REAPER ─ kaz brekker

fifteen; dead girl walking

Onyx Reinsing was murdered that night, and a young girl grew into a monster that was said to hide beneath children's beds and in their closets, waiting for the right moment to strike. Onyx Vissier was born shortly after, and the wake that followed her was marked with bloodshed and strife, of loneliness and neutrality. Though if the Onyx Vissier that had started that journey of lonely neutrality could see the Onyx Vissier of today, she would've wept. And in some ways, she did. The loss of her neutrality felt like losing a piece of herself, of who she'd built herself into being. And of course, it was Kaz fucking Brekker at the root of the cause. It always was.

They approached an abandoned, burnt out linen storehouse deeper into the district where stadwatch patrols were still present, yet at a lowered frequency. The warehouse district was one of the most secure places in the city, but there were still gaps in patrols, blind spots where laziness reigned supreme, and shadows to hide wicked deeds within. Onyx appraised the building. The windows were busted in the lower floors and the bricks that surrounded them were covered in a thick layer of soot from a recent fire. She was surprised it hadn't already been cleaned out or razed into new building entirely. It was only a matter of time. 

Kaz picked his way through the simple padlock at the backdoor, and they entered into the lower story of the storehouse that had clearly taken the brunt of the damage. The smell was still fresh. Perhaps not even a week old. The climbed up a mostly intact staircase to the third floor, where Kaz led them into a stock room. Bolts of linen were piled up high against the walls, largely undamaged, though soot marked the floor in a telltale path from the door. 

"Oh, what luxury we've found ourselves in," Onyx commented, lifting herself up onto one of the stacked piles of linen bolts. They weren't terribly comfortable, but anything felt better than a stone floor and restraints. She leaned her head back against the wall. "How long will we stay here?" 

"You'll stay here until sundown, at the earliest," Kaz answered. He produced a tin from beneath one of the old sewing machines nearby, as well as a silver flask. He tossed her the flask, then held out the tin. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but you're quite a conspicuous criminal at the moment, Miss Vissier." 

"'At the moment,'" she snorted. "I've always been a conspicuous criminal, Mister Brekker." 

"The scene on the Stave will change things for you."

"I know." 

The silence between them lingered. Onyx traced the edge of the tin with her nail, feeling with the minute dents. Kaz adjusted his grip on his cane. He was still watching her, dissecting her, trying to pull her apart and fit her into a lock that he completely understood and knew the mechanics of. What was it, that he wanted her to say? And what was this tension, that hung in the air like the smoke from the very same fire that ripped through this storehouse? The last time they'd spoken, really spoken, was before they'd even made it back to Ketterdam. 

"I had a brother," he'd spoken.

She remembered the way her stomach had twisted. "I had parents." 

Now, she had the urge to finish the story-- to freely give away the context Kaz was missing in the equation that made up her shadowy past. But that was one thing that made the Reaper who she was, barring a neutrality that was blown to bits now. No one really knew where she'd come from. Some of the stories said she crawled straight out off the canal, others said she was the bastard of a forgotten Barrel boss. No one knew that a fire in the Zelvar District almost ten years ago was her origin story. For all intents and purposes, her family never existed. Pekka Rollins and the Dime Lions made sure of that. 

Onyx turned her eyes out the window, desperate to escape the silence. She could see the edge of the immigrant settlements from here, and in the distance, Sweet Reef and Sixth Harbor. Maybe it was because she knew now-- Onyx knew what she felt, after that startling, pathetic fear had crept up on her as Van Eck was poised to break her arms. Some part of her loathed it. She loathed the way her eyes would habitually search for his now, or the way her stomach twisted when she would find his gaze already on her, waiting. And the other part of her -- the girlish, wanting, stupid part of her -- wanted to sink in to the feeling and let her soul be devoured in it. But Kaz Brekker? Why Kaz Brekker?