#LOKMAN KATIRCI

[lockekatirci]

LUCK OF THE DRAW.

Location: Butcher’s Street, outside MHR HQ. Time/Date: 13th November 2180. Orders given from MHR & SR.  Closed for: @griftercricket​

Redemption; a concept that’s thrown around in the mouths of the ones convinced petty crimes are such atrocious acts that secure a death sentence; a stolen soju or two as though it’s going to traumatise children before they go to sleep. Put in the same bracket as those who hold icy blades to the throats of the same youths and cut cavernous holes; leave finalising marks that stain the same hands enacting that kind of crime. Redemption becomes such a lie that it seems foolish to ever mention it; to whisper of such promises becomes an insult to those who house regret, sorrow for their mistakes as though they didn’t themselves choose to unsheathe a knife and watch light vanish at the pointed end of something so sharp, it’s final. Redemption’s a manifestation to make those with guilt cheat their way into alleviating it.

Lokman laughs – spits even in the face of the idea and then wonders why he’s the one assigned a supervisor in Kaz when orders a acknowledged and the hunt begins. Concealed is the true opinion of: Nothing goes wrong when Kaz is around, works in your favour. Encourages the chase to come quick – to not be dragged out where Locke can bring it home and earn impressed eyes for being the esteemed hunter among the Renegades. Kaz is the key, really. Though, the prominence of the orders, alive being a particularly notable part of the given command. It’s also the toughest part of it; alive means the likelihood is unharmed. Locke’s not entirely equipped to fit as most suitable for that job.

And then he glances at Kaz like he’s answered the question for himself. Right.

Butcher’s Street is alive with those dispersing, some running with frenzied eyes; covers the fear that easily shows in the sweat lining foreheads, a glisten that sparkles of streetlamps which cast moving shadows at a speed that makes Locke feel like he wants to make a game of the movements; to race the lucky Ace that’s at his side. She’s just as clever as you are, and she’s got luck on her side where you don’t. Katirci knows to pick his battles wisely and to start painting negatively on his name to SR because of a minor nuisance isn’t how a great legacy is to be left. He’s beyond redemption, he craves knowledge; to be known as the man without morals, a shadow in the night that’s worshipped and can bring the world to their knees with just being able to catch a glimpse of him; the hound that hears his name over the sounds of even the brassiest of sirens.

Locke’s boots scrape on the uneven gravel when he pivots to look at the woman at his side, he sucks on his teeth thoughtfully; attempts to strategise an approach that benefits the duo sent on the hunt. All he’s come up with in the two seconds of attempting is:

Fuck I need a cigarette. Rough hands find his jacket pocket, leather squeaks and a cardboard box finds scabbed fingers; obvious slits of a blade leave patches on overworked hands; matches the ones that line arms, chest, back – the rest. He almost expects a comment to come from Kaz’s lips; something snarky that gives him ammunition to fire back; jump into the provocation like he doesn’t have every kind of raging fire to leave burns on her in response.

A cigarette is then propped between pink lips, the corner ticks to form a smirk, eyes watchful on the woman where peripheries note the hasty bodies that vanish in the distance for shelter. The lighter isn’t fast found when he searches the first two empty ones, shreds of curled paper; tossed to the floor, unimportant until he finds another kind of metal he favours.

“We’re taking my bike,” he mutters around the stick, a sputter of failed sparks as he attempts for a few moments to ignite the smoke. It’s a simple fact he’s provided; it’s faster, I’m faster. The cherry lights red and the drag is welcomed, a therapy really, the closest Katirci will ever get. Cancels all desire in murderous fingers when busied with another kind of self murder. His lungs would argue. “Figure with you on board, don’t have to worry about speed, right? Find the monster, bring them here and try not to, y’know, break it,” not that accidents happen with you around, Kaz. A notion that Locke doesn’t quite realise it’s magnitude til he sees it in action; how an impossible feat is dodged; a non-fatal blow that should have been life ending; darkening.

