Characters: Dakota and Jet (played by sy.)
Content Warnings: Violence, cannibalism
Location: Outside of a bar, at night / The Bonaduce House
Dakota and Jet were best friends throughout their teenage years as they navigated their different fames together--Dakota as an actress and model and Jet as a musician. Despite being close, Dakota disappeared off the face of the earth one day and Jet continued on with their career. They have not seen each other since.
Dakota runs into a long lost friend and decides the best thing to do is murder her. It doesn't go as planned when she realises Jet may not be as human as she thought she was.
she’s standing outside, talking to a handful of bar patrons after a small show. a dim lamppost on the side of the bar illuminates the corner with a bruised, blue-yellow glow.
there’s a guitar case slung over her shoulder. she’s smiling.
It is late at night. Most people are drunk, or tired, or sluggish enough to go back home after a show of this nature.
Dakota is not one of them. For other reasons. Hearing her name be advertised for a show in New Portsmouth of all places felt like a sick twist of fate, a taunting of sorts. She attended the show and stood to the back, sunglasses, facemask, and headscarf concealing her features from distracting others.
The show is over now. Dakota makes her way to the back but hangs around, by the wall, patiently, waiting for the bar patrons to leave.
It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses, but you’re sure she’s staring at you, Jet.
jet’s a little tired. it was a long day, driving up the coast and coordinating her move here to washington. but passion stops for no one, as they say. not a lot of people knew she was gonna perform– last minute addition.
but jet never turns down fans.
she catches sight of the person staring from far away. excuses herself from the crowd for a second.
“… like my show? :)”
She never kept up with her. Call it guilt or sorrow or a sick attempt at preserving nostalgia. Dakota’s not sure.
Faintly, she thinks that Jet is lucky Dakota just ate. Dakota, just as much.
“It was nice,” she responds, noncommittal. Up close she smells of rotting jasmine. A tint of vanilla. Dried saliva? Too sweet and too human to be desirable in any way. Not that it matters.
“How long have you been here?”
jet just smells the over-sweet jasmine and thinks it must be some kind of perfume. she’s only human, after all.
“i’ll take nice.” she’s smiling, but it’s not just the night lighting: her eyes don’t shine. hands in pockets. “i mean, it’s better than you not liking it. small wins, and all that.”
“… a couple hours? i’m thinking of spending a few out here in the sticks. curious to know if i’m sticking around? :)”
Small wins. Dakota thinks that Jet is oddly polite to a stranger who is being weird to her. Yet again, she’s always been like that.
“Maybe,” she says, vague and standoffish in a way she usually is not. And then, with no hints of subtlety nor decency:
“Would you like to come back to my place? I live alone.”
well okay, jet’s weird but not THAT weird. she takes it in stride, though.
“sorry, i’m sticking around for a minute so i can connect, y’know? i’m trying to find more gigs, get my name out there. see if people like my vibe…”
but it’s not an outright dismissal. “can i get your name, though? i’m jet.”
So vague. What is she doing in the middle of nowhere trying to get connections? She won’t find anything here. Surely she knows better than to do it the old fashioned way?
“Awe,” Dakota doesn’t sound disappointed at all. Her tone is slightly playful, at that.
“Well, I don’t know if New Portsmouth is the right place for that, you know.” People come to die here, she doesn’t say.
“I thought you would’ve liked to catch up?” In the low light, hidden away from strangers, she takes off her sunglasses and facemask. She looks different. She looks exactly the same. Her radiance doesn’t hit you in the way that it should. “Do you remember it? My name, I mean.”
dakota’s radiance doesn’t hit her the way that it should. jet’s shocked, of course– eyes wide, slack-jawed, all that. it’s been 10 years. 10 years!
“… 10 years.” she remembers exactly what dakota used to look like. it’s almost corny to say, but she looks grown-up. the same. different. “and this is how where i find you? in the middle of this washed-up town, dakota? and you’re dressed up all creepy and soliciting me outside of a bar?”
… but she’s laughing. is that what you wanted to happen? “where the fuck were you?”
They both look different in the way anyone would after ten years–this is natural. It is too dark to make out much else.
“Hey, hey. I’m not dressed creepy–it’s just dark here. And I was soliciting you because I knew who you were.” 😤
Still, her lips–painted black–are curled into an amused, fond smile.
