He expects the worst because that’s what he knows. A bullet lodged in his brain or a knife in his eye or a hand around his throat and a kitchen utensil in his ass, inevitably he’s reduced to gristle and bone and a jpeg on a forum somewhere. Sweaty guys like him trade thumb drives of his cracked open skull under tables in the Costco food court. If he’s lucky, if his death is really brutal, maybe he becomes the subject of a shock site. Maybe SHORTDUMBFAGGOTGETSVIVISECTED.MOV will be the vid that freaks like him talk about for decades.

Hopefully the title will be catchier.

A comical amount of locks are undone on the other side of the door; the snappy clicking slices his fantasy to shreds. And then it opens, letting free an overwhelmingly thick and stifling ambient air that floods the hallway, coating the walls and lapping up against his cheeks. A guy follows close behind the humidity. Piercings, dermal implants, chains and studs and all that weird shit. He stands unbothered in the doorway, texting one-handed on what is most certainly a burner cell phone. He nods without looking up.

“Yo.”

“Yo.”

“You here for—“

“Yeah. Yep.”

“Cool.” He flits his eyes up from the phone. “Oh. Uh. You’re not like a… a minor, are you?”

The two of them stand awkwardly.

“I’m 29.”

This does nothing to soften the awkwardness.

“You’re, like, really short.”

“I know.”

“What’re you, five-three?”

“Five-five.” He reaches for his pocket. “Do you wanna see my ID?”

The guy recoils. “Eugh, no.” Finally he pushes open the door a little wider and steps to the side, inadvertently putting his tasteful Family Guy shirt on display. “Come on in.”

“Cool.” He comes on in.

The room, a sort of mid-construction foyer, is pretty dark. There’s a nightlight plugged in right beside the door, and its tiny light bulb is working overtime to fill the copious empty space. No furniture in here, but there is a fridge wedged into a corner that looms like a menacing, humming monolith. Paint cans and trays, boards of wood, lots of exposed wiring. Contractor bags everywhere. And that musty, humid air.

Family Guy locks the door behind—it takes a minute—then he gestures for him to hold his arms out for a pat down. He obliges, and Family Guy takes his time squeezing along his skinny limbs, feeling up his concave belly, asking him to open his mouth so he can poke around with a penlight.

“Cool,” he gestures down the hall. “Show’s inside, stay in your seat, keep your pants on. If you gotta rub one out you gotta do it in the bathroom, a’ight?” He says this very matter-of-factly, very chill and routine. There seems to have been a mistake.

“Uh… I’m not here to…” It suddenly sets in just how few details he actually has. Dumbfounded, he scours his brain for the last messages West had sent. “I’m, uh. Baltic? Sent me?”

Family Guy does a cartoonish double take.

“Oh.” It’s like he’s doing a slide puzzle in his brain, getting all the details in order, and then it suddenly clicks into place and his face lights up. “Oh shit! What’s good, man?” He clumsily daps him up. “Sorry about that. I’m on double duty tonight. Got my wires crossed. It’s Newfag, right?”

“…what.”

“Baltic told me some guy ‘Newfag’ is coming to pick up the stuff.” Family Guy pulls out his burner phone, boops a couple buttons, and turns it over to show him the text exchange. “See? ‘Newfag is on his way.’ That you?”

He would rather it not be. 

“Uh. Apparently.” As long as it doesn’t stick, who cares.

Family Guy smiles. His front two teeth are chrome. “Newfag. Sick. Newfag.” Then he gestures to himself. “Dimi.” He laughs. “Newfag. That’s funny.”  Family Guy Dimi does some more clicking on his phone, the tones and the buttons fill the otherwise eerie quiet of the room. “Yeah, Baltic’s the man. We used to work at Dunkin Donuts together, we’d do whippets in the back and shit.”

Newfag nods stiffly. “That’s cool, man.”

“Yeah, he’s the best.” Dimi winces when his phone makes a series of sad beeps. Newfag realizes he’s playing a game on his phone. “Kinda surprised when he hit me up, though, ‘cause I haven’t seen him in maybe a year? What’s he up to these days?”

