fluxscape | Closed - Everybody wants to get evil tonight

Entry tags:

alan wake - mister scratch

Closed - Everybody wants to get evil tonight

Who: Scratch and Zoey
Where: The Streets and Alleys of Haven
When: Late night, June 27th
What: Scratch is drunk and disconnected and looking for someone to blame.

CW: Aggression, stalking, drunkenness, violence, depersonalization. Will add as needed, Mister Scratch is a mess.

The last couple of days have sucked ASS.

Scratch is the envoy of the Darkness. He's the 'improved' Alan Wake, the harbinger, the urban legend. That's what he knows, what he has known for as long as he can recall. Generally speaking, that's all good with him. He enjoys what he is, enjoys what he does.

So getting cut off from the Darkness? It has him, against his will, wondering what that means for him exactly.

Everything feels a little brighter without that natural mantle of shadows, and it churns his stomach. Attempting to cut his losses, he opts to hole up in Pour Intentions for a while, knocking back enough that e won't remember what the problem is. He gets there, and as he walks in, he spots her. That little upstart. Sneering, he slips around a corner and into a secluded spot, out of her sight.

Wasn't she the one who asked him if he wanted to be his own person? His hands ball into fists on the table. Ordering a whole bottle of whiskey, he takes one shot, two, three. Brooding. Thinking it over. Forming...a plan.

He'd show her who he really is, all right.

At the end of the night, when Zoey leaves, he settles his check. Hours of shots in, he swaggers out the door and into the street, scanning the horizon until he sees where she's walking. If his powers are gone, so are hers. Good. He's careful as he follows her, biding his time, feeling the weight of his knife in his pocket.

Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.

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The smirk jabs him a little - ugh, so ANNOYING. His smile dims, almost looking more like a grimace by now. Oh, so she wants to do this the hard way, huh?

Good. More fun the hard way.

Immediately, he tears into a hard sprint, suit jacket billowing out around him like dark wings. Unlike Alan, Scratch is in shape - he's FAST, and he's ANGRY. He doesn't have his normal bag of tricks for this one. No handy shadow jumping, no poltergeists to cut off paths. Just wits.

He's got those for sure.

Gaining ground against his prey, bit by bit.

It’s a challenge, and despite the very real danger, the very real threat… Zoey can’t help but enjoy it a little. It’s been a long time since she’s had true need to use her cunning in any real way. And yes, he’s fast… but so is she. And she spent her time just after she’d arrived mapping the place out. Memorizing it.

So she uses that to her advantage as best she can, veering sharply off to her right and darting down a narrow dead-end alleyway, leaping up to catch the edge of the roof and pulling herself up. Either he’ll have to climb up after her or go around, and that might buy her a little time. Let her try and force him to lose some of the ground he’s gained. Make him work for the catching of her.

She cuts directly across the rooftop, silently apologizing to anyone who might be inside. Then she’ll just drop down to the ground and go from there.

Scratch is completely locked in on Zoey - when she darts to the side, he doesn't have to follow far before he notices her climbing up onto the roof. He could follow her, sure. Certainly not afraid of heights, and a more than fair climber.

But that's a waste of time, and he's already built up speed. Without breaking momentum, he darts around the building, hugging close to the outer wall so he's hard to see if she tries to look down from the roof.

Then with another sharp turn, he's skidding into view on the other side, kicking up a nasty cloud of sand as he goes.

Zoey dashes across the rooftop with lightning speed, dropping gracefully back down to the street below… right into the nasty cloud of sand Scratch kicks up. It’s thick, and gritty, and the combination is enough in the high-stress situation to throw her off. The alley she chooses isn’t the one she thinks it is, the one that leads through to another side street. To escape, or the potential for it.

No, the alley she’s chosen is one off from the one she intended, a dead end, and one that is no easy feat to climb her way out of. Fuck.

She turns sharply, facing her hunter head on. Always the challenge. Always the brazen. Even when she's cornered. (She’s pretty fucking glad she’s got knives hidden on her person, though. She’s thinking they might come in handy, right now.)