“I’ve just been here for a while. I run the morgue!” ✨
“with all that shit on your face? couldn’t even tell. it definitely looked scary, but it’s not like i was gonna back down from that. a fan’s a fan. and you’re lucky i know you…”
she re-adjusts the case on her back, shielding dakota from the bar’s back door. jet’s been smiling this whole time, but now it curls a little softer. bitter.
“… and you didn’t say anything? call me? let me know where you went, after you fucking disappeared?”
“I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I’m still well known, you know.” She doesn’t take Jet’s insults to heart.
Dakota’s smile saddens as well, but there’s a distance there. Guilt. Her eyes–bluer than you remember–dart away.
“I–” Whatever she was gonna say, she cuts herself off. “I can’t tell you here. That’s why I wanted to invite you.”
eyebrow scrunching. “i mean… it’s been a long time since you’ve acted. and you look different. i don’t think you have to go around looking like that.”
jet doesn’t want to be so mean. but she can’t help but feel a little abandoned, either. they used to be thicker than thieves. dakota was the one person in the industry that actually mattered. what happened? why did she leave?
“i–” she scrubs the back of her neck. “i wasn’t kidding about the networking thing. i do need to talk to the guy, he wants me back next week. but…”
“give me the address. i’ll stop by later.”
And it’s not like Dakota doesn’t feel bad. Of course she does. There are just things in this world you can’t go through with sometimes. Explaining herself to Jet was always one of those.
“Ah.” So it wasn’t an excuse.
“Mm…that’s fine. I’ll wait there for you.” She looks through her purse and pulls out a sharpie and then, without any pleasantries or requests for permission, writes her address and new number on the palm of Jet’s hand.
“Don’t leave me hanging, okay?”
her hand’s bigger than you remember. i mean, she was probably like 15-16 the last time you saw her. she’s 25 now. an adult. and a proper musician, judging from the show you just watched her perform. she was in her own world, up there on stage.
“… okay. give me like an hour.”
~ a little more than an hour later ~
she pulls up to the address on her hand. a little late, but better that than never right?
what does dakota’s place look like?
Dakota’s place is big (for a singular person) and old. The house was built with dark brick, with a large yet unkempt for yard full of dark, sweet-smelling flowers. The windows in the front are decorated with stained glass too new to be part of the original build.
There are a few steps leading to the front porch where the entrance is. The wood below you is full of dust, with only a few marks of footprints–nothing else has been cleaned off. Despite it being winter, some halloween decorations have not been taken down.
There is an overly-ornate doorbell tempting you to press it.
💭 this is a depressing ass house. <– coming from girl who lived in a modern white mansion
“what happened to all your maids, dakota….” jet presses the doorbell. “place looks like shit.”
Dakota, of course, does not answer the question, because she is not omniscient nor there.
However, the door doesn’t take too long to be opened. Ten seconds max. You can hear the sound of locks coming undone from the inside.
“Jet!” The first door–a gate inside, opens inward. Then the main door, outward. The inside of the house is dimly lit, but it’s warm. The scent of jasmine and sweet rot is overpowering and allconsuming here.
“Hi! Good, you didn’t stand me up. Come in!” Doesn’t matter what the answer is–Jet is being ushered in. Dakota is closing the door after her.
jet twitches a little from the smell, but otherwise doesn’t react. she follows dakota’s lead. “what’s with your new perfume obsession? i thought i smelled something like this on you earlier, but it’s even worse in here… eugh…”
she sets her guitar in the foyer, close to the door. no point in lugging that thing around. there’s no sense of unease or urgency from her, either.
“It’s not perfume!” She answers with a chirp. No other explanation is given.
Dakota goes behind Jet and locks the doors: three locks, mind you, all snapped into place. She explains nothing and leads Jet further into the house, all darkly decorated with Dakota’s personal mementos. Skulls adorn the shelves, distorted by glass figurines reflecting off of the dim lights.
“Have you eaten yet? Are you tired? I can get us something–I don’t use the kitchen too much though so it’s a little dusty in there.”