He remembers West’s stern instructions. Don’t mention me and DON’T mention the game. His blood runs a bit colder with the realization that he has to lie. It’s much more daunting when someone can see his face.

“He’s, uh. He’s not doing much, y’know?”

Dimi nods with a fond chuckle. “Yup, same as always. He still with that girl?”

Newfag’s breath gets stopped up in his throat. His eyes desperately dart to the ceiling. Maybe the answer’s up there.

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah.”

This time Dimi shakes his head, sucks through his teeth with disappointment. Fuck. You fucked it.

“Never liked her.” He volunteers.

“No, yeah, no one likes her.” Newfag agrees, and Dimi laughs through his nose.

“Straight up.”

Nice. Live to see another day.

The test is cut short by a loud text alert, and Dimi reluctantly exits out of his game. He reads a message quick, then presses a final button and slips his phone into his back pocket. “Yeah, so Newfag, my guy is actually a ways out still so it’s gonna be a sec before he gets here with your stuff.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, holiday traffic or whatever. But you can chill here in the meantime. We got Four Loko, you like Four Loko?” Dimi meanders over to the fridge, opens the door. In the light Newfag can now see that the Peter Griffin on his shirt is wearing Joker makeup. “Oh, scratch that, someone took the last one. We got some PBR or half a blue Gatorade. Or,” he extracts something from the crisper drawer; it’s stout, veiny and dusty, some kind of root vegetable maybe, “the fuck is this?” Dimi holds it out to Newfag for an answer.

He pulls them both back on track. “Wait, so. How long until your… guy gets here?”

Dimi is smelling the mystery vegetable. “He didn’t say. Shit’s crazy going in and out of Philly right now, so maybe an hour? He just left.”

“He just left?”

“Like twenty minutes ago. What’s those things you buy in Animal Crossing? Parsnips?”

“Sure.”

“This a parsnip?” Dimi points to the vegetable.

“Maybe.”

“Who the fuck brought a parsnip here.” Satisfied, he tosses it back into the fridge and shuts the door. Newfag can hear it thump around inside.

“What am I supposed to do for an hour.” He demands.

Dimi doesn’t acknowledge his stress. Coolly, he sticks a thumb down the hall, into the dark. “Y’wanna see the show?”

His mouth curls; he has a secret. Newfag’s brain twinges with something familiar—a promise of depravity, maybe. A prod at some seedy underbelly. Here he was in a derelict apartment building, in an abandoned parking lot. The kind of place he’d read about on forums, seen in grainy camera phone videos. Never experienced in person. He would be stupid not to dip his toes in. At least his pinky toe. And something in Dimi’s eyes promises it’s good.

Silently, almost meekly, Newfag simply nods. Right answer.

Dimi gestures for him to follow, and with gentle considerate feet they make their way down the hall. He can hear his heart beating, swishing around his sickly blood, pumping it through to his ears and cheeks and—regrettably, habitually—his crotch. The anxiety doesn’t quite connect in his brain and his nervous system rejects it, but bodily he’s rife with anticipation. Dimi takes a look over his shoulder. He sees the manifestation of Newfag’s excitement and laughs almost mockingly. Newfag’s blood pumps harder.

Finally, after an aching eternity of following, they arrive at a door. Presumably a bedroom. Newfag’s brain projects screenshots of worn-out mattresses, DIY bondage, duct tape over mouths, bodily trauma. He could almost pop at the thought. Dimi quietly reminds him again of the rules, though his voice can barely contend with the static in Newfag’s ears—something something “seat”, “keep… pants on”, “bathroom”, “rub one out.” He idly nods. Dimi’s reflective smile cuts through the dark. He cracks the door. Newfag’s pulled inside by a magnetic thrall. 

