Information

benzin

The

Custom Graveyard Bhakoru
Owner: atempause

Age: 10 years, 5 months, 4 weeks

Born: October 11th, 2015

Adopted: 10 years, 5 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: October 11th, 2015

Statistics

Level: 384
Strength: 990
Defense: 967
Speed: 960
Health: 1,015
HP: 935/1,015
Intelligence: 1,518
Books Read: 1504
Food Eaten: 2
Job: Centrifuge Master

They knew the mine was in a bad condition. The workers kept submitting complaints almost daily at that point. They just didn't care. Because upkeep costs money and they are not going to spare any and cut from their profits. If someone has an issue with that, well they can go look for a new job then.

They undermined the ground too much. The shoddy support structures gave in. The entire thing collapsed. Most of the men managed to evacuate in time. Some were injured and required immediate help. One worker got trapped inside.

The official report said that he got crushed under the rubble and his death was instant.

The reality was that while buried under the rocks, he was still very much alive. Slowly bled to death while officials above declared the entire mine too unsafe for any further operation and ordered it shut down. His body was never recovered.

But leaving a corpse without a proper burial risks bringing a new monster to the world.

Few weeks later they found the body of the head of the mining company dead in his home. Torn to shreds, the folk say it was the miners who took a revenge on him for the damages.

They were almost right.

He seemed to enjoy courting chaos.

Something in the future beckoned to him: the vaguest something urged him to take a great leap of faith.

The city and its promises: a chance to forge a new life, anew, as the self you envisioned.

They don’t tell you about the debt incurred.

They don’t tell you about the lengths you stoop to.

And yet there he was, eating shit—happily enough, he supposed.

-

The first weeks in the city were hell.

Ben had shorn off his hair in the grimy bathroom soon after arriving; he still found long strands underfoot. Such an annoyance, he grumbles with his dour mood.

He wondered if it was a mistake to come here. The living was threadbare, an exercise in finding the next rock bottom. Each job search rejection was downright soul-sucking.

The words “good luck” tasted like ashes in his mouth.

Any income would be good income, he thinks grimly to himself, anything to get the stepping stones in place.

He lingers on all the hushed conversations with Jutka—his sister, patient and soft-spoken. He reminisces about late nights sitting on the floor, the rare chance to speak openly about who he felt he was, to strategize what it would take to let him live freely.

She was his comfort person, wholly accepting him. They weren’t meant to be sisters, but they would always have each others’ back.

Her letters, weekly clockwork, updated him on life at home: a rural small-town-nowhere bristling with an excess of daggered judgement, Benzin recounts derisively. Things seemed well enough; she was supportive as always, her upbeat hope suffused into her writing. He wrote back with wry jokes to conceal how dire the situation felt, that rising tide of dread that comes with making ends meet with ever meager means.

He sighs, continuing to shuffle through the “help wanted” flyers and motley job applications. Being picky is a luxury. Picking through, he pulls out a few he’d dog-eared earlier: a couple in construction, a few in mining.

Feels like a worst case scenario, he thinks grimly to himself. We all hunger for the mines, I suppose.

-

He lets out a long breath, one that lifts a weight from his shoulders.

He got a job.

A mining job, but a job nonetheless.

The interview was awkward. The recruiter even “ma’am”-ed him a few times over the terse exchange. Downright mortifying. He tried to look past it, but it was that kind of insidious irk that burrowed beneath his skin.

But with some kind of money coming in, he could get other plans in motion.

-

The medical bills—consultations, procedures, follow-ups—climbed ever higher: month after month, dragging into year after year.

He gets his name legally changed, his documents redone: more fees, more debt.

Ben didn’t care—he was high on finally being.

It was a euphoric feeling: feeling at home in his body, at last.

He made his payments monthly, but the accumulating interest would balloon. He chuckled at the magnitude of the balance. He’s already counted how many hours it’d take to pay it off—

… and already given up on it.

So, what’s a few more zeroes on the end?

-

The city starts to feel like home.

The days become routine, comfortably predictable: the early morning train, the mines, the packed evening train home, the kitchen rummage for dinner, packing the leftovers for the next day.

He finds his community in the city—confidantes over drinks, friends among mine workers, groups for nights on the town.

And, best of all, a canary to keep him company: Karolinka. His flitting yellow shadow, twittering spright greetings when she alights on his shoulder.

She even comes along to work, preening his grimy hair. Apt, a mining bird for a miner.

… Didn’t that care book say something about only male birds singing?

She seems happy enough to called her. Ben sighs. It’d be downright rude not to oblige.

-

The lights are low—another brawl must have broken out since he was last here. Bet half the fixtures were knocked out, he thinks wryly to himself.

“Jakub, a beer.” Idly, he taps his fingers on the bartop, smiling tersely. “Please.” He adds as an afterthought, gives the barkeep a stiff nod of appreciation while grabbing the filled glass.

The barkeep’s chuckle is nearly drowned out by the pounding music. “Who’re you terrorizing tonight?”

“Terrorize?” Benzin feigns a dramatic gasp, hand to his chest. “Now, that’s an accusation; I’m a charming presence. This is community service, if anything.”

Jakub pauses in mock disbelief. “Yeah, the service is drinking the community dry.” He lays out the glasses on a drying rack, shaking his head. “What brings you in, Ben?”