“okay…?” jet doesn’t pry.
again, no comment on the locks. she knows about dakota’s dark proclivities and hobbies, even if they don’t personally appeal to her own. though the skulls are a weird additional touch.
shrugs. “i’m here to know why you dropped off the face of the earth, dakota. you said you couldn’t say it at the bar so i came here. this isn’t like… a sleepover.”
bland smile…
“Really? I thought catching up would take a while.” She’s never been too keen on following Jet’s requests, evident by how she’s already ushering her to the kitchen. She opens the fridge: it’s nearly empty. The freezer goes neglected.
Food is a good and fast way to get people’s guards down, she’s found.
“You know you’re invited to stay here anyhow. I can set up a bed or we can share one, you know. I don’t mind.” By the way she’s talking, it sounds like she’d prefer it, if anything. Did she ever talk with this much desperation? Her movements are a little rushed now as she flutters about the kitchen getting them a small plate of pastries.
jet lets dakota do what she wants. they both know she isn’t going to stay the night– the weight of 10 years still sits between them– but it doesn’t hurt to play along for now. “…”
she wanders off to the living room, and sits down. probably dusts the furniture down first. jet doesn’t feel the need to watch dakota; never has, really.
“… so.” when she comes back with the plate. jet doesn’t eat. “wanna stop beating around the bush?”
It’s weird how Dakota never noticed nor thought about it much until now, as she stood alone in the kitchen for a few seconds. Jet never really stuck around for her the way Dakota did. It was always Dakota sitting back on Jet’s shoots and recording sessions, watching her with a fond smile on her face. Jet only watched if Dakota asked.
It’s strange how much teenage infatuation coats your judgement. It’s even stranger how much nostalgic desire does the same.
She returns, and sits down on the couch beside Jet–her bare leg is touching Jet’s knee. The living room–at least this one, downstairs, looks decently unused. It’s nice, but everything but the coffee table is growing a thin layer of dust on it. This is a home only for appearance’s sake, it seems.
“Have you always been this impatient?” It’s said lightly and with a laugh. Dakota doesn’t answer: no, because I’m not going to tell you. You’re never going to find out and when you do it’ll be too late for you. She expects the waves of hunger to begin, when she’s in such close proximity to Jet’s warmth, but nothing sets in. Maybe she’s too satiated right now. That’s just fine.
“I moved here about ten, nine years ago give or take. Aside from occasional road trips it’s always been where I live. I inherited this house.” ^^
“i’m not impatient, and you know that…”
but again, jet relents. it could almost be like old times, if they ignored the dim, empty home that sat around them, and ignored how much they’ve grown, and ignored how the tell-tale pang in your stomach never comes. why aren’t you getting hungry, dakota?
she listens, ambivalently. “but why? you just finished that big movie with that director. you were getting mega famous, getting all those brand deals… and then you just-” poof. a hand motion. “disappeared. no one knew where you went. your mom couldn’t tell me where you were.”
jet doesn’t follow dakota around. but then again: she’s never had to question that presence before. a constant.
“… people thought you died. and i didn’t know what to think.”
“Well, people change.” Dakota disappears. Jet grows impatient.
She ate so recently maybe it’s that, but her body has never rejected readily available food like this before. Is it because it’s Jet? But the more her desire grows the hungrier she gets, for the most part. It makes no sense. They’re sitting so close. Dakota should be going mad.
“Of course she couldn’t.” Her mom. She knew what she did. Knew the price she was paying. Dakota will never know why she never cared enough to do her right, but she doesn’t have to know anymore. It doesn’t matter.
They’re sitting so close, it’s easy to see Dakota’s chest rise, fall, steadily calm. Do you remember how close she sat to you before, Jet? How she’d wrap her arm around you, just as she’s doing now, and pull you tight?
Dakota rests her head on the crook of Jet’s neck and breathes in, foregoing subtlety, expecting it to not matter in a second or two. Her smile is already pleased and pleasured, but–
Nothing comes of it.
The silence is now a little uncomfortable. Dakota is still.
“Things aren’t easy, the more famous you get.” Her tone is different now. “You always knew my fame was different from yours.”
jet is indeed growing impatient. what happened to being open with each other? she doesn’t get it. dakota was the one who reached out to her first.
why is she clamming up?