It takes his eyes a second to adjust—the light in here is bright, almost aggressive, and the handfuls of acetaminophen’s got his vision sort of spotty. Slowly the colors balance, everything levels out, and he can see now that he’s not alone in here. Sat packed in uncomfortable folding chairs are a handful of men, most of them middle-aged, all of them sleazy-looking in one way or another. They’re watching something intensely, something obscured by a curtain that Newfag can’t immediately make out. He takes a tiny step into the room; a couple of the men turn to acknowledge him but most are too absorbed by the show. There’s a tough hulking guy in the corner with a shaved head and a permanent “don’t fuck with me” scowl. He doesn’t watch the show. He watches them.

Newfag hesitantly takes a seat, closest to the door and furthest from any other living thing in the room. The chair groans dramatically under his measly weight, and the man in front of him glances over his shoulder. His eyes wide, rife with embarrassment. Then he quickly turns back around. Back to the show.

He’s settling in now, into the uncomfortable metal chair and the weird production lighting of the room, and he finally notices a voice. Something weak and a little childish even. It speaks softly and it speaks constantly, like a conversation but strictly one-sided. Newfag shifts his whole body over, to see past the sweaty flushed head of the guy before him, and finally he tunes into the show.

There’s a pane of plexiglass; it separates the men’s side of the bedroom from the other, and there are some holes drilled through sections to let sound travel. The restricted area is somehow even brighter, all done up with ring lights and big bulbed lamps. A webcam is set on a desk in the middle of the space. There’s a monitor beside it. And then a big plush bed, unmade, littered with moving boxes. There are boxes everywhere–huge and full of random crap.

And among all of this is a girl. Tiny and skeletal and delicate. A huge head bobbling on a wire frame, her skin is translucent and it clings to her bones, and when she moves, her musculature strains beneath the surface. Her eyes are painted so black they’re essentially two huge holes in her face. Unresponsive, tired. She’s in some Hot Topic get-up that her body can’t fill out, so it just kind of hangs pathetically–a corset and a tiny tutu, striped stockings that keep drooping down under her knees. Every time she adjusts her outfit, one of the men in the front row gets especially fidgety.

Right now she’s sitting and talking, but the men in the room with her don’t exist. Rather, she’s chatting with the monitor; she’ll pause every so often to read something, sometimes she’ll laugh, though the gesture seems to physically pain her. She acts happy, almost stupidly ignorant to the severity of her malnourishment. And this whole scene would maybe feel pretty innocent, if not for the blinking ankle monitor wrapped snugly to her leg. 

Eventually her voice gets louder, like she wants the rest of the room to hear her now. She brings herself to her feet and her joints creak audibly, her tendons straining like they could snap any moment. Some of the men nod their heads in silent encouragement.

“Okeedokee,” the girl leans over the camera, offering a straight shot down her corset, “I should probably stop goofing off so much and start unpacking. I have a lot of unpacking to do.” She hobbles over to her bed, places a spindly hand on one of the boxes. Scrawled across its face is LAIKA’S BOOKS.

“I should unpack my books first. I have so many of them, and they’re so heavy.” Laika tiptoes her way across the floor, her huge shoes clomp against the laminate so she sounds like a newborn horse, all gangly and uncoordinated. She taps an empty bookshelf, then turns back to the audience. “I need to move them aaaaaaaall the way over here.” Her black eyes dart from the monitor to the bald man keeping watch over the room. He nods once, sternly. She nods back, once. 

“Ohhhhh-kaaaaay.” She goes back over to the box. “Let’s move the books!” Laika tries her best to fit her angular body around the corners of the moving box. There’s no good approach, since the box is huge and she’s so so tiny, but she keeps trying. All the while she’s grunting and moaning.

“Okay. I think I got it.” Her arms trembling, she finally finds the strength to hike up the box, and she clings to it desperately as she accepts more of its weight. Her back arches in, her neck grows vascular and her face red. Just holding it in place seems to be taking everything she’s got, and then she tries taking a step. There’s a moment where her knee bows, she rolls her ankle and it makes a queasy pop. The man in front of Newfag is gripping the seat of his chair with white knuckles. Everyone seems a little excited at the possibility of the girl snapping in half.

