Chapter Text
Burn wasn’t sure how he got here. Sure, this happens every once in a while, processing when he came back from an intense mushroom high or a shot of something harsh wasn’t really rare since he and Linux started really getting business rolling but this snap back to reality felt super… off.
For one thing, the dingy nightclub that he was at didn’t sit right with Burn. It was definitely the kinda place you gave out your wares in the nearby alley or the backdoor to avoid going in, but he wasn’t one to get a booth at a place like this when there’s no major event or party. The supplier and his longtime partner, Linx, said he could hand wares off but he’d gotten texts from a high roller asking for him by name [Mrk wnts a Burnie spcl, srry]- especially since a hefty, cash tip was promised. Honestly, he really wanted to get home. While the club was full, it was less than lively.
The whole squat building radiated a sharp tension that didn’t match the flashing lights and neon cyberpunk aesthetic that was overwhelming him. Everyone looked gholish from the spiraling projected lights, turning the writhing bodies into candy-colored zombies. Some people looked blitzed out of their minds, tearing up the dense, thumping dance floor and grinding into anything like unneutered lap dogs. But for every rabid party-er, there were one or two groggy, practically anemic people trying to get off the dancefloor. They had to be carried by their (he had to guess) friends, they were so unsteady on their feet.
Kinda made him feel like he fucked up telling his boy, Jack, to let him solo this. The big thug would be holding his arm and hiding his wares through every sale, hiding the goods and “his dear Burnie” from all the weird hungry eyes he couldn’t ignore now. Jackson really wanted to be with him, he always had a good feel on the pulse of the shittier spots in the city but Burn was pretty sure that he wouldn’t get the mysterious wad that asked for him if he brought a ‘bodyguard’.
At the very least Jack promised to pick him up by two am, he didn’t think he could stay around much longer. He couldn’t wait to curl up on Jackson’s chest and force the awful ringing in his ears away with his heavy solid heartbeat. Maybe suck J’s dick while he'd make Burn promise to take him next time. Probably bat his eyes until Jack’s all sweet and understanding so he wouldn’t clown on him in the morning. That'd be nice.
He wondered if it was the music making the zombies look so pained- if the ear-splitting bass was hurting them as much as him, jutting their bones a bit too frequently against their skin for any standing position to feel comfortable. The sheer volume of people seated at the bar that had to use the table or their friend to be slightly upright meant this place was just fucking awful enough that a seated position was Not helpful.
Or a slumped-over position, in Burnard’s case.
He hadn’t noticed he had company at his table. Hell, he was so lost he didn’t even notice his jacket was no longer on his arms. When had he taken it off? It was fucking freezing in here. Burn shivered, scrapping his stubble on a wool jacket sleeve that was keeping his head from flopping against his chest. The feeling of fingers other than Jack's in his shaggy hair made Burn want to kick like a caught rabbit, but his whole body felt like it was trying to move through syrup as he was pressed into the side of the well-dressed figure.
Looking up at the businessman reminded Burn of the worst types of masculine confrontations. Like, looking up to see his dad scowling at him for holding a garden hose between his legs or being literally dragged away from the boys on the field by his middle school coach. There was an intense cry in his blood that this 1950s salesman was bad fucking news.
For starters, he looks like he stepped out of a coffee table book on the top 5 CEOs who ruined America. He literally had a cigar in his breast pocket and a full three-piece suit in a nasty ass club. He looks like the kinda guy Burn and Linx would search for when they cased a place for a client that would buy bricks instead of bags, but also there's no way he'd approach a guy with this energy solo. The guy was petting him now, ash-coated fingers threading the back of his hair and pushing his chin into his bony thigh. Burn was tilted this way and that, a leather-gloved hand prodding at his slack mouth until it fell open, the other solidly gripping Burn’s nape. It was like cattle appraisal like his dad digging his gloved fingers in between a calf’s teeth to check their cud. He pushed his tongue down and grinned something wicked at Burn. It made his insides turn icy. The movement of this stranger was too fast to process, he couldn't even guess what the purpose of this dissection was and just had to let it happen. He could feel bile rising in his throat as he was pulled back against the stranger’s chest, the solid jaw of the New Yorker digging into Burn’s shoulder.
