Memento Mori (MikaYuu)

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Moonlight beams illuminated through the holes in the scanty curtains that clung to the window, casting peculiar shapes unto the floor. It was in a musty, cold attic, that was aligned with nothing but dour attributes. But within the ominous attic lived a boy, and within the boy lived demons.

This boy - he survived off nothing more than pills. Pills for breakfast, lunch, dinner and often times dessert. However, the pills were not for him. They were for those demons that could entirely possess his consciousness with insanity. As long as they were fed, they let him live habitually without the regards for anything of that sort.

So there he was with two, dull-blue, ovular pills staring up at him from his palm like harmless candy awaiting to be consumed. He closed his eyes, feeling the medicine claw down his parched throat like nails.

He'd really depend on those godforsaken pills. Particularly for his upcoming illicit job of the night.

Is it really so illicit, though, if you steal back what was rightfully yours? With a little pain on the side, of course.

So, back to this boy.

He was pretty tall, long-legged with a toned physique. Tattoos designed his biceps and forearms in sleeves, the dark ink like venom. He obtained a tired face, faint bags under his eyes and dark lids. A scar cut up through the smooth side of his torso - and that was unforgettable evidence of what happened when he didn't feed those said demons inside of him in time.

Blonde hair feathered in front of his eyes, too thin to remain stable in the wind. He never wore his hair down, always up in some sloppy fashion. It was too feminine for his taste, but not worthy enough of a trim he'd care to give it. Structured perfectly on both sides of the bridge of his nose were crystal, cerulean eyes bright enough to slice through the uninviting darkness in his attic. He was a mythical sight, one to get lost in for hours. A memorizing smile made an appearance on his rosy lips when he forced one, teeth pearly and glossed.

Well, he hated smiles more than anything. So they were rare sights.

He went by Mika, for his real name was, once again, too feminine for his taste. 'M' sometimes as well.

Anything but Mikaela.

He couldn't stare at his reflection in the mirror for very long either, always in disgust at what he saw. He tossed a plaid blanket over the cracked, circular frame - never to be uncovered again.

Typically, he was light on his feet. But it was his room, his rules. He took careless heavy strides to the plush mattress hidden in the corner covered by a poor arrangement of different colored sheets. He squatted down to retrieve his shirt which held the coldness from the outside air. The black material sheltered his tattooed back and ribs, only his arms exposed to the polluted air of the city.

Then, his jeans, boots... His team had the weapons, if they were ever necessary. Most jobs they weren't. But that was no excuse not to carry.

His sapphire eyes landed on the shelf of silver and golden trophies, which was where the entire issue revolved in his job that night. Of course, they weren't real. They were awards of academic excellency from the school. They couldn't even afford better food. That didn't stop him from at least selling them as 'real'. He'd already made quite the cash by swindling, and only five more trophies remained that he'd have to fake out.

Unfortunately, some unlucky guy butted in the passageway of his money transport, which of course meant anything worse than death on Mika's terms. Stealing money was not taken lightly considering his living situations. His room as an attic? Cold breakfast every morning?

Mika can only be the swindler. Never the swindled.

Believe or not, he hoped he wouldn't have to kill anyone tonight. Disposing bodies was a mastered skill by now to him, but there was always still that chance... Not to mention horrifying memories.

He never had to assassinate anyone on jobs. That wasn't his position. His position was hiding bodies. Simple enough. Get in, get what you need done, and get out. Try not to get PTSD.

He had something far worse than that, however.

All because of one man. It was one man he would never detach from. His father.

He didn't think about that. Well, at least he tried not to.

If Mika wasn't excelled at one thing, it would be that.

A voice yanked him out of his cloudy trance.

"You about ready up there, blondie? Let's go and get your money already," shouted one of the many guys on his team from below the cheap wood flooring. It creaked and cried with every step.

He took a heavy breath, lifting up the latch to his floor to reveal an impatient, brown-eyed teenage face. He smirked down at it.

"About time," the boy beneath him remarked in a mutter, stepping out of the way so Mika could hop down.

He shut the latch, ignoring his complaints.

"I'll buy you pizza later as an apology," Mika convincingly began, his voice heavy with sleep, raspy and smooth.

"Mhm," hummed his companion, "that's if I'm still in the mood to eat after dealing with this crap tonight. Gotta hand it to you, though. You sure do not mess around with people and your money, huh?"

That question answered itself that night.