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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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...?

Zoey waits, gazing up at him with keen ice blue eyes as he stares down in her in frustration. She doesn’t need her gift to follow his thoughts. To know what he’s thinking, to figure out what’s going on his his head. She could dislodge him, probably, escape from where she lays in the now-bloody sand beneath him. She doesn’t, though. She waits, breath still coming hard.

Her hand still lingers on his cheek. She hasn’t thought to remove it and much to her surprise he hasn’t shoved it away yet, either.

Until he’s letting out a strangled scream of frustration and wrenching himself off of her. She should use the chance he’s given her, now that he’s no longer on top of her, to get up. Put distance between them. Escape.

But she doesn’t. Hand going again to her side with a soft sound of pain, she pushes herself up slowly… Shifting up onto her knees nearer to him and reaching out to put her hand on his shoulder. She’ll never be able to give Ashlin hell for complete and utter lack of self preservation again. (Not that she ever had in the first place, or would ~~she’d just done her best to protect the woman she thought of like a sister~~ but still.) She's always been reckless and kind of heedless of her own safety (she's the one with the gift of sight, the one who is the most well-informed, the most aware of any dangers that might come), but it's definitely being hammered home right now in this moment as she doesn't leave the side of the man who had had every intention of stabbing the shit out of her. And had, a little.

She stays.

Edited 2021-07-03 21:49 (UTC)

Scratch's head is full to bursting. This isn't how any of this was supposed to go. It was simple, it was always simple. Chase the victim down, knife her, leave her to bleed or drag her out into the desert for the animals. No problem. Easy and satisfying.

This wasn't either of those. He couldn't even manage to choke her, or snap her neck, or anything. And he even HATES her, usually it's just for kicks, just random people who crossed the wrong man at the wrong time. This time he actually despises the victim and, because of some inter-dimensional BULLSHIT, he can't even finish the job. Letting her go is all he can think to do, nauseating as it is, so he can pull his shit together, clean the fucking TEARS from his face (GROSS), and go back to have another bottle at the Cabin.

He waits. He waits for her to leave, staying down, face buried in his arms and the sand so she can't see him being a fucking WUSS.

Then he feels the hand on his shoulder, and he SEETHES.

"You should REALLY fucking GO," he growls, muffled. "Before I fucking shake your bullshit off and get my fucking KNIFE BACK." But he doesn't knock her hand away either.

Zoey can FEEL him seething. It radiates off him as much as the shadows usually do. Maybe a little more, honestly. It’s makes a twisted sort of sense. He’d come out here to terrorize her, hurt her… and here she is, seeing him at his worst. His weakest. And yet she still stays, hand on his shoulder. Right in easy stabbing range. If he had his knife immediately at hand. Which he doesn’t. Not yet.

Thank fuck.

He growls at her and she’s… mostly unfazed. He’s already hunted her, already tasted her blood, and she’s already seen him growling and volatile. Muffled growling isn’t all that threatening after he’s already knifed her. “Yeah, well, you’ve seen how well I do what I should,” she retorts.

The refusal to back off is met with an explosion of temper - snarling, he swats the hand away, glowering at her, face wet with both her blood and his tears at this point. Awful. Terrible.

He forces a grin, and it's as artificial as can be. Scratch knows it, he knows Zoey knows it, but he doesn't really care.

"Are you fucking STUPID?" On his knees, he crawls a pace or two to grab his knife from the dirt, wiping the sand from the blade across his sleeve. "Need me to spell it out, princess? If you stay I'm gonna fucking kill you."

Oh for fuck’s sake. She lets him swat her away, retreating just a little. But not leaving. He’s not fooling anyone and Zoey doesn’t think leaving would be the best idea… for the poor sod who might have the bad luck to cross his path after they part ways. She’s pretty sure if anyone did they would end up seriously dead. At least she knows what she’s in for, with him.

Princess. Well. It’s better than upstart, she guesses.

“You can certainly fucking try,” she retorts. And then she reaches out and grabs the hand holding the knife. “But I’m not going anywhere. Pretty sure if I left you now you’d get lost and die in the desert.” She’s not sure how much he’s had to drink, but it’s a LOT. (And if he was drinking most of her shift, it’s a HELL of a lot.) “You smell like a brewery.”

"Try. Fucking funny. You're bleeding and even drunk I could cut you a new hole to breathe out of."

But she's right about him having had a lot to drink. Normally, this wouldn't be that big a problem, bolstered by the darkness...but right now, he's effectively human. And humans probably shouldn't drink a whole fifth of whiskey by themselves.

She catches his hand before his reflexes can kick in, and he just. Sighs.

"What do you wanna do if you're not going, then, huh? Be my fucking nanny?"

