When Coke woke up the next morning, his face was throbbing, and his arm was throbbing, and oh God, everything hurt and he didn't know why.
He groaned as he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. His bare chest was slick with sweat, sticking to the damp sheets.
"Nightmare... Again," he panted, peeling the sheet away from his clammy body.
The same nightmare plagued him every night. Every time he closed his eyes, a blue-haired Saber stared back at him. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt a stab of pain where the knife caught his cheek. Every time he closed his eyes, he smelled the blood that poured out of his arm.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his friends' bodies scattered around him.
"I really need to get that checked out," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. "Alright, I'm up." He pushed himself out of bed, wading through the damp bed sheets tangled on the floor. He grabbed the ratty jeans he'd discarded the night before and pulled them on over his boxers, muttering curses under his breath as he pushed through pizza boxes and red solo cups.
"This room is a mess," he murmured, kicking his way to the bathroom. "Wasn't this Diego's room?"
Tripping into the half bath, he turned the faucet on and splashed his face with the frigid water. He sloshed water over the rest of his body, rinsing away the sweat and the clammy feeling of the Saber's hands.
He felt around for the towel, tugging it from the rack on the wall. He swiped it across his face, then ran the towel over his chest and arms, wiping away the droplets. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he noticed the faint shadows on his chin and upper lip. He cursed.
"Forgot to shave again."
He waved his hand at the mirror; there was no time for it now.
He trudged back through the messy room and pushed into the dank hallway. Industrial lights illuminated the space every twenty feet or so, giving the hall an eerie look. Coke rolled his eyes and lumbered through the corridor, finally shoving open a repurposed vault door and stumbling into his "throne room".
In theory, it was where the people under the Murderers' protection paid their dues, and where the members of the Murderers came to the boss to talk about pay raises, protection services, and other boring, diplomatic stuff.
In reality, it was where offenders were executed and the Mott Haven Murderers' Board of Directors met to decide whether or not the gang was making enough money with the current boss in charge.
Today, Coke knew it was going to be full of people waiting to see him formally inducted into the rank of Gang Leader.
He shuffled into the room, reeling like a drunk man. He rubbed his eyes again, then yelped when he tripped over his own feet and fell to his hands and knees.
He groaned, hanging his head. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to mask the tiredness that overtook him every second of every day.
Five years.
It had been five years since the Burning Sabers had killed six Murderers.
He hadn't had a good night's sleep in five years.
He pressed his head to the cold, hard concrete, feeling an oppressive wave of tiredness wash over him.
He nearly gave into it, when the piercing blue eyes of Cobalt Grayson snapped into his head.
"No!"
He pushed himself off the floor, shaking his head as if to clear it. He braced himself against the wall, sliding down and slumping onto the floor.
"Coke, what's wrong?" A blur of red flashed in his hazy vision, and he felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. "Coke?"
"Nikita?" His voice sounded murky and far away, and his vision was fading quickly.
Five sleepless years were doing him in.
"Nikita, where are you?" His voice floated into his brain. He might as well have been underwater.
"Coke, hold on. Help is coming. Coke..."
***
When he opened his eyes next, he was lying on the floor, curled in the fetal position, a headache pounding at his temples, and ten Mott Haven Murderer executives standing over him.
"Guys, move back. Give him space."
Red hair flashed in his peripheral vision.
"Nik-" He trailed off, ending the word with a rattly cough, his voice hoarse and gravelly from disuse.
Nikita elbowed her way into his line of sight, swinging her gun around at the executives.
"Okay, guys, get out of here. Out of the room!"
The Board of Directors slowly filed out of the room, not bothering to hide their disdain for their new leader.
Nikita slammed the vault door behind them, turning the massive handle to the "locked" position.
"What... happened?" Coke wheezed, pulling himself to his feet, swaying, wobbling, falling, the floor rising to meet him...
Bang.
Nikita dropped to her knees by his head.
"Coke, stay down," she reprimanded. "You just passed out. What the heck were you doing?"
Coke pressed his hand to his temple, his impromptu nap making him feel anything but refreshed.
"I was coming down... for the inauguration..." he panted out, rubbing his hand across his forehead, fingers coming away sticky with blood. He grimaced. The last time his face was bleeding, he had been sliced open by that Saber...
Not the time to think about it.
"I'm just tired," he finished.
"How does 'just tired' make you pass out and hit your head on a wall?" Nikita huffed. "Never mind. Just tell me you're going to sleep tonight? Or take a nap, like, now?!"
"No promises," Coke moaned, leaning back against the wall. Feeling was starting to return to his hands and feet, and they tingled as he moved them. "I haven't slept in five years, and I don't think that's gonna change cause a pretty girl said it would."
Nikita pursed her lips. "Five years, huh? Not since the Sabers?"
Coke looked up at her through swollen eyelids. "How do you know about that?"
"You sent me a package, and a letter, remember?"
"Mm," he grunted. "Forgot about that. What do you think? Can you get Cobalt?"
Nikita shrugged. "Shouldn't be too hard. I've gotten a Saber before."
Coke smiled. "I know." He hauled himself to his feet, one hand resting heavily on the wall.
"Coke," Nikita warned.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said flippantly, waving off her concern. "You can call those Directors back in. Might as well get this over with."
***
"Coke Collins, you are now the revered and upheld leader of the Mott Haven Murderers."
Coke, face grim with respect, knelt before the Board of Directors. The whole room was filled with applause, and the man who had conducted the ceremony gestured to the throne. Coke strode purposefully toward it, long black cape billowing behind him, just as it had billowed behind Julian West ten years earlier.
All this pomp and glamour, and for what? He was part of a gang, the Murderers no less. People were killed, things were stolen, gang members were arrested and imprisoned for their crimes.
It was wrong, sure. But this is who he was now. A thief, a murderer. He didn't know anything else, didn't know how to be anything else.
Theft.
Murder.
Vandalism.
Murder.
Break-ins.
Murder.
Murder.
Murder.
Always, always murder.
And here he was, sitting on his polished throne of death, smiling, in charge of it all. He was the Boss now. He called the shots. These people would follow his every command.
Boss.
Leader.
Murderer.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
