Chapter Text
Gearless doesn't know how much longer they can keep this up, this cycle they brought themselves into. Day after day of doing the bare minimum, day after day of breaking down and remembering what they had done.
It's raining right now. It's raining hard. Null likes the heavy rain, they find it comforting. They especially love it when they hear the rain tussled by the wind like a parent ruffling their child's hair. They wished someone had done that to them. Wished they had a parent, some link to their past. They didn't even know where they were from, no faction to their non-existent name.
They've been keeping this up for too long. It had been months since the incident. Any normal demon should have been able to bounce back from something like this. They were species made for violence and war, so why was this plaguing them?
They stare down at their claws, flexing them in and out, in and out. They wonder know how they feel raked against skin. Their skin. The Itchy feeling along their neck. It never went away no matter how hard they tried. It felt like maggots writhing underneath their skin. The maggots that were probably eating his corpse.
Nameless isn't a murderer. They knew the risks, and so did their opponent. They both knew that there were odds that it could go wrong, oh so horribly wrong. They could have stopped it at any time. But they didn't. Neither of them did.
The second their claws grazed their neck and drew blood, warm jewel-blue blood, they wanted to never do it again. But they did. Over and over and over again. That blood coated their pillows, their mattress, their floors, coated their hands. It felt like everything they touched was stained jewel-blue. That everything had a layer of sticky gore.
It was still in their head and they never knew if it was going to leave-
"And our next Phight is between–come on, scream your lungs out–Butcher Knife and Crossbow!" A bombastic voice ran out into the midnight-cloaked alleyway. It was far from dark, with lights on in windows and small spotlights that someone had brought. Multiple people in the crowd were decked out in glowsticks. A show was about to be put on and nobody wanted to miss it.
Nameless had done what they did best: Pretend. New face, new gear, they made rent in illegal street Phights. They could transform into other Demons, and even make up faces, but by the Gods they were careful. One slip-up and they couldn't use a carefully crafted facade. They'd never messed up before, and Butcher Knife was one of their favorites. It took so long to get his diagrams perfect.
Across the alleyway stood Crossbow, inserting an arrow. He was quick with it, but not as fast as he could have been. He was clearly still new to the sport. With a small chuckle, Butcher Knife also noted that he was quite short. He wore a black cloak painted with curling orange ribbons all around, and basic clothes underneath. His horns were orange as well, akin to an ibex in shape.
"Get your bets in!" The announcer, Bullhorn, was a great friend to Butcher Knife. He joked about her being a raccoon on multiple occasions, given her tail looking like one, the markings around her eyes, and her horns akin to ears. It wasn’t like her personality deferred far from one either. He knew how much she wanted to make it to the big leagues, and he'd been considering telling her about his...Abilities. The day he planned on was next week. Next week he'd tell her.
'Y'all ready?" Bullhorn shouts, to which the crowd roars. Butcher had been working up the ranks, this was the largest turnout he'd ever had, at least a hundred demons. It was also his first fight of the evening, but there were at least 6 more. He just hoped he wouldn’t get too tired to continue.
"3..."
Crossbow carries his namesake proudly, flashing Butcher Knife a devious grin. He seemed nice. Maybe afterwards, Butcher would try and befriend him. The way his eyes flickered around the alleyway made it clear that he was going to try to get a height leverage. Butcher couldn't hit him, but he could hit Butcher.
Good thing Butcher had one hell of a jump. He was proud of how it caught people off guard.
"2..."
Butcher brandishes his knife, making a show of the sharp blade bouncing light around. It always got a few ahs and oos from the crowd. He considered aiming the light in Crossbow's eyes, but it would be a low-brow move. He'll give him a chance.
"1..."
The both of them stand at the ready, and the crowd holds their breath.
"PHIGHT!"
Butcher runs to close distance as Crossbow jumps up and grabs hold of some pipes, pulling himself onto a fire escape. He shoots an arrow at Butcher, hitting him in the shoulder. It hurts, but he knows he'll be healed once this is over. He grabs the shaft and pulls it out of his skin, gray blood running down his arm.
He swaps his knife to his other hand, fighting with the other didn’t seem like a good idea.
"And that is first blood! Looks like Crossbow has the high ground! Can Butcher Knife turn this around?" Bullhorn knew what was going to happen next, but that didn’t mean she was going to tell the crowd.
Butcher Knife adjusts his footing and jumps. He revels in the slight fear in Crossbow's eyes as he lands with shuttering metal. He swings his knife as his opponent raises his arms, stepping back. When the knife comes down, there’s a gash in through his black robes. That gash goes deep, cutting into his arms. His blood is electric orange.
“Would you look at that! Things are getting heated!”
Butcher girns down at Crossbow, fully aware of how it made him look like a lunatic. The thrill of blood, something instinctual. Crossbow punches him square in the jaw, Butcher not being ready to block it. Using the moment to his advantage, Crossbow makes a low kick at his stomach. Butcher kneels over, the force almost making him vomit.
Crossbow vaults over the railing, leaving Butcher Knife alone in the fire escape.
“Oooo, a nasty cut, and a low-hitting getaway! It’s not clear who's winning, This could go either way!” Bullhorn is ecstatic, and the excitement carries to the crowd, who are roaring with enrapturement.