“Streets will be empty anyways, those sirens could shut up at the very least. We get it; message, loud and fucking clear,”

Find the monster, alive, bring it back; how hard can that really be with a luck fuelled, monstrous shadow team? Locke knows he’s the latter of that Frankenstein; thrives there as anyone of his nature would. Katirci exhales, the smoke forms a similar shape as his grin; a tell of where his mind has gutter-balled and eyes flicker to the garage; doesn’t waste time in motioning towards it, wants to be the one known to find the creature and play. Fuck redemption when he can have this kind of fun.

#griftercricket #LOKMAN KATIRCI #[ INTERACTIONS ] #O: GRIFTER CRICKET

[u-jin]

IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci  situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

It’s like an animal bent over prey, a darkened image of a not-quite man bent over a not-quite corpse, a carving knife in one hand, fingers stained red and face sprayed, blood dripping from the ends of his hair as he works in the back alley of an abandoned pub. This, he thinks, is art. He reels back and slices down again, a horrible tearing sound, a dull thud. He leaves his knife protruding for a moment, bare hands reaching into a gaping crevice, past bone, past the squishy, slippery texture of human insides, seemingly searching for something, a growl of frustration. He pulls back again, the cold air freezing the wet texture of his skin, and is stopped by a feeling like ice, a slow prickle running up his back, a sensation familiar to one thing -- someone is watching him.

Then he looks up, red up to his elbows as he draws the knife out of the body's ribcage, the air moving and transforming, a face somewhere in the darkness. He stands slowly, making the shadows writhe and shift around him, the light cascading into the dark, his own person being revealed like a feral dog, eyes wide and face beautiful in it’s stoicism, it’s in freedom from hunger in the one moment after hunting, covered in blood and chunks of flesh. He finds him, a being more wraith than man, appearing as if conjured. The knife hangs loosely in Ujin’s hand, curious and open, he takes several steps towards the shadowed figure, face cast like the undead in the way the darkness hangs over his eyes. He pushes light closer, plays with his own mind in the form of illusions, the slow, clandestine drip, drip, drip of scarlet falling past his arms to the concrete, a mutilated corpse lying motionless in the background.

He’s curious, treacherous, he creates the illusions and yet he isn’t sure if he conjured it himself, sanity sometimes slipping in his ache for blood, his draw to the macabre, then the light reveals a face and he realizes that it cannot be a creation of his own because he doesn’t make beautiful things. He draws closer, eyes narrowed, knife heavy in his fingertips, something in the back of his mind saying that he must take this one too, that he has to reap every last creature he sees, he has to devour, consume. He can’t stand the sight of something that appears so clean despite the way the blackness clings to him, something untouched despite the intensity in his stare, but there is no fear, not exactly, instead something that looks as starving as he is, and Ujin wants nothing more than to slice him open and chew on his bones.

The shadows are domain to the beasts and the butchers, and the man appears well at home, he steps closer, eyes molten gold and tinged velvet, narrowed and curious. Who are you? What can you do for me? How he loathes pretty things, hates those that mirror himself, delicate features and dark dispositions, is it possible to be this empty? This angry? He sears molten lava, mouth spitting ash, the ground rumbling with the tightening suture of an oncoming storm, a building intensity in the locked stare of two monsters, two unholy creatures, one caught feasting in his right and the other a watcher, an onlooker, an uninvited guest.

His head turns carefully to the side, his mouth opens his mouth as if to speak, reaches out as if to touch when behind him there’s a clatter, and he turns, paranoid and sharp. He sees a rat scurry from beneath a heap of trash and just as quickly he turns back, greeted with only the image of a brick wall and, for a moment, he appears thoughtful. Eventually his tongue clicks behind his teeth, as if this occurrence was nothing strange, as if performing for an audience of one. He still feels the presence nearby, but worse things have burdened him, far worse has happened, and he turns back around, head cocked and smile returning, wild and wrathful. Another monster in his midst, one he does not recognize, one he’s surely meant to hunt. The features linger, transparent, almost crystalline, not solid or definable but just as vivid.

He’ll be back, he decides, before drawing his knife up and returning to his art project.

