Leave Home Reimagined by Gerard Way #4
behind him as he turned, lowering the ‘scope.
“Filthy Rich and J. Jean are back…no Quan…”
Pink Wyrn sat on throne of electronic refuse and drugstore neon, and the cracked wall behind him was adorned with dried flowers and Polaroids of slain enemies and portraits from happier times, numbering in the hundreds. He was a child-clone warlord, which gave him the advantage over people that had an ethical dilemma killing kids (which many didn’t), but be had been tube-fed military knowledge and stripped of all emotion in the incubator. His face was painted in the cobalt and white of the Yasala, a tribute to his cell-origin. He stared into Harver’s chest for a moment before speaking.
“Make sure there are fresh lemons”
In the field toward the house. Rich and Jean slowed their pace, as they were now a safe enough distance from any conflict, and close enough to Deck Street House that no one would screw with them. There were scanner warlords than Pink, but he was certainly top five.
Deck Street was a mess. Through the black tire-fire fog, you could see it had long since served any function besides a torture house and a symbol of ominous threat. Every floor leaked rainwater and the basement was flooded with sewage and lye. The street in front on the house was a seen-barricade of autos that were once used in drive-by assassinations.
They made their way through the wrecks and onto the porch, skipping the loose boards and shaking off the dampness.
Jean used of the only thing that worked; the doorbell.
Only two articles of clothing were required at Deck Street a study pair of shoes to protect your feet, and a mask to completely obscure your face as the entire kill-hive practiced sexual-de-conditioning. By removing hormon… reaction, it focused your violence. Luckily Rich and Jean, as freelancers, would not be encouraged to risk hypothermia. Two (mostly) nude favers a man and a woman, opened the door. They never locked it —they didn’t need to.
“You guys are early,” said the woman, her celebrity caricature mask quieting her speech, an AK47 slung around her torso.
“Pink is almost ready,” she said, and turned down the hall. They followed.
The dining room was massive and a six-foot tall marbie bust of Piato overlooked the long sabie that Rich (no longer a cat) and Jean sat at. Everything in the room had been painted gesso by the havers, including the bust, and it gave the room a clean, uniform feel despite how filthy it had once been, or was becoming at the center of the table sat a tarnished serving tray with a pitcher of clean water, a large bowl of cut lemons, a coffee can full of sugar, and a squeezer.