09   redemption lies plainly in truth

Mercy King lives with a hand in the past, the other in the present. She's teetering on the edge of a cliff. It's crumbling beneath the soles of her shoes, rocks falling and the splash resounding up the cliff wall, digging into eardrums and making them their home. She's awake but Kavinsky's hands are still tight around the ring of her neck, the skin matching the shape of her bruises. Crumpled in the bathroom of Monmouth, she presses her forehead to her scarred knees. Her lungs heave, vision clouding and heart choking Mercy's throat from within, carving it's own brand new space into her being. Bones melting into the suit of her skin, Mercy is exhausted. There is no more consciousness or unconsciousness; both are so inextricably connected that she no longer knows the difference.

The past holds her at gunpoint: fireworks painting a bright kaleidoscope against the canvas of the black sky, white pills and matching powers on tables as they're sorted by black credit cards and nimble fingers, her feet on the dashboard of a white Mitsubishi, and her hands living in a tangled mess of blonde hair as she pressed open-mouth kisses to an arched neck. Last summer is a pixelated picture like an old VHS, the tape fading and the machine slowly breaking down. Mercy spent the first days of June sticking in the passenger seat, a different driver every time she looked away, nipping at the heels of exhilaration. The euphoria was never-ending, and Kavinsky hand-fed, grinning as she licked up every last drop. He'd swayed her with his hedonistic tendencies. The world was at their feet: a girl playing King and a boy playing Devil on her shoulder. Mercy fell in love with the thrill, the static feeling that lit her blood like a raging fire and sent her feet running. She was blind to everything but the horizon in front of her.

Until the rug was pulled from beneath her feet.

Mallory Weaver was an enigma. Maybe, that was what drew Mercy to her in the first place. She was a girl who'd fought for her place amongst the boys, making her presence known and feared. It was her passenger seat that Mercy found herself within the most—skin sticking to leather seats and their breath mingling in the summer air. She didn't know her last name then, nor would she bother to learn it until the aftermath.

Mercy and Mallory were never together; never a thing; barely even friends. They both served a simple purpose for each other. Together, they were a well-oiled machine of living distraction. For singular moments in time, they found themselves intertwined. Most of these moments a blur by the next morning. There's never been any true remembrance at Kavinsky's parties, only pieces and snapshots of the previous night as you fought to regain control of your body. Mercy remembers the knobs of Mallory's spine underneath her fingertips. She remembers a blonde head licking a stripe of salt up her naked stomach with a grin and lime wedges between the white of her teeth. She remembers pressing a kiss to Mallory's mouth, Kavinsky whooping from the front seat of his Mitsubishi and obscenities rolling off his tongue, before stumbling to get her checkered flag from the backseat of the blonde's car. She remembers the way her car flipped and it went up in flames, lighting up the fairgrounds as it crossed the finish line. Mallory had won in the end, but at the cost of her existence.

It was Kavinsky's hedonistic tendencies that persuaded Mallory to get in the car that day, egging her along with a Molotov cocktail in hand. It was all so easily avoidable if Kavinsky hadn't goaded her: Your car or mine, Weaver, make your decision. Quick before it blows. But she'd always liked to race as fast as her heart went until the sound got drowned out by the sound of the tires on the asphalt and Mallory lost herself to the thrill. Neck bent upwards, mouth to Mercy's ear, Mallory whispered: Go get your flag. Checkered fabric that she'd pulled from her dreams at the beginning of summer, waking up cheering as black dripped from her nose and ears. The world was spinning, Mercy was laughing. The air tasted of gasoline and recklessness, and Mercy fucking loved it. She had stood between them, she brought down the flag that started the race.

In the end of it all, there was screaming. Mercy thinks it might've been her, throat raw and in a tattered state when she woke up the next morning, but she can't quite remember. What Mercy does know is this: a police report was never filed for Mallory Weaver's death. It was like it never happened.

Kavinsky was calm. His hands did not shake as he parked the Mitsubishi, stepped out from the drivers seat and he walked to Mercy, who was kneeled in the dying grass. His joker smile cut through her panic, and almost stopped her lungs completely. There was blood on her knees. They weren't scarred then. That happened a few moments later. It was too late, but tears and panic clouded her system as shock began to set in. Mercy's instincts cried that she had to try. She pulled herself forward, stumbling on hands and knees into a pool of gasoline. Mercy's hands were claws, digging into the fabric of Mallory's jean jacket as she tried to pry her broken body from the drivers seat. There was a spark, Kavinsky by the edge, and Mercy couldn't kick herself backwards in time to miss the flames. They licked at her skin, fraying the edges with their heat and melted away the layers. (Her mother has never questioned where they came from, busying herself with her own knees against the floors of St. Agnes, Mercy's head bowed beside hers. But you can't pray away this type of pain.) The roar that erupted as a result was chilling—a distinct combination of agony and heartache all combined into one soundtrack. She'd never even known that she cared this much. Her hands automatically flew to press themselves into the open wounds. They screamed and cried for her to let go. Mercy dropped her hands to the ground, and propped herself up.