Edited 2021-07-01 08:02 (UTC)

The mad dash slows to a casual stroll as he rounds the corner into the dead-end alleyway - pulling his knife from his pocket and spreading his arms wide. That flimsy grin is still on his face, but it looks awful and wrong, a gnashing of teeth.

"...Ooh, tough luck, Upstart. Nowhere to run. A-and we've got some shit to talk about."

The slower amble makes his drunkenness more noticeable. Something in his expression and demeanor is coming across differently, less playful, more like an act.

Upstart? Really? That’s what he’s going with? She’s offended by his nicknaming choice. “Who says I want to run anymore, Sunshine?” Zoey retorts, all sass and charm and brazenness. “Maybe I’ve got you right where I want you.” And hey, she was right. He IS a knife guy. At least that means he has to get up close if he wants to hurt her. Gives her a fighting chance.

She watches him carefully. Warily, although that is hidden beneath the brazenness and challenge. The drunkenness helps her figure out a few things. Even without her… preternatural insight. There aren’t all that many places for him to go drink in Haven. And since he’s been following her. He must have been at Pour Intentions. Followed her as she got off work. Fuck. That creeps her out more than a little. He must have been there the entire time… and she’d had NO IDEA.

Blind. She’s fucking BLIND without her gift.

But there’s something in his expression, his demeanor that’s coming across… differently. An act, more than it’s playful. Hm. Interesting. She’s still not sure if she’s going to escape this without getting stabbed, but it’s interesting, nonetheless.

“What do you want to talk about?” Casually, as though he’s not got her cornered in an alleyway with a knife in his hand.

"Knock it the FUCK off. We both know you're full of SHIT."

Hey, he's having a hard time right now. Wit takes charm and he's been cut off at the source; he's grasping at straws, far away, a being of pure Darkness with no darkness and no meaning. The more he moves and talks, the more the impression is that of a confused animal...or a rabid one.

Slowly, slowly, he meanders closer, gesturing with the knife as he speaks. He's sweating profusely, and his slicked-back hair is starting to fall.

"You asked me, when we met, who I was. Huh? Who I wanted to be, really? Besides Alan? Well," he chuckles, completely without mirth, "here I am, and I wanna know - what do YOU see? Go on. You tell ME."

Oh fuck. Zoey is realising that she needs to tread INCREDIBLY CAREFULLY with him. Not that she’s entirely sure that’s possible. But she has to try, yeah? Sure, it seems like he might blame her for the whole loss of power thing, or that she’s a convenient scapegoat for it given that… whatever he’s LOST with his powers seems to have knocked him for one hell of a loop. And she feels for him. More than he knows.

She’d been so prepared for him to just… taunt her. Hunt her. Stab her. And to be mouthy at him in response. This was… he MUST be unsettled, to come at her like this. “Fine. You want to know what I see?” She asks him, voice surprisingly gentle. “I see someone who has lost something that is such an intrinsic part of himself that he doesn’t know what to do without it. How to BE without it. Where to start figuring out who the fuck he is without it.” She doesn’t need her powers to figure out how he’s feeling. Doesn’t need her powers to be understanding. To try and reach him.

Even if he’s planning on stabbing her. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s gotten hurt in situations like this.

Oh, HELL no. The gentle tone in her voice, the shift in the situation - it all reads as pity, cloying and suffocating and infuriating. The flimsy, fake smile entirely vanishes as if it were never there, and he suddenly lashes out to one side, kicking over a garbage bin with a thunderous clatter. Erratic. Vicious.

"You don't FUCKING GET IT!" A snarl, Alan's voice at the root but bearing so little resemblance in its fury. He's closing in, slowly but surely, the hand with no knife tensed as if into claws.

"There IS NO ONE ELSE FOR ME TO BE. Either I'm ALAN or I am-" He stops short of saying it. Nothing. Face contorting, he advances quicker, slowly backing Zoey further into the alley.

"And since you are SO INSISTENT than I am NOT ALAN...."

It’s not pity. It’s not pity at all. But Zoey’s not surprised when he reacts the way he does. Understanding can be hard to see, when it’s not something you’ve ever seen before. She doesn’t flinch when he lashes out, sending the garbage bin clattering over loudly. Viciously.