AND SO RETURNS HELL HOUND ( @lockekatrici ) , WATCHING FROM THE SHADOWS:

Through static darkness; suspended in the shadows like an invisible fly on the wall; obscured by all living creatures, Locke almost becomes the dead in the way existence no longer stands tangible. Only the nearly inaudible breaths whisper his presence in amongst the night and he’s simply watching. It’s not clear how much time has passed, but in the veil, there’s a weightlessness that keeps time as an illusion; a figment of reality that no longer cares for such trivial cogs in a clock. Not even the metal hands under the steel of Katirci’s watch can attract his attention when such a display of vehemence captures his admiration. A sickening snap echoes; evidence of tendons tearing from tissue, an explosion of liquid bursts from the hacking of meat where silver carves deep, splits open the disfigured animation like a fountain and allows arteries to spurt red and paint the streets in colour. Like a mosquito that pierces with the same necessity to thrive; saps life; energy from a being, a strange obsession with needing to inch closer starts crawling under Locke’s skin. It’s as though that craving for a knife to cut open his own flesh overpowers reasoning; he wants to be in the place of the canvas currently being maimed to forge a new entity. It evokes a memory, the harsh sound of bones cracking a small boy’s shoulder blade in youth; a wail that’s fast silenced when another comes down and drives deep the venom that in elder years swarms the man’s veins like a parasite; a poison that builds him to something beyond becoming ruination.

He’s the god of the night and deities like to be seen; worshipped and offered sacrifices as favoured by most sentients; Lokman as a divinity is an image formed entirely of delusion, though, diluted by his own deep rooted belief he is greater than his own beasts.

Because he stares in awe at the one before him; sees everything in the hues of the man – if he could be called such a thing, the frenzied ghoul that appears to be the reaper of offerings; such a beautiful thing that Katirci’s own false illusion of playing silent spectator falters and he steps out to meet the other; as if only to see his face close up, marvel in the features that are blessed with the sangria that peppers warm skin, melts down perfected features; a jaw that even belonging to something with ferocity; untamed in the actions of the blade he holds can only belong to something of primal nature. Would you take my hand if I wiped red from your face, if only to see deeper? A madman’s misconception, because he already sees it all.

And above that, the stranger sees him. A kind of outlandish stare that’s a myriad of perplexion and the hunger behind the man’s eyes; matches Locke’s own if only by a single shade, so he believes. There’s no shift of eyes to the knife in the other’s hand, knowing that Locke’s own is sheathed in the rear of trousers; a personal measure, opposed to that of protection. For a moment, both men are still, admiring each other and any third eye could assume a standoff, but it’s nothing of the kind; there’s only a drawn need to the grisly and Lokman’s lip ticks in one corner, not as a taunt, but as an unorthodox manner of greeting. It might have been as prominent as firing a bullet, the only shift that begins the shift of the two that’s evident past the two heaving chests that indicate they’re alive.

An abrupt clatter of tin resonates, tears the other’s gaze away, offers Lokman opportunity to disappear; create a new diversion in the beams of black that shape inconsistent waves between the pub’s alleyway. He’s become a ghost again; once more opportunist, stealthy in becoming absent to the other who’s own speed is admirable. But it’s never quite fast enough, he can see the momentary flicker where lowlights project amber street lights over the features of the stranger. It could easily be a dream manifested from hauntings; memories that plague Locke’s head from years prior. But it’s far too real, he can sense it like a false sixth sense that is all in his mind, the need to still capture a streak of red on his own fingertips if only to become closer to the man; so Lokman can be seen by him as Katirci plays witness to his misdeeds.

Then, like it never happened, the brief encounter of two monsters in the dark, the other begins hacking at the mutilated mass, unhinged and ignorant perhaps to any ghosts gracing him. It seems so pitiful to be disheartened, that Locke’s not accustomed anymore to feeling forgotten so swiftly in situations with such merciless intentions. The stranger’s got something better in the dead in front of him. A demon in the rear of Locke’s head, coaxing lies; truths? Into him like sweet pumps of that delicious poisonous venom he’s drowned in.

The briefest emotion, unrecognised – entirely unfamiliar; so fast to fleet from his body like a powerful force uses him as a conduit to another world for just a split second. More so that it’s such an old feeling, he’s forgotten what it’s like; rejection; being unknown once more to the person he’s spent perhaps hours staring at in the mists for the other man to only see him for seconds.

