#O: GRIFTER CRICKET

[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