The sound of knees cracking followed Kavinsky as he kneeled down to Mercy's level. The sound fell on deaf ears. His fingers reached out, pressing greased fingerprints to Mercy's chin. He directed her gaze towards him, and thumbed away her salted tears that fell over a cracked expression.

Don't cry, he crooned in that voice of his; small and patronising, there's no need to cry over split milk.

Mercy choked on a sob. She's fucking dead, Kavinsky.

King, you're not looking at the bigger picture. Kavinsky gripped her chin, fingers pressed deep into the softness of her cheek until they hit bone. Nobody is dead to you. You can make new ones. All you have to do is sleep.

Kavinsky held out a pill. Horror coursed through Mercy. Throughout her entire existence, one simple fact has been hammered into the marble of her memory: death is the only permanent in life. Love can pass. Pain can pass. Healing can pass. But death, that is the is constant, and that will never change. The balance between life and death was struck centuries ago, and Mercy would never be the one to set it off-kilter. Mercy was not entitled to the breaking of it's limits.

Neither was Kavinsky, but he had no care. At the heart of it all, they're just bodies on a pile. There he stood, shrouded by shadows and the blinding white lights of the fairground. Mercy's exhausted body barely held her up, kneeled against the backdrop of Mallory's flaming car with Kavinsky's hand gripping her chin. To him, they were replaceable. Obsolete. Toys to throw away and replace on a whim with the newest version. His improved version. Mallory never meant anything to him, and neither would Mercy. Her gaze fixated on his crooked smile and white glasses, disassociated and losing pieces of herself by the second.

He leant down and clasped Mercy's locket in his hand. Mercy's neck stung and screamed with pain as he snapped the chain, pulling it from her neck without unclasping the metal. The small bits of metal fractured, giving in to Kavinsky's strength. It punched a hole through Mercy's chest. The world was a hum: gasoline crackled, and Mercy felt as if she was looking at her reflection in a cracked mirror. This was what she could become if she remained here: a monster. A broken dreamer; fuel for nightmares. Mercy's bloodline was already broken. To be a King is to be fragmented: to be a King is to reap what was sown all those centuries ago. Mercy refused to give in. She gathered herself. Her lungs heaved with the effort, and she wrestled on the string of grief, snipping at it until it snapped. Mercy didn't have time for this. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palm, and met Kavinsky's hardened gaze with her own.

You don't need this anyway, Kavinsky whispered with sour breath, let go. Let yourself be free.

Mercy couldn't find words, afraid that if she had let herself go, the bile in her throat would slip through her teeth and lips before it spilt onto the brown soil. She shook her head, urgent in her blatant refusal. He can't do this. It's wrong to do this.

But Kavinsky didn't care. He sighed disappointedly, standing and looked to Mallory's broken body. Without sparing Mercy a glance, he begun to walk away. The redhead let out a noise of objection, low and guttural from within her stomach, and threw out a hand. It was too late. He paid no mind to her, feet crunching against the bones in her fingers as he let his full weight drop onto Mercy's hand and tongued the white pill between his own teeth. She shrieked. The pain was like lightening—it flashed through her and struck without mercy. It was Illusion that held Mercy as she cried, head bowed over hers, and hands hovered over the wounds on her knee.

That was the first time she saw them.

Let me help you, they said.

And Mercy did.

The present is razor-sharp: red-hot against her skin. At the root of herself, Mercy King is a monster. She was raised to be one, birthed by shadows and broken bones. Her entry to the world was not a merciful sight, and neither will be her exit. Rivalling Ares, constructed of battle-born rage and brutality, she feels ready to slaughter. It's barbed, snagging smile quirking her lips. She almost wants to laugh. It's amusing to spend so much time fighting, hiding away only to find yourself in the exact same place. Mercy pulls herself into the BMW behind Ronan and Gansey. They don't fight her on it, letting her slip into the backseat and ruminate, fester in the anger that radiates from each and every single one of her heartbeats. Her hands are steeled, knuckles white and teeth biting viciously into her lip. She's aflame. The car bristles with tempered fire. The lightning has struck; the thunder cracking overhead like a vicious drum. Blood rushes in her ears, and her sight is tinged red. With every familiar stretch of road, Mercy only grows hotter.

