Work Text:
Your head hurts like hell, making it almost impossible for you to concentrate on your work. That’s just great. Wasn’t it enough that you barely got more than 2 hours of sleep last night trying to do absurd amounts of math for Harley? (You can still see complex equations swimming before your eyes every time you blink).
You kick your legs up on the countertop of the dead-end convenience store you work at. Some customers stare at your blatant disregard for proper work etiquette, but you don’t really give a fuck. You’re the one ringing up their shitty purchases — you deserve to chill more than they do.
They’re still staring and it’s bothering you a little bit. It only takes a few seconds of direct eye contact over the rim of your sunglasses until they back down and look away.
You never know if they’re intimidated more by your height, freakish eyes, or lack of blinking, but you don’t really care. Satisfied, you look back down at your sword, which you’re currently in the middle of polishing. Huh. It was probably the sword that freaked them out, wasn’t it?
A wave of disgust washes over you, pulsing in beat with the throbbing in your head. Sometimes you forget, how weak they all are. It’s a wonder anyone manages to survive to adulthood in a culture like this.
You feel vaguely repulsed but not enough to distract you from your task. Your sword sits in your lap, patiently waiting for you to finish buffing the edges.
You reach for the stained cloth, but— You freeze, hand just brushing the soft edge before you notice someone reaching out to tap on the countertop. It would be so easy to slice their fingers off, leaving them wriggling on the counter like grotesque worms.
You don't do that, of course, because that would cause more trouble than it's worth. “What.” You snap instead, more a statement than a question.
The person standing there (woman, mid-50s, looks to be a teacher or something, probably untrained in strife specibi: can be taken down with any weapon) shifts back slightly, which makes you a little less tense, but she doesn’t move away fully. Even worse, her face twists in offense at your harsh reply.
You can already tell that you’re going to regret this interaction. Whatever, you can deal with it. This isn’t the first time you’ve been bitched at before.
“Excuse me? Have you been listening to a word I'm saying?"
No. You haven't. You stare at her, expression blank. "The fuck do you want?"
"How dare you speak to me in that manner, young man!” Her voice is shrill and grating. The dull ache in your head increases, as if shouting in response. You grit your teeth as she barrels on.
“I’ve been standing here for-” She checks her phone quickly, and you try not to think about how satisfying it would be to lash out with your sword now that she’s distracted, cutting a nice, red line on her throat. “-6 whole minutes, and you still haven’t rung me up!”
You know you really shouldn’t prolong this argument, but you can’t stand hearing this woman speak for another moment.
“With all due respect, ma’am ,” you let your Texan drawl seep forwards in your voice, coloring the “ma’am” with a healthy amount of sarcasm. “I was distracted, as you can see.” You gesture at your sword, hoping that the fear of getting stabbed by a cashier would force her to just stop talking .
Unfortunately, she seems to have lost all self-preservation skills, possibly due to being dropped on the head as a baby. “You’re not being paid to just sit around being distracted! Honestly, who do you think you are-”
Your head aches so much that it drowns out all of your other thoughts. You stare at the old lady, at the softness of her face and hands (so unlike yours, all marred by calluses and scars). Drops of sweat bead up on her hairline, shining so brightly under the fluorescent lights that you have to blink.
You can't stop staring at her smooth throat or her unguarded side, fingers twitching. It would be so, so easy. The blood would show up so clearly on her light blue sweater. It would be beautiful, almost a work of art.
The worst part is that you’re not even that angry at her. Sure, there’s irritation there, deep down, but mostly you just feel… cold. Frozen, as if looking at the world from behind a pane of ice.
She takes a tiny little step closer and-
You stand up suddenly, all six feet four inches of you, feeling the smooth slide of your sword as it slips off your lap and the even smoother slide as it gets stored in your specibus.
The store has gone very still and very quiet (why is it that people freeze when they panic, a part of you idly wonders. Don’t they know it makes them an easier target?), but you don’t care.
The woman herself cowers back, clutching her purse with both hands.
You look at her - so short and vulnerable, so weak compared to you. You think, I’m so much better than you . You think, I don’t have to deal with this shit. Your shift won’t be over for another 10 minutes, but you’re suddenly not in the mood to give a shit about any of that. You never liked this job anyways.
You captchalogue your polishing cloth and turn away from her, from everyone, and walk out. As simple as that.
You can hear the noise in the store shift from pin-drop silence to an uproar, and you’re certain someone in there is calling the manager. There's no fucking way you'll still have this job by tomorrow but you have some money saved up from your late-night DJ-ing, so you’ll be able survive until you can find a new one.
You don’t regret it. You never do.
But. But there’s always a moment when the adrenaline runs out and you think about how you acted so quickly without thought, like violence is an instinct you have. You think of the weight of the sword in your specibus and how easily you could have hurt someone. How much you wanted to hurt someone. It’s enough to send a shiver down your spine, to make you vow to keep your self-control.
Sometimes, your entire existence seems like a massive joke, wrapped in layers of irony. Dirk Strider, the man who isn’t scared of anything. Except when you look in the mirror and see how much of a monster you are.
You’re outside now, walking back to your car with your uniform slung over one shoulder. You’ll hand it in tomorrow, you think to yourself, when you get the call that you’re being fired. (You never do end up handing it in, stashing it in the back of your closet. Some 15 years later, your semi-son finds it and asks you about it, but by that point you’ve become too hollowed out to give a real answer).
The Texan sun beats down on your back, pulsing in time to the aching veins on your forehead. You feel vaguely nauseous, like you’re coming down with something. You wish this headache was gone. You wish you had a drink.
You get in the car. Your phone buzzes, a familiar pink text, and for a second, you contemplate throwing it out of the window. You’re not in the mood to talk to anyone right now.
Despite the cold adrenaline rushing through you, you make an effort to put the key in the ignition gently. Some people (read: Roxy) may consider your car a barely working piece of shit, but by God, it’s your barely working piece of shit. You’ve spent countless hours tinkering with the engine and making sure it won’t explode at any given moment. You throw it into reverse, swiftly maneuvering it out of the parking lot, and press down on the accelerator.
You need to be home right about now.
You need to be anywhere else in the world.
You know that you're never going to change. You're never going to stop getting jobs and then fucking up because there's something in you that's just wrong, that can't be around other people, that-
A burst of pain and static behind your eyelids. You think about Lil Cal. You miss him so deeply it makes your jaw hurt and its only been a few hours.
Your hand is trembling slightly but you grip the wheel harder until it stops. And you just keep driving on.