First Draft:

“The Betrayal of Cynical Love”
Stephanie Ruff

The city was grimy and dark, smog choked the color from the sky and the life from the weak. The streets were smeared with the blood of children who had gone out of their way to damage each other beyond repair. The city was overrun and Cynical liked it that way. He ruled over the darkened minds of traumatized kids, their pain and apathy redirected into glorious bouts of rage and violence as they sought to maintain control. The light and good constantly at their throats, pushing and pushing for power until their blood gurgled from their throats. This was Cynical’s city and he would not allow anyone to take it from him. 

But complications arise, currently the throbbing of his skull and the pull at his wrists as he peered through his eyelids. He was in a room covered in blood. Well, blood orange paint that is. The intensity forcing Cynical to lower his head to the floor, carpeted with zebra fur and metal plates that melded the chair to the floor. Zipties dug into his shins, mimicked by his wrists which were lashed to the arms of the chair. Otherwise, Cynical found himself to be unharmed. Sure he was missing his gun as well as his third favorite knife but that was to be expected. Given the fact that he wasn’t dead, the working theory was that the cops had finally caught him. Raided his compound and bashed him in the face before escorting him to a blacksite in which they would interrogate him, viciously. Glaring at the ceiling, Cynical arrogantly said “I can take it.”

“Oh I’m sure you can,” replied a sultry voice. A tall, well built man entered into Cynical’s view; the man’s blaring red suit demanding attention before it was quickly redirected to the glimmering dagger in his hand. 

“Love, glad to see you found my third favorite knife. You gonna give it back?” Cynical smirked at the man. Of course he had been kidnapped by his rival; the cops breaking into his compound would have ended with an increase in memorial plaques down at the station. Love twirled the dagger, admiring the craftsmanship on the blade, a sliver of black started at the tip before spiraling into a flame at the hilt of the blade, the hilt itself was decorated in jewels from the city’s only bank vault.

“Glad to see your humor is still intact Cyn, I would have hated to kill Mischief for bashing your brains out. You know how hard it is to find good lieutenants these days what with your little sidekick Depression off galavanting with his sister Joy.” Cynical nodded his head, more so in acknowledgement than agreement. Depression had killed Joy in the arena weeks ago, pushed his powers onto her until she took the offered rope and hung herself; but Love didn’t need to know that. 

“Sooo, Love, you wanna tell me why I’m all tied up? If you had wanted to talk you could have just called.” Cynical smiled at Love, chuckling under his breath as he remembered how the last call between them had ended in a quite impressive swearing match. Love twirled the dagger once more before sauntering towards Cynical. Crouching in front of him, Love trailed the knife’s edge along Cynical’s knee.

“Oh Cyn, we both know what happened last time I called. I figured this would be easier.” Love lifted the dagger to Cynical’s face, “face to face,” he accentuated by a tap of the blade on either of Cynical’s cheeks, “without any interruptions.” Love rose, moving towards his desk to the right of Cynical. The desk was of dark mahogany, jagged and scarred from too many attempts of arson. Love leaned against the desk, his hands supporting his tilt as his feet crossed at the ankles. Cynical glared at Love. By moving to the side he forced Cynical to strain to look at him. Such disrespect would have warranted a beheading, oh if only Cynical was not strapped to a chair. 

“I wanted to discuss a deal with you. An alliance of sorts.” 
“Seriously? This couldn’t have waited till the annual Blood Games? You know the rules Love, all business is to be discussed at the games or they are not official!” A sharp thud silenced Cynical. Love had slammed the dagger into his desk, it now stood straight up, unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“It’s official IF I SAY SO!!” Love narrowed his eyes at Cynical. This man always knew how to push his buttons. He was the leader, he had control, and yet Cynical always reminded him of the rules that had been set in place so many years ago. The warring of the positive and negative empaths had divided families, or tried to anyway. Upon realization that siblings would not be kept apart, the annual Blood Games became a time of challenges, brotherhood and business, a single day in which a truce was called in order to quell the need for contact. Oh there was brutality, for the hatred ran deep on both sides, but the respect for sibling’s need to be together tamed the fires so there was only mild maiming. Love had always admired the scar that ran under Cynical’s chin; a gift from Cyn’s brother Greed at the last Blood Games before he disappeared and was labeled as “shoot on site.” A first for the gangs, brothers of the same side turning on each other. 

Love composed himself, pulling the dagger from his desk and returning to stand in front of Cynical. “I know the rules Cyn, but I couldn’t wait. This proposal of mine needs to be discussed and agreed upon and I needed you to stay and listen.” Cynical clenched his hands into fists, straining the zip ties that bound him. His partially bleached hair fell into his face, hiding the left side. Love moved forward, reaching out to move the hair but at Cynical’s flinch he resorted to the dagger. Cynical froze as the dagger drew closer to him. Closing his eyes as if it would prevent the inevitable; he relaxed as he felt the tip of the blade scrape along his scalp, moving the long hair to the side and behind his ear. Reopening his eyes, Cynical stared at Love, whose eyes revealed nothing. Staying within Cynical’s personal space, Love simply waited. His Cyn was a talker and if he waited only a few moments he would get what he needed. 

“Fine,” Cynical growled. “I’ll listen to your proposal but don’t expect me to say yes.” Cynical shifted his head to the side, ashamed at the lack of resistance he was putting up. But what could he do? Cynical wanted to use his powers so badly but adding cynicism to Love’s already deranged plan was a boneheaded move. He could take a hit to his pride if it meant that he had more time to figure out a way to escape. And who knows, maybe Love’s proposal wasn’t that bad. Either way, Love was going to pay for this. Cynical smirked as he imagined driving his knife into Love’s ribcage. 

“I want to call a truce.” Love stood, meandering back over to his desk before hopping up to sit on it. Cynical snapped his head up, baffled.  

