Chapter Text
The crows are flying again—a phrase that’s become all too common these days.
You might catch a drunken fool weaving through the scarce patches of shade, snickering and pointing, "Look! Look! The crows are flying again." No wonder—the sight of these creatures is everywhere in Olathe. Their crimson eyes and dark wings are unmistakable.
You might see a lone crow perched on a dead tree, preening its feathers, or silently poised on a spear lodged deep in the ground, silently watching. More often, though, you’ll find them with bloody beaks, perched on a croaked corpse that has succumbed to the eternal heat of the sun.
This is the scene they relish most. Contrary to what some might think, crows are sharp-witted creatures. They sense that one day, there will be no more bodies to perch upon, that the days of humanity are dwindling.
And so, they feast. A delicacy should never go to waste.
…
Everyone knows to steer clear of the old, abandoned factory. It’s common knowledge that crossing the rust-stained pillars of red concrete lining its perimeter is a bad idea. No one should breathe in the acrid stench of lingering chemicals, thick in the stale air, seeping from deep beneath the tainted soil—not that it matters much; the earth died long ago.
Everyone knows this, but there’s always the occasional fool—someone naive enough to think that the so-called abandoned factory is truly empty.
One such fool now found himself face-to-face with a smile painted blood-red, sharper than any iron blade. A smile full of teeth—the kind that no sane person would ever want directed their way.
"Please! I-I didn’t know this was your territory! I just heard there was someone here selling joy! Honest! I wasn’t planning to steal anything!" babbled the old scavenger. He was bound tight, ropes digging into his wrists and ankles, trapped within the cursed factory.
But distinctions like ‘old’ hardly mattered anymore; everyone was old now, and getting older by the day. Youth had become a rare treasure, its supply long exhausted, never to return.
The blonde-haired man offered no reply, only a smile that widened, unsettling the intruder even more. He was not alone. At the edges of the shadows, among the dusty, broken machinery, a dozen mutilated figures lurked, their faces hidden behind masks twisted into cruel grins.
Those with arms still intact gripped machetes and hooks, waiting for the signal to bring some life to their morning.
As for those without arms? Their severed limbs hung like grim trophies, impaled on the spikes of their leader’s red shoulder pads—though it was hard to tell if the pads were dyed that way or simply soaked in the blood still dripping from their own missing parts.
"Come on! Say something! Anything! I’m begging for my life here! You want my mags? S-sure, you took what I had on me, but I’ve got a bigger stash! Really! Tons of filthy smut, limited edition stuff—I swear! Just let me live, please!" he pleaded, a last-ditch effort to avoid the inevitable, gruesome end that Olathe had in store.
Every native of Olathe knows they’re headed for a brutal end. It's just the way things are now. But this scavenger had hoped for a more dignified exit—a death soaked in alcohol and autoerotic asphyxiation.
There was no shame in admitting that. No one in Olathe had any purity left. Every soul was tainted, mired in the depths of its own decay.
"What's your name, friend?" the blonde asked, his voice as smooth as silk. It was a question better suited for greeting a buddy at a bar, rather than addressing a man on the verge of losing control of every bodily function out of sheer terror.
“D-David… David Bahloney.” he stammered, his eyes flicking nervously. He couldn’t make out the man’s eyes; they were shrouded in shadow beneath his helmet.
“Bahloney?” The leader—warlord or gang boss, David couldn’t be sure—snickered. “Please tell me that’s not actually your last name. Or, better yet, don’t tell me you chose it yourself.”
“Well… um, t-the latter?” David mumbled, managing a nervous smile. He had thought it sounded clever once.
The response earned him a round of giggles and laughter from the masked group, a sound that dragged him back to his younger days—days filled with damp locker rooms, cracking voices, and muscled jocks whipping him with wet towels.
"Listen then, David... Bahloney..." the larger man drawled, drawing another round of cruel laughter from the faceless crowd. He crouched down to the scavenger’s level, slowly drawing a blood-caked machete from his holster and resting it just under the shivering fool’s chin, close enough for him to feel the cold steel against his skin.
