Really Terrified

Fifty-seven relases in the past five-hundred-and-four hours. Releases occur predominately in Diyu, Hell, when the Core has settled, releases are similar to 9995's releases of, what was it, what ws it, something near 'opsis os, teeth wings,' you don't remember the technical name, your family records didn't mention they were motherfucking experiments, you aren't mentioning you can't motherfucking breathe.

The taste in this tonic chain – Rey & Mey's fifty-third, three blocks up from the grocer, square room cut to a rectangle, the owners must be cheap as fuck, cheap as fuck, cheap as fuck, fuck, fuck fuck, you think and rethink because Chels always said repeating things you know would get your mind off pain – is pushing past your bright yellow mouth mask, between the gaps in your teeth and wraps itself around your ten inch tongue like the sticky pale yellow drink you've just swallowed and your knees loosen and crack to the floor. Five talons of yours lightly claw around your throat, denting little slits as they draw down on your black skin and you can breathe and gag and cough to the point of dark purple liquid spilling onto Mey & Rey's – Rey & Mey's/Ray & May's/May & Rey's/Where the fuck are they/Where in Hell are you? – cold floor. Spit drips from between your teeth and gums as your jaw is gaping and your ringed yellow eyes focus on the pool of blood and saliva constructing rivers in the cracks of marble. Several minutes pass before you re-adjust your mask and stand back up, thin legs slightly wavering, twig arms straight by your side.

“I told you, Vikare,” Rey – or Mey, you can't tell them apart – says and kneels on the floor in front of you to wipe at the mess you've made. You make a half-hearted attempt to clean it with the toe of your cyan sneakers and give up after Mey glares her beady seventeen, there used to only be sixteen but she modded that extra in and it's cheap and you want to pluck it fresh out of her head, just stitch those, black eyes at your shoe. You exhale and walk to the counter as the other shopkeep punches in Chels' key to add the extra goods you purchased onto her tab.

“Does Chels have anyone else to come up and order from us 'cuz Mey's running out of rags every visit.”

You try not to react. You grasp the bag of tonics, unzip the lips of your pack, and squeeze the plastic bag inside. Rey & Mey's fifty-third, three blocks up from the grocer, square room cut to a rectangle, the owners are cheap as fuck, rude as fuck, worthless as fuck, fuck, fuck fuck, you think as you leave Chels' favorite tonic shop and into a chop shop resist resist resist, motherfuck, a little girl is getting a razor sharp cut, pigtails to knifetails, and a man is smoldering a sword onto his forearm, a mod shop, another tonic shop new tonics would be better, rey and mey and ray and may can't keep up with the competition anymore, meats shop, the creature shop don't flinch, don't stare, don't talk, don't breathe, and other shops you don't remember because you're hands are burning and shaking and paling as you bump into guards on your way up the third floor to the seventh.

Surgeon's Shack, Hell ceritifed, six blocks up from the grocer with your favorite meats, largest room of rectangles and squares, your feet slide open the doors of the building and you jog through the waiting room and you think you saw an octagon once and you like things like that, to the operating room, skidding to a halt as your cheekbones rise and you pull down your mask to reveal a smirk, owners taste motherfucking sweet and spicy and divine and nothing like Chels' has cooked before.

Kassem smiles as he lifts his hands from the limp body on his lap and wipes them on the rag nearby.

“Vikare, that's you, isn't it? I can smell your tongue – been back from Rey & Mey's, yes? What else brings you here – Chels can't be the only thing, can she? It's only – Malik, where are you? I don't hear her. Find her for me, will you.”

You roughly exhale as you trudge your sneakers into the adjoining room in front of you and let the tip of your tongue slick out between your teeth, you remember malik always tastes like smoke, like grilled meat, overcooked by fifteen minutes or so, like the meat Chels' cooks, and you smile as you lift your mask back and head into one of the square rooms, kicking open the wooden door with your foot.

The demons notice your squeaking sneakers fast as they slide across the floor and you begin to smile until they cover their lips, their soft lips, you remember, because you've touched them before, you've mothefucking tasted them before, and you grunt, shake your head. They stay like that, jaws moving up and down so you look around, old circa 9000 propaganda posters you don't feel like reading, old human bodies, creature bodies, burning fireplaces, maps of Hell, maps of Heaven, scythes, spears, stilettos and you think you'd better notice a guillotine blade, too, before you develop a lisp, they've removed their hands.

Malik pushes past you and she may have greeted you but you weren't looking so you don't make a fuss about it no matter how much you'd like to because she's been pushing you for weeks now and you want to grab her by her under-grown horns and take a bite out of her,, and Marquis places a hand on your shoulder and turns you out of the room, walking alongside you.

“Haven't seen you–” you ignore Marquis, turning your head and walking ahead of him, he tastes too much like death and Kassem has warned him about going up there so much but he doesn't listen.

The three of you step into the operating room and Kassem smiles and nods, waving for you, just you, not Malik, or motherfucking Marquis, so you sit on the floor beside him and try not to feel too condescended to as his hands pat through your hair, wings, horns, but you still squirm a little bit because the Angel blood is getting on you and those little miniscule creatures that took residence up there about three weeks ago.

“There's been another release, Kassem.” Their lips move in unison and you'd mock them if you could.

Kassem shrugs and lifts his hands off your head and puts them back to work. “Of course there has; Marquis has already predicted there will be at least – how many, you said?”

“Over two-hundred. I'm not sure because the voices are–”

“That's all, Marquis.”

Malik clears her throat and steps forward, black boots squishing the puddle of white liquid on the floor. “Kassem, we can't afford to wait any more. Marquis and I have talked about it and we need to strike now or another war will begin and Hell will have no upper-hand.”

The surgeon you like to call him a surgeon exhales as he pricks a needle through the skin and threads through. He talks and you see his mouth move in the corner of your eye but you're not paying attention to his lips – it's those hands, those fingers. You flip onto your knees and hold onto his thigh to get a closer look.

You've always been fascinated with his work, with the Good Doctor's work, but you could never do it with your fingers, you dare to call them, cone-shaped fingers, made for ripping and cutting and slashing and killing. Killing. Good, old-fashioned, propaganda circa 9000 releases.

Kassem raises the thread to his lips and pauses, stops, pauses, stops, doesn't die, lowers it down to your level and, quickly, you slide your talons through the wire, imagine a dull twik of a sound, maybe an explosion, you've felt those, you've tasted the smoke in the aftermath, this is your motherfucking ear and you can imagine to hear whatever you want, and Kassem smiles at you.

You think, that's okay.