Chapter Text
Patch never spoke of where they came from. Not because there was nothing to tell, but because the memories hurt too much to recall.
There was a gang that wore orange, bright, garish jumpsuits that marked themselves as dangerous. Patch had been one of them—though they weren’t called Patch then.
The gang called themselves the Orange Marauders.
They had found Patch helpless, starving, and small. The Marauders took them in when they were no older than 7 years old. However, this act of mercy only preceded cruelty.
The Marauders were a group of bandit teens, who thrived on their own chaos, hoping to twist Patch into becoming one of them. They tricked, robbed, and threatened the lives of other kids in order to survive. Sometimes even revelling in their pain and fear for amusement.
Over time, Patch began to stand out for all the wrong reasons. They sabotaged hauls out of sympathy for their victims, urging the Marauders to let them go instead of joining in the thefts.
The Marauders did not take kindly to this. Every interference was punished with beatings and bruises, reminders that their acts of mercy came at a cost. That each interjection meant no food on the table, and no supplies to keep them alive and warm.
The gang put rules in place if Patch were to keep being a part of the Marauders. To never speak against them, for every order to be followed, and that obedience demanded silence.
Eventually, Patch was relegated to base duty: cleaning, cooking, and keeping the Marauders’ hideout in order.
Patch was told not to fight. “You’ll never have the guts,” they were told.
Better to stick to what they were good for. And so Patch learned to obey, to keep their silence, and endure.
In their long hours of solitude, Patch found something—someone—worth caring for.
One day, faint, pained noises came from the thick brush behind the base. This caught Patch's attention, as they crept closer and found a small, trembling fox.
Its fur was matted with dirt and blood. Hunger and pain had left it weak, barely able to lift its head. Patch’s heart ached. Slowly, they reached out, offering scraps of food from their hidden stores, then carefully cleaned and dressed the fox’s wounds with whatever scraps of cloth they could spare.
Each day, Patch returned to tend to it: carrying food, bandages, soft bits of cloth and handmade toys to line a concealed crate behind the bushes.
The fox grew stronger under their care, slowly gaining it's trust enough for it to lean into Patch's touch. In that fragile, hidden creature, Patch found a reflection of themselves: small, weak, overlooked, yet stubbornly clinging to life.
For the first time in years, they felt a sense of purpose, a quiet joy in nurturing something that deserved to live.
Until months later, Patch stumbled upon a sight that made their heart drop. Behind the bushes, the Marauders were gathered.
Then, they saw it.
The fox. Bloodied, its body crumpled on the dirt. The dull thud of rocks striking it echoed in Patch’s ears. The creature made no sound, no whimper, no struggle—just the cruel rhythm of the Marauders’ cruelty.
Their chest tightened as they stood disbelief and horror. They wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything—but the Marauders’ sneers held them in place.
“Look what we found!” the leader called, “Caught dinner.” The leader said as they held the corpse by the scruff.
Patch didn’t speak. They couldn’t.
Tears stung their eyes as they ran back inside. The leader’s words were faintly audible even from a distance.
“You’re such a baby, crying over something so pathetic.”
Their hands shook violently as they wiped at their face, trying to stop the flood of grief that drowned them. They had been careful, hid them where they would never be found, but even that had not been enough.
Their one friend, the creature they had cared for, the fragile spark of life they had nurtured in secret, had been destroyed.
And there was nothing they could do.
Later that evening, the fox was prepared by Patch’s own hands.
The animal’s eyes were unblinking, its canines stained with blood. With a knife, Patch grazed the thin, fragile skin while their other hand gently pulled the bloodied fur over the creature’s head, revealing deep red underneath. The skin came off cleanly. Patch held it in their gloved hands for a moment as tears welled in their eyes once more as they looked back at the board they had set the fox on.
Only to be met with a heap of meat.
This was all that was left.
Nothing more than meat.
All the love and care given to the creature, gone in an instant, reduced to nothing but food.
Patch felt bile rise in their throat. They ran out of the home base, unable to handle what had happened. They ran as far as they could, until they vomited and cried their heart out. Louder than ever before, they screamed into the forest, their voice breaking with the pain in their chest. This was sick, worse than anything. It was death held in their hands. Blood stained their gloves as they clutched at their chest.
