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It’s the peak of summer on an island that never gets cold. The heavy air is filled with the lilting drone of flies buzzing all around. They swarm in the empty spaces in the sky, and gather in clusters on the ground among broken glass and other such filth, feeding on dried beer staining the concrete.
… Thwack!
A few of the slowest flies lay twitching on the ground. The rest of the swarm hovers in a chaotic cloud for a moment before returning to their meal. The swatter is brought down once more at lightning speed.
Thwack!
“Killer’s at it again,” a couple of boys giggle as they pass by.
One of the caretakers at the orphanage shoots a disapproving look at them. She opens her mouth to reprimand them, but stops short. Probably because she doesn’t remember the real name of the boy she means to defend. She’s new here, after all. It’s alright. Killer doesn’t mind the name the other orphans have given him. In fact, he’s taken ownership of it.
Killer stays focused on the task at hand. Knees hugged to his chest, he holds the swatter carefully still above the spot on the ground where the flies gather. When enough of them accumulate, he sends it down again. The number of motionless little flies at the boy’s feet grows, but the swarm above him never gets any smaller. He’ll keep at this for hours everyday after he’s done with his chores, refining the speed at which he brings down the swatter and counting the number of flies he gets with each hit.
Eventually, the bell in the doorway rings to signal dinnertime, and Killer leaves the swatter on the ground as he joins the other kids inside. He pauses before a small group gathered around a picture frame on the wall. It’s the orphanage’s new annual group photo; Killer remembers being there the day it was taken. It looks like it was just hung up today.
Killer approaches the picture once the small crowd disperses and studies it closely. He looks upon all of their faces, but cannot recognize a single one of them as his own.
He steps away and heads to the dining room.
***
Killer is roughly 12 years old when he decides to leave the orphanage. He’s outgrown it. Plus, he knows who really runs the place. There are no government institutions on this island, only gang assets. And Killer doesn’t feel like sticking around to be cultivated into a pawn. He found an abandoned shack on the other side of town one day, and that’s where he’s been living comfortably on his own. He doubts anyone from the orphanage has noticed his absence, anyway.
The loss of guaranteed meals has been a bit of a struggle, however. Once or twice a day, Killer goes downtown and scrounges around in trash bins and even manages to swipe food from kitchen windows sometimes. He got lucky on that front, this time around. Satisfied with his pickings, he heads back to his shack.
When Killer returns home, there’s more junk lying around than when he left. A bunch of scrap metal, machine parts, and other trinkets are piled up on the floor. Someone’s using Killer’s shack as a storage space. Harmless as it is, if a person is entering Killer’s sleeping quarters, he prefers to nip that in the bud.
The next day, Killer takes a scythe from the shack and places it outside against the back wall while he hides elsewhere. The stakeout lasts for a couple hours before he sees someone approach the shack, arms full of more junk. When the culprit goes in, Killer leaves his hiding place and grabs the scythe. The door to the shack opens again, and the scythe’s blade makes contact with an unsuspecting neck.
“Wh–hey! What gives?!” It’s a boy, probably younger than Killer, with spiky red hair and a pair of too-big goggles strapped to his forehead.
Before Killer can make any demands, the scythe is shoved back towards him with surprising strength, and the kid lunges at him. Killer drops the bulky weapon and grapples with the boy. It’s messy from there. Punches and kicks are thrown with varying effectiveness. At some point they end up on the ground and Killer’s head is dragged through the dirt by his hair. Killer takes off one of the boy’s shoes and starts smacking him with it like a fly swatter. He feels ridiculous, but exhilarated by the rush of a fight.
In the end, the other boy wins with brute strength. Killer is pinned to the ground with the handle of the scythe digging deep into his throat. Under better circumstances he could probably free himself with the advantage of body mass, but he hasn’t eaten today and his energy is dwindling. He uses one last burst of strength to try and shake him off, but to no avail. He’s just a fly twitching on the ground after getting smacked.
The boy above him speaks through gritted teeth, “It’s gonna take more than that to kill me!”
Killer coughs from the pressure on his throat. “I wasn’t going to kill you.” Another cough. “I just wanted you to take your shit and get lost! This is my shack!”
“Hah? Is that what your deal is?” The boy narrows his eyes at him, but Killer barely registers the scrutiny with how light-headed he feels. The boy finally decides that Killer isn’t a threat to him anymore and releases the scythe handle. “The hell’re you coming at me with a damn scythe for, then? Is that how you approach everybody?”