“I’m sorry. You want to what?”

“A truce Cyn, it really isn’t that complicated.” Love crossed his arms, Cynical’s dagger sticking out at an odd angle as Love shook his head with a chuckle. 

“Have you comPLETLY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?” Cynical strained against his constraints. The metal plating the only thing preventing him from tipping the chair over. 

“Why fight each other when we could team up and take down this horrible city together? This fighting between us only weakens our numbers, makes us empaths more vulnerable to all the people who want to lock us up.” Love dropped his arms, pointing at Cynical with the dagger, “Don’t you want to stop the deaths of your charges? They’re just kids Cyn.”

“No actually, I don’t.” Cynical shook his head, his hair falling into his face once more as his face began to redden. “They are NOT ‘just kids’ Love. The minute they gained their abilities they became adults. My charges have seen horrors that would make most people weak at the knees. Anyone who tries to tell them how to feel or how to express their feelings obviously doesn’t understand. YOUR charges run around acting like we can just turn off all our trauma, make it disappear and just be happy. Well we can’t. We kill your kids to make them shut the hell up. I understand that my ‘kids’ are killed in self defense, but as adults, who made that choice to fight, I honestly can’t hold them accountable.” Love stared at Cynical, repressed feelings of rage rising to the surface as this petulant boy tried to explain how damaging their trauma was. Love was damaged, but he still found a way to hide it. 

“YOU JUST LIKE GOING AROUND AND WATCHING THE KIDS MASSACRE EACH OTHER, don’t you?” Cynical simply stared at the floor. “DON’T YOU?” Love found himself in front of Cynical, the dagger pushing into the tender skin below Cynical’s chin. 

“If it means they have peace for even a moment,” Cynical glowered down his blade to look at Love, “then yes.” With a scream of rage Love ripped the knife across Cynical’s throat before spinning around to stomp across the room. It was much to Cynical’s surprise to find himself still alive, a measly gash with only a few drops of blood bubbling to the surface the only evidence the knife had ever been there.

Cynical hesitantly glanced across the room where Love was now resting his forehead against the hideously orange wall. His breathing was heavy and ragged, the dagger fisted in a death grip. Cynical was tempted to break the silence but experience had taught him better. Never push someone who is on the edge of breaking. Minutes ticked by, Cynical counted them off by the rhythmic pounding in his head. His fingers began to grow numb, the zipties having rubbed his skin raw, the white plastic now pink with blood. 

“I know trauma.” Love’s voice was a meager whisper. He turned his face, his head still using the wall for support, and stared red faced at Cynical. Tears gleamed off Love’s cheeks under the fluorescent lighting. “I know trauma my dear Cyn.” Love pushed himself off the wall, rounding his desk to grab the chair hiding behind it, before rounding back to Cynical. He placed the chair, one identical to Cynical’s current confinement, and sat in it, dropping the dagger to the floor. His legs opened into a V before Love clasped his hands over the now empty space. 

“Do you know where I grew up Cyn?” He waited, patient as Cynical tried to determine whether or not it was a trick question. 

“Nooo…” Cynical angled his head, attempting to figure out why Love was so calm and talking to him after almost slitting his throat.

“You know The Trickster Casino, off of 33rd street? My asshat of a father was a regular. Gambling our lives away as he taught me how to cheat, how to win. I never knew my real name because all my father would call me was ‘Брат.’ It’s russian for ‘brat.’” Cynical furrowed his brows. Love had actually lost his mind if he was saying this. Origin stories were only ever discussed during Induction, never between leaders and certainly NEVER between opposing gangs. It wasn’t a rule so much as an unspoken understanding that it was private. 

“He gambled all our money away, and, when I didn’t switch out the cards or he’d lose a round, he would take his trusty bottle of vodka and bash it over my head till the glass shattered. But you know what that’s like, don’t you Cyn?” Love smiled for the first time since he had started his story. Cynical attempted to mask his horror but the widening of Love’s grin betrayed his failure. 

“How the hell do you know about that,” Cynical gritted out. 

“Oh sweetie, all those men who used you as a punching bag always celebrated at the Tricksters bar. When you finally kicked the crap out of Stansky, boy did my dad get drunk. He had bet on Stansky killing you; lost two grand.” Cynical gaped. No one knew about Stansky, no one. That fight had been the night Cynical ran away, the night he left Greed. 

“You know, ironically enough I left that same night too.” Love’s voice drew Cynical’s attention back to him. “My father had hit me one too many times. I had drawn my father into the back room. He tripped upon entering the room.” Love chuckled. “Went down like a fallen tree. I jumped onto his chest and held him by his throat as I poured vodka on his face. He drowned. There was still enough left for a victory shot before I hightailed it out of there.” Love smiled softly, his head turning towards his desk as he relived the memory. “Even you couldn’t kill the perpetrator of your trauma,” goaded Love, his eyes darting to the right to admire the shock on Cynical’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer?” 

“No Love. I am not going to align myself with you,” Cynical stated.

“That’s too bad.” In a single motion Love swiped the dagger from the floor and drove it into Cynical’s chest; smiling at the look of shock on Cynical’s face. “We would have been great together.” Love pulled the dagger out of his rival’s chest, frowning as the blood began to stain the jewels on the hilt. 

“Mischief!” screamed Love. The door creaked open as Love’s lieutenant stuck his head in. “Please remove this body from my office and return it to the hooligans it belongs to. I have work to do.”

“Yes boss.” Love switched places with Mischief before heading down the hall. His secret was safe and his power renewed. No one would ever know that his power was not love, it was Betrayal.

