bam

he kicks out, hands scrambling against the cobblestones under him for purchase, he thinks he might have hit his opponent

bam

the world darkens and spins,

bam

he struggles to grab at anything

bam

he might throw up

bam

he's flouting, head busted open on the rocks, limp and deadweight. his attacker is dragging his jeans down, and he wants to tell them to stop. he likes this pair - its hard to find pants that fit him.... he barely feels the knife that nicks his calf when the pants get tangled in his shoes and get cut free.

's'op..' he whines out

hands close around his throat, squeezing, lifting him up before

bam

he'd been torn open, face shoved into the rough bags of trash with each thrust

he doesn't know when he passed out but the world comes back to a vague sense of up and down

there's a loud bang, metal door being opened. and he's being lifted up, thrown over a railing or ledge. the way he lands knocks the wind from him. then he's being tipped, legs tossed over after him and he hits the trash pile in a daze.

he's heaver than the bags, the pile eating him alive, pulling him down. something hits him - his cut jeans thrown in on top of him.

he tries to reach out, but his right arm just sinks deeper. his head pounds too much to try and turn, face down and suffocating.

out side the dumpster, there is a striking of flame, a match being lit. it's held to the match book until the whole things catches, before causally being tossed in with the rest of the trash. it lands in a crease between shirt and jean burning steadily down, until, at last, the fire catches on the cloth.

it burns quietly in the empty street.

"Found another kid in the trash today.."

Bodies in the trash was common enough for this island, but Athair had thought he'd made it clear that his turf was not a dumping ground for anybody else. "Another heaps kid or one of mine?"

"Heaps."

Athair groaned. Really, was it too much to ask that people not bring trash out of the trash pit into his turf to throw it away on his door step. The Heaps belongs to no one; it was free game down there. But leave it there.

"Figure out who's doing this and get them out of my city. By any means." He was so done with people disrespecting him.

"They tried to cover it by burnin' it this time; The fire was the only reason we noticed in the first place."

If this asshole burned Athair's city down because he couldn't keep it in his pants, Athair was going to string him up by his own guts, once they caught him. "Fire get put out alright?"

"Yeah, stayed contained in the trash pile. But ah..."

The body. Damn. He'd need to send a cleanup crew then.

"The Heap kid's still alive."

Gross. Those things were diseased and disgusting already. How anyone would want to stick their dick in that was beyond Athair. Maybe burning it was an improvement. "Dump the whole mess in the Heaps and be done with it."

"Ceannard thinks the kid might pull through."

So what? "So what?"

"I think he wants to keep it."

Athair waved his hand in annoyance. "As long as it gets its shots and I don't have to see or smell it." He turned on heel to leave, "Kill whoever is disrespecting me, and dumping his trash in my streets."

He..

He didn't hurt anymore.

Before, before it had stopped hurting and he just felt heavy. He'd been force... forced down. Smothered. Beaten and Violated, hands around his throat, pressing pressing pressing.

He'd been so happy when it finally went dark.

But then the light came back, at least around the edges. He still couldn't see, couldn't move, but he felt himself being lifted and dropped. Fall pillowed by bags or trash, softer and kinder then the trash that he spend most of his days hiding in. The bags shifted with his weight, swallowing him up. The smell and plastic pressed in on him, face down, he couldn't breath, couldn't even choke. He was sinking down, swallowed whole. He tried to push away, his right arm slipping down, but his left was free. He tried to claw his way out, hand clasping at air.

Clasping at fire.

He was drowning. He was burning.

Punch up into the fire. Sink down into the dark.

Burn in the sun. Drown in the garbage.

His arm screamed, he couldn't tell if it was there or not. He tried to push free, right hand sinking into the dark but he pushed up enough to get a lungful of burning putrid air. His back and scalp screamed and burned. He fought harder in the fire.

He lost the fight. He lost.

It was over.

He was flouting.

There as a hum in this place. A life to this place. A warmth softer than the heat he'd died in.

There was a clean speckled ceiling above him, a light covered in frosted glass. No dirt or webbing clung to the corners, light even and soft. The air was dry and sterile smelling, no life or story, no breeze.

It hurts to swallow. Like his throats been scrapped raw on the inside, crushed and broken on the outside. It hurts to breath, like his lungs are full of cotton and his ribs are smashed down into him. His stomach, his guts, his legs. Everything hurts.

Except his arm.

He can't move his head, its bound too tight with bandages and so stiff that he can't even glance out of the corner of his eyes, his vision ending at the bridge of his nose, the left side blacked out completely.

Killer frowns. He's no longer so sure he's dead.

He lifts his hands up into his line of sight, his right comes up easy enough - its been wrapped. His broken wrist and fingers are splinted, the busted knuckles covered in clean gauze. His left doesn't respond at all. He can't turn his head. He can't feel his arm...

He finally reaches over with his right, his sense of touch is muffled by the gauze and splints, but no - no it's okay. His left arm is there. He drags his wrist over until he can see - while his whole left arm is wrapped - unlike his right, these bandages are soiled and needing changed.

Killer forces himself up - its an infirmary bed, simple and bare. He's been stripped bare too, except the bandages and the light blanket pooling at his waist.

Nothing is familiar. He doesn't know this place, he doesn't know how he got here.. and..

Someone is coming.

He heaves himself off the bed, legs unsteady as he stumbled to the door, throwing himself flat against the wall behind it. It wont give him much of an advantage, but there's no where to hide, not enough time to flee.

"I can appreciate your will to live, but you will not harm another one of my men."

Killer snarled where the man held his fist, the broken scalpel falling from his useless fingers.

"I'm Ceannard, Boss Athiar's second. You owe me, therefor you owe him, for your life. If you want to keep it, You'll fall in line, kid."

His face fell. Shit. Kidd. He had to get back to Kidd. He had to get out-

"You already belong to one of the Bosses?" Ceannard asked, his tone mocking. When Killer said nothing, he scoffed. "That's what I thought. What do they call you, anyway? They bother giving names to Heap kids?"

"Killer."

Ceannard looked at the body on the floor. "Yeah. I believe that."