Killer doesn’t respond to that, he just takes big gulps of air now that there’s no pressure on his throat. The boy leans back, but stays on top of him. They stare at each other warily while they catch their breath.
Killer speaks up, “What do you need all that junk for anyways?”
The boy crosses his arms. “I’m building a murder robot.”
Killer pauses. “...Why?”
“For murder, duh! Ugh.” He finally climbs off of Killer and stands to look at the shack. “So, this place is yours, huh? Fine, I’ll find somewhere else to make my workshop.” He glances back at where Killer’s still lying on the floor. “You put up a pretty good fight. What’s your name?”
He thinks of how he should answer, but settles on “Killer.”
The boy regards him with a new, impressed light in his eyes. “I’m Kidd,” he says. Then he takes off running past the shack.
Killer starts to get up and try to call after him, but he stops himself. He’s too tired.
He didn’t even take his stuff with him.
***
That was far from the last time Killer saw Kidd. In fact, the boy has become a constant in his life. He’s an interesting character, and Killer finds that it’s nice to have a friend. Kidd shows up at his door almost every day, dragging him along for some sort of adventure, and Killer hangs out at Kidd’s workshop sometimes to watch him tinker while they talk about anything and everything. They get in fights semi-regularly, too. Mostly with each other, but occasionally they fight together against thugs that give them a hard time.
They’re teenagers now, and with their years of sparring they’re more than impressive in a fight. Together, the two survive well on the unforgiving island.
***
Killer wakes up late today, which is unusual. Normally he’s woken up much earlier by Kidd pounding on his door. On this day in particular, he stayed the night at Kidd’s workshop, yet the boy in question is nowhere to be found. Killer sits up from his spot on the floor and finds himself looking into a mirror on the opposite wall. He contemplates the boy in the reflection with shaggy blond hair, and it’s like looking at a stranger. He doesn’t register the reflection as himself. Never has. It’s why he usually ignores mirrors.
This time, though, Killer hesitantly crawls towards the thing. Face-to-face with the reflection, he lifts the fringe covering his eyes. The contact he makes with those pale blue eyes is startling, intense. Killer feels heavily scrutinized by the face looking at him, and a feeling of unease settles deep within. As he stares longer, entranced by the vision before him, he thinks he sees the corners of the reflection’s mouth crawl upwards, and the eyes studying him shift unnaturally. No. It’s not him.
A strong gasp rushes into Killer’s chest when Kidd suddenly bursts through the door, and all of the air in the room shoots into his lungs to hide.
Kidd doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. “Killer! Check it out!” He climbs down on the floor next to him and slaps down a large wad of cash.
The air trapped in Killer’s body leaves him in a sharp exhale. “How did you–”
“Some two-bit punks with too much dough on their hands thought they could shake me down for more. Practically slaughtered them.” He smacks Killer heavy on his arm. “C’mon! We can eat some real food today!”
Kidd’s already clambered back to his feet with the money in hand, and Killer can’t do much more than chase him half-heartedly out the door.
They end up at a diner that Kidd and Killer have passed many times, but never gone inside of. They both order the curry udon; apparently it’s the specialty here. Kidd’s telling Killer more about the fight that won him the jackpot, but he interrupts himself to nudge Killer’s arm and point his chin over his shoulder. “Hey, look.”
Killer does. All he sees is a girl looking at the menu at one of the tables. A waiter comes by and she orders with a bored expression.
“That’s Victoria,” Kidd says. “She’s something else.”
At first glance, Killer guesses that she’s a bit younger than himself, but older than Kidd. She’s got freckles dotting her face, pronounced lips, and a short bob coming down to her ears.
Before he can come to any conclusions about the girl, Kidd calls out to her. “Hey! Victoria, over here!”
Victoria looks up, quirks an eyebrow at them and approaches their table. “Uh, do I know you?”
Kidd gawks at her. “Aw, c’mon! You don’t remember me?”
Victoria breaks into a smile. “I’m just playing. Of course I remember you, Kidd.” She spares a glance at Killer. “And…?”
“That’s my partner, Killer.”
Killer can’t parse the look she regards him with.
Kidd slaps the top of the table. “Well, c’mon! Pull up a chair!”
To Killer’s surprise, she does. He lets himself fade into the background a bit while the two of them talk. Kidd talks to her about all kinds of things that he and Killer get up to. Killer only chimes in occasionally with a nod and a grunt in agreement. It’s clear that Kidd is trying to impress her, but Killer can’t understand why. Even hearing the stuff she has to say, she just seems like an ordinary girl. Killer doesn’t get why Kidd’s so fascinated by her.
