Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Plush
" And I feel, and I feel when the dogs begin to smell her Will she smell alone?”
Stone Temple Pilots, "Plush" (1992)
The way the nurse peeled apart and cleaned his torn skin reminded him, vaguely, of the way he separated fat and sinew from meat before eating it. The smell of disinfectant and sterility, the white walls, the old style of the building's architecture clashing against modern machinery.
"Hold still." The nurse whispered it like a careful order. Trent was too far away to notice she finished cleaning the wound, too distracted to hear the whisper.
The needle pierced above his eyebrow and caused enough discomfort to force his eyes shut.
It didn't hurt, it looked far worse than it was, bleeding way more than a cut that size had any right to. The brow was split diagonally, and the boy's skin, usually sun-toasted, was painted red and purple. The suture closed the wound without much trouble.
"You're going to end up with one eye lower than the other," the nurse's voice finally reached him. She was a dark-skinned woman with tired eyes, thick black hair barely holding together in a bun that fought against the mass of it. Her expression sat somewhere between concern and resignation; this wasn't the first time she'd stitched him up.
"I know Dr. Hynek says young men should behave, but… you can fight back, you know? It's not okay to just stand there and let them hit you."
The disinfectant over the brow stung worse than the needle. A drop slipped beneath his long lashes and mixed with the tears pooling in his eyes. He closed both.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice thick with shame.
The truth was he had tried to fight back. But there were things his young body simply couldn't do. He knew his fists had connected with the bully's face, swinging back every time, but while he took hits that split skin and spattered blood across the courtyard, his own punches landed like pillows. Like trying to hit someone in a dream, he thought.
"Okay, Trent, you're all good. Does your head hurt? Your neck? Anything?"
He shook his head. There was a small pride in that, no matter how many times he went down, he got back up. A quiet satisfaction in knowing that no matter how many times they hit him, he never lost consciousness.
Like Superman against Doomsday in '92, he thought. Almost said it out loud, because a grin slipped through.
"Drink this and go to sleep, okay? The doctor will want to talk to you after your nap."
The nurse switched on the television and sank into her chair, defeated. Her figure clashed with the architecture; she looked like a nurse trapped in the wrong century. She might've fit the scene in a long dress and a coif, not the faded jeans she wore beneath the white apron.
The MTV logo danced on the screen for a few seconds, then Scott Weiland's raspy voice exhaled from the speakers, red spiky hair, singing the opening lines of "Plush," pulling a smile from the nurse, who'd already forgotten the boy was still there.
"Where you going for tomorrow, where you going with the mask I found…"
She crooned along, using the empty medication box she'd given Trent as a microphone for a few seconds, long enough to draw a small laugh from the boy. She looked him up and down.
Tangled hair, dirty with sweat and dust, black, though a few thick grey strands were already scattered through it. The kid was tall for his age. Olive skin, too much time under the sun. He wore a button-up shirt missing several buttons, stained beyond saving with his own blood. His arms were thick, his torso too, he had the look of someone who'd go chubby in months if he ever stopped moving all day and getting into trouble.
"You laugh at me and I'll sew your mouth shut next time."
She pointed the medication box at him like a weapon, though her eyes and her smile gave away the joke.
"Never, Miss Arlette. Wouldn't dare."
He laughed. It hurt. He remembered the inside of his mouth was torn, one of the blows had driven his own teeth through the flesh. His teeth, at least, were fine.
"Alright, Trent, but seriously, try to fight back, or worst case, run next time. I don't want to blow the whole year's suture supply on one kid, okay?"
Arlette was kind sometimes, rough others. A sort of older cousin: a softer authority figure than the doctor, but still someone who'd hand you over to him if you crossed the line too far.
He smiled back at her, and right then something made a noise nearby. A couple of small, unimportant things hit the floor and a tall window slammed shut. The sound was loud enough to put the nurse on alert, she instinctively placed herself between Trent and the source, scanning the room until she was sure there was nothing there.
"Wind. Or rats. I really hope it's the wind… we fumigated not long ago."
She smiled at him.
"Now get out of here, or they'll think you're my favorite."
"I don't think I'm anyone's favorite," he answered, fast.
"Ugh, shut up, Kurt Cobain," she replied, rolling her eyes as she pushed him out of the infirmary.
Trent laughed. Genuinely.