Mezzo Draft:

“The Betrayal of Cynical Love”
Stephanie Ruff

The city was grimy and dark, smog choked the color from the sky and the life from the weak. The streets were smeared with the blood of children who had gone out of their way to damage each other beyond repair. The city was overrun and Cynical liked it that way. He ruled over the darkened minds of traumatized kids, their pain and apathy redirected into glorious bouts of rage and violence as they sought to maintain control. The light and good constantly at their throats, pushing and pushing for power until their blood gurgled from their throats. This was Cynical’s city and he would not allow anyone to take it from him. 

But complications arise, currently the throbbing of his skull and the pull at his wrists as he peered through his eyelids. He was in a room covered in blood. Well, blood orange paint that is. The intensity forcing Cynical to lower his head to the floor, carpeted with zebra fur and metal plates that melded the chair to the floor. Zipties dug into his shins, mimicked by his wrists which were lashed to the arms of the chair. Otherwise, Cynical found himself to be unharmed. Sure he was missing his gun as well as his third favorite knife but that was to be expected. Given the fact that he wasn’t dead, the working theory was that the cops had finally caught him. Ambushed him while he was on patrol and bashed him in the face before escorting him to a blacksite in which they would interrogate him, viciously. Glaring at the ceiling, Cynical arrogantly said “I can take it.”

“Oh I’m sure you can,” replied a sultry voice. A tall, well built man entered into Cynical’s view; the man’s blaring red suit demanding attention before it was quickly redirected to the glimmering dagger in his hand. 

“Love, glad to see you found my third favorite knife. You gonna give it back?” Cynical smirked at the man. Of course he had been kidnapped by his rival; the cops breaking into his compound would have ended with new memorial plaques down at the station. Love twirled the dagger, admiring the craftsmanship of the blade; a sliver of black started at the tip before spiraling into a flame at the hilt of the blade, the hilt itself was decorated in jewels from the city’s only bank vault.

“Glad to see your humor is still intact Cyn, I would have hated to kill Mischief for bashing your brains out,” Love sighed. “You know how hard it is to find good lieutenants these days what with your little sidekick Depression off galavanting with his sister Joy.” Cynical nodded his head, more so in acknowledgement than agreement. Depression had killed Joy in the arena weeks ago, pushed his powers onto her until she took the offered rope and hung herself; but Love didn’t need to know that. 

“Sooo, Love, you wanna tell me why I’m all tied up? If you had wanted to talk you could have just called.” Cynical smiled at Love, chuckling under his breath as he remembered how the last call between them had ended in a quite impressive swearing match. Love twirled the dagger once more before sauntering towards Cynical. Crouching in front of him, Love trailed the knife’s edge along Cynical’s knee.

“Oh Cyn, we both know what happened last time I called. I figured this would be easier.” Love lifted the dagger to Cynical’s face, “face to face,” he accentuated by a tap of the blade on either of Cynical’s cheeks, “without any interruptions.” Love rose, moving towards his desk to the right of Cynical. The desk was of dark mahogany, jagged and scarred from too many attempts of arson. Love leaned against the desk, his hands supporting his tilt as his feet crossed at the ankles. Cynical glared at Love. By moving to the side he forced Cynical to strain to look at him. Such disrespect would have warranted a beheading, oh if only Cynical was not strapped to a chair. 

“I wanted to discuss a deal with you. An alliance of sorts.” 
“Seriously? This couldn’t have waited till the annual Blood Games? You know the rules Love, all business is to be discussed at the games or it isn’t official!” A sharp thud silenced Cynical. Love had slammed the dagger into his desk, it now stood straight up, unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“It’s official IF I SAY SO!” Love narrowed his eyes at Cynical. This man always knew how to push his buttons. Love was the leader, he had control, and yet Cynical always reminded him of how little control he really had. The warring of the positive and negative empaths had divided families, or tried to anyway. Upon realization that siblings would not be kept apart, the annual Blood Games became a time of challenges and business, a single day in which a truce was called in order to quell any rebellions. Oh there was brutality, for the hatred ran deep on both sides, but the respect for sibling’s need to be together tamed the fires so there was only mild maiming. Love had always admired the scar that ran under Cynical’s chin; a gift from Cyn’s brother Greed at the last Blood Games before he disappeared and was labeled as “shoot on site.” A first for the gangs, brothers of the same side turning on each other. 

Love composed himself, pulling the dagger from his desk and returning to stand in front of Cynical. “I know the rules Cyn, but I couldn’t wait. This proposal of mine needs to be discussed and agreed upon and I needed you to stay and listen.” Cynical clenched his hands into fists, straining the zip ties that bound him. His partially bleached hair fell into his face, hiding the left side. Love moved forward, reaching out to move the hair but at Cynical’s flinch he resorted to the dagger. Cynical froze as the dagger drew closer to him. Closing his eyes as if it would prevent the inevitable; he relaxed as he felt the tip of the blade scrape along his scalp, moving the long hair to the side and behind his ear. Reopening his eyes, Cynical stared at Love’s impassive face. Staying within Cynical’s personal space, Love simply waited. His Cyn was a talker and if he waited only a few moments…

“Fine,” Cynical growled. “I’ll listen to your proposal but don’t expect me to say yes.” Cynical shifted his head to the side, ashamed at the lack of resistance he was putting up. But what could he do? Cynical wanted to use his powers so badly but adding cynicism to Love’s already deranged plan was a fatal move. He could take a hit to his pride if it meant that he had more time to figure out a way to escape. And who knows, maybe Love’s proposal wasn’t that bad. Either way, Love was going to pay for this. Cynical smirked as he imagined driving his knife into Love’s ribcage, removing his competition permanently. 

“I want to call a truce.” Love stood, meandering back over to his desk before hopping up to sit on it. Cynical snapped his head up, baffled.  

“I’m sorry. You want to what?”