Eventually, their food arrives: three orders of curry udon. Victoria and Kidd chuckle at the coincidence and they start eating. Killer and Kidd wolf down their food pretty fast; it’s been a while since they had a rich meal like this. Killer barely even registers how it tastes. Before long, their bowls are completely empty.
When Killer looks up, Victoria’s blue tank top is now brown. The curry broth has spilled all down her front and she simply stares at herself, mortified. They both startle at Kidd’s howling laugh once he sees Victoria’s predicament. The sight makes laughter bubble up from within Killer, too. It’s absurd to the point of hilarity. How does that even happen? Killer lets his neglected, hoarse, almost inhuman laughter ring out fully under the cover of Kidd’s loud cackling.
Victoria glares at him from beneath her brow, and Killer shuts up immediately. He had vowed never to laugh again after enough alienating looks and open mockery when he did. He braces himself for the ridicule to come. Hell, Kidd might even get in on it, too.
What he doesn’t anticipate is the fist bunched up in the collar of his shirt and the way Victoria bashes him in the forehead with her own. Before he can regain his bearings, he finds himself thrown to the hard linoleum floor by his shirt. He’s about to get curb stomped when Kidd shouts and gets out of his seat. He tries to pull Victoria back, but instead she grabs him by the head and slams his face into her raised knee.
Kidd and Killer have been in too many fights to count. They would even say they’ve earned notoriety as some of the most dangerous punks on the island. Victory after victory, people balk at the prospect of getting on their bad side, and gangs are wary of them, if not actively tracking them.
This time, they utterly and totally lose.
In all of the scraps he’s gotten into, Killer has never been beaten this close within an inch of his life before. He’s barely given the time to catch his breath and defend himself, let alone try to fight back. Kidd doesn’t fare much better.
They spend the rest of the day patching each other up back at Kidd’s workshop. Killer thinks he has a concussion, and Kidd’s been pinching his nose for the past half-hour trying to staunch the bleeding. It’s probably broken. The whole time, Kidd just mutters to himself bitterly, saying that the curry udon sucked anyway and was a waste of money. Killer nods along.
He thinks he gets now why Kidd likes Victoria so much. She is something else.
***
It’s hard for Killer not to notice that Kidd’s been acquiring followers lately. Everywhere in town he goes, a handful of goons seem to come out of nowhere to trail along behind him. They aren’t hostile, though. In fact, they’ve adopted him as their leader of sorts. Kidd doesn’t mind it, and Killer supposes he doesn’t, either. He thinks Kidd is thriving off of the attention. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have some extra defense, especially as they’ve become more and more prominent on the gangs’ radars.
Killer wonders briefly if he’s just a goon himself, Kidd’s original follower. The thought doesn’t hang around long, though. Killer is the only one whose presence Kidd actively seeks out, and he doesn’t call anyone else his “partner.”
At 17, Kidd is really making a name for himself. Killer isn’t sure he can say the same, though.
The only followers he has are his reflection in every mirror and window. Every time he spares a glance, the face looking back at him gets more and more skewed. Where there was passive unrecognition before, there is now active unease. The faint buzzing that seems to always accompany the image only works to further unsettle Killer. The thought that his reflection is supposed to represent himself frankly horrifies him. He avoids looking into any and all reflective surfaces now, afraid of distorting his face any further.
As he and Kidd fight against less sad excuses for thugs and more gang affiliated opponents, Killer hits harder and cuts deeper. He’s taken to knives as his weapon of choice, and the sight of blood flying in his wake leaves him thrilled. Kidd seems to feel the same; he always looks at Killer in awe whenever he can spare a glance during a fight. It inspires Killer to get even stronger, so Kidd can keep looking at him like that. So Kidd will keep calling him his “partner.”
Eventually, Kidd makes it official: he’s the leader of his own gang now, one with an already fearful reputation. The other gangs on the island make no attempts to prevent the development; they know Kidd doesn’t take threats lightly and won’t hesitate to slaughter them all.
“In a brutal world,” Kidd tells Killer one day, “the only way to survive is to be even more brutal.”
Of course Killer agrees. He assumes that he’ll be joining the ranks of Kidd’s gang as his right-hand man, but Kidd rejects the idea.
“You’re gonna have your own gang to look over. I’ll make sure of it. I won’t have your skills be wasted as anything less than a leader.”