The door shutting behind him, a little louder than necessary, told him Arlette was tired. She'd probably drop into the chair for five minutes, close her eyes, then get back to whatever exhausting task Dr. Hynek had lined up for her.
Trent walked straight down the pristine hallway, walls bleached white, freshly waxed ceramic floors. The smell of disinfectant crawled up his nose and made the fresh wound sting. The people around him looked like smudges of black ink on a wet canvas, dissolving quickly, laughter fading, taunts turning to murmur, worried whispers from adults who no longer mattered to him.
He didn't need to look back. He knew what was happening and who was following him.
When he reached the dormitories, he spun around to face the shadow glued to his steps. Freckles on a face with a smile too wicked to be that pretty, wide amber eyes, and maple-brown hair that could've been in a kids' modeling catalog, if it didn't look like it'd been hacked apart with a razor in the dark.
"Zory, you know I hate lying to Arlette…" he muttered as he opened his door, his face caught between annoyance and sarcasm, eyes narrowed at her, mouth in an exaggerated frown.
The girl stood with both feet planted firmly on the ground, fists at hip height, carrying two small bags that bobbed up and down to the rhythm of some song only she could hear.
"Shut it, fleabag," Zory growled through a laugh.
She stamped a quick kiss on his cheek, then vaulted onto Trent's bed in one jump.
The room was sad in a clean sort of way: white walls, no posters, tiles without cracks, three beds perfectly made. Two bunked together along the wall, one single bed set slightly apart, separated by a metal desk and a pair of chairs. Built-in shelves held school manuals organized by size, and between the textbooks, Trent's comics stuck out, obvious by the difference in dimensions. A pair of cassette tapes rested beside a worn-out Walkman. No trash, no graffiti, no mess, just the feeling that this wasn't a home. After all, the only real entertainment for someone who wanted to stay in their room was reading and music.
Everything else was Zory's department.
"You didn't lie to her," she sang, dropping the two bags onto the separate bed, Trent's. "I did."
The plastic crinkled as it opened: pill bottles, syrups, and injectable boxes gleamed under the white fluorescent light.
"Got benzos, syrup for purple drank, and empty syringes," she listed, proud. "I can sell most of it right here, and the syringes outside, on the street. That gives us enough for whatever we want."
Trent swallowed. He didn't mind going with her to sell pills to the older kids in the hospice, but the syringes, out there, with the addicts, that was a different kind of fear. In here, a beating was just that: fists, knees, maybe a boot to the ribs. Out there, it was easy to imagine a rusty blade between the ribs and no one calling Arlette.
"You can bring your toy if it makes you feel safer. Duh, obviously."
"It's not a toy," Trent replied, automatic.
He kept it hidden with a stubborn, childish resolve, though part of him knew the doctor had noticed it a long time ago.
"Oh right, you took the muscle relaxants," Zory continued, stretching across the perfectly taut sheets, wrinkling and dirtying them with her boots. "Your empty, lice-ridden head is gonna be asleep any second now. And when it does, I'm stealing everything. Even your socks. Especially the comics. Especially the,"
They said it in unison.
"Lobo: Infanticide, volume 1, '92 edition, illustrated by Alan Grant."
Zory exploded into laughter. Trent managed a shorter one, choked by the pain in his mouth.
The truth was he did hide something dangerous. A revolver, to be exact. When he arrived at the hospice, it had been tucked inside the same blanket they found him wrapped in. He thought of it as the last thing left of his parents, he knew it had no bullets, that it was old, rusted, and probably didn't work. But it was still a weapon, and weapons were forbidden in the hospice.
That's why Zory had stolen it back for him. And that's why Trent slept better knowing that underneath all that white, sterile order, at least one thing in this place felt like home. Besides Zory.
"Noah wanted some of those," Trent murmured, gesturing limply toward the pills.
"Oh yeah? Noah's a nerd, and a loser, and he's still cooler than you, so you shouldn't be sending me to talk to him," Zory answered without looking up, rummaging through the boxes with curiosity. "It's dangerous, you could lose me forever."
Trent rolled his eyes and let himself fall onto the bed beside her. The mattress was too comfortable, perfectly stretched, smelling of detergent and disinfectant. The world tilted slightly. The muscle relaxants were kicking in, his gums and head still hurt, but it was a muffled kind of pain, like sinking under warm water. He could feel the pressure loosening in his bones, his muscles, as if his body swelled and then deflated.