Unlike the stranger who’s hijacked his thoughts; all rationality – if there ever was any, Lokman does not forget such a moment and there’s no denying the bloodied face that he’s memorised isn’t the last painted picture he’ll leave with; a promise. He’ll be the ghost that haunts the man.

#ii. headcanon #ft. hell hound #blood // #death // #gore // #mutilation // #lockekatrici

[lockekatirci]

WHEN GHOSTS COLLIDE.

Location: Million’s Square, side street.  Time/Date: 13th November, 2180. Not long after orders received. Closed for: @ghcstmcth​

It’s a poor idea to shoulder the belief that Locke has anything melodic inside his head; something that negates the thirst for knowledge and the criminalistic creeds that place him in a particularly virulent of positions. A harmonious rhythm doesn’t find home there even above the scars of horrors that do take up residence in the crevasses of brain matter and skewed neurons. Sirens that reverberate from every street, building and sentinel assisted vehicle do penetrate through; the only kind of sound that earns a tip of Katirci’s head, cigarette between calloused fingers lowering as though the sound is a momentary inconvenience. An opportunity is more fitting a descriptor. It’s an easy order – at least in the sense of understanding; approached like a job, failure seen as weakness is any regard. But a game of chase to Lokman that appears to have potential to end in red. Last resort, only, Locke. The sliver of a loyal soldier to SR that reminds him that he can still find the fun in hide and seek. A grin that’s a little too wide splits the opening of his face to reveal tobacco stained teeth; an off-white, yellow tinged shade that deters most from approach; but never stops them looking.

He’ll pretend it bothers him; but craves their eyes whether it’s absent adoration, unimportant. Fear still means he has a legacy; a name.

A man with a memorable one; known to the underworld by notoriety; off-kilter and barbarian in some ways, though, hidden in the stealth and grace of shadows that provide a mystique that isn’t quite matched anywhere else. Well, perhaps by a couple – those who he hasn’t entirely pieces puzzle pieces together of, yet; the rest of the Renegades. Whilst the dials of Katirci’s mind crank, he’s discarding the smoke against a brick wall, pressed like a squished accordion, grey ash marks the bricks and he lets it fall; crumpled, used. The grey mist from his sly grin breaks through the cracks in teeth; the slow wispful escape of a beast inside, fighting for escape.

It’s released when he turns to see the panicking crowds that desperately search for a haven of their own. Dispersed like ants fleeing a boot that’s come down on them, crushes hope and reminds them how breakable, squishable they are; how they run in fear when that sound screeches through the roads of Ilbern and evoke the cortisol response in all.

Orders are flexible, just as he expects the Madhouse to have spread fast through the lanes and alleys on the hunt for the monster let free. There’s an envy there somewhere, because the attention to be seen; Ilbern on guard from something without a name; a face, but is spoken in the mouths of all. Once more Locke, alive. He knows; doesn’t ever forget.

He steps into the road, boots hit concrete and a hand naturally reaches for the rear of cargos, the cold of a blade a comfort, curved fingers tease to slide and split flesh; like a fuel he doesn’t admit to anyone. A reason to begin the pursuit of the monster that’s leaving carnage in its wake; admirable, if only to Locke himself, a quiet approval.

It’s the sirens that confuse senses, takeover one of the five and deafen even the most perceptive of entities. Leave the other four on overdrive to somehow pre-empt the world around them. A ripping of tyres; a overpowering scent of burning rubber slaps those in the streets with a nauseating aroma – unless they’re accustomed to the more foul of things, it’s probably quite pleasant. But, Locke’s only just catching it over the blaring that rips through the town on the beginning of his hunt, and as though the only response if to become the ghost, the mechanical structure that barrels at speed carries a shadow on its left side like a monster it cannot detatch. He moves, flickers like a glitch in the matrix to stumble to the rear of the motorcycle; misses being taken out by the metal bike hurtling at him.