“… dakota.” she isn’t stiff, but she doesn’t relax either. a second away from shoving that hand off and saying ‘fuck it all, keep your secrets’. “what the hell. you’re saying you fucking left because fame got too much to you? really?”
dakota, this close you can tell. it’s not because you ate earlier, and it’s not because your feelings for jet have changed. much the opposite. you feel meat on her throat. you should feel the need to tear it out. but you don’t.
why do you think that is?
She meant to find Jet. Really. After all this time, she really meant to. She didn’t, though, because it would mean having this conversation. How do you tell the person who knew you best what happened to you when you had a hard time even telling a medical professional?
Dakota grows impatient, and then unsettled–even more so at Jet’s skin being unappetising even this close to Dakota’s mouth. She can’t delay it any more. She can’t wait. She can’t let Jet think the reason she disappeared is because of fame.
“No, Jet.” This time her voice is firm and not at all playful. The tone she’d use when a decision was final (she was always the leader in their friendship. She never allowed Jet to call the shots).
“It’s because I’m dead.”
She allows no time for explanations nor questions. Instead, she sinks her canines–sharpened, into the tender, soft tendons of Jet’s shoulder.
even up to the millisecond before, jet has no idea what’s about to happen. she has no reason to fear dakota– never has. and she certainly doesn’t have the senses to know that she was fucking dead.
the pain is immediate, and sharp. you’ve punctured a vein, somewhere, because blood sprays hot onto your face. and jet screams, as any normal person would do. “WHAT THE- FUCK DAKOTA-”
her hands come between the two of you like jaws, and pry you off. she collapses onto the ground. the coffee table clatters.
you look at her do all this, dakota, and your mouth is full of her viscera. it must look a mess. but that has to be the last thing on your mind, because nothing in you is saying this is right. you know how it feels to kill. how it feels right before, and after. but nothing comes. nothing.
jet is holding her shoulder, shuddering and heaving. she’s staring at you, eyes wide.
Dakota is used to there being blood and viscera on her face. It’s warm, and familiar, but she feels no delight at it being Jet’s. It doesn’t taste like it should. Everything is right but in the way where it’s so severely lacking.
This is why it’s easy to pull away from Dakota, even though ||a chunk of skin comes with and remains hanging off of her lips–still pretty, still painted black,|| as Dakota stares at Jet as if trying to figure out a particularly complicated puzzle.
She moves the remaining skin into her mouth and swallows, but there is no pleasure from it at all. Her teeth are stained with blood now, as is her mouth. Dakota is staring at Jet with the same amount of fear and shock, despite being the predator.
“What the fuck are you?”
you think a person might gag at the sight of a person swallowing a piece of your meat, but jet doesn’t. doesn’t react at all, doesn’t move except for the breathing. blood is soaking into her black clothes.
“… you’re… the one who just ate my fucking shoulder…”
adrenaline dumps into her system. the pain starts to wash away. but she doesn’t give yet.
no, she’s venomously sincere when she says this: “you know who the fuck i am. who are you?”
She’s not sure if she should be unnerved. She doesn’t remember how different Jet was back then. She doesn’t remember herself. Did Dakota ever bring up blood? (cw self harm) ||Did she ever hurt herself in front of Jet? Make her watch? She doesn’t remember. The panic is making her delirious.||
Explaining why she just bit into Jet doesn’t feel like much of a priority when her body is wrong, and even though seeing her, hurt, bleeding on the floor makes her want to pick her up and clean her up and clean up all the wounds, the taste of wrongness on her tongue keeps her in place. Did you ever notice, Jet, how pristine her legs look up close? How her hair looks unaffected by the carnage?
“I’m the same I’ve always fucking *been,” she snarls, in a tone so loud it would affect her neighbours if their houses were closer than they are.
“I didn’t ask who you are–” The hint of her name is on Dakota’s lips but she doesn’t say it. “–I asked what you are, because clearly there’s something I’m fucking missing here!”
jet is only human. she doesn’t stand up and shake off her injuries, or fight back. if her pupils were visible, would they be dilated? if dakota’s senses were enhanced, would she be able to notice anything other than the utter wrongness of everything?
she doesn’t notice how dakota is unchanged. she is only looking at the blood on her face, and the striking blue of her eyes. now that is a little different from what she remembers.
her face grimaces. her legs are numb but they work. she kicks herself backwards, towards the door. one hand still slapped over her open shoulder. it’s an uncoordinated, bloody scramble.
