CHOP CHOP CHOP / knife game

[beck.]

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    How many times could he get away with using boredom as an excuse for his terrible ideas? Sharpening his collection of knives wasn't entertaining anymore. Beck heaved a hollow sigh, ears flattening to his head as he slumped. Twiddling the tip of his dagger against the heel of his paw, the feline's stub of a tail tried to lash in annoyance. Maybe he could observe the internal structures of his paw, flexing exposed tendons in fascination. Or he could cut up someone else's paw for fun. But was it really fun after he tried it over five times? Glossed-over pupils flitted to the tarnished blade spinning against his paw pad, his other paw clumsily wrapped around its leatherbound handle with his dewclaw overstretched to serve as a thumb. Its glint of silver seemed to wink at him, and a devilish grin split his half-mutilated mouth.

    Concentration warped his face into a grim look of determination as he stared at a paw splayed out on a plank of rotten plywood. His paw. The various wraps of bandages previously around his arm were stripped away, revealing raw gashes and bites and cuts -- Beck remained unphased by the injuries. It didn't even hurt anyway. No, he needed to focus on his paw and the spaces between his digits. It was a silly game invented by adrenaline junkies in smokey bars, but who said Beck couldn't crave the threat of danger? Even if a nick or two wouldn't actually matter. Flipping his dagger around to grip it with the blade aimed towards the plywood, the boy twitched in hesitation before plunging the knife down between his dewclaw and first digit. He yanked the blade back to stab at the next space, and the next, until he settled into a choppy rhythm. His nose scrunched and his eyes narrowed as he gradually picked up speed, scarred brow furrowing in an attempt to keep his attention together. Which was unlikely, given the probability of someone walking by and finding interest in his morbid game of dodging an accidental amputation.

[Crow Roux]

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The actions that lead Crow to his current position were not important. To be entirely honest, he was probably sniffing around for the source of a strange noise, and in the end it would end up merely a goose chase. There were no demons to be had scratching at the walls, so he turned back, eyes heavy as he plodded back in the direction of his house. That was when he heard another sound, precise and mechanic.

Whiskers perked as he slunk around a corner, then he stopped dead in his tracks as he came across the source: a small cat hunched over a board with a knife in his hand, tapping away at the spaces between his toes. On the contrary, it was not that which sent his mind into a spiral—it was quite normal for him to walk in on odd occurrences. No, it was something else. He was caught off guard by Beck's bare arms.

The feelings that came to him were not disgust nor fear nor abhorrence but intrusive thoughts and an acute sensation of crawling in his skin down to his bones. Every hairless mark in his skin burned, itched, and all he could do was avert his attention elsewhere as he began to begrudgingly scratch at his own arms.

The tabby began to tiptoe backwards to leave Beck to whatever he was doing, but deep down he knew the smaller feline had probably already smelled him. Escape was at least worth a try.