Zory curled against his side without asking permission. She played with the broken buttons of his shirt, over the fabric still stained red, soaking her thumb and index finger in his blood and rubbing it between them until it disappeared. She brought her hand to her nose and sniffed it , brief, without reason.
"They really got you this time," Zory murmured, the singsong mockery draining from her voice.
She traced her thumb carefully over the cut on his brow; the swelling made the boy look grotesque.
"Wasn't that bad," Trent said. "You should've seen how the other guy ended up."
"Perfectly fine, I imagine. I haven't seen anyone looking like they took a single punch."
"He's probably hiding. Ashamed I wrecked his face."
"Liar."
"Yeah."
He didn't laugh. Neither did she.
"Who was it?" Zory asked, no detours.
Trent kept his eyes fixed on the white ceiling, the fluorescent light driving a thin line of fire into his good eye.
"I'm not telling you."
Zory frowned.
"Fine. I know what to do."
"Nothing that gets you in trouble, right?" Trent managed, his tongue going heavy.
"Go to sleep. Please."
She kissed his forehead, quick, but not quick enough; she caught herself lingering a second longer than she should have. To keep the gesture from landing too sweet, she covered his face with the pillow and pretended to smother him. The smell of clean cotton filled his nose. Trent let out a muffled laugh that ached through his jaw.
Warm, soft to the touch, the invasion of a different texture, maybe leaves, maybe fabric, definitely fabric, wrapped in dead leather, leather that didn't belong to this prey. It sank its fangs in, the other rows of teeth closing at the same time as the main ones, swallowing didn't hurt, chewing bones was getting easier each time, and the crunch of so many fangs piercing weak skin, separating atrophied muscles from blood-soaked clothes, using that vulgar appendage as a tongue to crush that bolus of meat, hair, bones and teeth before swallowing it down.
The thing beneath had stopped moving and screaming a while ago, and the silence was only interrupted by its grotesque chewing, and the wet, repulsive sound of flesh and fluids dripping from the corners of its elongated jaws. The scarce moonlight between the treetops made the fog look almost like clouds, almost silver, it knew no one would try to steal a piece of its prey, so it devoured the corpse slowly, savored every mouthful until there was nothing left.
Zory ran with a strange kind of lightness, her boots barely touched the wooden floors, the ceramic hallways, even the courtyard that separated the little kids' building from the older ones. That place was actually scary, at least if you were a normie. Zory didn't know how to manage fear: everything was an adventure, anything that kept her away from everything and constantly on course toward something. A new idea, a new escape, whatever. The whole world was her canvas and she was ready to paint it black.
She slipped through the dining halls, passed the training rooms, and picked up the pace when she heard the dull thuds and screeching metal inside. She knew they did more than lift weights and hit bags in there, but she hadn't decided yet whether she wanted to find out what.
Rounding one of the corridors in the older wing, she finally found her prey.
Or rather, the one who'd lead her to it.
Noah sat in his desk chair like a corpse, neck draped over the backrest, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. Light brown hair, almost blond, fell to the middle of his back in a messy ponytail. A half-day beard barely masked his bony features: high cheekbones, sunken sockets, chapped lips, a piercing on the right side of his mouth.
His leather jacket hung from the chair; over his chest he wore an open red flannel, and underneath, a T-shirt from some band Zory didn't recognize but that probably sang depressing shit or stuff about Seattle.
"Little star, little star… what are you doing in such a hostile place?" he murmured without looking at her.
Noah's voice was sandpaper, cigarettes and sleepless nights. A tragedy for someone who hadn't hit twenty yet.
"I brought," Zory started, lifting the box.
"Benzos," he finished, cracking a tired smile. "May every god bless you. How much?"
Zory bit her tongue. She wanted cash, or something expensive only Noah could get. But she also wanted something else, something that had been buzzing in her head since she saw Trent's face, like a small animal that had caught the scent of fresh blood.
She gave herself one more second to think, then instead of answering, she held the box a little closer and pulled it back, out of reach.
"Not for you yet," she said. "First, you talk."
Noah finally pushed his sunglasses up and looked at her. The blue of his eyes was so pale that for a second, he looked blind. He blinked, focusing on her, as if it cost him effort.