He’s closing in but she doesn’t retreat. Not yet. Despite the snarl.

She hears the word he doesn’t say, even without her powers. She doesn't need them. Not for this. Nothing. And she responds immediately. “There’s a third choice.” The words are spoken fiercely, sharply. “There’s ALWAYS a third choice.” He advances quicker and she does back up, now. She doesn’t have a choice. He’s backing her further into the alley and unless she confronts him… she’s letting him do it. She doesn’t even know why she’s doing this, why she’s arguing so fiercely for his own personhood when he has every intention of hurting her.

But she’s doing it anyway. “You’re NOT Alan. That’s true. But you’re not nothing, either. You’re so much more than nothing.”

"Not nothing? Oh? More than nothing? Huh? Like fucking WHAT? You're talking out your fucking ASS, you little PISS-ANT."

There are so many other beings that would respond well to this affirmation. Zoey is there, extending a hand, trying to argue that he matters. Certainly something that no one else has ever tried to do, a portion of his nature that had never been appealed to before. It would be touching, all this, if it were anyone but Mister Scratch.

But because it IS Mister Scratch, he does not, in fact, respond well to the affirmation. Instead, he darts forward, swiping outward and at Zoey with the knife. Uncontrolled. Blind rage.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP."

Zoey doesn’t expect him to take it well, doesn’t expect him to react well to it, no matter the hand she’s extending; he’s not the sort. Doesn’t mean she’ll stop trying, necessarily, just means she might have to hammer it the fuck home. Maybe literally. Doesn’t mean she’s going to be any less mouthy, either. “You’re just pissed that I get you. That I see YOU. Not Alan’s face. You. You HATE that, I bet.”

She’s expecting the attack, but she’s not expecting it quite… this much, this ferociously, and without her gift screaming warning at her she doesn’t get out of the way in time, the blade cutting hard across her side, white hot pain spiking up her torso. She spits a swear and backs up a step or two, hand pressing against the wound. It’s good she wore red tonight, she supposes. Dressed for the occasion without even knowing it.

“It’ll take more than you to shut me up,” she retorts, ever stubborn. It’s also true, though. She didn’t even shut up when Dorian had frenzied and he’d ended up pinning her against the wall and breaking her collarbone with his teeth. “And even if I DID it wouldn’t make what I said any less TRUE.”

"GET ME? Oh, that's fucking RICH. You have NO IDEA! No CLUE!"

Only half aware that he had struck out - all those shots he took have him addled, and he only feels half-real in the first place at the moment - the feeling of blade gliding through fabric and flesh almost startles him. He stops, for just a moment, letting his gaze slide down to the knife. Blood, and his own reflection. Or Alan's reflection, distorted. Like him.

Dragging the flat of the blade across his free hand to clean it, he looks back to her, wild and wide-eyed and livid and MONSTROUS.

"You didn't SAY anything of SUBSTANCE. You didn't even ANSWER MY QUESTION. You CAN'T!" Another lunge, this time aiming to grab at her, at her collar, at her hair, at her wrist, wherever he can find purchase.

"WHAT AM I?"

She is rapidly running out of alleyway to retreat down. She’s moving slowly as she backs away from him, trying to draw it out, delay being truly cornered for as long as she can. Somewhere inside her there’s fear singing through her veins, but she’s buried it deep down. Walled it off somewhere she can deal with it later. Once she’s walked away from this confrontation.

If she walks away from this confrontation.

“I ANSWERED your question! It’s not my fault you didn’t like the answer.” The words are spoken hotly, practically spat at him. And then he’s lunging for her again, his hand, the one without the knife, is grabbing at her hair, fisting around the thick braid. Tethering her to him. Limiting her escape. Fuck fuck fuck.

His question still tears at her heart. Despite the threat he poses. “I answered your question, Sunshine. A man who lost a part of himself and doesn’t know what the fuck to do.” It’s not spoken gently, this time, but sharply. Vehemently. There’s so much she doesn’t know, so much she can’t know, as muffled and blind as she is; but using what she’d picked up from him in their previous encounters, in how he’s spoken here, now, she can take a really good stab in the dark. (Although maybe stab isn't a good word to be using right now.) “Just as real as I am.”

