80th of Ash, Year 122
"Fuck..." the raven-haired man cursed. "Fuck... fuck... FUCK!"
He went quiet. His eyes shut.
The man's body fell limp.
"Next," said the one who initiated him; a large, bald, burly man with two swords strapped to his back, standing over the writhing body before him. A few more twitches, and he would cease to be.
The next man in line's hands were shaking. His eyes darted back-and-forth, rapidly, and he shook his head, running his shaky palms over his face and holding back a scream. The burly man's hand gripped his hair, pulling his head up so that their eyes could make contact. The Bloodbreaker, donning their red, black and deep-brown Badlander gear, smirked in the face of his fear. "Y-you... said it was a fifty-percent chance. The three before me are all dead. H-how's that a fucking fifty percent chance?!"
He let go of him, the trembling man nearly falling onto his back as he did. "Not this one," the man muttered, and from behind a bullet blew into his skull, red spraying out as the wide, circular shell shattered through his occipital bone and burst open his cerebrum. The woman beside him seemed completely undeterred.
"Should've acknowledged that so many failures meant we were due for a success," the initiator said. He nodded towards one of his companions -- a fellow gang member -- and signaled for them to switch. "I'm due for a rest. Don't want to Overstep. You get the next three, then we'll get Janet for the last." They exchanged nods, and the lanky, gun-wielding foot soldier took his place. His lower eye twitched, his arms covered in sites surely met by needles in the past hours. Crim. That was his name -- the men at the front were mocking him as Alistair had arrived.
This was a quick route into joining the gang. Be Branded, survive the initiation, and your dedication is proven. You're given your accommodations immediately, and in a week, a bike to ride off into the desert with. A Chariot. Alistair couldn't believe he was doing this, but he didn't really have a choice. The last mark went really badly -- he'd gone way in over his head. Now, he needed protection. Becoming a Bloodbreaker, roaming through the desert, that would give him enough time to disappear. When things were right, he could kill the people patrolling with him, take their Wurmblood and ride off.
"Okay, little lady, you ready?" Crim asked, cracking a wide, perturbing grin. The woman merely stared, her features completely empty. She had a half-shaven head, with red braids on her right side, freckles and a somewhat masculine, angular face. She had a tattoo running across the left side of her face, from her jaw beyond her eye and brow, a teal-colored line. She was built, with scars on her arms, and a Mark of Control on the back of her hand. Chime. Alistair could tell.
"Get it over with," she spat, gritting her teeth. "I'm ready to be a Breaker. I've been ready. This will be nothing."
Crim gripped her face, holding her jaw open so that his palm was roughly aligned with her open mouth. His grip tightened, and the woman tensed, seemingly agitated -- Alistair could see her death glare through the gaps of his fingers, and for a single moment she redirected it to him, as if to inform him that she was so much stronger -- better. That she would survive. Ether pushed from his palm into her mouth, flowing into her pharynx and causing her to squirm. She grunted as she was shocked, yelling out in a pained fury. Her squirming stopped as the voltage shifted into a cold burn, pouring through her thoracic cavity into her bowels, causing her to cough out into a fit of laughter, until the pain grew worse. And worse. And worse.
And worse.
She closed her eyes, breathing in-and-out through her nose; she began to mumble something from her wet, drooling lips, swollen from the initial energy that coursed through them. It was like a chant, a prayer. She continued, and continued, and continued. And the man let go.
"She'll live," he said, nodding his head frantically and grinning. She fell onto her side, hand extending out, coughing and sputtering as tears poured down her cheeks. Alistair could see a faint blue light even through her clothing -- it was inside of her, molding her, remaking her. It was forming the Axis, and with a bright gleam of that same blue light, he could tell that it had formed. Three failures, but one success. She lived. And he was next.
