Natural Selection (Elijah Kamski x Reader)

Fighting Monsters

You plugged the pockets of your trench coat with your fists, a chill running up your spine from the cold rain beating down on you. With jeans, boots, no makeup and a hood over your head, you were confident no one would recognize you as you walked the busy streets of Detroit with the "commoners."

The last weeks following Amanda's funeral had been tough. The official story ran it as health complications related to high blood pressure, or something like that...you didn't care enough to read through the whole thing. You'd been puking your guts out every morning, drinking more than you could handle every night, and eating whatever fell out of the vending machine at your shitty hotel that only charged $50 a night.

You smashed your phone. Went off the grid. You weren't given much choice after Elijah went postal and smashed everything in the apartment. You stuck around long enough to take care of him and make sure he didn't kill himself, which was a legitimate concern at one point, and then bailed.

You were certain you'd be able to live with your decision. To choke it down and list all the reasons why it had to be done until you convinced yourself that you weren't a murderer. To convince yourself that you had every good reason to be glad she was dead, that you were happy Elijah hadn't been looking for you, or at least, to your knowledge.

You'd forgot how to function on your own. How to use an ATM, keep actual cash on you instead of credit cards, how to buy your own clothes, food, everything. It'd been so long, you forgot how to live an every-day life, and it disgusted you. On top of all that, this area of the city was unexplored territory for you. It wasn't the best neighborhood, though certainly not the worst. But after a fight at the hole-in-the-wall bar you called semi-home for the last month, it was time to move on.

"Three holes in a wall will get you banned from a place, I guess."

You'd found an ad in the local newspaper and settled on a place called Jimmy's Bar as your new hole to crawl into and die in. Shallow puddles splashed under your boots as you approached the door, removing your hood and smoothing your hair before walking in. The heat washed over you as it blasted from a pump in the entry way, a welcome change to plastic noodles slapping you in the face upon entry.

There were pool tables, booths, barstools, the whole nine. For a shitty, rundown place, it felt homey. You sat at the bar, and waited for the bartender to finish a conversation with a boisterous, middle-aged man with sunken eyes and greying hair.

"Haven't seen you before..." the bartender slung a rag over his shoulder, "You new 'round here?"

"You could say that." You let the conversation die after your short answer.

"Strong and silent type...got it. Makes my job easier then. What'll it be?"

"Rum, best you got. Double, if you can."

"Comin' right up..."

You focused on the swirls in the wooden bar, your dirty fingernails picking at a loose splinter of wood.

The news was talking about some dead Marines for maybe a few minutes before panning over to Amanda's face, and clips from her funeral. You hadn't attended. Made Elijah go on his own. You took care of him the best you could, but it got to be too much, so you ran. Just another thing to feel guilty about.

But when the cops came in, you went rigid. Squeezed your drink a little too hard. Stopped breathing, and swore your heart stopped with it.

"This place is popular with the boys n' girls in blue." The bartender looked at you, "Nothin' to worry about."

You looked at him, brows slanted, "Who said I had anything to worry about?"

"There's a type."

You huffed through your nose, throwing cash on the table before getting up to leave. Through all the chatter that'd raised the volume levels of the bar by at least 20 decibels with the influx of bodies, a string of words floated over the rest. "Yeah, uh, okay, hang on a sec, I think I know her-"