Once he's got a grip on her braid, he YANKS, breathing ragged as he tries to pull her closer. She's trying to spit more venom at him with her tone, but her words are still affirming, and he doesn't know what to do with the affirmation in his drunken state.

He's furious, chest heaving with every breath, and he raises the knife, snarling -

"I'LL SHOW YOU HOW REAL I AM, YOU B-"

His words shatter as his body does too, erupting into shards and pieces, all trying to fold in together on themselves, his thoughts and memories erupting outward --
-.....
.....
....
...
.

You don't exist.

Everything is pure darkness, and you are adrift in it. It's cold, and roiling, with great beings out there somewhere, but they don't bother you. They're part of you. You're part of them, just one great pool spilling out to fill a whole dimension.

Until it happens.

Suddenly, you're being yanked out of the darkness like dough from a bowl. You have a body, now, suddenly - a head, limbs, a body that doesn't really fit you. You feel pain, probably for the first time, and it's in great abundance. Someone else's life is being poured into you in a rush, tearing you at the seams, disrupting your calm oblivion. You scream, and it's the only sound, and it's horrible and unfamiliar and not YOURS.

Something is grabbing at you. It's hot and bright, a figure in a Diving Suit and you know what a Diving Suit is now and that enrages you, your head hurts it hurts so bad and you have never had a headache and you have never had a head

you're being pulled from your darkness like you're being cut out and it's bright and you're being told to stand there and smile and your name is something you can't say no one can say it

help me stop this i don't want this who is alan wake is pain all there is breathing is so difficult my lungs are full of water and they burn who is alan wake too much too many memories too much drinking and parties and hangovers where the light is too bright it's so bright it's so bright i want to go back who is alan wake turn of the lights no light WHO IS ALAN WAKE

i am

i

am

alan

wake

WAKE UP.

He’s yanking on her hair and brandishing the knife, words hot and furious being flung at her and she's breathtakingly aware of the fact that she’s going to die again, she’s going to die at his hands when suddenly he’s shattering apart, breaking into shards and pieces. She’s never seen glitching up close like this, and it’s horrifying and painful, as horrifying and painful as it is to experience firsthand.

But she doesn’t have time to really truly acknowledge just how horrifying it is to witness because memories that aren’t hers are flooding into her head. A vision but worse because it’s not from her, not because of her gift, but she feels it just as deeply, just as intimately, and she keens in agony as she feels all that Scratch felt. The agony of being cut out from the darkness into too much brightness and shaped into a form that wasn’t his. As she witnesses his birth. His origin. And it's so much worse than anything she might have imagined.

Oh gods. Scratch. Her heart aches for him, as much as her body aches with memory of the agony he suffered. Maybe more. It makes so much sense, now. His questions. Why he’s reacted so desperately to losing the shadows that gather around him. Why he’s so LOST. He’d been forced into existence, forced to look like Alan.

And it hurt. It hurt so deeply. She flinches backwards, instinctively, only his hand is still wrapped tight around her hair and instead of flinching or moving away she’s falling. Tumbling backwards.

It’s her turn, then, for her body to shatter and splinter, pieces bending and folding in on themselves, memories exploding outward as the agony of glitching swallows Scratch’s remembered agony.

She stands in the bath tent, wrapped in a towel and nothing more, ice blue eyes moving between the Carnie and her Reflections, as the Reflections move independently from their owner and stalk her reflection, black-clawed fingers brushing through her reflection’s wet hair, blood-scented breath hot on her neck, and she feels the sensations as though they were doing it to her.

There’s a shiver of terror down her spine but it’s buried almost immediately, nothing visible outwardly. She can’t afford it. Not if she wants to stand a chance of walking out of this bath tent alive.

That’s all for naught, though, because the Reflection tangles claws in her mirror image’s hair and yanks, dragging her backwards. Towards yet more mirrors. And she struggles, with all she has, but how do you fight something that only exists in reflections? She can’t, and slowly, inexorably, she’s dragged between to rows of mirrors. The infinity effect is disconcerting and terrifying, and she’s flung to the ground. Surrounded by mirrors and Reflections. Hunting her.