"I want to ask you something. Are you happy?" he asked.
"W-what?"
"I said... are you happy?" the grinning brute repeated, pressing the blade a little tighter against the man’s throat. Just a little more pressure, and blood would flow.
"Like, right now?" David replied dumbly, his eyes darting nervously between the machete’s edge, which reeked of raw iron, and his captor's smiling face, then to the crowd of men surrounding him. He hated how he couldn't read their expressions beneath those fixed masks, but he had the sinking feeling that they were all smiling.
"Oh no, I wouldn’t expect you to be happy right now. I’m not a monster; it's not a trick question. I just want to know, honestly—are you a happy man?"
Squeezing his eyes shut, the poor soul gulped, his throat dry as sandpaper, his heart fluttering like a trapped hummingbird. What answer was he supposed to give? What did this man want from him? Why did he ever think coming to this factory was a good idea?
God, he wanted to get high.
"N-no." he stammered, feeling the weight of the truth press down on him, just as it had when he was a child. "I'm not happy. I don’t think I was ever happy. I-I drown myself in drugs, and I… I masturbate all day long until my hands ache, ‘cause I've never known a woman’s touch. I don't even know why I'm still alive. I just want to feel nothing. I just want some joy." He broke down, tears spilling from his eyes.
"I just want some joy… I need it. I didn’t mean to barge in your creepy, haunted gang factory. I just wanted some drugs, that's all! Just something to feel the closest thing to happiness I can get!"
"There!" he yelled, a fleeting spark of suicidal courage rising in his chest. "Is that what you wanted to hear? You sick bastard?"
David thought he’d sounded intimidating—like a man should. It felt as if he’d lit a match and tossed it into a room full of propane gas, ready for the whole place to blow. But instead of the explosion he expected, the silence that followed was crushing. The air was still, suffocating, empty of the sharp, nauseating burn he’d braced for.
The proverbial match had flickered out the moment it left his fingers, leaving him standing there, an idiot in a room that refused to explode.
He couldn’t even manage that right. Of course, he couldn’t.
The towering leader didn’t flinch, his smile unbroken, the blade still pressed firmly against the man’s throat. He remained unmoved—a mountain unmoved by the faintest breath of wind trying in vain to shift it.
He let the scavenger’s words hang in the air for a moment, then calmly replied, “Okay.”
“Okay?” the bewildered kidnappee echoed, sucking in shaky breaths as the machete was finally lifted from his skin.
“Okay.” the leader repeated. “That’s all I wanted to hear from you. I’m truly sorry that you’re not happy. A real tragedy, I must say.”
The boss man rose, cracking his neck as he stood, the room seeming to shift around him as he tapped his chin with the bloodstained machete, feigning deep thought. His mutilated gang rustled with anticipation, eager for the next move.
David trembled like a man fever-stricken, his mind racing, desperate to guess the verdict that would decide his fate.
Whatever conclusion the grinning sociopath reached, he kept it to himself—sharing nothing with his captive or the expressionless crowd. Instead, with a firm grip on his machete, he swung it in a swift, brutal arc toward the trembling man.
The rope hit the ground with a heavy thud.
"Huh?" David squeaked, one eye squeezed shut, the other barely open. He realized, almost in disbelief, that his arms were free. Wincing, he rubbed his raw, rope-burned wrists, relishing a brief moment of relief as the tension in his limbs eased.
"I can’t fault a man for not being happy. That’s not in my job description." the blonde mused, frowning—a gesture David found oddly uncharacteristic, despite only knowing him in the context of this brutal kidnapping.
"So... does that mean I can leave?" he asked, hope creeping into his voice.
There was no answer. The soft-spoken manic casually swung his machete in lazy arcs, stepping toward him with unsettling calm, as if David hadn’t spoken at all. "And I would love to help you. Because yes, we do sell Joy here. We could bring you the happiness you desire—the happiness you deserve."
