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Getting shot by someone as low as a dust scavenger wasn't the fiery flash of light party poison had imagined they'd go out in.
Not a glorious or cinematic death. Not important or theatrical. Just a slow, sticky ooze of blood from the wound punched in their stomach. The shot was made with an old-fashioned metal gun. A metal bullet was now lodged somewhere deep inside their body with hardly any hopes of removing it without seriously screwing themself over. Not even the dignity of a self-cautering balster wound.
Dying hurt far more than they'd expected.
Sand clung to their sweat-slick skin as they lay sprawled i the dust on the outskirts of the market. Killjoys were a very selfish people. The crowds didn't care about the body slumped against the market walls. They had their own lives to worry about. No one recognized the so-called face of the killjoys. Just another loser getting blacked out in the morning. Just another loudmouth getting what he deserved.
Poison pressed their hand against their stomach, shiny and slick. Blood poured through the cracks in their fingers.
Pretty soon, better living patrol vans would dive down the long stretch of highway searching for any poor soul they could put down. Pretty soon, poison would be too weak to run.
Poison sat, half upright and leaned against the wall, blood pooling thick and dark beneath the. Every attempt to move sent a shock of lightning up their spine. Their attempts to stand were fruitless as their legs refused to obey them. All they could do was sit and watch the sun tick across the sky as they died in the most humiliating way imaginable. A pathetic sight. Their red hair plastered across their forehead with the effort of staying conscious. Their breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps.
They were going to die.
All poison could do in what would be their final moments was curse themself for their stupidity– for picking that stupid, pointless fight over a can of food. For not walking away. For their stupid ego. A preventable end.
The distant growl of engines rolled across the desert, growing louder as the sound of rubber barreling down the highway grew closer and closer.
Patrol vans.
They cursed the witch for letting this happen. For letting them live long enough to remember this.
A single white van sped down the cracked asphalt, the grinning logo on the side mocking poison. The driver spotted the slumped form of what is clearly a killjoy. The figurehead of the rebellion couldn't run, lying wrapped like a gift. The driver broke hard, and the back doors creaked open.
Poison forced themself to sit up, swaying slightly, their head swimming and blood drying black on their sticky stomach. They tried to muster any level of intimidation into their body. Forcing a fire back into their trembling limbs. They instead shook on their weak arms, betraying themself.
A heavy stride. An unmistakable gait. Fear shot down their spine. The broad frame of the exterminator korse emerged from the van. Poison almost scoffed at how cruel the universe's sense of humor was. Sweat dripped down their pale forehead.
Korse stopped as he approached them. A few feet away, with his boots planted firmly in the dirt. He studied poisons weak form. Scrutinizing like a vulture weighing up roadkill from the branches of a tree. The recognition and pleasure in his eyes heightened the sick feeling in Poison's gut.
“Well,” he drawled, a faint, cruel smirk curled up his face, ”what a pleasant surprise.”
Korse took another step closer, nudging Poison's leg with the toe of his boot. Paon exploding up poisons the body. They grit their teeth and bite down a whimper.
“A present all wrapped up just for me? Why party poison, you shoukdnt have.”
Poison wanted to throw up. They didn't humor him, focusing too much on ignoring the pain. The hand pressed firmly to the ole in their stomach itched with dry blood.
But korse didn't shoor. Not yet. He would never make it that easy. That's dignified.
Poison let out a surprised gasp as strong arms slipped beneath them. They didn't have the energy to struggle as they were lifted effortlessly in a grotesque parody of tenderness. Korse held poison in a bridal carry, ignoring their weak struggles. The dead weight of their body hung heavy and incoherent, exhaustion and blood loss leadened their limbs. Korse held them tight and close, like something precious and broken.
Poiso spat up at him. The motion caused more pain than it was worth.
Korse only smiled.