Her breath comes in short gasps as she pushes herself up; come ON, Zoey, you have to MOVE. She can’t dawdle, she can’t afford to dawdle -

Only it’s not enough, not fast enough, and one of the Reflections lunges forward, raking claws across her reflection’s shoulders, and she swallows the sharp cry of pain, arching her back and twisting away from it, dropping once again to the floor, blood running down her shoulder and back. Tossing wet hair out of her eyes, she keeps a wary eye on both the Carnie currently brushing her hair as calmly as could be and the countless number of reflections prowling around her in the mirrors.

At least she can look ONE of them in the eyes.
Once the first attacks it’s as though the blood calls to all the others, and they follow suit, crowding around and getting ready to attack, the growls and screeches echoing against glass. Fuck. Her eyes flicker quickly over the mirrors, watching as the other reflections growl and screech, readying themselves to attack. Get UP. She hissed softly as she scrambled to her feet, jostling her shoulder in the process.

“Do your reflections do this often?” Mouthy even in the very real face of danger, that’s Zoey.

She has just enough time to take one step backwards before one of the Reflections headbutts her hard and she’s tumbling to the ground, breath rushing from her lungs. She notices something, though, as she lays sprawled and breathless on the ground. The Carnie’s keeping her distance from the mirrors. From her. From the Reflections. As though she’s afraid of them.

How independent from her are the reflections?

Can they be hurt?

She’s back on her feet in a flash, formulating a plan on the fly. Scanning the bath house she made a quick estimate of the distance separating her from the Carnie.

Ten... fifteen feet between the two of us... and an innumerable number of reflections about to pounce.

All right. Fuck it. Decision made, she races towards the Carnie, bare feet silent on the tile floor.

The Reflections stalk her, heedless of her intentions, clawing and gnashing their teeth. One of them lunges, dragging claws down towards her calf. Still another grabs for her hair again. And there’s no dodging the claws that slash down her calf. Pain explodes in her leg and she stumbles, dropping hard to one knee and very nearly sprawling flat on her face. She just barely catches herself, heels of her hands stinging with the impact. She FEELS how close the second Reflection came to tangling its claws in her hair again, missing only because she’s no longer where she was.

Get UP. She can’t afford to stop, or slow, or anything else. If she has to deal with the reflections, then the Carnie is going to get a front row seat. Hissing in pain, she scrambles back to her feet; forces herself back up... and keeps going.

The Carnie’s grin disappears as she realises her intentions and OH it’s satisfying to see. She doesn’t expect one of the Carnie’s own Reflections to keep her from retreating, from moving somewhere safe. That’s a surprise. Not that she can let herself dwell on the fact that they’re independent of her, enough to block her exit.

More of a surprise is how the Carnie doesn’t… do anything. She’s just resigned. She just shuts her eyes and raises her arms to protect her chest. That’s all.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Whatever she had thought might happen when she reachs the Carnie... that never even enters the equation. She isn’t controlling them. Why isn’t she controlling them? Aren’t they hers? She had just enough time for that one panicked thought, before the reflections dive in. Claws rake at her back, her shoulder, and she keens in pain, staggering under the attack but valiantly managing to stay on her feet. Blood soaks the towel wrapped around her, staining the white fabric crimson, and patters onto the tile floor in something very reminiscent of a downpour. The trail of blood she leaves is thick, and heavy, a garish smear on the tiles.

The Carnie screeches in agony and crumples to the ground and she just… reacts instinctively. Grabbing for her, she hauls the other woman off the ground. Why she does it she has no idea. After everything the Carnie had done she should just leave her there. It might have been the smartest idea. But she doesn’t. The thought of leaving the Carnie to the onslaught doesn’t cross her mind for a moment.

Teeth tears at her arm, and the force of the attack drops her to a knee, hissing in pain. But she doesn’t let it stop her. Stop them. For better or worse she’s dragging the Carnie towards the door. If they can just get outside….

But the space between them and the door seems infinite.