"Oh, th-that’s great. I could come by later—not now—I mean, I'd just really like to leave, if that’s okay—" the old prey stammered, inching backward as he rambled, hoping to reach the old iron doors and escape. He’d swim all the way to East Olathe if it meant getting away from this nightmare.
The hunter chuckled, cutting him off. "Ah, but unfortunately for you, we're still waiting on our next shipment from our… benefactor. No product to sell at the moment, none at all."
David forced a warbling smile, trying to keep calm. "Look, I really don’t mind—" He backed away, but instead of reaching the doors, his scrawny frame collided with something solid. Slowly, he looked up, meeting the cold, expressionless gaze of a well-built man in a pink mask. Without a word, the masked figure shoved David back toward the center of the room, back into the embrace of impending death.
The poor scavenger’s heart sank. There was no way out.
"And you know what late shipments do to me?" the gang leader continued, his voice dripping with mock casualness. "They make me feel very stressed. A kind of anxiety I can only get rid of through some therapeutic, rigorous anger management. My guys have been kind enough to let me practice on them, but I can't run a crew with no arms to peddle our goods. And legs? Well, they're pretty important when you're running drugs all over Olathe."
With each word, the space between David and the gang leader closed. A swing of the machete, a step forward, another casual slice—each move tightening the noose of terror around the scavenger.
David felt a wave of numbness wash over him, his mind retreating as the man kept talking. His voice became distant, as if it were white noise, static, a blur of meaningless sound. Everything faded but the pounding in his ears, his own heartbeat growing louder. It was like watching a TV on mute; he could see the looming violence, but all sound was swallowed up in a void.
"David." the blonde cooed, grinning wider, "you really should have come to us on a different day. Because I desperately need to blow off some steam."
David closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.
The world went silent.
The leader swung, and with all the joy in the world, he let the blade fall.
…
Two gang members staggered out of the dilapidated factory, each gripping one end of a heavy, black bag between them. One hobbled awkwardly, missing a leg, while the other struggled to balance the weight, his remaining arm wrapped tightly around the gruesome cargo.
The sun still hung in the sky, burning bright when it should have dipped below the horizon hours ago. A faint tinge of orange barely colored its surface, but it wasn’t enough to offer any real relief.
"The boss sure had fun, didn’t he?" one piped up, his raspy voice muffled behind the grinning mask they all wore. It was always good when the boss had his fun, especially when it was someone else on the receiving end.
"He sure did," the other replied, his tone wispier, almost winded. "Made quite the mess too." Small curses escaped his lips as he fumbled to keep balance, the bag sagging with the weight of severed remains. Blood seeped through, painting the black, rubbery surface with streaks of red.
They didn’t have to walk far—just far enough from the factory that the flies wouldn’t be a problem. The factory itself was already a magnet for swarms, drawn to the open wounds and decay scattered about. Best to leave the bag somewhere else, where the rot wouldn’t interfere with business.
And there was always business.
“Oh man, just leave it here. This spot’s good.” One said, and with a wet, heavy thud, the black bag was dropped unceremoniously onto a patch of dry earth. If the ground was fortunate, the leftover blood might offer it some nourishment.
Rain was scarce these days, and the land would take whatever it could get.
“That’s that. Any last words for the poor bastard?”
“Anyone with a name like ‘Bahloney’ doesn’t deserve last rites. Just leave the fucker and let’s go.”
“Yeah, the boss’ll probably have another job for us soon.”
“Ugh, I hope it’s not more Rando duty. Those soldier types are a pain to sell to. I can barely break even with ‘em.”
With that, they walked off, their conversation a mix of drugs and business—servants to a lord who reveled in pain and worshipped it. Behind them, the remains of a hapless man lay forgotten.
But not entirely.
There are those who don’t care how a story ends—bloody or not. There are those who remember when humanity would rather forget.
“Hey man, look. The crows are flying again.” one of the masked figures said, pointing to the sky.
And so, the feast began anew.