Crossbow is back on the street, not his home territory. He tries to jump onto a window's balcony, but can’t put weight on his arm to pull himself up.
Butcher growls while getting down from the fire escape. His stomach hurts like a bitch and he’s pissed. Crossbow gives up on getting to the high ground, and shoots another arrow at Butcher, which hits him in the leg. He doesn’t bother to pull it out this time. He refuses to lose this.
In a blur of motion, Butcher finds himself being pushed to the road, his openment having taken the opportunity to try and end the battle in his favor. The sharp tip of an arrow is pointed under his chin. Roughly, given the spot of blood he can feel.
“Do you relent?”
“Hell no.” Butcher watches Crossbow’s eyes widen as he kicks his legs out from under him, falling onto the gravel as Butcher stands up unsteadily. Butcher prepares to give Crossbow another blow, only for his openment to knee him in the stomach again . “Gods dammit!” He shouts Involuntarily, grimacing and clutching his stomach. It was probably going to be bruised tomorrow morning.
Crossbow scurries up, then runs back, nocking in an arrow. Butcher is done with this fight. Kicked in the stomach twice, how shameful.
Butcher launches himself at Crossbow, at the perfect angle to hit him with his knife handle and be done with it.
A moment too late, Crossbow feints to the left. It puts him at the worst possible angle. Butcher Knife doesn't have time to adjust.
The handle is not what hits Crossbow. It's the blade. Unnaturally sharp and hyper-effective, it doesn't just nick him in the neck.
It decapitates him.
His head falls on the alleyway gravel with a thunk.
Butcher drops his knife.
The crowd is silent.
The only noise is Bullhorn's buzzing feedback.
"I...I didn't mean to..." His voice is barely audible but sounds like shouting in the quiet alleyway.
Bullhorn's voice crackles to life."Okay, uh, these things happen! Let's stay calm-"
Butcher Knife
no, a Nameless
thing
takes its eyes away from the mass of bleeding flesh that used to be a demon and
runs
.
It runs and doesn't look back.
Gearless shifts back into reality, claws at their neck and warmth tickling down, staining their shirt. They lurch their hands away, sickness pooling in their stomach. Their hands are soaked, thin layers of fur damp. Tears run down their cheeks. It was a miracle that nothing had gotten infected yet, they hadn't even bandaged the wounds, just letting them bleed until they clotted.
They stand up from leaning against their bed's beadboard, padded feet making no sound on the hardwood of their apartment. The only noise is the buzzing of their cheap lights, the sound of a water pump–probably one of their neighbors taking a shower–and the patterning of hard rain with an occasional strike of thunder.
Opening the creaking door and flicking on the lights, they get on their knees to rummage in the cabinet under the sink. After a bit, their hand comes out holding gauze. They set it on the sink counter and go back in for tape. Then cotton balls. Lastly, isopropyl alcohol.
All of them have a thin layer of dust.
The angle of their neck changes how the blood falls, and it patters on the floor, not unlike rain. They know they won't clean it up.
They shakely stand. They look in the mirror for the first time in weeks.
It's their face. Not the face of one of their fake identities, not the face of another demon, it is theirs—the one they were born with.
God's, they looked awful.
Eyes bloodshot, dry tears coating their cheeks. Their three sets of horns hadn't been properly cared for in way too long. Their eyes water as they remember how prideful they were for their horns. The top set was long, curving Inwards then out in the tip. The second pair was below them, smaller, following upwards almost like an outline for the first. The third was lower and around their jawline, reminding them of mandibles. All of them had spikes branching off. They were a wild and untrimmed wreck.
Currently, they were flaking. Small chunks had already come out. They saw a small trickle of jewel-blue blood clashing with the iridescent green keratin. They were developing horn rot and didn't even notice.
Rain poured outside, and tears poured out of their eyes.
"How did I let this get so bad?" They sobbed between hiccups. They put their head in their hands, not wanting to see themself in the mirror–Not wanting to see the face of someone that wasn’t real, for how could they be when this face never saw the light of day?
It took them a few minutes to get recuperated, but even then their hands shook as they doused a cotton ball in isopropyl alcohol and hesitantly brought it to their neck.
Null practically screeched as it touched their open wounds. It felt like fire searing through their blood. Their other hand was clenched around the sink’s rim, knuckles white and claws digging into the porcelain.
They were definitely not getting their deposit back.
They grit their teeth and try again, hissing and lashing their tail back and forth. They're grateful they don’t have a longer tail and instead the stinger of a wasp. It's excruciating, and takes far, far longer than they would ever prefer. Halfway through, they consider being done with the whole thing–Throwing all their supplies in the trash and rotting on their bed.
They don't know how long they could force themselves to exist if they kept that up.
They don't want to get to that point.
So they continue burning their flesh and their blood with a disinfectant.
After that, they grab the gauze and begin wrapping it around their neck, tight enough to work but loose enough to breathe. They pass it from hand to hand as it coils around their neck like a snake. After going over their neck thrice-fold, they take a claw and cut it off from the roll, holding the severed part in their mouth as they set the gauze down and pick up the tape. They tear off a piece and secure the bandages in place.
Once done, they stare at themself in the mirror.
They hate the face they see.
But maybe it’s the face they need to live with.