Despite the misstep, Laika barely reacts. She regains her composure, finds her weak footing and tries again. One step, then another. Her body squeaks like an unoiled automaton, her movements just as jarring and unsettling. “Almost there,” she huffs, though in actuality she’s maybe only made it a foot across—the men in the room nod in dumb agreement.

“Keep it up, babygirl,” says a guy.

“Break your fucking ankles,” breathes another.

“Good,” is all Newfag manages.

She’s so weak. It’s pitiful. That’s the point. All of them, even Laika, know that’s the point.

These guys, these perverts—of which he is one—get off on suffering, and they’ll take it however they can get it. Doesn’t have to be anything bloody, doesn’t have to be so on the nose. Sometimes it’s caked in gore and other times it’s done up with ribbons and pastels and laced with a lethargic apathy.  No need to ask what the soup of the day is. Soup is soup is soup. Warms you up, leaves you satisfied. Makes you cum. Something like that.

Laika’s reached the bookshelf, earning some muted applause from those who think she’s earned it. And of course she doesn’t react but her body moves a bit uncomfortably, like she’s embarrassed, just now aware she’s being watched by actual humans. She’s a deer in the headlights. A deer with worms and prion disease. Her buggy black eyes dart over the monitor to behold the men in the room with her, from one to the next to the next, and she lands on Newfag—someone who, at least to her, looks like he might offer empathy. Maybe some help. She looks scared and desperate and she opens her mouth but nothing comes out, her eyes well with tears that never fully burst. It’s like he can hear her begging, help me, let me go, I’m not safe here, and he imagines jumping up from his seat and forcing his way through the audience, breaking through the plexi and grabbing her, grabbing her little body, she’s so tiny, and what he does next… what he does next…

Newfag lurches forward suddenly, unwillingly. His hand is shaking as it reaches out and grabs at his neighbor’s shirt. The Bald Man across the room points, makes a noise that isn’t quite a word but still plenty commanding, and the guy in front of Newf turns to look him in the eyes. He seems appalled by what he finds.

“Bathroom,” Newfag gurgles; his spit thickens, gets heavy and sweet.

Everyone is turning and staring now, none of them know what to do besides stare, some of them mouth agape. Newfag doesn’t wait for directions. He pushes out his chair from underneath him and it clatters loudly and then he’s out the room, down the hall with his hand dragging across plaster to feel for a doorknob. He’s coughing, he can’t stop it, he has his lips pursed tight but he knows something’s coming, maybe the Tylenol is back with a vengeance. He opens the first door he finds, flicks on the light—he’s never felt so grateful to see a toilet—then drops onto his knees. He hurls but nothing comes up, just dry heaves he can’t hold back. His body sweats and his stomach cramps, it’s trying to make something happen, it tries to puke again and this time something churns, but Newfag refuses to give up his poison so involuntarily. He slams the seat down, one hand on the lid and the other clamped around his mouth, he swallows the saliva coating his teeth, then again. Pulls off his glasses. Heavy, shaking breaths as he hangs his head, spit dribbling down his lip, what the fuck is happening to him. Some deeper breaths maybe?

A moment. Placid stillness in this filthy bathroom.

The nausea subsides.

He opens his eyes, his head between his knees, and notices that he’s hard.

Change of plans.

He doesn’t even move, doesn’t even unbutton his pants, he stays right where he is, shaky hand down his boxers and whips it out, he spits the slime from his mouth into his palm and goes for it, his breath picks up, he immediately thinks about Laika because her struggle is undoubtedly what got him hard in the first place, he keeps going and now he’s thinking about Dimi—wait, fuck—thinks about Laika, her flat chest and her rib cage, he thinks about the bald man and when he pointed at him, commanded him like he would a dog and Newf is on all fours and he wags his tail—fuck, Laika’s baggy stockings slipping down her legs, his fingers shoved up inside her, blood, Dimi’s chrome teeth on his cock, pierced tongue, Dimi bites down—Laika underneath him and he grabs her little arms and has her against the wall, her black eyes look scared, she opens her mouth but says nothing and what he does next…