“Fuck,” quiet, unasked for through gritted teeth when he whips around, same dangerous fingers wrapped around the hilt behind him. It’s another second for another sense of sight to fully kick in, recognises the person skidding like a racer in the heat of finishing as champion of a street – ah, Locke knows. The visor of the pristine helmet worn is open, the glint of the woman’s eyes unforgettable and the tension once coiled in stiff muscles ease, breathes a laugh like it’s the most amusing of situations.

“Speed racer not only fallen from her podium, but has found pleasure in running rampant in the streets to take lives of innocent civilians now, I’m kind of envious,” the jibe is said lighter than it’s implications and Lokman’s met the glorious Astrid; found comfort in the ghost that’s his soul partner in playing in the acts of shadows, but hers, light where his is shrouds.

But there wouldn’t be any shadows if there were no sun to cast them.

“Where you running off to, Astrid,” a tease, tongue sliding along drying lips where cigarette smoke sticks like a slick layer of tar, “it’s not because you’ve seen a monster around, is it?”

#ghcstmcth #LOKMAN KATIRCI #[ INTERACTIONS ] #O: GHOST MOTH

[lockekatirci]

LOKMAN “LOCKE” KATIRCI

ROLE: Hell Hound CHARACTER’S NAME: Lokman “Locke” Katirci AGE: 28 GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cismale / Bisexual FACECLAIM: Alperen Duymaz

[trigger warning for: blood, mild gore description and continued implied abuse from skeleton]

HEADCANONS: 

·         A thumb drags away from serrated metal; a clean protrusion opens for crimson to ooze from the fleshy tear. Lokman’s hand rises to his lips, quick tongue laps up the spillage like he might miss a drop; wasteful. Iron against the roof of his mouth; harsh reminder of where he came from, what he once was compared to the man he is now. Taste of defeat; of weakness reminds him that hell was once his and where he once was a demon; a spawn, expendable. He’s instead the devil’s personal hound, risen through the ranks and where metallic honey sticks to the roof of his mouth, fuels him like an aphrodisiac. He will not forget; for that means he can forgive and Lokman will never lose sight of what the own blood on curved lips means. Not long apart from a blade, secured at the rear of cargo-like trousers and it’s shine dulled.

·         As all that have a twisted mind; deluded over time where lies to oneself become so believable that there’s no longer a line to cross. Blurred to ash and burnt away is morality, no niggle in the mind for pity upon prey. Katirci blends through crowded circles in Butcher’s Street as though he isn’t privy what’s beneath; perhaps he isn’t, truly? That his knowledge that it houses a second place that accepts the youngest child who frequents Million’s Square like the monster he is; fast fingers, scabbed to gain bare necessities; hired by benefactors to enact a perverse kind of justice. He redirects simmering rage into creativity; and his favourite colour’s sangria.

·         A mind that works overdrive requires amble distractions, previously negated, Lokman’s mind flourishes in collecting tendrils of knowledge; absorbs it like a sponge and drags somewhat desperate eyes across inky paper; reads every historical word on crinkled pages, throws them away when finished, never keeps them. Always remembers their contents and where trickery is his element; mastering the forever growing need for knowledge is as impossible to sate as his wits.

SAMPLE PARAGRAPH

Profligate fingers draw marks against delipidated brick, darkening mahogany stone stains murky streaks when thin layers of flesh peel off fingertips. Lokman’s skin absorbs a strange comfort in the shadows; embraces it like a friend who’s never able to part with him. Yet the familiarity tinged in brisk air remains so different in every bated breath exhaled; the prominent aroma of carcinogenic cigarettes lingers in the atmosphere; hooked in by constant regeneration of exposed tobacco. It’s haphazard in its method, following the scientific laws of diffusion and how it swarms to fill each empty crevasse; spreads white wings of mist to swallow bodies in its choking hold. The alleyway of shadows offers a home Locke’s never possessed; he couldn’t grasp it then, found resentment in mistreatment and on this intangible turnaround, the shades of night that light obscures remain as untouchable as ever.

But he doesn’t mind this time; tells himself that even though he wishes beneath the cold underbelly of his soul that he desires, it provides the skin trace that such physical needs require; that masochistic desire that sits in the hidden depths stays hungry, but only bloodied fingertips induce it to surface.