The old fairground, usually shrouded in darkness, is flooded with white-light. Over a dozen cars rest on the grounds, wheels out of line and itching to tear into the grass. They're riddled with kinetic energy, equally as reckless drivers hanging from their windows. It's familiar, and Mercy's heart bleeds a deadly amount. It's a punch in the gut to see these grounds again; familiar and lingering with distorted memories. 

None of her time there was spent sober—always high and tripping over somebody's heels. There are dying pictures: the knobs of Mallory's spine underneath her fingertips, licking a stripes of salt; Kavinsky, laugh echoing and white pills flashing between the paleness of his fingers; fireworks like a kaleidoscope in the black sky; lastly, the crash. Mercy flinches in the back of the BMW. Blood everywhere, Mallory's Mitsubishi in flames. She still has burn scars on her knees where she was kneeling in the gasoline and it lit aflame. Mercy couldn't escape it before kicking herself backwards and suffered the consequences. Her scars burn, tiny hands prying at the scar tissue and screaming to be freed. 

As they roll to a stop, nose to nose with Kavinsky's Mitsubishi, Mercy aches, itching against Ronan's seats and craving leather behind her back and gasoline in the air like an addiction. Kavinsky throws a bottle at it, the glass cracking and liquid dripping all over the metal.

          "Ronan," Gansey says it like a prayer.

          "Are we doing this?" Ronan replies.

Mercy steels herself. "Yes."

Throwing open the door, Gansey slides from the BMW with one hand gripping the roof. Ronan, a guard dog of snapping teeth and fiery eyes, holds close to him. Mercy is slower, calculated as she slips through her open door artfully, one leg first and the other following close behind. She presses a thumb into her red lipstick, blending it before wiping the excess on the inside of her skirt hem. Mercy is a deadly force of scarlet; a secret weapon behind Gansey and Ronan.

          "Hey lady," Kavinsky's eyes are on Ronan, scarred hand flattened against his own ribcage. "This is a substance party. Nobody's in unless you brought a substance."

Ronan is a flash, one hand gripped around Kavinsky's pale throat, the other on his shoulder and pushing him. He slams Kavinsky down against the hood of the mutilated Mitsubishi. The crack of his skull is satisfying, Mercy's body sings. Ronan's fist tightens, ramming into Kavinsky's bent nose. Grinning, feral and raw, Ronan shows him his bloody fist as he pulls himself up.

          "Here's your substance."

Kavinsky wipes his nose, blood smearing on the paleness of his arm. "Hey man, you don't have to be so fucking antisocial."

Ronan growls. Gansey holds up a hand, and he ceases all movements.

          "I don't want to keep you from your revels," Gansey's voice is ice. Mercy has never seen Gansey Boy this cold before, surprise almost flickering through her blank expression. "So, I'm just going to say this: Stay out of my place."

Kavinsky laughs, hollow. "I don't know what you're talking about. Babe, get me a smoke."

Inside the white Mitsubishi, a girl's head lolls in the passenger seat. Her grin is vacant, eyes glazed. She's stoned, and doesn't heed a single word that Kavinsky says.

          "Once a liar, always a liar." Mercy says, looking away from the girl. Mallory's laughter hangs like a ghost and her skin prickles like it's stuck to her passenger seat. She shoves a fake license, Kavinsky's work he'd left at Monmouth's door, in his face. "I'd know your sorry work anywhere."

          "You mad because I didn't leave you a locket too?" He sneers. Kavinsky searches her for a reaction but she gives away nothing. She remains stoic and cold: the Mercy that Kavinsky has always known and saw in Nino's, but it's hard on the home turf that they both once shared. His gaze flicks to Gansey, hovering and on edge. "Or a mint for you?"

          "No, I'm angry because you trashed my apartment." Gansey says. "You should be glad I'm here and not the police station."

          "Whoa, man," Kavinsky says. His hands rise in a mocking surrender. "Whoa, whoa, I can't tell which of us is high. Whoa. I didn't trash your place."

          "Please don't insult my intelligence," Gansey replies. There's a bitterly cold laugh that underlies his words, it's terrifying and thrilling all at once.