“You know you are very difficult to negotiate with, Mr. Kurlan. Passing out before selling your product is quite unprofessional, don't you think?” The businessman's effect was a blend of transatlantic and 40s gangster. If burn was more lucid he's sure he'd be able to throw it back.
When Burn’s brain caught up, a massive laugh leaped out of his throat. Maybe he popped more Xanax than he should’ve at the start of the day or he crashed from an afternoon Vodka and Red Bull. Maybe he's just having an off day, yeah the confusing feeling in his stomach that is tunneling deeper by the second isn't that bad, it's just a crash. A crash that hasn't made him feel this sick since he tried coke on an empty stomach and then got godded into a keg stand that came out his nose. Somehow this guy was making him feel much sicker.
“Well,” Burn said, his throat coated in dust and medicinal aftertaste. “I think… I think I might've gotten a bit too cautious in testing my product for you. I can say for certain, it'll fuck you up.”
The stranger let out a throaty chuckle, wrapping a solid arm around his pelvis. Burner almost hurled, as he felt the man pull him up to his side. Was he really up to do this with a guy this shady? His recently flattened chest started to pulse in pain and for a second that thought felt wrong. His surgery hadn't bothered him in weeks, right? Why does it feel so raw, wasn't he used to it by now? Wait, what day was his surgery? What-
“What day is it?”
The guy only gave him a hearty chuckle. The hand returned to his hair, strangely comforting in its persistent pattern. Hard strokes like combing the dust out of a horse’s coat, like squeezing a barn cat while you hid from your dad. He tried thinking about the stranger’s face but he couldn't make a full picture of him. Yes, he has a beard, his cheek scraped over it, but were his eyes brown or grey? Was he older than 50 or just 30 with an angular face? He was pulling the cigar and a polished silver lighter. It was hard to really keep what he was seeing in focus. The guy's facial features were fluctuating. Every time Burn tried to look, to focus, his head was pushed into the jacket, into his shirt or his chest. He wasn’t sure if the guy was shushing him, all he knew was his chin was getting gripped again.
And then the fucker shotguns him. Something tarry, hot, and choked with sulfur clings to his throat. Burn’s been forced into a lot of weird client’s faces, laps, and tits but the way the guy is cradling his chin, the way his shifting eyes are forcing him open with the intensity of his stare. It was hypnotic and the smoke felt like cherry novocaine spray massaged right into his pounding, aching brain. It unwound his muscles and made his limbs loosen, he would’ve fallen to the scuffed and piss-soaked ground without the guy’s arms keeping him latched to his chest. He pushed on the man’s chest, trying to avoid the approaching kiss, but his hands felt like they were wrapped in overstuffed pillows. His fingers were crushed as a too-long tongue snuck down his throat as if it was pushing the smoke down, deeper and deeper into his being. He shuddered, throat clenching to gag but too loose, too weak. He felt an acute need to sleep when he was let go, eyelids so heavy everything got turned to blurred shapes.
“There we go, just relax. You’re lucky I have a good supply of these. I needed four to get you down. Normally a little mortal can’t even handle one. You really are special, Mr Kurlan. It’s good to finally have you on board. Honey? Could you call the car, it’s time.”
It all went black as the man pulled the newly knocked-out body into his lap, stroking the lax face with a hungry gaze. For a moment, Burn thought he saw a face, drifting out of the ceiling, just on the edge of his fluttering eyelids. A child's face, rippling and sinking towards him, like a puppet swimming in baby oil. He let out a soft groan before his eyes slid shut, the pounding music slowly fading as he spiraled into the void.