“A truce Cyn, it really isn’t that complicated.” Love crossed his arms, Cynical’s dagger sticking out at an odd angle as Love shook his head with a chuckle. 

“Have you comPLETLY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?” Cynical strained against his constraints. The metal plating the only thing preventing him from tipping the chair over. 

“Why fight each other when we could team up and take down this horrible city together? This fighting between us only weakens our numbers, makes us empaths more vulnerable to all the people who want to lock us up.” Love dropped his arms, pointing at Cynical with the dagger, “Don’t you want to stop the deaths of your charges? They’re just kids Cyn.”

“No actually, I don’t.” Cynical shook his head, his hair falling into his face once more as his face began to redden. “They are not ‘just kids’ Love. The minute they gained their abilities they became adults. My charges have seen horrors that would make most people weak at the knees. Anyone who tries to tell them how to feel or how to deal with it obviously doesn’t understand. YOUR kids are the ones running around trying to tell them how to feel. We kill your kids to make them shut the hell up. I understand that my ‘kids’ are killed in self defense, but as adults, who made that choice to fight, I honestly can’t hold them accountable.” Love stared at Cynical, repressed feelings of rage rising to the surface as this petulant boy tried to explain how damaging their trauma was. Love was damaged, but he still found a way to hide it, to be happy. 

“YOU JUST LIKE GOING AROUND AND WATCHING THE KIDS MASSACRE EACH OTHER, don’t you?” Cynical simply stared at the floor. “DON’T YOU?” Love found himself in front of Cynical, the dagger pushing into the tender skin below Cynical’s chin, forcing his head up.

“If it means they have peace for even a moment,” Cynical glowered down his blade to look at Love, “then yes.” With a scream of rage Love ripped the knife across Cynical’s throat before spinning around to stomp across the room. It was much to Cynical’s surprise to find himself still alive, a measly gash speckled with a few drops of blood bubbling to the surface the only evidence the knife had ever been there.

Cynical hesitantly glanced across the room where Love was now resting his forehead against the hideously orange wall. His breathing was heavy and ragged, the dagger fisted in a death grip. Cynical was tempted to break the silence but experience had taught him better. Never push someone who is on the edge of breaking. Minutes ticked by, Cynical counted them off by the rhythmic pounding in his head. His fingers began to grow numb, the zipties having rubbed his skin raw, the white plastic now pink with blood. 

“I know trauma.” Love’s voice was a meager whisper. He turned his face, his head still using the wall for support, and stared red faced at Cynical. Tears gleamed off Love’s cheeks under the fluorescent lighting. “I know trauma my dear Cyn.” Love pushed himself off the wall, rounding his desk to grab the chair hiding behind it, before rounding back to Cynical. He placed the chair, one identical to Cynical’s current confinement, and sat in it, dropping the dagger to the floor. His legs opened into a V before Love clasped his hands over the now empty space. 

“Do you know where I grew up Cyn?” He waited, patient as Cynical tried to determine whether it was a joke. 

“Nooo…” Cynical cocked his head, confused by Love’s change in behavior.

“You know The Trickster Casino, off of 33rd street? My asshat of a father was a regular. Gambling our lives away as he taught me how to cheat, how to win. I never knew my real name because all my father would call me was ‘brat.’” Cynical furrowed his brows. Love had actually lost his mind if he was saying this. Origin stories were only ever discussed in private, never between leaders and certainly NEVER between opposing gangs. It wasn’t a rule so much as an unspoken understanding that it was private. 

“He gambled all our money away, and, when he’d lose, he would take his trusty bottle of vodka and bash it over my head till the glass shattered. But you know what that’s like, don’t you Cyn?” Love smiled for the first time since he had started his story. Cynical attempted to mask his horror but the widening of Love’s grin betrayed his failure. 

“How the hell do you know about that,” Cynical gritted out. 

“Oh sweetie, all those men who used you as a punching bag always celebrated at the Tricksters bar. When you finally kicked the crap out of Stansky, boy did my dad get drunk. He had bet on Stansky killing you; lost two grand.” Cynical gaped. No one knew about Stansky, no one. He couldn’t handle the guilt. That fight had been the night Cynical ran away, the night he left Greed. 

“You know, ironically enough I left that same night too.” Love’s voice drew Cynical’s attention back to him. “My father had hit me one too many times. I drew my father into the back room where he tripped over his own feet.” Love chuckled. “Went down like a fallen tree. I jumped onto his chest and held him by his throat as I poured vodka on his face. He drowned.” Love smiled softly, his head turning towards his desk as he relived the memory. “Even you couldn’t kill the perpetrator of your trauma Cyn,” goaded Love, his eyes darting to the right to admire the shock on Cynical’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer?” 

“No Love. I am not going to align myself with you,” Cynical stated. 

“That’s too bad.” In a single motion Love swiped the dagger from the floor and drove it into Cynical’s chest; smiling at the look of shock on Cynical’s face. “We would have been great together.” Love pulled the dagger out of his rival’s chest, frowning as the blood began to stain the jewels on the hilt. 

“Mischief!” screamed Love. The door creaked open as Love’s lieutenant stuck his head in. “Please remove this body from my office and return it to the hooligans it belongs to. I have work to do.”

“Yes boss.” Love switched places with Mischief before heading down the hall. His secret was safe and his power renewed. “Oh how I Love being Betrayal.”

Peer Review Draft:

“The Betrayal of Cynical Love”
Stephanie Ruff

The city was grimy and dark, smog choked the color from the sky and the life from the weak. The streets were smeared with the blood of children who had gone out of their way to damage each other beyond repair. The city was overrun and Cynical liked it that way. He ruled over the darkened minds of traumatized kids, their pain redirected into glorious bouts of rage and violence as they sought to maintain control. The light and good were constantly at their throats, pushing and pushing for power until blood gurgled from their throats. This was Cynical’s city and he would not allow anyone to take it from him. 

