Kréme / Driller Oneshots

Tremmors (Slave)

I haven't updated this series in a hot minute

Balance.

Being in control of your weapon required balance. For a knife to lay swiftly in your hands, you had to be still, calm, and connected. Fear broke the connection forged with a weapon, fear ruined control, stole the peace, the steady hand that held it.

Killer's hand was trembling.

The tremors were subtle, hardly noticeable to the untrained, naked eye. But he could see it. It sent ripples through the surface of the blade, balance frayed. Dream had healed his fingers tremendously, but even a master of healing wouldn't be able to reverse the force of a blade splintering every bone in his hand into hundreds of fragments. He felt as if he'd been given a prosthetic, and had only one day to learn how to work it before he'd be thrown into the Paralympics. In essence it was still his hand. The hand that had won him many fights, and crowned him top fighter in many tournaments. This hand had been responsible for Dream expanding his territory by 23%. It had done so much, yet it had only taken one fatal blow for the future to crumble, left as ashes on the floor to be swept away.

Clenching in a fist, he gripped the knife tightly, expression fowl. He should have been better prepared - he'd trained himself to ignore Lust's hypnosis, he'd learnt the signs of it taking effect and how to shake them off. Yet he'd fallen for it nonetheless. His failure to do so had resulted in the possible loss of the tournament. If that happened who knew what would happen to him?

Dream usually threw away his fighter slaves after their first loss, finding a better one to succeed him next year. He'd only been excused from that fate because he'd won twice before, and Dream knew his potential. He had to impress this year, or he might be thrown back on the streets. And he couldn't have that.

It shamed him to admit, but he'd got used to the life of luxury that came with living by Dream's side. He had three meals a day (each of which were so obscene that the old street-wise him would have most likely thrown up if tasted). His bed was soft and his blankets warm, a huge contrast to the concrete floor and wooden platforms he used to curl up in when on the streets or in a cell. He had access to the best weaponry across the continent, with craftsmen making custom knives exactly how he wanted them. Dream allowed him to order whatever knives he pleased as long as he trained wit he them. But admittedly he had a few stashed in his room that had never drawn blood or sliced bone. They were too pretty. He liked to take them out sometimes, lie them on his pillow and simply admire them. If he were kicked out that would all be gone. No more meals. No more bed. No more knives. No more anything.

He'd go back to being a rat on the streets, his fame and title stripped from him. Perhaps he'd hear of the tournament, listen to people rave about Dream's newest fighter, his newest trophy. The idea made him feel sick, because without Dream he was nothing. He liked to think he was his own person, someone with a sense of individuality and authority. But he was nothing more than a meagre street boy with skilful hands who Dream had upgraded to royal standard. As easily as he gave him all these luxuries, he could take them away with a cruel click of his fingers.

He had been so focused on his own worries that he hadn't heard the door the the room open. He didn't notice the two presences behind him until a cold sneering voice cut through his mind. It was cruel, somehow almost darker than Dream's. Deep, smooth, dangerous.

"You're shaking, boy."

His fingers snapped tighter around the knife, neck twisting to glare at the figure that loomed over him. It was him. Nightmare. He had watched him tear a fighter apart into a bloody pulp with those tentacles two days ago. King Cross had never once been on the champions board, yet all of a sudden he'd spent almost the entire GNI of his kingdom on a creature straight out of a horror film. Now suddenly he was in position for one of the top three. He unnerved Killer. He hadn't had enough time to process his fighting style - it was hard to predict when he had six limbs to tear into you. He could fight him next..