“if you were always a fucking cannibal, then that’s fucking news to me! if anyone should be asking questions, it should be me!”
Dakota’s movements always grow frantic during a hunt, but this isn’t that. Her premolars sharpen by instinct, nails grow into razor-sharp claws. But Dakota, despite the blood on her mouth, looks the same as ever. She has never had to channel a hunt while not hungry. No part of her desires Jet in that fervent manner.
Still, she leaps after her. Her free arm grasps onto Jet’s, and she pulls her back, sending them both tumbling to the ground with the desperate grip of it. Do you remember, Jet, the three locks Dakota took care to close while letting you in? The two doors? How long has she wanted this?
“Use your fucking–” she’s writhing now, all human and desperation in an attempt to keep Jet from leaving. “–brain, dumbass! I’m still me, I’m just–” on the ground, scrambling, knocking over a pedestal holding an ornate glass sculpture of a woman that falls and shatters against their feet. Dakota growls in frustration–the rumble in her chest is noticeably inhuman, now.
“–different!” Is the word she settles on. “But I’m not fucking stupid, so what the hell happened to you? You don’t taste human, you don’t smell human, and trust me, I’d know.”
of course, jet is not thinking straight with all that blood on the ground. did you know that blood loss becomes fatal after 2000 milliliters? much do you think she’s already lost?
more of it gushes out when dakota tosses them both around. with one hand pre-occupied, it’s a poor match: jet can only fight so hard. glass cuts into her clothes and palm as she tries to get a grip.
not human… not human?
“do you fucking hear yourself, dakota? you’d know what a human smells like? you’re still you? fucking… bullshit.”
she feels for a fat piece of glass. then swings at dakota’s face. there’s no hesitation.
The deeper Dakota tries to dig into her hunt the more attuned she is to Jet’s body. A body is still a body and it functions the same, taste aside, and she can feel Jet’s blood drenching her floorboards, the weight of her body growing lighter as more and more blood gushes out of her. Dakota’s grip on her only tightens.
It’s an unfair fight: Dakota should be in her element and Jet is only human (?). But she’s too preoccupied flailing and trying to keep Jet still, too close to even think of dodging the piece of glass swung at her. She shrieks–banshee-esque, pained, her nails digging into Jet’s back.
“It’s not MY FAULT–” Is it just you, or does this assertion sound a little desperate? Does it matter? Whatever Dakota is, she’s in pain now, but not even seconds after the shard has been dug through her skin, it’s already closing back up.
“You can’t–” they slam against the wall now. Dakota moves her head last minute so her own hits harder instead of Jet’s. “–you can’t trick me–”
This is when she processes the weight threshold, and an instinctual part of her knows. Her control over Jet, if she wanted it, is fading. Dakota wraps her legs, pristine with only glass shards to show for the struggle, around Jet.
It’s weird, Jet. All of Dakota’s limbs are occupied holding the general part of your torso, but a thick and hot liquid has wrapped itself around your wrists. It seems to be scaling up your hands now, viscous and chunky and notably restricting your movement.
of course, dakota. jet is only human. whatever you want her to do, it’s not going to happen. it’s too late, and you know that. you know that.
there are stars in her vision now. it’s only a matter of time. when she watches the wound on dakota’s face close up, does she feel shock? when she feels her skull connect with the wall, does she feel it crack? drywall sprays into her eyes, and it burns.
“your fault….” slurring. “fucking… dakota…”
you’re going to fucking kill me. is what she wants to say. but can’t. jet tries to wrench herself free, and is rewarded with a sick squelch for her trouble.
stalemate.
It’s bad. It’s really bad. She knows it’s bad. She’s barely ever healed people except for herself before. Tendrils of blood and arteries are hanging out of Dakota’s body and wrapped around Jet’s like wires. Any tender words are lost on her tongue when she remembers the severely wrong taste of Jet lingering on her, still.
She didn’t mean to kill her. She’s so delicate. Dakota does not hurt if it’s not to feed, but Jet has proven herself an unworthy meal. She doesn’t know how to keep people from dying.
Dakota presses her forehead against Jet’s, closing her eyes shut. Her breathing is equally as heavy and laborious. It’s all quiet. Then:
You feel it, Jet, before you know it. The pulsing of two hearts in sync, your veins pumping blood at the exact same rhythm. Your thoughts are not in sync but the speed of them is the same. You feel her hands on your back and you feel your back on her hands.
