Jason stared straight ahead and allowed his body be moved. Despite the overheating and overbearing noise that hurt his sensitive ears, a smirk still played on the edges of Jason's lips. His leader was just and good and Jason loved his leader. Her words transfixed him, and God knew he wanted to fight. 

With each cheer, the communal heartbeat quickened. Jason was just tall enough to catch relished glimpses of his leader through the many layers of Syndicate. Some were men, some were women, there were even children that stood in front of him. They punched the air when they cheered, and Jason found it painfully ostentatious- though he addressed the possibility that he could be incorrect. Often he was about this sort of thing. Jason had killed so many people and in every way imaginable. It was spiritual- a sacrifice, so many of the deaths. Of course, some were out of boredom and others in the spirit of releasing the floodgates of red that accumulated behind his eyes. Jason had killed so many people, and understood the basic mechanics, what made them act the way that they did, and yet he could never claim to understand how they thought.

A quiet sniffling almost went unnoticed. Jason's eyes dropped to the small Syndicate, no older than five. He had olive brown skin and dark eyes that shone with tears. Jason drooped and motioned the child towards him. A Syndicate should never cry. In Jason's home, crying meant harsher beatings. But- and Jason needed to remind himself this- The Syndicate and his old home were separate. When the boy walked into his arms, Jason grunted from the exertion of lifting him onto his shoulders. ] Where's your mother? Can you see her? [ Jason watched the boy point with a pudgy finger and carefully maneuvered through the crowd and towards his direction. He was raising his arms to lower the boy from his shoulders when he heard his name loud and clear.

Jason brought the boy down and let him walk towards his mother. She was a pretty thing, with striking grey eyes and rosy cheeks but of course Jason wouldn't notice that. The crowd split for him like he was vile, but he knew the truth. People down here respected him- because they were afraid or because he was worth respecting, Jason seldom didn't know. Regardless, he walked through the dirty aisle with a set jaw and lifted chin. The ring cleared for battle was uneven and alive with excitement. When Jason stepped into it, a roar washed over the crowd. He turned towards them and pulled his shirt over his head. Battles were so much more difficult when your opponent had cloth to grab hold of. For the sake of the children in the audience, his legs remained clothed. A few years back, he would have made the mistake, but Trix had taught him so much. Jason stretched, moaning at the feeling of weary muscles rippling under his scarred skin. He stood stoically, with his bushy haired head hanging When at last his rival made his way into the circle to join him, Jason's lips broke back into a manic grin. ] Don't be shy. You can punch me first if you'd like.