“Yeah. TRY. You aren’t the first asshole to land a lucky hit.” And he probably wouldn’t be the last. Quite frankly she suspects he’ll probably be the next asshole to land a lucky hit, too. Maybe even the next few. Given how much she’s pissed him the fuck off. She thinks of the blades hidden in her boots. Nah. Let them be a surprise for next time. Like her powers will be. “And you ARE drunk and all you did was manage a little cut.”

Not quite so little, but she’s not going to tell HIM that, and it’s certainly not life-threatening. Although she might be woozy from blood loss before too much longer.

“Oh PLEASE. I think getting you on your fucking feet is probably a good place to start. See just how much balance is left after how much you’ve had to drink.” He hadn’t been in the greatest of shape to begin with.

"Felt pretty palpable to me," he grumbles...but the situation is mostly diffused for now. Scratch huffs a little, pulling his hand out of her grip to shove his knife back into his pocket.

"I can stand just fucking FINE." The words come in a hiss, and he shoves himself upward, and - whoa.

Okay, maybe the tolerance is a bit different when he's less paranatural and not running on pure adrenaline anymore, huh? He sways, but remarkably enough stays standing.

Well that’s unexpected, honestly. Zoey had been half sure he would make good on his threat and go for her throat. Colour her surprised. Pleasantly so. She gives him space, ignoring his completely right observation (a hit, a very palpable hit) and basks in the momentary reprieve from violence.

Rising gracefully to her feet (and managing to hide just how badly her side is hurting, even if it’s a fucking knot of agony), she watches him hiss at her and try to prove her wrong... And well, he managed to stay standing, so that’s something. Even if he’s swaying. “Hey, look at that. You can.”

"Like there was any fucking doubt."

Ugh, those awful lights in the night sky. They're bad enough without spinning around like that. How dare they.

"...So what? Gonna walk me home, is that it? No way you're thaaaat dumb." He starts to head out of the alley and promptly knocks over a garbage bin when he staggers sharply to the right.

"Was in my fucking way."

There’s was kind of a lot of doubt on that one, Scratch. Sorry. (Except not sorry at all.) Oh yeah, he is DEFINITELY feeling however much he’s had to drink now. HARD. Probably a very good thing she’s decided to guide his drunk ass home. Or at least homeward.

And then he takes out a garbage bin, and she reaches out and grabs a fistful of his suitcoat to keep him from veering any more than he already was and kind of yank him gently back on course before letting go. (With the option to grab back on for more drunken asshole wrangling.) “Yeah, it was. You showed that trashbin.”

Edited 2021-07-05 08:51 (UTC)

Oh, GROSS. She's grabbing his coat and she's leading him along and it's....

Okay actually it's not that gross.

In a different circumstance it would be kinda hot. Eh.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood and sand all over his face. "Listen, you're lucky my powers are gone or I would be showing YOU, princess." He plows ahead, staggering, occasionally glancing back to her like a wolf looking at a rabbit.

Zoey follows along behind him, using that fistful of his coat to guide him on. Leading him along as best she can. Oh gods it’s a kiddie leach for a drunken de-powered avatar of darkness. But if she doesn’t wrangle him he’s going to destroy every innocent trashbin on the way to wherever the fuck he lives. And maybe hurt himself, too.

The way he keeps looking at her isn’t reassuring, although it’s pretty much the way he’s looked at her since he started hunting her so it’s not anything new. A wolf looking at a rabbit. Why does she think that she’s not going to stop being his fucking prey any time soon?

She laughs, low in her throat at his boast. Oh he has no idea. “I might surprise you, Sunshine,” she murmurs in response, giving a tug at his jacket.

"Oh really?" He's slurring his words now, eyes bleary as he looks back at her. Lucky the Cabin isn't THAT far away. He's not even sort of walking straight.

"Why? What've ya got, huh? You don't even KNOW the HALFof what've go- fuck-"

He tries to pull his knife back out and drops it in the sand. In his attempt to bend down and get it, he falls over - and if Zoey doesn't let go quick enough, she's falling over with him.

Zoey is about to tell him that it’s a surprise, and he’ll find out in due time... except he fumbles his knife and then fumbles HIMSELF. Which would almost be hilarious except:

She doesn’t, in fact, let go quick enough, because APPARENTLY in her genius she decided to try and stop him from falling. But it’s sudden and she’s not at full capacity thanks to the knife happy drunk who tried to murder her. So over she goes. Tumbling right on top of him.

Oh FUCK that hurts. Her side protests the motion and impact against another person by exploding in pain, and she can’t help but bury her face in his jacket for a moment as she tries to remember how to breathe again.

On his way down, Scratch twists - he lands on his back, and Zoey tumbles down atop him, burying her face against him. He lays there for a moment, wrapping his hand around the handle of his knife, quietly bringing it up behind her to hover it over the back of her neck.

Then, before she catches her breath, he lowers it back down, saying nothing, chest heaving.

Damn it.

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