His release is pathetic, a couple coughs of cum into his hand. His head’s still between his knees and he sits there, catching his breath while his dick goes soft, his spit hanging in vile strings from his chin and onto the tiled floor. Wrung of all the fluids he had, he’s as satisfied as he can be. He forgets he’s not at home when he wipes his hand on his pant leg, doesn’t think twice about it, grabs his glasses, and he stuffs his junk back in his boxers before pulling himself up with help from the sink. Now he washes his hands, though what’s the point, who knows, whatever.

The mirror shows him Newfag. Newfag looks upon Newfag with disdain; it’s mutual. For old time’s sake he smiles. His mouth makes that weird wet sound–chapped lips pulling over pale gums. The smile is almost convincing, maybe. 

He glances over his bifocals, studies his eyes. Wide, dilated pupils, barely an iris; all swimming in sickly yellow scleras. His skin is yellow, too, he notices. He remembers the disgust with which everyone in the room was staring at him and it makes sense now. You’re dying, he tells himself. You’re supposed to feel scared.

He’s right. The clocks are ticking. How embarrassing would it be to drop dead before even fulfilling his promise to West? A guy he’s never met, whose opinion of him inexplicably means everything?

Newfag puts his jaundiced skin on the backburner for now; he swings open the bathroom door and immediately shrinks when he sees Dimi waiting outside.

“Sup, bro. Like the show?” He smiles knowingly; Newfag sees his reflection in Dimi’s teeth and wants to explode.

“Oh. You bet.” The queasy pang in his stomach returns and he swallows it down. “Uh… hey, have you heard anything from your… guy? Recently? Like, he give an ETA or–”

Dimi steps past Newf into the bathroom. With the door still fully open, he flips up the toilet seat, undoes his belt to piss; Newfag keeps his eyes above the shoulder. “He’ll be here soon as he can, man, I promise. You know how crazy people get on the roads around New Year’s.”

“Sure,” Newf stands awkwardly in the doorway, “it’s just that, y’know. It’s getting kind of late.”

Dimi shoots him a cynical glance, kind of sizing him up. “It almost your bedtime or something?”

“No,” Newf straightens his posture to look taller and less like a child.

“Look, man,” Dimi flushes harshly with the heel of his boot. The chains on his pants clatter against the toilet seat, “there’s nothing I can do about it, y’know? If it’s taking too long for your liking you can find another plug–I won’t be offended. But our shit’s good and we’re good for it.” He washes his hands, rings and all, and wipes his hands over his shirt. Has Joker Peter Griffin been smoking a blunt this whole time?

Newfag follows Dimi back into the foyer; an anxious little chihuahua. Something like desperation is bubbling up inside him, gnawing on his sickened liver, telling him to come up with something quick. He can’t be late and he can’t leave without West’s stuff.

“Okay, maybe there’s something else then?” He offers, and he tries really hard to seem collected while he says it. “Something similar to… uh. Whatever it is W–Baltic wanted.”

Dimi doesn’t bother looking up from his phone at this point. He’s quiet, tapping at buttons, pointedly ignoring him.

Newf deflates. He’s going to do something stupid.

“Okay, listen…” he looks over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone. Then he pokes an eye in the peephole to make sure they’re really alone. Okay. Stupid time. “I’m playing GeoCatch tonight.”

Dimi feels the anxiety radiating off Newf but doesn’t get why. In fact, he laughs a little.

“Okay.” He seems unmoved. “You and everyone here.”

“Okay, but…” Newfag doesn’t want to elaborate further but Dimi is stubborn, willfully ignorant. “Ugh, and. I need the ‘stuff’. For it.”

Dimi sighs with exhaustion. “Dude, the stream doesn’t start ‘til 3 A.M. Even if he doesn’t get here before midnight, you’ll have enough time to get high and fill out a bingo board.” His phone rings, a gracious relief from the conversation. He gives Newf a glare to excuse himself as he flips open the phone.