Her heart beats at a perfect rhythm. You as a musician know it. A soothing melody that never breaks its own pattern, that works in tandem with veins and arteries. You feel the way blood is pulled back to you, thickening around the edge of your shoulder wound and forcing a clumsy, overly-clumpy scab to form.
Was she able to do this before? How come she can do it now? It’s hard to feel any sensation aside from the two of you, together, fused into one body as she keeps you from dying. You feel air enter her nose and go down her trachea, too fast and shallow to do any good. You feel the way the wounds in her legs are healing quickly and smoothly, the pain fading into a residual itchiness on her legs, but all of her energy is focused on you, on returning your blood to your body and forcing your injuries to scab over all the same.
it’s a very funny feeling.
this closely aligned to dakota’s rhythm, it can tell what she is now. and dakota can tell that down to the molecular level, this jet is flesh and blood and meat and human. what are you missing? what is missing from jet that makes any other human so tempting? why can’t you have it for her?
it marvels at the way dakota’s power works. how quickly it retrieves, repairs, and re-aligns. it also marvels at the way she takes ownership of blood, and bends it to her will. been a minute since it’s felt magic power other than jet’s own. it’s violent, and violating.
but it keeps her from dying. so no complaints there.
“…..d…..”
but a human mind doesn’t snap back as quickly as other beings. coherency doesn’t return when the blood does. adrenaline, once it’s done its job of keeping jet awake for as long as possible… washes out.
and takes her consciousness washes along with it. her body goes limp.
… zzzz………………
Dakota is not sure how to inject people with adrenaline, how to keep them awake beyond their limits. She has so many questions and a few apologies but her own head is racing and she can feel blood pumping through her ears. Even once they pull away all her senses are overly heightened: she feels Jet pass out before it even happens. She feels her neighbours’ hearts beating in their homes and their blood swimming through their bodies like a raging storm.
But it’s not as easy as passing out for her. So they stay like that, in silence, Dakota still with her eyes closed shut and Jet passed out on top of her.
When Jet wakes up the environment has changed.
They are no longer in the bloodstained entryway. The scent of this room is a little old; the bedsheets you find yourself on top of smell unused. There’s that, too: you’re lying down, and your injuries, despite the scabbing, have been bandaged. A new shirt has been thrown over Jet’s bloodstained shirt.
And there’s a weight on her torso of someone’s arms holding her tight, coiled around her with a grip that’s almost deadly. It’s too dark to see much else. Dakota, defanged as far as you can tell, is lying down beside you and holding you a little too tight for a person who just tried to kill you. It seems she passed out at some point as well.
returning to the world after what should’ve been a very bloody death is… a confusing affair.
jet blinks awake, feeling like she’s just emerged from a 1000 leagues under the sea. first; the taste of iron in her mouth. second; pressure, squeezing her tight. third; the steady heat of a person nearby.
for a few minutes, she just lays there in silence. resists the urge to scratch her bandages.
and then, for a few minutes after that, jet moves her head to stare at dakota. who knows what she could be thinking about. tests the limits of her arms and hands.
then slowly reaches for dakota’s throat.
She didn’t realise how draining it would be to share a body with another person, even momentarily, until it’s all over. The second Dakota finished what she knew needed to be done she collapsed on the mattress of the guest room, trapping Jet there with her.
She feels like she’s barely rested at all when a pressure on her throat wakes her up. She’s groggy, graceless, but her appearance is too put-together for someone who just experienced what they both did. Certainly more than Jet.
“–wh–” Immediate confusion. A lot to process. Jet, beside her, touching trying to? choke her, choke her, she–
Naturally, Dakota pulls away, but her arms are still around Jet, so she brings her with, then has to unclasp her arms and try again–it’s a lot of awkward flailing.
“What are you doing??” Hypocritical of her to ask? Maybe.
again, jet doesn’t notice the impeccability of dakota and how she looks. all she remembers are the teeth, and blood, and swallowing skin. the image is tainted forever now.
the force isn’t enough to crush the larynx– and dakota moves away before she get a better grip anyway.
she lays there, still lazy and limp. staring.