But complications arise, currently the throbbing of his skull and the pull at his wrists as he peered through his eyelids. He was in a room covered in blood. Well, blood orange paint that is. The intensity forcing Cynical to lower his head to the floor, carpeted with zebra fur and metal plates that melded the chair to the floor. Zipties dug into his shins, mimicked by his wrists which were lashed to the arms of the chair. Otherwise, Cynical found himself to be unharmed. Sure he was missing his gun as well as his third favorite knife but that was to be expected. Given the fact that he wasn’t dead, the working theory was that the cops had finally caught him. They Ambushed him while he was on patrol and bashed him in the face before escorting him to a blacksite in which they would interrogate him, viciously. Glaring at the ceiling, Cynical arrogantly said “I can take it.”

“Oh I’m sure you can,” replied a sultry voice. A tall, well built man entered into Cynical’s view; the man’s blaring red suit demanding attention before it was quickly redirected to the glimmering dagger in his hand. 

“Love, glad to see you found my third favorite knife. You gonna give it back?” Cynical smirked at the man. Of course he had been kidnapped by his rival; the cops breaking into his compound would have ended with new memorial plaques down at the station. Love twirled the dagger, admiring the craftsmanship of the blade; a sliver of black started at the tip before spiraling into a flame at the hilt of the blade. The hilt itself was decorated in jewels from the city’s only bank vault.

“Glad to see your humor is still intact Cyn, I would have hated to kill Mischief for bashing your brains out.” Love sighed. “You know how hard it is to find good lieutenants these days what with your little sidekick Depression off galavanting with his sister Joy.” Cynical nodded his head, more so in acknowledgement than agreement. Depression had killed Joy in the arena weeks ago, pushed his powers onto her until she took the offered rope and hung herself; but Love didn’t need to know that. 

“Sooo, Love, you wanna tell me why I’m all tied up? If you had wanted to talk you could have just called.” Cynical smiled at Love, chuckling under his breath as he remembered how the last call between them had ended in a quite impressive swearing match. Love twirled the dagger once more before sauntering towards Cynical. Crouching in front of him, Love trailed the knife’s edge along Cynical’s knee.

“Oh Cyn, we both know what happened last time I called. I figured this would be easier.” Love lifted the dagger to Cynical’s face, “face to face,” he accentuated by a tap of the blade on either of Cynical’s cheeks, “without any interruptions.” Love rose, moving towards his desk to the right of Cynical. The desk was of dark mahogany, jagged and scarred from too many attempts of arson. Love leaned against the desk, his hands supporting his tilt as his feet crossed at the ankles. Cynical glared at Love. By moving to the side he forced Cynical to strain to look at him. Such disrespect would have warranted a beheading, oh if only Cynical was not strapped to a chair. 

“I wanted to discuss a deal with you. An alliance of sorts.” 

“Seriously? This couldn’t have waited till the Blood Games? You know the rules Love, all business is to be discussed at the games or it isn’t official!” A sharp thud silenced Cynical. Love had slammed the dagger into his desk, it now stood straight up, unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“It’s official IF I SAY SO!” Love narrowed his eyes at Cynical. This man always knew how to push his buttons. Love was the leader, he had control, and yet Cynical always reminded him of how little control he really had. The warring of the positive and negative empaths had divided families, or tried to anyway. Upon realization that siblings would not be kept apart, the  Blood Games became a time of challenges and business, a single day in which a truce was called in order to quell any rebellions. Oh there was brutality, for the hatred ran deep on both sides, but the respect for sibling’s need to be together tamed the fires so there was only mild maiming. Love had always admired the scar that ran under Cynical’s chin; a gift from Cyn’s brother Greed at the last Blood Games before he disappeared and was labeled as “shoot on site.” A first for the gangs, brothers of the same side turning on each other. 

Love composed himself, pulling the dagger from his desk and returning to stand in front of Cynical. “I know the rules Cyn, but I couldn’t wait. This proposal of mine needs to be discussed and agreed upon, and I needed you to stay and listen.” Cynical clenched his hands into fists, straining the zip ties that bound him. His partially bleached hair fell into his face, hiding the left side. Love moved forward, reaching out to move the hair but at Cynical’s flinch he resorted to the dagger. Cynical froze as the dagger drew closer to him. Closing his eyes as if it would prevent the inevitable; he relaxed as he felt the tip of the blade scrape along his scalp, moving the long hair to the side and behind his ear. Reopening his eyes, Cynical stared at Love’s impassive face. Staying within Cynical’s personal space, Love simply waited. His Cyn was a talker and if he waited only a few moments…

“Fine,” Cynical growled. “I’ll listen to your proposal but don’t expect me to say yes.” Cynical shifted his head to the side, ashamed at the lack of resistance he was putting up. But what could he do? Cynical wanted to use his powers so badly, but adding cynicism to Love’s already deranged plan was a fatal move. He could take a hit to his pride if it meant that he had more time to figure out a way to escape. And who knows, maybe Love’s proposal wasn’t that bad. Either way, Love was going to pay for this. Cynical smirked as he imagined driving his knife into Love’s fragile ribcage, removing his competition permanently. 

“I want to call a truce.” Love stood, meandering back over to his desk before hopping up to sit on it. Cynical snapped his head up, baffled.  

“I’m sorry. You want to what?”
“A truce Cyn, it really isn’t that complicated.” Love crossed his arms, Cynical’s dagger sticking out at an odd angle as Love shook his head with a chuckle. 

“Have you comPLETLY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?” Cynical strained against his constraints. The metal plating is the only thing preventing him from tipping the chair over. 