Killer has never seen himself as a leader. The only way he earns respect from others is by being an immediate threat to their lives. Kidd is the only exception. But Killer doesn’t have the natural ability to command attention and influence a crowd like Kidd does. He thinks he’s better for the job than any other possible candidate, true, but he’s not born for it like his partner is.
If Kidd believes in him, though, he won’t take that for granted.
***
Two years go by and Kidd and Killer’s gangs are now well established. They each lay claim to one of the four towns on the island. They’re on respectable terms with the gang leaders from the other two towns, Wire and Heat, but they’re still far from friendly. The gangs that dominated the island when they were kids are old news. Some of them are still active, but not nearly organized enough to pose any kind of threat.
Kidd and Killer have more power and freedom than they’ve ever had in their lives. They never have to worry about money or food anymore, and they are more than strong enough to protect themselves and their underlings from getting killed. Kidd has been plenty active in running his turf to his liking and keeping the intimidation high.
Killer’s gang, on the other hand, has been largely stagnant. Their boss does not make public appearances anymore, having locked himself in his room months ago. It’s gotten to the point that Killer doesn’t even want to be in the presence of anything reflective, feeling an acute sense that his face is being warped beyond his control. The things he sees out of the corner of his eyes can’t even be recognized as human, more akin to that of an insect. The buzzing in his ears has grown incessant; he swears he can feel it vibrating in his skull. He only feels safe in his room. No mirrors, no uncovered windows. He stays active by lifting weights, playing drums to drown out the noise, and fighting off the occasional idiot that thinks he's vulnerable to attack in his current state. He is visited only by his secretary to give him meals and keep him updated on current events.
Today, when he enters Killer’s quarters, he says, “Eustass Kidd is coming to see you, sir.”
He guesses the Den-Den Mushi calls haven’t been enough to deter Kidd’s concern. Killer’s stomach turns at the thought of him seeing him like this. Trying to prevent him from coming will only make things worse, though.
Killer knows he’s arrived when the door swings open without even a knock. Heavy footsteps move across the floor and stop where Killer sits with his back towards him.
“Killer.”
He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t want Kidd to see how ugly and deformed his face has become. It feels so stupid yet terrifying. Would Kidd understand if he explained it to him? Would Killer even know how to?
“Killer,” he says again. “You haven’t been outside in ages and you’ve had three assassination attempts on your head in the past month. What’s going on?”
Killer doesn’t know how to answer him. He tries to keep his breathing under control. He’s not ready to talk about this.
Kidd tries to come around to his other side and Killer turns his chair to block him. Kidd exhales sharply, the rage bubbling within him tangible.
“Will you talk to me? Look at me? Anything!”
Silence hangs thick in the air between them.
“Don’t make me tell you that I’m worried about you, Killer.”
He hears shuffling, and Kidd’s hand appears on the armrest next to his own, close but not touching. Kidd sits on the floor next to his chair without trying to turn it around to face him.
“Look, I’m shit with words, you know that. And I might not understand whatever it is that’s got you like this. But you can trust me. You can talk to me. I want to help.”
Killer chokes up. Of course he trusts Kidd. He just forgot what that kind of trust entails. Vulnerability isn’t a good look on him, but it can’t be worse than what he’s got going on right now. He thinks he can let Kidd see him at his worst, though, even if it’s reaching new lows every day.
Carefully, he shifts his hand on the armrest to make contact with Kidd’s, just enough that the side of his hand is touching the tips of Kidd’s fingers. Kidd lets it happen, but says nothing.
“I’m…” Killer’s voice is uneven, and he pauses to clear his throat. “I’m…disgusting. I don’t want to look at my reflection. I don’t want my reflection to look at me. I don’t…feel safe.”
Kidd seems to chew on that for a moment. “Can I look at you?”
Killer swallows thickly. He tries to remind himself that Kidd won’t leave him forever, even if he thinks he’s ugly. He nods, but doesn’t make any move to look at Kidd. He’ll let Kidd rip off the bandage himself.
Slowly, Kidd swivels the chair so that they’re facing each other. A hand comes up to brush the hair from Killer’s face. He flinches slightly but lets it happen.
Killer opens his eyes. He hadn’t even realized they were screwed shut. He looks at Kidd’s face for the first time in months. The first thing he notices is that he’s wearing makeup, and that there’s nail polish on the hand hovering in his hair. It suits him. The next thing he takes note of is how Kidd is looking at him. There’s an undeniable look of concern in his eyes, but nothing of horror, or disgust.