It was disgusting.
Not the corpse.
The loss of life, taken in such a needlessly cruel way.
This was all their fault.
No.
It was all their fault.
The Marauders’.
Patch weakly hobbled back to the base that night and prepared the last meal they would ever make for the Marauders.
Patch did not eat a single bite.
That night, Patch snuck into the leader’s room, wearing a pillowcase over their head and a dagger in hand.
There they were, stood over the leader's bedroll as his chest rose and fell.
This was it. They had to do it.
Patch raised the dagger, and went for the kill.
Suddenly, the leader grabbed their wrist.
He was fully awake, aware of Patch’s presence and what they were about to do. The leader scoffed at the betrayal, smug and confident. They forced the dagger out of Patch’s hands and kicked them down.
"I'm not surprised. You were always such a disappointment," The leader confidently walked up to Patch. "After everything I did for you, this was what you planned to do? A disgrace."
The leader grabbed the pillowcase and yanked it off Patch's head, then they gripped Patch by the hair and slammed their head into the wall with a loud thud. Blood from their nose stained the wood.
“Over what? a little fox?! You were left to die, and we were the only ones who cared enough to take you in, and this is how you repay us?”
Patch tried to stand, only for the leader to punch them in the face hard enough that their chest hit the floor. The leader looked to Patch with condescension as he withdrew his leg and stomped on Patch’s upper back, forcing air out of their lungs as they choked in pain.
“You were supposed to be one of us,” the leader kicked Patch on their side, hitting their rib inward.
Patch tried to crawl away, starting to mutter apologies, but the leader aggressively grabbed Patch and flipped them over. The leader put his weight on their chest as he punched Patch hard in the face.
Again, and again.
Each impact worsened their already present bruises, splitting their skin.
“Guess you never had it in you to be a true Marauder,” the leader hit Patch again. "And this is what traitors get!" The leader dealed another blow.
Patch saw the red forming on the leader’s knuckles. The dagger still clenched in the leader’s fist.
"Such a shame, I really saw potential in you."
The repeated blows made Patch lightheaded. They wanted to die already.
Another impact rattled their skull.
It hurt so much.
Please.
Patch took another hit.
They closed their eyes.
"Guess you had to disappoint me one last time."
A sharp pain shot them awake. Something tore and dug into their flesh—The dagger lodged into their chest.
Patch cried in pain. They tried to pry the knife off the leader's grip, only for him to dig the knife further in response. Patch screamed until the noise choked into cries. Sorrowful, apologetic tears streamed down their face.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
The leader scoffed, and leaned in close to their ear.
"No one is around to help." He smiled.
Patch's sobbed as they struggled, desperately trying to kick the leader off to no avail.
"Nobody wants you here."
This wasn't fair.
"and nobody wanted you before us."
Patch was tired. Tired from crying, tired of being hurt. Over and over.
"And nobody will come find you."
Patch felt something flare in their chest.
Not the physical pain, no, they remembered first finding the fox.
There was always somebody to help.
Weak and frail, but it deserved to live.
It didn't deserve any of this.
Patch remembered when the Marauders first found them. Small and weak.
Just like the fox.
Their friend deserved to live a good life, free of fear and suffering.
Being under the Marauders wasn't living.
Not for the little fox. Not for a little kid.
Patch deserved to live too.
They already took their only friend. They wouldn't let the Marauders end them too.
Patch bared their teeth, years of pain boiling over into something angry and reckless. Fear burned itself into adrenaline as they lunged.
Their teeth sank into the leader’s neck, chomping down with everything they had. The leader yelled in pain and tore away, and Patch felt skin rip free between their teeth. A metallic taste filled their mouth.
The weight on their chest lifted as the leader staggered back, dagger in hand. The leader clutched his neck and winced, looking down to see the blood that slicked his fingers.
Patch didn’t waste the moment.
They forced themselves upright, ignoring the pain in their chest, and slammed into the leader. Both hit the floor hard, Patch used their weight to keep him pinned. The leader raised the dagger again for another stab.
Patch caught the blade in their gloved hands.
The knife sliced through the fabric and bit into their skin. Pain flared in their fingers as they strained against each other. Neither willing to back down.