“… explain. or i’m walking out of here.”
“Well–” Dakota doesn’t say ‘I’m not letting you do that,’ which is what she wants to say, because it’d mean Jet starting yet another fight, and now that she’s healed and Dakota is worn out, there would be an advantage.
Since Jet doesn’t squeeze, Dakota allows her to keep her hands on her throat. This seems tentative, if anything.
“Okay.” Not an answer. She can demand answers from Jet once she’s not on the verge of murdering Dakota anymore.
“I eat people.” This is an obvious statement. “I don’t want to explain why. But it’s the reason I went missing. I don’t do it for fun. If I don’t I start rotting, like a corpse. Because I’m technically dead.”
Is that enough, Jet? Are you satisfied?
jet drops both hands pretty quick, once it becomes clear that dakota isn’t going to fight. not immediately anyway. you’ve never seen her fight for anything in her life, not really. she’s had an easy life from a-z.
she listens. she listens, and stares. and then just stares.
it’s impossible to know what jet’s thinking. nothing on her face gives it away.
“… why me.”
Dakota could explain to Jet that she always meant to attack her the second she saw her performing in New Portsmouth, but that would open a can of worms and Jet won’t know the difference between a truth and a lie here.
“Because no part of you smells appetising. Usually when I’m this close to people I’m–” ? Attracted to? Attached to? “–into I start. Well. I get hungry. I attacked. It’s never happened to me before that I didn’t want to eat a human being when I’m this close to them.”
There’s a pause. She allows Jet no time to question, however.
“Which is why I know you’re not what you say you are, Jet. I needed to taste you to confirm my suspicions. You can’t hide something like that from me.”
“… into, huh.” there’s no inflection there just an observation.
for a long time, jet just seems to think. doesn’t search for honesty, or body language, or any of those things. just… pure blankness. she rises onto her hands. the bandages smart from having dried to her skin.
“it’s just fucking me, dakota. i was always around. you went and left… couldn’t even give me a single sign that you were still alive. my name and number never changed, by the way.”
she scoffs, now. “so what can you say you know about me anymore? what makes you think i’m different from how i ever was?”
“…….” Well she’s not going to confirm her weird feelings about Jet when they’re discussing how Dakota just tried to eat her and immediately decided she wasn’t human based on the taste. Wrong place wrong time you know.
Dakota seems too tired to emote to show anything to Jet. Looking at her up close and without the previous attempts at calming, her eyes look grief-weary in a way they’ve never looked before.
“Jet–” She hates talking about her past because she doesn’t want it to define what she is now. Yes she was a monster born out of tragedy. She doesn’t want to stay a martyr forever.
“Fuck. Okay, just–seriously don’t let this get out. You thought I was dead because [...]”
“It’s been this way for ten years, Jet. I know things. I know what humans taste like, mind you, so I know when they taste different. I don’t know if anything happened to you or if it did and you don’t know it, but I swear to you something’s wrong.”
do you remember jet to be this callous? to watch you spill the honest truth… and not give a single inch in sympathy. she doesn’t hug and say that she’s sorry that happened. that you died and came back. she doesn’t do a single thing.
“…” the new shirt is still on the bed, discarded. jet moves to put it on, and throw away the bloodied one; she avoids the shoulder.
“… i’m not gonna argue with you. i’m not gonna argue with you because i know no matter what, you’re not gonna listen. i told you, that nothing’s wrong except for the giant ||hole|| you put there . but let’s just ignore that because i apparently taste bad. fucking whatever.”
She doesn’t say anything. Dakota is unsure whether to be upset or not. She would hate pity, but she would like…something. Acknowledgement? Respect? Here she is as a living proof of suffering and Jet doesn’t seem to care.
Yet again, Dakota never confided in her for a reason. Maybe it would have always been like this. Dakota remains sitting up on the bed like a jilted ex.
She’s not sure when it happened, that her mind immediately turned to Jet’s innocence in the situation. But it did. She wants to fix whatever happened to Jet. Or at the very least know if it has always been this way.