And then the Carnie is shoving her, pushing her towards the door. "˙┴∩O ┴Ǝפ - doʇs ʇ,uoʍ ʎǝɥ┴" If she wasn’t in danger of dying at the claws of the Reflections she would be gaping in shock. She’s… stunned by her actions.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Absolutely not. She’s not going to just leave the Carnie here. She can’t. She won’t. Maybe without prey they’ll stop. If they’re not here… “That’s not – ” she cuts off abruptly as she catches sight of a Reflection coming in for another attack, and she lunges for the Carnie, grabbing her and wrenching her out of the way. Twisting her body, she takes the brunt of the claws that had been aimed for the Carnie’s back. Allowing herself a hiss of pain, she fights to stay on her feet and keep moving the both of them towards the door.

The look the Carnie shoots her is exhausted, which just gets her an exhausted look in response. And together they race towards their freedom, flinging themselves beyond the threshold of the bath tent. But something catches the Carnie’s ankle, trying to drag her back in, and once again she doesn’t hesitate, wrapping the arm not attached to the hand gripping her hand in a white knuckle grip around the Carnie’s waist and pulls for all she’s worth.

Edited (icon) 2021-07-02 08:24 (UTC)

Just as Scratch starts to pull himself back together, heaving, Zoey's braid is out of his hand, her form splintering in his grip and throwing him off-balance. He's falling to the ground, thrown off balance, bewildered already and entirely too drunk for this and dropping his knife -

And then he's blinded with memories that don't belong to himself OR Alan, and he hisses, narrowing his eyes as he struggles to process them. A bathhouse - a monster - countless attackers. Being thrown to the proverbial wolves for knowing too much. Raking claws, vulnerability, grit, and then...sympathy?

Scratch has never felt sympathy before this moment, seeing and feeling through Zoey's point of view. It's in her skin that he recalls reaching out, risking everything to aid an enemy, an ATTACKER -

And when he comes to from it all, chest heaving, he's sprawled out on top of her, hands clenched in the sand on either side of her shoulders, knees struggling to hold him up on either side of her hips. He hasn't gotten himself back yet, open mouthed, wild-eyed, confused, and now she would see him as he really is. A sick animal. A wolf in a trap.

And he sees her, for this moment, as the kind of person who would tear up her hands opening the trap up.

Knowing that he can't refute it, because he FELT it.

And it confuses the shit out of him, unable to meet her eyes.

Zoey begins to come back to herself with a pained noise low in her throat. Her head is reeling, her body aching, and her side where Scratch had cut her throbs white hot. She doesn’t know if the pain in her head is from the memories, or from hitting the ground. That she doesn’t remember. But there she is, breath coming in sharp gasps, lying sprawled on the ground…

Pinned. On the ground. Because Scratch is on top of her, his hands braced in the sand on either side of her shoulder, his knees straddling her hips. He’s close, WAY too fucking close considering he was a hairsbreadth from stabbing her not five minutes ago and she honestly doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do, has no idea what he’s going to do. If he’s going to grab for the knife he lost in the glitching and finish the job or…. something else. He looks just as rattled as she is, though. And confused.

Chest heaving, slowly coming back to herself, all she can do is gaze up at him. He’s not looking at her, though, and she’s rattled enough, still not quite fully back, to reach up, unthinking, with the hand she’d had pressed against the wound on her side, to touch his face.

What was that. What the FUCK was that? He's not built to feel like that, and his chest is tight - he's trying to pull himself back together, but he's rattled, as much as he would never admit it. All he wanted tonight was to teach her a lesson about messing with him, and now....

Well, now what?

The hand meets his cheek, warm and slick with blood, and it almost makes him jump - his eyes dart to hers, and his hand darts to her throat.

But he doesn't squeeze.

He just stares.

"...What did you see?" Quiet. Far away.

She can feel how her hand on his cheek startles him – not enough to make him jump, but almost. Touching him the way she is she can’t miss it. Nor can she miss how his eyes dart to hers…. And how his hand darts to her throat. Oh. It surprises her. Not the way she's been expecting to die since he'd started hunting her. She’d expected the knife, not… that. Not his hand on her throat. Only he’s not squeezing. Not choking the life out of her.

He’s just staring down at her.