The leader suddenly hit Patch on the ear with their free hand, which rang in Patch's skull as the leader rolled to throw Patch off balance.
The dagger was pried from Patch's hands with a swift slice. Patch winced as they fell to the floor and the leader stood and slashed at them wildly. Patch could only block the attacks with their arms, protecting their face.
The leader’s smug grin twisted into rage, true bloodlust burned in his eyes. The look belonged to a violent predator, one that wanted nothing more than to see its prey dead.
He huffed as he grabbed Patch’s scarred arm, trying to pull it away from their face. He didn’t want to see Patch’s expression after this.
Death alone wouldn’t be enough. They needed to suffer. To be ruined, unrecognizable. A traitor didn’t deserve the privilege of witnessing their own final moments. The leader wanted to gouge out their eyes and cut off their hands for such a betrayal.
The leader aimed lower instead, stabbing Patch in the side. Patch grit their teeth as pain tore through them, their arms dropping as they reached instinctively for the wound. The knife was yanked free, and the leader lunged again, aiming to slice both Patch’s eyes. The blade was only mere centimetres away, slicing across the bridge of their nose instead.
Patch retaliated, striking the leader across the side of the face and standing to disarm him. But the leader had more fighting experience. He drove his elbow into Patch’s face, forcing them back. Patch staggered, struggling to recover as the two put distance between each other.
The two panted, Patch felt nothing but pain all over their body. Their face, arms, chest, and side all stung terribly. But there was still a drive, something within them that wanted them to keep fighting. They kept their eyes on the leader as the two circled.
The leader let out an unexpected laugh, maniacal and twisted.
"You really think you can take me on?!” he sneered. “You were nobody before you met me. And what are you gonna do when I’m gone, huh?!”
He stepped forward, trying to intimidate Patch. Patch didn’t flinch, even as fear surged through their veins.
“What are you gonna do when the rest of the gang finds me dead?!” the leader continued. “What then, genius?!”
His laughter rang out again, reveling in the Patch's hopelessness. Patch kept their guard up. There was truth in his words, truths they weren’t ready to face. Not yet.
Then Patch felt their foot sink into something soft. They glanced down just long enough to recognize their discarded pillowcase face covering.
The leader noticed too.
He surged forward.
Patch reacted instantly, snatching up the face covering and kicking off to the side to dodge the leader. They scrambled back, keeping their distance. The leader huffed in frustration as the dagger struck the wooden floor, lodging deep and leaving a long gash when he wrenched it free.
Patch panted, heart hammering, hands trembling from adrenaline.
The leader looked back at Patch with the same condescending stare he always wore, only now it was twisted into something crazed.
Yet for once, Patch stood tall. They pulled the pillowcase over their head as the leader began to advance again, slow and deliberate.
“Really?” the leader scoffed as they gestured to the covering with the dagger. “You think that old thing’s going to protect you from me?”
Patch didn’t respond. Their eyes, hidden behind the hollow holes of the covering, showed no flicker of doubt or weakness.
Only their clenched fists spoke, bloodied and tight with fury.
Patch moved first.
The leader stumbled back surprised as they rushed him, closing the distance before he could reset his stance. Patch crashed into him, shoulder-first, driving him back. They hit the floor, the air knocked from both of them. Patch ended up on top, knees pinning his arms, their weight finally being enough.
The leader struggled beneath them, snarling, thrashing, trying to bring the blade up again.
Patch didn’t give him the chance.
The leader lunged for another stab. Patch reached for the dagger, only for the blade to pierce their palm. Pain shot through them, but they couldn’t falter now.
Gritting their teeth, Patch clenched the dagger as hard as they could and wrenched it free from the leader’s hand. It stung, but they ignored it, yanking the blade from their own palm and raising it high over their head with both hands.
And brought it down into the leader's eye.
A scream reverberated through the room.
Not good.
Patch withdrew the knife and aimed for the leader's open mouth. With no hesitation, the blade was brought down once more, the leader gurgled on their own blood as they tried to scream in agony. Their voice raspy and hoarse as their tongue was cut in half. The leader flailed and kicked helplessly, but the screaming did not stop.
Patch brought the knife back up, and a wet tear came from the blade meeting the leader's throat, skin punctured as thick red blood spurted from the wound.