This sucks. Newfag doesn’t know what time it is but he knows it’s late; his ride is probably down in the parking lot waiting. He imagines West, a mysterious shrouded figure—wide shoulders, strong jaw, bat ears (?? He’s picturing Batman)—standing impatiently in a window, a clock ticking on the wall. The thought is mortifying.

The anxiety overtakes him. He rushes Dimi, his instincts tell him not to but he can’t resist stressing the importance. “Dimi, man, listen. You don’t get it, I’m doing the Catch.” He stares him down with his ugly yellowed eyes. “I have the Catch and I need the stuff for the Catch.”

The air runs cold. Dimi freezes, phone to his ear. The voice on the other end is still chattering but he doesn’t know what to say, even what to do. He hangs up.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not, and listen,” Newf whispers desperately, “listen, I can get you in on it. I can give you a cut. If you help me out.”

Dimi stares. “You. Have the Catch.” Something dark overtakes his eyes.

Regret drowns Newfag’s body in an instant. He tries to shake his head, tries to erase his mistake, maybe he can convince him he was just joking. Dimi snarls. Newf sees his cowardice reflected back at him and he shrivels like a raisin.

Fuck.

He takes off down the hall, he knows he fucked up and he’s affirmed when he hears Dimi bounding after him, his boots bash against the laminate floors and they’re gaining on him. When was the last time Newf even ran? When was the last time he fucked up so royally he ran for his life?

He doesn’t know where else to go, the ideal would’ve been to bolt out the front door but there’s all those locks, not to mention Dimi blocking the way, his eyes suddenly flooded with hatred and hunger for Newfag’s newfound value. The hall’s so dark, he only knows the one way, so back into the room he goes, blinded again by all the lights and the men and Laika staring at him. He gestures to the Bald Man desperately, maybe he can fight Dimi off for him, remember what a good boy I was for you before, Daddy? He’s halfway through the sea of folding chairs, horny men darting out of the way for fear of catching this guy’s jaundice or his crazy, when Dimi slams into the doorway.

 He points a finger.

“NEWFAG HAS THE CATCH!”

A moment; the men stare at one another—Laika’s mid-conversation with the computer monitor—the Bald Man’s locked eyes with Newf and realization dawns on everyone all at once. 

Bald Man draws a gun from his jacket, and the others in the room follow instinctively, all of them aiming at one another with their various smuggled weapons. Dimi pulls out a pocket knife and feels immediately underprepared.

“The fuck, I patted all of you bitches down!” He yells, and it’s like a battle cry, some magic word, because the Bald Man pulls the trigger and Newfag is knocked back, fine red mist and down feathers bursting from his shoulder, and then all hell breaks loose.

Everyone’s shooting at everything. Plaster rains from the ceiling, bullet holes riddle the plexiglass and crack the divider in a million directions. Dimi goes down, his head cracks open like a melon and slops blood, brains, bone across the floor. Guys are stabbing each other. One bites another’s arm before a third shoots them both in their stomachs. Laika is screaming on the bed for it all to stop, begging to be let go, covering her eyes with her hands and trembling pathetically.

Newfag has the wind knocked out of him, he’s on the ground amidst a pile of metal folding chairs, brittle and bleeding profoundly and yet surprisingly alive. The havoc around him is distracted, most everyone gunning for one another to get to him first—all he has to do is get up and out of there. He crawls, his bullet wound throbs but thankfully there’s still no pain, just weakness; he can work with that. Across the floor he goes, all the while more men fall around him. Some scream in agony but insist on holding on. Others thump over and never get back up. His fingernails dig into blood-soaked carpet, Dimi’s lifeless eyes ogle him in permanent shock as he nears the doorway. All he has to do now is get down the hall and he’s safe.