Mercy preens, but it's dissolved by the clashing of cars. She visibly flinches, unable to catch it before the visceral reaction takes over her entire body. Kavinsky grins, it's a flicker of something old and familiar. Her stomach churns. They're both thinking of Mallory: a blonde, broken doll sprawled out amongst flames. We killed her together, a glance whispers, that is our creation. I challenged her and you flew the flag. We're the same you and I. Kavinsky shifts his stance, looking at Ronan.

          "Ah," he says, "you want in on this, don't you?

          "Where are these guys from?" Gansey peers at the shadowy figures. "Is that Morris? I thought he was in New Haven."

Kavinsky shrugs, white-framed glasses askew. "It's a substance party."

          "They don't have substances in New Haven." Ronan questions, guttural and a growl.

          "Not like these. It's Wonderland! Some make you big, some make you small..."

This isn't wonderland. It's hell. It's death, despair and hedonism. This is where people come to die under the illusion of living. This is where Mercy was reborn.

           "Depends on which side of the mushroom you use," Ronan replies. He's faint, a call to above.

          "True point," Kavinsky says. "So, what are you going to do about your rat problem?"

Gansey blinks. "Beg pardon?"

          "If I didn't trash your place," Kavinsky's laugh is grating, uproarious and vulgar, it matches everything about him, "something else is infesting it."

          "Lynch! Mercy!" A faint voice calls. Mercy doesn't look, she knows Prokopenko. "And Gansey?"

          "Yeah," Kavinsky says. He hooks his thumbs into the splitting seams of his backpackers. "Mommy and Daddy came. And our girl, never thought we'd see the day." Mercy snarls, Kavinsky holds up his hands. "Hey, Gansey, you get a babysitter for Parrish? You know what, man, don't answer that; let's smoke a peace pipe."

          "I wouldn't trust a thing that comes from his hands," Mercy says. She looks down on Kavinsky.

Gansey's expression is riddled with disdain. "I'm not interested in your pills."

          "Oh, Mr Gansey," Kavinsky sneers. "Pills! First rule of substance party is, you don't talk about substance party. Second rule is, you bring a substance if you want another." Behind him, Prokopenko laughs. "Lucky for you, Mr Gansey, I know what your dog wants. And what our girl wants."

Gansey's lip quirks, dangerously poised. He's on the knifes edge, Kavinsky cutting himself on the cold steel. His chin tilts, condescending, practiced. It sets Mercy aflame to see him burn like the rest of them.

          "And what is it my dog needs?" He asks.

Ronan's lips curl.

          "Pyrotechnics! Boom!" Kavinsky crows. He pounds down on the Mitsubishi. "Get out, bitch. Unless you wanna die. It's all the same to me."

Mercy's seen this sight before, it almost feels like a dream. You can make new ones. All you have to do is sleep. It is all the same to him; people are dolls. Things to be remade and reshaped. They mean nothing to him. Just like Mallory, and just like her. Her chest heaves in quiet, quick breathes. With an iron grip, Mercy shoves down the feeling of panic and replaces it with a coldness akin to her mother.

          "That dent will come out," Ronan says. There's an exhilaration to his voice, a familiar melody. 

          "I'll always know it was there," Kavinsky replies carelessly. "Cherry, popped. Prokopenko, make me a cocktail, man."

Prokopenko's movements are familiar. It's in his hands, ready, before Gansey can blink.

          "Take the edge off," Kavinsky says. He turns to Gansey, and the liquid sloshes over the side, a t-shirt stuffed into the mouth.

Gansey accepts it, holding the warmed glass in his hand. Mercy makes a noise; equal parts pleased and nervous. For each and every version of Gansey that Mercy discovers, he comes with a surprise. A dangerous figure amongst shadows. Something in her breaks and melds itself together. She grins. Her smile is skeletal, wholly un-human and jagged. She's looks at home, unsettlingly vicious underneath the mix of moonlight and old fairground lights. Gansey's arm winds up, but rather than aiming for the Mitsubishi, he aims for the broken Volvo in the distance. Everything in Mercy hurts and thrives at once.

          "Good throw," Kavinsky says, "but wrong car. Proko!"

Prokopenko hands him another Molotov cocktail. He presses it into Ronan's hand, whispering words of pointed poison into his ear and stepping backwards. There's a thrill in Ronan's eye, shaved head glinting. His fingers curl around it.

Kavinsky points at the Mitsubishi. "Aim high. And do it fast, man, or you'll blow your arm off. No one wants a half tattoo." 

It's an arc of roaring flame, orange and red lighting up the sky, beating like Mercy's heart and pulsing in the air. Ronan laughs, and she's looking at Kavinsky. Orange erupts above her head—a flaming halo, and he grins. The sound of glass shattering is faint as Prokopenko hurtles another Molotov. A shiver runs up Mercy's spine, Kavinsky's gaze fixated on her.