The noises still didn't stop. Patch brought the dagger down again, squelching filled Patch's ears.
Again.
And again.
Patch caught a glance of the leader's glare, one last time, his anger flaring in his eyes even as his strength waned. More than pain or fear, it was fury at being brought low by someone he considered beneath him.
Patch hated that look—the reminder of everything they had endured. Even now, in his final moments, he still tried to dominate them. It was the last expression they ever wanted to see on his face.
Patch aimed higher—at the eyes that glared with scorn, at the mouth that spat obscenities. Every ounce of anger, every memory of pain, funneled into one motion.
Patch brought their knife up, and forced it back down. It didn't matter where. As long as it sunk into flesh. Over and over in a blind rage. The skin on the cheeks tore and peeled as it brought muscle and red meat to the surface. The dagger went deeper, again and again.
The eyes were crushed as the lids fell away with the other pieces of skin, sliced repeatedly in it's sockets that formed a bloodied stare. The lips were no longer there as the skin tore to reveal misaligned teeth underneath.
Patch forced the knife down again and again, they weren't counting.
Their vision blurred, tears soaking into the fabric of the pillowcase, smearing the hollow eye holes dark.
All they could see was the fox. Small. Still. Broken.
All they could feel was the weight of hands that had hurt them again and again.
Their hands shook as the motion finally slowed, then stopped.
Patch hovered there, breath coming in ragged sobs. The dagger slipped from their fingers and clattered uselessly to the floor.
Patch stayed where they were, chest heaving as they looked down at the sight before them.
There was no longer a face there.
Just meat.
Nothing but a heap of meat.
Bloodied and unrecognizable.
Patch's forehead lowered until it pressed against the leader’s limp shoulder. Their whole body trembled as the adrenaline drained away, leaving only exhaustion and grief in Patch's chest.
They hadn’t wanted this.
They had wanted it to stop.
Patch cried. How could they do such a thing? Their leader saved them. They were a monster. Everything he did was for their own good. It's their fault. They were sorry it had ended up like this.
Patch held the body in their arms, sobbing into their leader's shoulder as the corpse was unresponsive.
Another death at their hands, blood soaked into their clothes, mixing with one another not knowing who was who's.
Slowly, Patch pushed themselves upright. Their legs wobbled, nearly giving out beneath them. The pillowcase clung damply to their face, heavy with tears.
They didn’t take it off.
You’re going to be okay. I can fix this.
Patch hobbled for an emergency box of supplies in the leader’s room—bandages, alcohol, anything that could help.
Their mind and body felt heavy, like they were moving through water.
You’ll be okay.
Gently, Patch propped the corpse upright, supporting it as they cleaned the blood from its skin with a rag and dressed the wounds as best they could.
You will wake back up in the morning. The sun will be shining, ready for another day.
For several minutes, Patch tended to the body, talking softly, cradling its bandaged head in their arms, recounting stories from long ago. They giggled quietly at memories—silly things they had done together, before everything went wrong.
Patch was about to drift off when a sudden sting ripped through multiple areas of their body. Their face, chest, and arms burned with sharp pain.
Looking down, they saw themselves bloodied and hurt, their clothes torn where the dagger had cut them moments prior.
Oh… I ruined the jumpsuit you gave me.
Patch hobbled outside the room, coming back with their own sewing kit and spare cloths. Some cut into squares, while one was in the shape of a heart. Patch found it nice, so they decided to sew it onto the tear on their chest.
They stayed with the body as they patched up their jumpsuit.
I'm sorry I ruined it. I hope you're not mad at me.
Patch continued to sew, until the last tear was fixed later that night.
Their eyes were heavy, they wanted to sleep.
You're probably very upset with me.
Patch looked to the lifeless body.
I'm sorry.
I have to sleep somewhere else now.
Patch rubbed their eyes from underneath the pillowcase covering, and staggered out the door.
The blood still stained their jumpsuit, Patch cleaned up any mess they could have left with a rag.
Patch held their chest. It was so painful.
They held their arms. That hurt too.
Patch was so tired, their feet dragged on the trail of the forest.
Slower and slower.
Until they dropped.
It didn't matter where they were.
They just wanted to rest.
Patch closed their eyes, and drifted into the cold.