"Alright, let's see…" he sighed. "If it's for the kid, Sandman isn't a bad call. Volume six came out this year. The Orpheus story is brutal, way more mature than the little crap he's been reading. He'll probably get lost halfway through, but something will stick."
Zory gave him an empty stare.
"You could also hit him with The Maxx," Noah continued, propping an elbow on the desk, his voice drifting almost into monologue. "He can ignore all the psychological subtext and stick with the punching. And if you want to play it safe and kiddie, Spawn. Came out last year and every little shit is losing their mind over it. McFarlane's a fraud, but hey, not everyone can have good taste."
"Noah, I have no idea what you're talking about," Zory cut in, frowning. "And I'm not looking for gifts. I don't want to comfort him."
He looked at her a second longer, as if confirming something he already knew. He lowered his voice.
"That kind of thing costs more. Easier to get him something to keep him busy and out of trouble."
She clicked her tongue, impatient.
"I need you to tell me who smashed Trent's face in."
Noah let out a dry laugh.
"They made him pretty. Ready for Halloween. Like Sloth from The Goonies."
"What the hell is a Goonie?"
"I'll educate you later, savage." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The edge of his sunglasses revealed more of his eyes, bloodshot and bright with exhaustion. "You know I already knew you were coming."
Zory stared at him. Everyone in their group knew Noah "saw everything." None of them understood how. Something to do with those nights he'd disappear to the infirmary and come back looking like he'd run a marathon.
"Were you dreaming again?" she whispered, the mockery slipping out of her tone more than she intended.
Noah tilted his head, as if weighing whether it was worth the lie.
"Let's say last night I saw today, tomorrow, and maybe yesterday," he murmured. "I saw the blood on the clean floor, saw the little log with his face turned inside out… and I saw what was moving over him."
He paused, pinning his gaze on Zory. His eyes hardened just barely.
"You, I almost never see clearly," he added. "Too many teeth."
Zory shrugged, feigning indifference, though the remark ran down her spine like a cold current. She knew exactly what she was. The rest didn’t, not entirely.
"Love to disappoint, even in your dreams," she said. Then she tossed him the box of benzos. "Noah. Who was it?"
He inhaled slowly, chest rising, and pulled off the sunglasses completely, letting the washed-out blue of his eyes cut through her.
"Bruce. And his little crew, as you can imagine."
Zory stomped the floor, indignant. Her upper lip curled back to bare her teeth. Her hair seemed to bristle and she clenched her fists.
"Hey, easy, John Talbain," Noah raised his hands, disarmed, with a slightly worried smile.
"John what?" she snarled, still fuming.
"Forget it. Next time you sneak out to sell merch, stop by the arcade. You know, if Bruce doesn't break something first. Or worse."
He laughed, brazenly. In his dreams he'd already seen what happened next, and he didn't like it. Truth was, nothing much pleased him, but nothing mattered enough to change it, either. Dream-flesh was far more pliable and bled a whole lot more, just enough for his sanity to misread events.
"He's bigger, and older, and he really shouldn't be messing with Trent." Zory said.
"Honestly, I don't care. Kid probably did something stupid." Noah rolled his eyes, dry-swallowed two pills, and grunted.
"Morpheus stops feeling sorry for Calliope and finally comes to give me a hand," he muttered with a grin, stretching and closing his eyes for a second.
"Your timing's all wrong, Star girl. At this rate, the doc is going to see everything you do, at the worst possible moment. You're going to get both of you in trouble."
She grumbled something, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right, and started flipping idly through the notebooks on Noah's desk. She loved the sketchbook: all done in ballpoint pen, almost no erased lines, mostly hideous monsters, creatures with enormous fangs, shadows, and all kinds of aberrations. They were frightening, yes, but she felt terribly drawn to them.
"I'm not giving you more pills for that prophecy, old creep."
Noah laughed; it sounded honest.
"That one's free."
Noah snatched the notebook from her hands faster than necessary and opened it to a blank page. He started drawing something new, keeping it tilted so she could only catch dark lines, curves, and teeth far too long peeking at the edge of the page.
The other notebooks were boring: one was full of lyrics with musical notes written above them. Zory couldn't tell if they were compositions or if Noah was just learning the lame songs that played on TV.
"Alright, get lost. I actually want to sleep." He sounded exhausted.
"Old fart," Zory muttered one last time.
Then she smiled at him, flashed the peace sign with her fingers, and walked out.