Becomes A Monster

The thick fog of smoke swirled through the room. The man sat lazily on his chair, his feet resting against the wooden desk, hands cupped together. Throat calloused, he was more busy to talk than to breathe through the nicotine-thick air.

He coughed. "I mean, it's totally stupid; how on the nose can you get? 'DEAD'? 'Domestic Expedition Division'?" 

The man then plunged the butt of his cigarette into a tray. "I swear, every time them feds start up a new agency they give it a stupid name to play up the papers."

The Sheriff across him thought differently. Also huffing a puff of smoke, Jeremiah gestured to him with his cigarette. "Makes sense, no? Without them, silver, those 'things' are quite literally unkillable. And y'sure you should be mouthing to your employer, Joy?"

Killjoy leaned back, the wood creaking with every second. He smirked, winking his left eye, or what else remained of it, only a leather patch plastered over the socket. "I can mouth about damn anyone I want; they need me, after all."

"Yeah, well, you're still not invincible," The Sheriff dismissed. He then perked a brow at his friend's prosthetic. "That arm sure as hell ain't picking anything up. I'm surprised they didn't take your other arm to boot too."

The bounty hunter lifted his brass-metal arm, the gears whirring within it. He gleefully inspected his mechanical fingers, the silver coating deflecting the chandelier's shine.

"Well, I was just too deft," Killjoy said. "They messed me up, sure, but," He nodded, "I got the last laugh. And it felt fucking great."

"...You seemed like you enjoyed it."

Killjoy snickered. "Well, why else would an armless and legless man still be fighting if he didn't? I'm not suicidal, that's for sure."

"For the love of the game," Killjoy said.

"I think you lost a few screws, Joy," Jeremiah countered, then pressing the butt of the cigarette against a tray. "Right before that mission, you said you were going to retire. Then you go get yourself mauled, and now you want back in?"

"Well, it's gotta be me. Who else knows more about the Wendigos than the one who lost an arm and an eye to them? I'm the David, Jeremiah."

Jeremiah gave a soft breath. "Maybe you're right…as much as I don't like it, there aren't many that can handle them Wendigos…they're everywhere now. Martial law is one thing, but, nationwide? Never thought that day'd come."

"It is an apocalypse."

"Well fuck the apocalypse," The Sheriff said, suddenly exasperated. "Fuck it all," He then leaned against the table, letting a slow breath escape him.

Killjoy remained silent for a fleeting moment, surprised by Jeremiah's sudden demeanour. "...I'm sorry for what happened to your daughter," He finally said, attempting some form of comfort.

"Thanks," the Sheriff merely replied. 

"If only I—"

"Don't blame yourself, Joy," Jeremiah said, waving away the wish. "It's already a miracle you escaped that hellhole at all, and that you got so much intel on them."

"...Right. But that don't mean I can't help a friend."

"You helped enough…I just hate it. Only in the first few days of this 'outbreak', I was holed up down south here. Hell, we didn't even know they were coming until the next week!" The Sheriff exclaimed, the words coming out of him like droves. "So when I got that letter…that they…those things took Kiera from me, in Minneapolis…she's probably already one of them if those rumours are true…"

"Jeremiah—"

"I wish I was there with you," Jeremiah continued, giving Killjoy a hard stare, his eyes never quavering. "To stop them from having ever come out of that fucking cave."

Killjoy remained still, not wanting to be the one to talk. He was far from the man to do it, after what he did.

"Anyway," The Sheriff sniffed, rubbing his nose, "How's your family?"

"Ah, they're doing fine," Killjoy eagerly responded, as if waiting for the subject to change. "I haven't seen them in a while, though. Y'know how it is, busy fighting them Wendigos. Hell, even all kinds of creatures started popping up; it's hard to settle down."

Killjoy dug into his breast pocket, retrieving a flask and taking a long swig of it. "Jane didn't even say hi to me once this week! Those papers are stacked so damn high you can't even see her."

"It's taking a toll on all of us," Jeremiah said.

"Yes, yes it is, I suppose."

The room grew quiet, a palpable silence setting in. 

Killjoy then slapped the armrest of his chair before standing up and smacking his lips.

"Well, it was good talking to you," He said. The hunter adjusted his jacket and turned over his stetson hat, whose long folds concealed his forehead. "Next time, let's do this over a cup of lager."

As Killjoy pivoted and strode towards the door, Jeremiah could not hold this back any longer. He had to bring it up.

"Wait," the Sheriff said with a breath.

The bounty hunter stopped. He craned his neck slightly, non-too gently.

"There's…something we still need to discuss."

Killjoy had fully turned around, ambling towards his seat and setting himself back down.

"What is it?" Killjoy asked brows furrowed.

Jeremiah absently tapped the top of his desk, his middle finger twitching up and down. "It's about what happened in the woods."

The bounty hunter sat back against his chair, nonplussed. "...I thought I already told you what happened. That was what this entire interview was about."

"Right, but…just one more rundown."

Killjoy scoffed. "You really gon' make me recount what happened for the fifth time?"

Jeremiah shrugged as he then got up, circling the room until he was behind the seated Killjoy. "Officer's orders."