“It–maybe you didn’t realise it happened or it’s always been like this–” She’s too caught up in her own issue right now to talk about the bite. “There’s a doctor in town that took a look at me–he knows my whole deal so I can just explain. We can figure it out.”
what do you think jet should do, dakota? should she grab your hand, and feel the difference in the quality of your skin, the heat between hers and yours, and recoil? why is she not acknowledging anything about you? why is she skirting around everything?
jet, changed, turns back to look. “he won’t find anything because i’m just me. human meat and human bones. you would know how that fucking feels and tastes.” grimacing. from pain or disgust, you’re not sure. “why do you care? just because i happened to blow into the town you holed yourself up in? i don’t need to be someone else’s responsibility.”
she gets off the bed to stand. she’s going to leave, dakota.
“You’re–” Has there always been something off about Jet? Maybe Dakota never noticed. Maybe there always was something weird but they were human before so it never came up. She feels like she’s losing her mind. There is no rational way she can explain the sensation.
“No, no–” It’s weird for her emotions to be volatile like this. Dakota Bonaduce is typically far more put together, even when talking about her fate or confronting people from her past. It makes her hate the situation even more, then, that Jet is already seeing her unravel.
She’s not sure what takes over the second Jet stands, but she shoots off the bed immediately with near-inhuman speed. Her hand is gripping onto Jet’s wrist, nails sinking into her soft skin, a little too sharp and long to be human.
“Stay.” Her voice comes out throaty and gravelly. She clears her throat, tries again. “Please.”
jet is holding her bloody shirt in her hand. gripped tight, like she might be angry.
the anger doesn’t abate when fingers dig into her wrist. it’s hard to say how darkness can do that, but that is the feeling that comes off jet. there was no fear the first time, and there is no fear this time either. curious.
“stay? so you can what? keep me in your freaky, dusty mansion so you can pick apart what’s wrong with me? seriously? you’re trying to ask me that right now, pretending to be the dakota i knew ten years ago?”
it’s a low blow, but she knows it’ll sting. her arm pulls away, blood coming with it. a twitch of pain. “… let me go. i’m not gonna submit myself to torture here. if you’re anything close to a person anymore you’ll fucking let go.”
Wouldn’t a normal person be scared? Dakota isn’t sure if she’d be scared. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to think. The only thing she knows is that if she lets Jet go right now there’s a chance she’ll never get to see her again. It doesn’t matter what is wrong with her because it’s still her body and her face Dakota is talking to.
“What happened to me was out of my control,” she replies, icy. It seems to be the one thing that bothered her about Jet’s response. She tries pulling Jet back but it only results in the scratch becoming deeper and trailing up Jet’s arm.
“But you’re right. I’m not a person anymore. I’m dead and I’m practically a monster.” With all the baggage that comes with it. Dakota goes to block the front of the guest room door.
“I’m keeping you here until we figure out what’s different about you. I’ll fight you if I have to.”
does jet know anything about becoming a monster out of her control? does she? does she have sympathy for dakota, who disappeared from the earth one thing and re-emerged another? does she know how that can feel? …
the pain is enough. jet wrenches her arm away, fully; the sleeve is shredded and red. she doesn’t ask why dakota doesn’t believe her. and she doesn’t ask dakota to move away from the door again. no death wish, but no fight either in this one.
alternative methods will have to be employed.
“…” you’ll have (tw gore) ||my guts on the table|| before you ever figure out what’s wrong with me, she doesn’t say. her gaze conveys that enough. “and how are you gonna do that, huh. with that wack doctor of yours?”
She’s already thinking. Break the main lock, install one outside the door–there’s a few heavy things she can block the door with in the meantime. There’s a window but it’s too high up, and if she boarded it from the outside….it’d be hard to use this room. There’s a storage room in the attic. That might be better.
“I know more people than you do. I can ask him and we can run tests. And there’s a surgeon in town that I know–we dispose of bodies together.” (She neglects to explain why).
“…I really don’t want to do this, you know. But if I let you go you’ll leave again and then you’ll never come back. I’m sorry.”
“… reassuring.” jet’s attention is now on her arm, sluggishly pumping red. she’s only human after all. “i get to be poked and dissected by everyone you know in this town. maybe they’ll have the honor of talking some fucking sense into you.”
scoffs. jet doesn’t say that she admits defeat… but you can tell the worst of her fight dissolves. but not the anger. this interaction will not bode well for either of them …
“go save your fake-ass excuses for someone else.”
continued in no good version of me!