“Why fight each other when we could team up and take down this cruel city together? This fighting between us only weakens our numbers, makes us empaths more vulnerable to all the people who want to lock us up.” Love dropped his arms, pointing at Cynical with the dagger, “Don’t you want to stop the deaths of your charges? They’re just kids Cyn.”

“No actually, I don’t.” Cynical shook his head, his hair falling into his face once more as his face began to redden. “They are not ‘just kids’, Love. The minute they gained their abilities they became adults. My charges have seen horrors that would make most people weak at the knees. Anyone who tries to tell them how to feel or how to deal with it obviously doesn’t understand. YOUR kids are the ones running around trying to tell them how to feel. We kill your kids to make them shut the hell up! I understand that my ‘kids’ are killed in self defense, but as adults, who made that choice to fight, I honestly can’t hold them accountable.” Love stared at Cynical, repressed feelings of rage rising to the surface as this petulant boy tried to explain how damaging their trauma was. Love was damaged, but he still found a way to hide it, to be happy. 

“YOU JUST LIKE GOING AROUND AND WATCHING THE KIDS MASSACRE EACH OTHER, don’t you?” Cynical simply stared at the floor. “DON’T YOU?” Love found himself in front of Cynical, the dagger pushing into the tender skin below Cynical’s chin, forcing his head up.

“If it means they have peace for even a moment,” Cynical glowered down his blade to look at Love, “then yes.” With a scream of rage Love ripped the knife across Cynical’s throat before spinning around to stomp across the room. It was much to Cynical’s surprise to find himself still alive, a measly gash speckled with a few drops of blood bubbling to the surface. It’s the only evidence the knife had ever been there.

Cynical hesitantly glanced across the room where Love was now resting his forehead against the hideously orange wall. His breathing was heavy and ragged, the dagger fisted in a death grip. Cynical was tempted to break the silence but experience had taught him better. Never push someone who is on the edge of breaking. Minutes ticked by, Cynical counted them off by the rhythmic pounding in his head. His fingers began to grow numb, the zipties having rubbed his skin raw, the white plastic now stained pink with blood. 

“I know trauma.” Love’s voice was a meager whisper. He turned his face, his head still using the wall for support, and stared red faced at Cynical. Tears gleamed off Love’s cheeks under the fluorescent lighting. “I know trauma my dear Cyn.” Love pushed himself off the wall, rounding his desk to grab the chair hiding behind it, before rounding back to Cynical. He placed the chair, one identical to Cynical’s current confinement, and sat in it, dropping the dagger to the floor. His legs opened into a V before Love clasped his hands over the now empty space. 

“Do you know where I grew up Cyn?” He waited, patient as Cynical tried to determine whether it was a joke. 

“Nooo…” Cynical cocked his head, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“You know The Trickster Casino, off of 33rd street? My asshat of a father was a regular. Gambling our lives away as he taught me how to cheat, how to win. I never knew my real name because all my father would call me was ‘brat.’” Cynical raised his brows. Love had actually lost his mind if he was saying this. Origin stories were only ever discussed in private, never between leaders and certainly NEVER between opposing gangs. It wasn’t a rule so much as an unspoken understanding that it was private. 

“He gambled all our money away, and, when he’d lose, he would take his trusty bottle of vodka and bash it over my head till the glass shattered. But you know what that’s like, don’t you Cyn?” Love smiled for the first time since he had started his story. Cynical attempted to mask his horror but the widening of Love’s grin betrayed his failure. 

“How the hell do you know about that,” Cynical gritted out. 

“Oh sweetie, all those men who used you as a punching bag always celebrated at the Tricksters bar. When you finally kicked the crap out of Stansky, boy did my dad get drunk. He had bet on Stansky killing you; lost two grand.” Cynical gaped. No one knew about Stansky, no one. He couldn’t handle the guilt. That fight had been the night Cynical ran away, the night he left Greed. 

“You know, ironically enough I left that same night too.” Love’s voice drew Cynical’s attention back to him. “My father had hit me one too many times. I drew my father into the back room where he tripped over his own feet.” Love chuckled. “Went down like a fallen tree. I jumped onto his chest and held him by his throat as I poured vodka on his face. He drowned.” Love smiled softly, his head turning towards his desk as he relived the memory. “Even you couldn’t kill the perpetrator of your trauma Cyn,” goaded Love, his eyes darting to the right to admire the shock on Cynical’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer?” 

“No Love. I am not going to align myself with you,” Cynical stated. 

“That’s too bad.” In a single motion Love swiped the dagger from the floor and drove it into Cynical’s chest; smiling at the look of shock on Cynical’s face. “We would have been great together.” Love pulled the dagger out of his rival’s chest, frowning as the blood began to stain the jewels on the hilt. 

“Mischief!” screamed Love. The door creaked open as Love’s lieutenant stuck his head in. “Please remove this body from my office and return it to the hooligans it belongs to. I have work to do.”

“Yes boss.” Love switched places with Mischief before heading down the hall, Cynical’s dagger held out in his palm.

“It is time to reveal my true self,” Love said to the dagger. “It is time for Betrayal to get the credit he deserves.”

Final Draft:

“The Betrayal of Cynical Love”
Stephanie Ruff

The city was grimy and dark, smog choked the color from the sky and the life from the weak. The streets were smeared with the blood of children who had gone out of their way to damage each other beyond repair. The city was overrun with monsters and Cynical liked it that way. He ruled over the darkened minds of traumatized kids, their pain redirected into glorious bouts of rage and violence as they sought to maintain control. The light and good were constantly at their throats, pushing and pushing for power until blood gurgled from their mouths, staining their teeth. This was Cynical’s city and he would not allow anyone to take it from him. 