He clutches his shoulder, blood spurting through his fingers, and with his weakened hand he grabs the door jamb. An involuntary groan grinds out his throat as he pulls himself up. And a moment later, his foot is yanked out from under him and he’s knocked flat onto his belly. His jaw cracks against the laminate of the hall, bottom teeth over top teeth. His mouth fills with bitter metallic taste. It all happens so fast and his vision is muddled with stars, he can’t even fight against the Bald Man grabbing his skinny ankle, pinning him to the floor.

“Where is it,” he hisses, guttural and Slavic. He forces his gun into Newfag’s temple, his knee right between his shoulder blades. “Where is the Catch?”

It’s almost like he doesn’t want an answer, because he bashes Newf’s face into the ground again. This time he can hear his nose pop. 

The pain is all dulled but fuck is it overwhelming. His head can’t settle; he hears his brain knocking against his battered skull and not much else. With his throat stopped up with blood and mucus he can’t really speak. Even if he could, he wouldn’t give up so easily. He tries to wriggle free but Bald Man’s weight is overbearing. The gun digs further into his forehead.

“Tell me where is Catch, faggot boy.”

Newf can sense the tension on the trigger. His body bristles; he digs his nails into his palms and his fists against the floor. He’s ready to fight.

Instead, he’s bashed face-first into the laminate again, the entire weight of Bald Man collapsed over his back. A moment later a box thumps onto the ground and spills its contents—a bunch of bricks. Scrawled across the cardboard is “LAIKA’S BRICKS.” Okay.

Newf uses all his scrawny might to roll himself over and behold his savior—all ninety pounds of her, bloodied and exhausted and amazed by her own Herculean feat.

“Holy shit,” Newfag wheezes. Under different circumstances this would probably make him hard. No time right now. Laika offers out her hand to him, the two of them grasp arms and let out equally pathetic cries as they help each other to stand. When she lets go, Newf’s shoulder squirts out an embarrassing stream of blood.

“Sorry.” He pokes his finger into the wound to plug it. Laika’s too deep into shock at this point to react.

“You have to get me out of here.”

“Okay.”

The two of them step over Bald Man bleeding out through a huge crack in his head, and over Dimi’s ground beef of a brain, their feet sliding on excess gore as they hurriedly limp down the hall. Newfag fumbles with the gaggle of locks on the front door, and Laika keeps looking over her shoulder expecting an ambush. But they make it out, down the stairs (Laika ditches her impractical shoes after rolling her ankle a few more times) and then finally, finally out the exit.

Newf’s heart pounds in his ears and his throat and everywhere. The fact that they just made it out of there is insane; he almost wants to laugh but doesn’t know how to make the sound.

Laika does laugh. She bursts through the door and instantly she starts giggling, high off adrenaline and freedom, and she opens her arms wide to welcome the cold air as she runs into the parking lot after him. 

It’s invigorating and heartwarming. It only lasts a moment.

One step further into the world, and the shitty ankle monitor on Laika starts blinking, beeping. It’s so shrill, and it echoes endlessly across the lot in a harrowing warning. She pulls her leg up to examine the bracelet, and when she realizes what’s happening she tries to pry it off, her breathing getting frantic. Newfag hears her hysterics and he slows down. Helplessly, he reaches out a hand to her. She guns it again, hand extended, her black eyes melting down her face as she cries and panics. There’s a final beep, elongated, almost mocking.

Then the anklet detonates.

Newfag watches Laika’s leg split, her bones splinter and shatter into grisly debris and a cloud of shrapnel. Her foot goes rolling, she’s left with a jagged bloody mess beneath her knee, and it all curls over onto itself when she inevitably loses balance. Instinct kicks in. She holds out her arms to break her fall, but she’s so little and delicate that when they meet the asphalt, her elbows cave in–Newf can hear her wrists break, her anguished gurgles, all of this in a split second before her face meets the ice, her neck snaps unnaturally. She leaves a trail of blood as she skids over the parking lot, ice and rock grinding her face to sinewy pulp.

Newfag stands there in the quiet aftermath. Just kind of amazed. 

Maybe a little hard.