[SIDESTORY] Morbit Oneshots

[skinstealer]

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Old Gauntlet Scribbles- 2018

Ringor Mortis, TCP Gauntlet, old, extremely short and debatably still canon

CW: Drugs, needles

Multiple short glimpses into the life of Dropdead.

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Part 1: Dirty Dealings

"So you're the one giving us these shipments." Dropdead would narrow her eyes if she had any, but settled on trying to look as intimidating as possible to the motif encrusted person before her. They didn't react, keeping a steady, equally eyeless gaze back at the TCP.

"That's me. You're the first tester of this shit, aren't you."

"Unfortunately." She fails to keep aggression out of her voice.

"Look, I'm just here to get paid-"

Dropdead takes a step forward, the dealer standing tall in front of her. "This ruins lives. You're killing us, piece by piece! Good people are being kept in the worst hell imaginable, only because you want a quick buck!"

"Without this money," the dealer raises their voice in kind. "I'm protecting TCPs more than your company ever will. The way you treat your own kind sickens me!" They lean in close and snarl, grabbing the cash out of Dropdead's hand and shoving the case into her chest. "Maybe you'd deserve to live if you were more like them. You're the sick one."

With that, the dealer whips around, leaving the garage as quickly as they came.

Dropdead's shoulders shook, and despite knowing it was in vain, she screamed at the dealer's back.

"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I'M SICK!"

Part 2: Daily Fix

I'm in charge, she tells herself. I'm still in charge. They're not the bosses here, I am.

They plunge the needle into her skin and she's screaming mentally, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing it escape her head.

I'm the boss. This is just what has to happen. I'm the boss and they have to listen to me, not the other way around. This is just standard procedure that I can stop any time I want.

Her fluid runs cold, familiar and soothing, the burning itch satiated for another day.

They walk away, leaving Dropdead in her massive bed, large for a karacel and dwarfing for a TCP.

I can stop.

I can stop.

Part 3: Trashy Television

“Dropdead, you might want to look at this.”

Dropdead stirs from her dissociative rest, rolling onto her side. “What’s so damn important it’s gotta wake me up?”

Meatball turns one of Dropdead’s portable TVs, placed on a wheely cart and covered in wires. The recording shows one of the contestants having a pretty severe breakdown, and a good number of other TCPs coming to her aid. Dropdead watches in silence as they work to calm her down, and both her and another contestant are tucked in for the night.

“I don’t want to-”

“I know, Meatball. I know. I’m not gonna air it.”

“Wait- Really?”

“Yeah. There’s no...honor, or some shit, to that. People want drama, but we’d look like dicks if we aired something like that. We’re not trashy television.”

Meatball watches as she rolls back over, waving her hand in his general direction. “Get rid of that clip, all of it. No use to us.”

He nods and wheels the cart away, leaving Dropdead to stare at the wall restlessly, trying not to ruminate on what she just saw.

Some things were too close to home.