But complications arise, currently the throbbing of his skull and the pull at his wrists as he peered through his eyelids. He was in a room painted a bright blood orange. The intensity forcing Cynical to lower his head to the floor which was carpeted with zebra fur and metal plates that melded the stiff metal chair that was his prison to the floor. Zipties dug into his shins, mimicked by his wrists which were lashed to the arms of the chair. Otherwise, Cynical found himself to be unharmed. Sure he was missing his gun as well as his third favorite knife, but that was to be expected. Cynical had been kidnapped before but the loss of memory was a new experience, he was not fond of it. Given the fact that he wasn’t dead, the working theory was that the cops had finally caught him; ambushed him while he was on patrol and bashed him in the face before escorting him to a blacksite in which they would interrogate him, viciously. Glaring at the ceiling, searching for the hidden cameras, Cynical arrogantly said “I can take it.”

“Oh I’m sure you can,” replied a sultry voice. A tall, well built man entered into Cynical’s view; the man’s blaring red suit demanding Cynical’s attention before it was quickly redirected to the glimmering dagger in the man’s hand. 

“Love, glad to see you found my third favorite knife. You gonna give it back?” Cynical smirked at the man. Of course he had been kidnapped by his rival; the cops breaking into his compound would have ended with new memorial plaques down at the station. Love twirled the dagger, admiring the craftsmanship of the blade; a sliver of black started at the tip before spiraling into a flame at the hilt of the blade. The hilt itself was decorated in jewels from the city’s only bank vault.

“Glad to see your humor is still intact Cyn, I would have hated to kill Mischief for bashing your brains out.” Love sighed. “You know how hard it is to find good lieutenants these days, what with your little sidekick Depression off galavanting with his sister Joy.” Cynical nodded his head, more so in acknowledgement than agreement. Depression had killed Joy in the arena weeks ago, pushed his powers onto her until she took the offered rope and hung herself; but Love didn’t need to know that. 

“Sooo, Love, you wanna tell me why I’m all tied up? If you had wanted to talk you could have just called.” Cynical smiled at Love, chuckling under his breath as he remembered how the last call between them had ended in a quite impressive swearing match. Love twirled the dagger once more before sauntering towards Cynical. Crouching in front of him, Love trailed the knife’s edge along Cynical’s knee.

“Oh Cyn, we both know what happened last time I called. I figured this would be easier.” Love lifted the dagger to Cynical’s face, “face to face,” he accentuated by a tap of the blade on either of Cynical’s cheeks, “without any interruptions.” Love rose, moving towards his desk to the right of Cynical. The desk was of dark mahogany, jagged and scarred from too many attempts of arson. Love leaned against the desk, his hands supporting his tilt as his feet crossed at the ankles. Cynical glared at Love. By moving to the side he forced Cynical to strain to look at him. Such disrespect would have warranted a beheading, oh if only Cynical wasn’t strapped to a chair. 

“I wanted to discuss a deal with you Cynical. An alliance of sorts.” 

“Seriously?” Cynical squirmed in an attempt to distract himself by loosening his bindings. “This couldn’t have waited till the Blood Games? You know the rules Love, all business is to be discussed at the games or it isn’t official!” A sharp thud silenced Cynical. Love had slammed the dagger into his desk, it now stood straight up, unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“It’s official IF I SAY SO!” Love narrowed his eyes at Cynical. This man always knew how to push his buttons. Love was the leader of the light empaths, he had control, and yet Cynical always reminded him of how little control he really had. Cynical was the “King of Monsters,” his dark empath followers destroying everything they touched, leaving the light empaths to clean up their mess. The warring of the positive and negative empaths had divided families, or tried to anyway. Upon realization that siblings would not be kept apart, the Blood Games became a time of challenges and business, a single day in which a truce was called in order to quell any rebellions. Oh there was brutality, for the hatred ran deep on both sides, but the respect for sibling’s right to be together tamed the fires so there was only mild maiming. Love had always admired the scar that ran under Cynical’s chin; a gift from Cyn’s brother Greed at the last Blood Games before he disappeared and was labeled as “shoot on site.” A first for the gangs, brothers of the same side turning on each other. 

Love composed himself, pulling the dagger from his desk and returning to stand in front of Cynical. “I know the rules Cyn, but I couldn’t wait. This proposal of mine needs to be discussed and agreed upon, and I needed you to stay and listen.” Cynical clenched his hands into fists, straining the zip ties that bound him. His partially bleached hair fell into his face, hiding the left side. Love moved forward, reaching out to move the hair but at Cynical’s flinch he resorted to the dagger. Cynical froze as the dagger drew closer to him. Closing his eyes as if it would prevent the inevitable; he relaxed as he felt the tip of the blade scrape along his scalp, moving the long hair to the side and behind his ear. Reopening his eyes, Cynical stared at Love’s face; impassive and calculating as always. Staying within Cynical’s personal space, Love simply waited. His Cyn was a talker and if he waited only a few moments…

“Fine,” Cynical growled. “I’ll listen to your proposal but don’t expect me to say yes.” Cynical shifted his head to the side, ashamed at the lack of resistance he was putting up. But what could he do? Cynical wanted to use his powers so badly, but adding cynicism to Love’s already deranged mental state was a fatal move. He could take a hit to his pride if it meant that he had more time to figure out a way to escape. And who knows, maybe Love’s proposal wasn’t that bad. Either way, Love was going to pay for this. Cynical smiled as he imagined driving his knife into Love’s fragile ribcage, removing his competition permanently. 

“I want to call a truce.” Love stood, meandering back over to his desk before hopping up to sit on it. Cynical snapped his head up, baffled.  

“I’m sorry. You want to what?”

“A truce Cyn, it really isn’t that complicated.” Love crossed his arms, Cynical’s dagger sticking out at an odd angle as Love shook his head with a chuckle. 

“Have you comPLETLY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?” Cynical strained against his constraints. The metal plating the only thing preventing him from tipping the chair over. 