Although she’s pretty sure that with her answer to his question he won’t be hesitating any longer. But it doesn’t stop her from answering honestly, hand forgotten, on his cheek. (She only hopes that death isn’t permanent, here.) “I saw how you came to exist.”

Edited 2021-07-03 03:44 (UTC)

Ah. That memory.

Shit.

He tries to summon up anger, hand tightening painfully around her throat, crushing into her windpipe...but it's only for two, three seconds.

Then his hand slides away, landing in the sand just beside her head in a frustrated slap. He's still close, so close, smelling of sweat and cologne and booze. Dark eyes meet Zoey's now, brows knitted together.

"...Why did you save her?" Quiet again. "The bitch with the eyes and the mirror shit. She was gonna let you get eaten. So why?"

The hand crushing her windpipe comes, as she’d expected, but only for a handful of seconds before his hand slides away from her throat, landing in the sand beside her head. Leaving her breathless and more than a little confused. But relieved. Maybe she won’t be dying tonight after all. He’s still incredibly fucking close, though, smelling like booze and cologne and sweat.

Oh. She closes her eyes for a second and breathes a very soft “Fuck” That memory. She can count the number of people she’s told about what happened in the bath tent on one hand, probably. But Scratch has SEEN it. Experienced it. That is… yeah. She… doesn’t know how she feels about it, honestly, but there is a complicated knot of emotions in her chest that she can’t put words to. And they’re hidden by the shadows brought by night, but if he cares to try and look close, he might well be able to catch a glimpse of the scars on her upper right arm and the inside of her left. He certainly would know where to look, now.

His description of the Carnie earns him a soft, exhausted, INCREDIBLY AMUSED laugh as she gazes up at him. “Because that might be the sort of person the Carnie is, but it’s not who I am.” It’s not in her. She can be vicious if and when it’s called for, but let someone come to harm, let someone die when she could prevent it? When it wasn’t necessary, or needed? No. Not even someone who’s put her through hell and had had every intention of letting the Reflections maul her for who knows how long. Maybe even kill her.

The silence following that answer is long, painfully long. It's clear that he's trying to comprehend it, the idea of helping someone who has only caused you pain. Scratch is, by virtue of his own experience, pure hedonism. It's all about him, and taking Alan down with him while having a damn good time doing it.

He doesn't DO helping. He DOES murder and mayhem and blood and sex and booze. Trying to shake all this, he darts his hand out, growling, snatching up his knife and rearing back with it.

"FUCK this, FUCK you, I JUST WANT...I want...."

But the fire goes out again very quickly, the knife raised high wavers, then sinks with his arm to his side. He's confused, and it's plain on his face, the usual gusto and bravado missing alongside the shadows.

"...I never asked for any of this shit."

That Scratch doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend her reason for what she’d done doesn’t surprise Zoey. It can’t. She’s seen where he’s come from. How he’d begun. It wouldn’t make sense to him, her helping someone who’d brought her harm. It’s beyond his experiences. His scope. It’s a complex algebra equation to someone who’s unfamiliar with math.

He growls, grabbing for his lost blade, and she inhales beneath him at the fire of his anger, readying herself for another blow. And pinned as she is beneath him, she’s an easy target for him, if he decides to drive that knife home. But he doesn’t. Knife raised high, ready to stab her... wavers, and falls to the side.

“I know you didn’t.” It’s not spoken gently, or fiercely. It’s just… tired. And earnest.

There is a tense, long moment of heaving breath and frustrated staring. The knife is in the dirt. He could pick it up. He's on top of her. Choking her would be so easy. In every way, he has the upper hand, the advantage. Scratch could murder Zoey right here, right now in this alleyway and get away with it.

But that feeling, the feeling of reaching out to help someone who hurt you...it's like an open wound that he can't ignore. Every time he tries to lift his hand, to grab the knife, it aches.

Fuck. He HATES that she's seeing him like this. It would all be easier if he could just cut her throat and watch her bleed out.

Her hand is still on his face. It's warm. It feels nice and he hates that too.

A short, strangled scream of frustration rips from his lips, and he wrenches himself off of her, rolling in the dust a couple of times before coming to land on his hands and knees, head against the ground, hands tearing at his own hair. His shoulders shake. Is he...?

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