No Dogs Allowed

Cruel Gods, Hollow Stars

(ty for readin', this is a v long one as it's packed w/ a lot of things, and the style might be a little stranger than it's been, a more vignette style if you will, so bear with me haha. the little star is grateful for your patience as the update schedule changes, so ty ty ty!)

Mercy had lived for twice the years she looked to have. She had seen some things.

"Wash your hands." She tossed me a rag, it's white fabric going instantly red with the blood coating my fingers. "You'll dirty up this whole place. Ghostie. Don't you know you have to look presentable? People don't trust people who don't even like themselves."

I needed the sink to wash out the death from under my fingernails. I said, "Why are you doing this?" I was sixteen and hopeful. I had seen more death than life and more bodies than people. I had questions. I had no one to answer but her.

Mercy frowned in the doorway. The underground made everything damp and cold, a frigid breeze haunting and intangible on my fingers. The world looked tinted red under her cheap lightbulbs and lanterns.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Wash your hands?"

She knew. "The bodies. The organs. Why?" I said. "You have so many more people who could do it faster, better, than me. Why?" My voice sounded pleading, desperation cracking through in splintering fragments. "Why are you making me do this?"

Mercy blinked like the question was an unfunny joke. She said, "Why not?" I stared. Mercy's grin was fang-toothed, cruel at the seams. She walked over towards her steel-trap boxes of fresh organs and bagged blood. "Let me tell you something you ought to remember, Ghost."

I said, "Don't."

She lifted a heart. I swore I could still see it beating. I gagged in the back of my throat, burying my nose in the crook of my elbow. But everything smelled of iron-bloated blood.

"Your father sent you to me to, eventually, kill you. See you off before your brother has the chance. Give you a quick and nameless death whether you knew it or not. Handsome pay for it, too," she said. "I am not going to kill you. Ask me why."

When I didn't, the thud of the heart in the ice made me jolt. I gritted out, "Why?"

"Because I don't believe in an unfair fight," she said. "I don't think anything should be 'put out of its misery'. Why so? The harsher the hammer, the stronger the steel. It's just not right to not give you a chance."

"What chance?" I said, and showed her my hands. "A chance at being a goddamn butcher and a ghost for the rest of the my life? I'd rather you kill me."

"Then be killed! I give you plenty of opportunity," she drawled. "I'm not trying to keep you alive, Ghostie. Don't get me wrong. You have only lived this long because you wanted to. Do you hate this life?"

"How could I like it?"

She shrugged. "Why is that my problem? I have my own career to worry about! You're a fresh set of hands with a good eye for detail. That's it, that's all. Maybe if you were smarter, you would make a lesson of it."

"Of what? A life?" I threw the rag into the sink. "This isn't a life."

"How do you know a sword?" She plucked the scalpel from the tray and brushed her finger along it. "You have got to know its body. You want a life, Ghost? You should learn how to survive long enough to get one."

"Then let me go."

"Is this thing on?" She tapped the blade against her tongue. "I believe we've covered this already. Aren't you supposed to be the smart twin?"