          "You could have this all back," he bellows, arms wide and inviting. "It's all yours if you want it, Mercy King." Kavinsky's eye twinkles dangerously. "You know what you need to do."

White flashes in his fingers: a tiny pill. Mercy King is teetering on the edge of a cliff; one hand in the past, the other in the present. It's crumbles, falling apart beneath the soles of her shoes. She's awake, standing before him at a distance, but Kavinsky's hands are still tight around the ring of her neck. Neck aching, horror and panic flash through Mercy simultaneously. You can make new ones. All you have to do is sleep. It repeats like a mantra; unholy and a living sin. Mercy's on the verge of collapsing in on herself, barely holding herself up. Another explosion is fluorescent in the distance: it frames her, and her heart beats fast. 

          "You're the worst of us, Kavinsky." Mercy snaps. His words slice through her like a knife, leaving her bleeding scarlet and raw onto the dead grass, five feet away from where Mallory died. It takes every inch of self-control to not take his skinny neck in her hands and squeeze. For Mallory, for Ronan, she'd whisper, for me. "You don't get to cross those boundaries!"

          "Sweetheart," Kavinsky says into her ear. He has to tip up his chin, Mercy towering over him and seething. "I already have."

He looks to Prokopenko.

Like a snake, Mercy strikes. Her hand is enclosed around his throat and compresses tightly before Ronan or Gansey can move. Faintly, she can hear shouts and the way Kavinsky laughs through his lungs gasping for air. Everything screams, hold tighter. Gansey makes a noise. Blood pounds in Mercy's ear, and she smiles. Her smile is skeletal, wholly un-human and jagged. The ghost of a girl that Gansey once knew. Ronan's hands are on her arms but all she can feel is the burn scars on her knees and the throbbing of her neck.

          "King," Ronan says, deep and slow. "Let him go."

He pries Mercy's hands from Kavinsky, holding her tight to him and leashing all possible movements. She spits at Kavinsky's feet—a feral, wild thing and bares her teeth.

          "You made a mistake, Kavinsky." She says. "You selfish fuck. You have no idea what you're playing with."

          "Skov! Music! " Kavinsky laughs, gruff and untethered. A car's speaker rumbles the earth beneath their feet. He looks at Ronan. "You coming to Fourth of July this year?"

Ronan's expression is blank. "Maybe."

          "It's a lot like a substance party," Kavinsky continues. His lilt is a challenge. "You want to see something explode, bring something that explodes. You want to see something be remade, bring something broken."

He glances at Mercy. She makes a noise, half way between protest and a growl, fighting against Ronan's grip but he holds strong. It's a dare: a challenge for the matching pair of undying flames. Part of her aches to give in, to forget, but she can't let another person slip. Stoically, she sets her spine straight. The ground pulses beneath her feet. They need to leave. Gansey's already begun moving towards the BMW.

          "Maybe," Ronan repeats. "I'll light a candle for your car."

          "You're leaving? Harsh."

Ronan flicks another fake ID at Kavinsky. It hits his chest, falling to the dead grass. "Stay out of our place."

          "I only come where they invite me, man." Kavinsky's grin is crooked, dangerously wide.

          "Lynch," Gansey calls. "We're gone."

Ronan and Mercy shift, his hands still on her arms and her face still set into a snarl. He crowds in front of her, pushing her towards the car first, putting himself between her and Kavinsky.

          "That's right," Kavinsky calls. "Call your dog!" 

Mercy shoves herself into the backseat, bubbling and boiling over. The exhaustion sets in, too tired to still be angry. It's regret that pools in the pit of her stomach. She pulls her sleeves over her hands, curling her nails into the fabric and pressing down. Mercy feels it all: the past and present collide in a universal explosion. Curling into herself, her fingers dance over the scarred skin of her knees. Her eyes close. A ghostly touch creeps down her back, fingers against her vertebrae. Mercy looks up to Illusion beside her, smiling down, and breaks. She can't hold back the sob. It hiccups out, a scab over a bullet wound. Tears stream down her freckled cheeks, salt-lines painting in careful strokes. Mercy pushes her eyes into her kneecaps, feeling the pressure against her face and shoulders shaking violently. The cries aren't silent, but they're left unbothered. Gansey looks behind him from the back seat, worried and unsettled. Mercy's pushed herself out of reach, contorted into the corner of the backseat. 

Alone, other than the unseeable ghost beside her.

this one kind of hurt to write im not gonna lie