The bounty hunter sighed. "As I said, I encountered them things in the forest for a reported misper. Barely survived with my life, killed a few; and tried to take them down with me, but the dynamite malfunctioned. And now we're here."

Jeremiah exhaled. "Now we're here," He agreed.

Killjoy rolled his eyes at the Sheriff standing behind him, shifting in his seat. "Now what? I gave you your fifth testimony of the day."

"I just needed to make sure your account of the events was as accurate as you claim it to be, so we can match it against other findings."

"What are you talking about?"

The Sheriff looked at Killjoy with a stern glance, holding his stare for what felt like an eternity. Like how a copper would look at a delinquent who claimed they were innocent. "Y'know, it was damn difficult securing that mountain you were in. After all, it was the heart, the epicentre," Jeremiah explained, waving his hands for exposition. "But eventually, them Wendigos were only interested in the bigger cities, with…more prey. So the military had secured the area not long ago."

"Uh-huh," the Bounty Hunter said, unconvinced. "But why? There's not much else left there, and I already told you everything you needed to know."

"Just to stake out a few details. And the detectives over there came up with a new conclusion of what exactly happened."

Killjoy turned his head to stare back at Jeremiah from his seat. Fidgeting with his flask, cold metal on the cold metal of his prosthetic fingertips, he took another gulp of whiskey, glancing off elsewhere.

"I don't know what you mean," He commented.

"How exactly did you survive, Joy?" Jeremiah took a step closer. " The dynamite didn't work, so you couldn't blow yourself up. And it turns out that Wendigos aren't exactly interested in food that is covered in the guts and blood of their own."

"That is exactly what happened," Killjoy refuted, a frown growing on his face. "So what?"

"The dynamite worked," Jeremiah said loudly. "They found the setup of explosives you talked about…they extracted it and, well, tested it."

"...And?" scoffed Killjoy, "I may have got a few details wrong, but I was a dead man walking. I lost so much blood, I'd look like a ghoul myself; cut me some slack."

"...They found a string of rope, Joy, attached to a box of dynamite. It had a wick on it, and the end was charred black. Ring any bells?"

The bounty hunter hammered the flask down, creating a loud, dense thud. "No, it doesn't," He denied lowly. "I-I lit it, I'm sure of it, and one way or the other, it didn't blow up. Whether the dynamite malfunctioned, or the wick was—

"Snuffed out?" Jeremiah finished for him. "Cos' that's what they said, it was snuffed out. Just a few inches off too—"

"What do you want me to say, Jeremiah?" Killjoy interjected. "I just missaw a few details."

"Must have been pretty bad to miss that."

"Yeah. I was half dead, after all."

The Sheriff sighed, letting his elbow rest against the wood, his knuckles holding his head up. "Joy, I'm sorry. It's just…your story just doesn't match."

"And if it doesn't? What are you trying to say?"

Jeremiah raised his hands defensively."I'm not trying to say or mean anything, Joy."

Killjoy's lips contorted to a scowl. "Forget this, Jeremiah; I appreciate the time, but I have to go. I'm quite busy."

He slammed his hands on the edge of the desk. "There's a Wendigo infestation in Dallas and it ain't getting better. So, I'll see you later."

He tried to leave no room for discussion, quickly standing up from his seat so that the wood creaked. But the moment he rose, Killjoy heard the faintest shuffle behind him. He stopped dead in his tracks.

It was an all too familiar sound that was drilled into Killjoy's head from young; the rummaging of dense leather, then a metallic clack. Whenever he was on the job, if he had heard of even a hint of an enemy drawing their gun, he'd have left several holes in them already, double time.

But this was from a friend.

Killjoy's hand fluttered towards his holster.

The bounty hunter turned with haste, his fingers gripping the steel handle in a rush to release it.

A bang rolled out from Jeremiah's pistol, beating him to the chase.

The force of the round struck his stomach, reeling Killjoy back, a loud groan skirting out of him. His back crashed against the desk, his pistol falling out of his hand.

Killjoy leered at Jeremiah, his gaze wide, clenching his teeth. Red began to seep against his shirt. 

Jeremiah returned his stare with an equal amount of intensity. Smoke leaked out of the sizzling barrel of his pistol. He waved it away, training the gun at the injured bounty hunter in front of him. The murderer. The cause of this all.

"Y'know, it's quite ironic," the Sheriff remarked with a dry chuckle, "You say that you're busy fighting them Wendigos…even though you're the one who released them in the first place." 

Jeremiah then stepped further, his strained grin falling. "Which makes it even more confusing as to why you did." 

Killjoy coughed, trying to get the words out of himself. "I…I did no such thing—"

"Bullshit, you didn't! Don't lie to me, Joy; I know you did. The evidence is there. Don't even try to play dumb."

The bounty hunter sighed, looking up at the ceiling and then back to Jeremiah. The once snarky retorts that used to come out of his mouth came no longer, only silence being his words.

"I just wanna know why you did it, why you didn't finish the job. Surely it wasn't just to survive, right?"