Kidd is about to say something when Killer’s gaze wanders higher. A hideous, terrifying vision meets his eyes in the reflection of Kidd’s goggles, and Killer’s blood freezes. He jolts away from Kidd, swiftly turning away in his chair and burying his revolting face in his hands.
“Killer? Killer, what happened?”
He feels pin pricks all along his whole body, and his breath is coming in so short that he’s practically gasping for it. How can Kidd even look at him? Can’t he hear the buzzing?
“Killer…”
He feels the weight of Kidd’s hand on the back of the chair, but he doesn’t dare turn around.
“I’m gonna figure something out, okay? We can solve this. You’re gonna be alright.”
Killer barely registers the sound of Kidd’s footsteps leaving the room, and the sound of the door closing is dull to his ringing ears.
He stays curled up in that chair for the rest of the night.
***
The news has already reached Killer. Victoria is dead. Murdered by one of the older gangs that hadn’t seemed to pose a threat. Turns out their network runs deeper than they thought, and they’ve been spinning a wicked web beneath everyone’s noses. Victoria hadn’t talked to Kidd and Killer for years after the curry udon incident, but even then they were always looking out for her. As they got older, she came around and they had what Killer would call a friendship, though Kidd would like to think more ambitiously.
But now she’s gone. Killer can’t help the seed of guilt planted within him. If he wasn’t so afraid of going outside, could he have prevented this? Dwelling on it won’t change anything, though. They’re no strangers to injustice and cruelty at this point.
Kidd doesn’t even bother to alert Killer’s secretary or anyone of his visit. He shows up unannounced in Killer’s room, again without knocking.
“I heard,” is all Killer says. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor.
“We’re gonna burn every single fucker in that organization to the ground,” Kidd declares. “And I’m not stopping at just the two of us. I’ve gotten in contact with Heat and Wire about a unified attack on the bastards. But Killer,” he steps closer to him, “I need you there with me.”
Killer chews at his bottom lip. He wants to avenge Victoria more than anything. But he’s still paralyzed at the thought of going outside and exposing himself like that. Both sentiments battle for dominance in his head, but neither of them have won yet.
“I…I don’t know, Kidd.”
“I understand,” Kidd says without hesitating, to Killer’s surprise. “I think I have something that might help.”
Kidd holds something out to him and Killer looks. It appears to be a helmet made of some kind of low-reflective material. It covers the whole head, with 12 little holes going down the front of it.
“You said something about not wanting your reflection to ‘see’ you, which stood out to me. So I thought of this as a solution. It’s still somewhat of a prototype, but if you choose to use it, we can work on refining the design even more.”
He brings the helmet closer to Killer, who takes it from his hands. He inspects it closely, mostly out of wonder rather than scrutiny, and then hesitantly places it over his head. His vision goes dark, but the holes provide little windows into the outside world. The visibility is not perfect, but it’s not supposed to be. And within the helmet, Killer feels contained in a… comforting way. It feels like all of the anxiety and paranoia can’t reach him in here, and his mind is blissfully quiet. But he has to see for sure.
Tentatively, Killer looks up, past Kidd’s eyes, to look into the reflection in his goggles. He doesn’t see some horrifying vermin, he just sees…himself. For the first time, he sees himself. Strangely, he feels a sense of identity looking at the image of this helmet more than he ever did with his naked face. Perhaps it’s that he can tell this image was carefully and lovingly crafted by someone he trusts with his whole being. This was created with intention, unlike he had been. Killer feels an overwhelming sense of solace that he can wear this, be this. He’s never felt anything like it.
“So…?”
Killer brings his gaze back down to Kidd’s face. Through the holes, Kidd looks at him with anticipation, consideration, and a little glimmer of hope. Killer has the urge to pull him into a hug, squeeze him in his arms, and rest the cool metal of his helmet on his shoulder. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “It feels great. I think this will work.” He pauses to run his hands over the front of the helmet. “Thank you, Kidd.”
Kidd lights up at that. He lets it show on his face that this is more than just a job well done for him, that this is the key to getting his partner back. Killer can see that Kidd’s practically vibrating with excitement, but restrains himself from doing more than patting Killer on the shoulder.
“Happy to hear it. Now c’mon, we’re gonna need a plan to put an end to these worthless sons of bitches.”
Together, they leave the room that Killer was holed up in for the past several months, walking side-by-side with the goal of spilling blood and taking vengeance.
“You got it, partner.”