“Why fight each other when we could team up and take over this cruel city together? This fighting between us only weakens our numbers, makes us empaths more vulnerable to all the people who want to lock us up.” Love dropped his arms, pointing at Cynical with the dagger, “Don’t you want to stop the deaths of your charges? They’re just kids Cyn.”

“No actually, I don’t.” Cynical shook his head, his hair falling into his face once more as his face began to redden. “They aren’t ‘just kids’, Love. The minute they gained their abilities they became adults. My charges have seen horrors that would make most people weak at the knees. Anyone who tries to tell them how to feel or how to deal with it obviously doesn’t understand. Your kids are the ones running around trying to tell them how to feel. You can’t tell a kid with depression to just ‘stop being sad’ and expect them to be fine. If I remember correctly that was how you lost your lieutenant Pride; Depression was finally sick of hearing how easy it was to be happy.” Cynical laughed, he may not be able to escape but he could push Love’s buttons. “We kill your kids to make them shut the hell up! I understand that my ‘kids’ are killed in self defense, but as adults, who made that choice to fight, I honestly can’t hold them accountable.” Love stared at Cynical, repressed feelings of rage rising to the surface as this petulant boy tried to explain how damaging his kids’ trauma was, as though no one except the monsters were damaged. Love was damaged, but he still found a way to hide it, to be happy. 

“You just like going around watching the kids massacre each other, don’t you?” Cynical simply stared at the floor. “DON’T YOU?” Love found himself in front of Cynical, the side of the dagger pushing into the tender skin below Cynical’s chin, forcing his head up.

“If it means they have peace for even a moment,” Cynical glowered down his blade to look at Love, “then yes.” With a scream of rage Love ripped the knife across Cynical’s throat before spinning around to stomp across the room. It was much to Cynical’s surprise to find himself still alive, a measly gash speckled with a few drops of blood bubbling to the surface was the only evidence the knife had ever been there.

Cynical hesitantly glanced across the room where Love was now resting his forehead against the hideously orange wall. His breathing was heavy and ragged, the dagger fisted in a death grip. Cynical was tempted to break the silence but experience had taught him better. Never push someone who is on the edge of breaking. Minutes ticked by, Cynical counted them off by the rhythmic pounding in his head; whoever had hit him had definitely given him a concussion. His fingers began to grow numb, the zipties having rubbed his skin raw, the white plastic now stained pink with blood. 

“I know trauma.” Love’s voice was a meager whisper. He turned his face, his head still using the wall for support, and stared red faced at Cynical. Tears gleamed off Love’s cheeks under the fluorescent lighting. “I know trauma my dear Cyn.” Love pushed himself off the wall, rounding his desk to grab the chair hiding behind it, before rounding back to Cynical. He placed the chair, one identical to Cynical’s current confinement, and sat in it, dropping the dagger to the floor. His legs opened into a V before Love clasped his hands over the now empty space. 

“Do you know where I grew up Cyn?” He waited, patient as Cynical tried to determine whether it was a trick question. 

“Nooo…” Cynical cocked his head, his brows furrowing in confusion. How could a positive empath know trauma?

“You know The Trickster Casino, off of 33rd street? My deadbeat of a father was a regular. Gambling our lives away as he taught me how to cheat, how to win. I never knew my real name because all my father would call me was ‘brat.’” Cynical raised his brows. Love had actually lost his mind if he was saying this. Origin stories were only ever discussed in private, never between leaders and certainly NEVER between opposing gangs. It wasn’t a rule so much as an unspoken understanding that it was nobody’s business. 

“He gambled all our money away, and, when he’d lose, he would take his trusty bottle of vodka and bash it over my head till the glass shattered; but you know what that’s like, don’t you Cyn?” Love smiled for the first time since he had started his story. Cynical attempted to mask his horror but the widening of Love’s grin betrayed his failure. 

“How the hell do you know about that,” Cynical gritted out. 

“Oh sweetie, all those men who used you as a punching bag in the ring always celebrated at the Tricksters bar. When you finally kicked the crap out of Stansky, boy did my dad get drunk. He had  bet on Stansky killing you; lost two grand.” Cynical gaped. No one knew about Stansky, no one. He couldn’t handle the guilt. That fight had been the night Cynical ran away, the night he left Greed, the night he became a monster. 

“You know, ironically enough I left that same night too.” Love’s voice drew Cynical’s attention back to him. “My father had hit me one too many times. I waited for my father in the back room. He tripped over his own feet.” Love chuckled. “Went down like a fallen tree. I saw my chance and jumped onto his chest, held him by his throat as I poured vodka on his face. He drowned.” Love smiled softly, his head turning towards his desk as he relived the memory. “Even you couldn’t kill the perpetrator of your trauma Cyn,” goaded Love, his eyes darting to the right to admire the shock on Cynical’s face. 

“How? How the hell can you be a positive empath if you killed your father?” Cynical screamed at Love, ignoring the searing pain of the zipties cutting through his flesh as he struggled against them. This wasn’t right, nothing about any of this was okay. Love stared at Cynical, his face lax with pity.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer?” Cynical ceased his struggles, surprised by the shift in topic.

“No Love. I am not going to align myself with you,” Cynical stated, anger tinting his cheeks red.

“That’s too bad.” In a single motion Love swiped the dagger from the floor and drove it into Cynical’s chest; smiling at the look of surprise on Cynical’s face. “We would have been great together.” Love slowly pulled the dagger out of his rival’s chest, twisting it so he could make a hole big enough to see his rival’s insides, a grunt the only response he got. It was a few minutes before Cynical’s breathing finally came to a stop, blood still dripping from the hole in his chest, his dead heart on full display to the room. Love stared down at the dagger in his hand, frowning at the blood that had begun to stain the jewels on the hilt. Oh well, he could always get a new one.