Accustomed to the cold of Ilbern, the paved streets beneath heavy boots are the only tell of Lokman’s presence when he treads through narrow alleyways. Natural to vanish in the darkness, assimilate in others, swift; presents a danger that brings notoriety to those that know of how it’s abused. Eyes of the monsters cannot look away, won’t blink – only then to miss the ghost in the darkness and along with that, other precious artefacts vanish. Appendages clean cut; a brutality that’s bubbled over and spills that alluring red on twisted streets, leave marks as permanent as inky tattoos on skin.

Like legacy – one that’s born of malicious and agonised hatred, it’s something to leave behind. The attention that Lokman craves for his work. Old scars smear rough skin, remind those wandering eyes of the world that jagged edges come with Katirci’s criminalistic ideologies. Necessity for fear; a survivor of more than just the outside world. The carvings that Lokman looks at; cares for that serve as stark reminders of how the inside world moulded him so far past the new one and that encourages those looking too deep about how such a man manages to forge a path of destruction in his wake.

Then they look at those scars, and they know.

Infamy comes in just as many forms as legacy; history and to him, the driving force of pursuit to the one thing not so easily bartered in even the underworld of Ilbern. Where such trivial hunts for yearning fulfilled comes an irrevocable knowing that it’s not bought like the falsified need some can front. There’s no buying being wanted and beneath the curved grins and silver-tongues jibes, he knows only a true tortured soul would pick up fragmented pieces of twisted morals. A rage that sits below the surface, constantly utilised to enact savage chaos and brutality where it had once been forbidden in a room of eight.

If he were in a new room now – another dozen sets of flesh and bone, he would exist to be the last man standing. Nobody had suspected him then, only scarred the silent ghost as it built walls of rebellion around its soul.

Still a ghost, only Katirci will not be cast aside and discarded. He will be known to all as the reaper; a name in the mouths of even the farthest and holiest of men. Lokman knows well the brittleness of existence and expects the look behind fearful hues when the criminal hands puncture bone and break ivory. He’ll whisper:

“To bleed is to feel,” in the ears of the unsuspecting, as though one would be like him and as virulent. From within shadows, insanity can be found; a mind so dangerously clever, Locke’s spent years learning how to quieten and watch through obscured visions. “Tell me what it’s like,” an order so lost in its meaning that it’s never answered before the light in eyes departs. Though, if it were to ever be countered, he’s not sure he’d recognise the words that leave trembling lips. Because with all those wits, the smarts and the learned information quickly acquired, he’s never been asking the right questions.

He traipses through narrow gaps in slick bodies; a definition of seen by many but not seen at all. Locke doesn’t see them either, lets only the slow trickle of the scratched fingertips be the tell amongst crowded places that there’s something more in the ghost that walks among them. Gone in one moment, appears elsewhere in the next; haunts and makes those ones adore him for such clever mastery of the persuasive arts.

Hidden in the depths of Millionaire’s, a rickety sign; neon and shameless is nailed into those mahogany bricks flags Locke’s destination, a place beyond petty theft; too aware of a residence to permit crimes like arson in its walls. All that dare venture, know what it is; and Lokman craves the looks they give him when he steps inside, wooden door slams against the rear wall when he heads inside; an entrance that isn’t shrouded. His heart is steady against ivory ribs and the thin layer of sweat that beads at his hairline is as slick at the smile he wears on wicked lips. Like a golden cape draped over his shoulders, he laps up every eye that turns his way, visualises how the place now is his in the new world; haunted to still compare to the one locked in a cage at the back of his mind.

But you’ll never forgive and forget, will you Locke? It’s the one side of his Cerberus head, coaxing the aide-mémoire into him.

Lokman orders a drink, figures well deserved when his opprobrium doubles as notoriety and the same dark eyes that shift around the room with a confidence unmatched is every telling tale of how everyone knows Katirci by name, understands what it represents. But none ask about the crimson that stain shredded fingers. The devil’s hound winks, like a bullet fired: “Have you ever thought of the consequences of a man who’s had to wait too long for his drink?”

#[ INTRO | APP ] #LOCKE #LOKMAN KATIRCI