Jeremiah smashed his pistol against his head in frustration. "In this line of work, we don't give a fuck about our lives. And you came back to that cave, when you coulda' walked away! To your family! You set up that dynamite and fought them off! You lost a fucking arm, an eye. And at the last possible second, then you blink?"

Killjoy failed to utter a word in response. 

Jeremiah shot the wooden ceiling, a loud crack ringing out. Debris fell into the air, dust settling on the ground.

"Say something!" He said. 

The hunter looked up, finally looking back at Jeremiah. If there was any sorrow in his eyes, the Sheriff would have known. But it was still, soft, like that of a man accepting what he has done.

"I won't lie, Jeremiah, I…I enjoyed it," Killjoy confessed. "...Not the aftermath of what happened, but…but the fighting. Not fighting to put the other down, but fighting for my life. A real struggle for survival. It was…horrifying. Literally, at any single one of those moments, I could have died. Not even close, mind you; it was a bloodbath for me."

He continued his tirade. "That adrenaline, that rush in my blood, all just to put one foot over the other—to get away from them—it was unlike anything I've felt in years. Or even in my life. How many times were you chased by the supernatural in your time, something as real and brutal as that Wendigo was, hm? Not many, probably. And I faced a hundred of them."

"What are you getting at, Joy? Huh?" Jeremiah said, exasperated. He wanted a real answer, not a half-tangent. "You saying you're some sort of masochist, is that it?"

"...I suppose so…it all just got so…numb. Y'know, in all my twenty years of doing this, I didn't have much else to fall back on."

"...You had your family," Jeremiah said, a hitch in his voice. 

"What good would that do?" Killjoy retorted, almost scoffing. "You think after years of putting up with my shit, Adeline deserves that after so long? That the only reason I would have come back to her, our kid, wasn't because I missed them or I was prepared to take it seriously; no. Not at all."

He shook his head. "Because I had nothing else to do. That I got so bored of this work that now I'll settle down? She doesn't deserve that. I did it for me."

"For you?" Jeremiah snarled, stomping towards Killjoy. 

He got into his face, pressing the warm barrel of his gun under his jaw. "I bet you weren't thinking that when you were at the end of the line, ready to let the dynamite bring them all to kingdom come and with you in it! Why didn't you finish the job?"

" Because I wanted to keep fighting!" Killjoy yelled back. "You know, I haven't had an injury, or any graze in the ten fucking years? It was dull. Now I'm a limb short and I can only see out of my right eye. And do you know what the one thing I have been only thinking about since then? Not the fact I can't see, not that I have a metal arm…But the adrenaline…the rush!"

"Shut the fuck up!"Jeremiah berated. "Is that it? You let them live, you didn't let yourself die, because you wanted to keep fighting? Just to fight?"

The hunter let his head hang low.

He couldn't believe it. "...T-thousands died because of the Wendigos…"

"It's something I have to live with," The hunter said.

Jeremiah shot Killjoy in the chest, squeezing the trigger the moment those words came out. The bastard rocked against the desk, wheezing in pain.

"I have to live without my fucking daughter because of you!"

Killjoy wheezed. "Ugh…c-calm down—"

Before he could cough out his words, not even a whisper, the Sheriff fired another round. The first struck his leg, and then another to his shoulder. Blood splattered from Killjoy's wounds.

"I-Is Kiera a fucking joke…? I…I lost her mother once; that, I had to get through, for her…But now there is no one I have to protect."

Jeremiah took another step, eyeing down Killjoy as he bled out all over the wood. Faint wheezes escaped him, desperately trying to pump air into his lungs. 

He scowled. Staring intensely at the broken man before him, the Sheriff could not believe this was the same person he had respected and worked with for the better part of his career.

"I only hesitated to kill you because I thought you at least had a family to come back to, Joy…But now?" Jeremiah scoffed. "You don't have anyone, but yourself."

"...You…You can't kill me…" Killjoy said dryly, shaking his head. "The government needs me…they need me for the Wendigos…I'm the best chance you've got…"

"I don't care." Jeremiah blasted another round into his sternum. 

Killjoy reeled back in pain. "Agh, fuck!" He yelled, holding onto his chest as the blood soaked his fingers. 

He rasped, croaking forward as he deigned a stare at his former friend. "...You've made me Swiss cheese…" Killjoy said lowly, an attempt at humour. 

It fell on deaf ears.

"Say you regret it," the Sheriff merely demanded. "Say you regret doing this to her. To the thousands you've doomed for your fucking pride."

Killjoy kept his gaze; no quiver in his lips, a rise of his brows, or even as much as a sniffle. Even in the face of death, he held still. Even for all he's done, he could not bring himself to lie to a friend.

"...I-I…" Killjoy stammered on his words for the first time in god knows how long. "I'm…sorry—"

Another bullet escaped the barrel of his revolver. Not to torture him any longer, it struck its target. He fell back on the table, with all but a mundane thud. 

Jeremiah stared at his body. For a near indestructible man, it was surreal to see him draw his last breath, and utter his last word. The only question that beckoned in the Sheriff's mind was where did it all go wrong?

"I hope you're satisfied," Jeremiah said.