“No, that’s just efficient multitasking.” Benzin snorts, but quickly switches to somber. “But I heard from home, the worst news I could hear from that backalley hellhole.”

“I’m incredibly sorry to hear that. Consider it on the house tonight, friend.” The barkeep gives him a sympathetic look. “Looks like you could need it.”

With a quick nod of gratitude, Ben takes his drink in search of a seat.

“Mind if I butt in?” He raises his glass slightly toward another lone drinker, a man with elfin ears and a pallid—almost waxen gray—complexion, a well-worn patch over his left eye. His clothing has quite the traditional flair: a billowy white shirt trimmed with intricate embroidered details, cinched with a brace-like corset of brown leather.

He makes a slight motion to the other stool. “Make yourself comfortable.”

They sit in a companionable quiet, nursing their drinks. Ben rolls the glass between his hands, fidgeting.

“Awful restless for the end of the night.” The stranger takes a long swig, his tone flatly matter-of-fact.

“Suppose so.” Ben shrugs. “It’s been a shit day. Got word from home that my sister passed. She… she was my person. Literally the best person in my life.”

“I’m incredibly sorry to hear that.” He gives a curt nod. “I’m Vasil, what’s your name?”

“The name’s Benzin.” He replies with a mock cocky swagger, shit-eating grin included.

His captive audience raises his eyebrows just slightly, an air of reluctance about him. “Is it really?”

“Not an uncommon reply, I suppose.” Benzin sighs. “I go by Ben, too.”

“What dank brackwater gave you the name Benzin?” Vasil smiles wanly—there’s a quiet warmth to it. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“This one.” Rolling his eyes good-humoredly, Ben retorts before taking a sip of his drink. “I chose it.” He winces at the sour kick of the cheap beer.

“I see.” The stranger takes a drink as well. “About that shit day, do you think you could use a vent?”

“Oh, fuck yes I can.” Ben’s laugh comes out as a cackle. “Is that an offer to listen, Vas?” He takes a pause. “Is it okay if I call you that?”

“Feel free.” Vasil chuckles lightly. “So, fill me in.”

-

Not strangers for long. The right place at the right time, they joke with each other, we’re definitely in the running for the most cursed meet-cute: right in the bitter dregs of a cheap drink.

Vasil’s the local gravekeeper, living quietly on the grounds. The work: a bit morbid, to be fair, but at its core, it’s about honoring their memory, Vas always says in that soft, thoughtful way of his. He tends to his duties with determined purpose, his earnest deference for tradition so damn endearing. It’s his idea to tie a tricolor ribbon to one of the lower boughs of the linden tree near his cabin, a quiet memorial of Jutka. “A peaceful tree,” he smiles with the warm glow of the setting sun on his face, “for peaceful memories. I’ve always loved the heart-shaped leaves; they remind me of the way we hold space for people in our hearts.”

It’s not uncommon for Ben to find Vasil turning a piece of linden wood in his hands, expertly whittling away; it’s a welcome departure from his coffin carving. The cottage is littered with little figurines: wooden creatures, intricately detailed. The gravekeeper always has a few on him, gifting them to children at the funeral services he presides over: a little something to brighten up a grim enough day, he says.

It’s not lost on him that Vas’s charitable nature is causing the funerary business to hemorrhage money; that softie might as well be a grey marshmallow toasted on the hot coals of a sob story. Vas speaks earnestly to his clientele, determinedly maintaining how their dignity comes before his purse strings.

Or, a more candid assessment, Ben observes, we got two broke bitches—one deep in the debt trenches, and the other perfectly keen to join him.

They fold so easily into each other’s lives, almost as if they always had—friends at first, growing into something more.

He really was the right person at the right time, Ben always catches himself thinking, like a living, breathing bright spot.

Being with Vas—it’s almost too easy. They settle into a comfortable rhythm together, each busy with their work but always finding time for each other.

Like, yeah yeah, ups and downs, the standard blah blah blah.

But, really, it’s been good. It feels right, like he’s my person.

… He feels like home.

-

Benzin was already looking at rings a year and a half in. It felt fast, sure. Maybe even a little reckless.

But he also felt a kind of sincere surety, this kind of meant to be. He picked Vasil’s out around the two-year mark—a simple rustic silver band, peppered with hammer-worn texture—and kept the box in the back of a seldom-opened cabinet.

They didn’t start talking about it seriously till the third year. Ben spoke of it cavalierly: a formality in the bigger picture. On the other hand, Vasil waffled, always overthinking.

-

The couple are seated on the porch steps, taking in the peaceful afternoon. Benzin can practically feel the small ring box burning through his pocket.

The gravekeeper rubs his temples, shuts his eyes in thought. “An immortal in union with a mortal—has it even been done before? Should it even be done?”

Ben knows where this musing is going, immediately cutting the bullshit. “Hun, the public optics of a ‘us’ were dubious before factoring in immortality. People already aren’t exactly fans of two dudes loving it up in the first place.” He chuckles, giving the tip of Vasil’s ear a teasing flick and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “To them, we’re already a bad idea, Vas. We’re still in it, aren’t we?”

“You’re silly.” His partner grumbles nonsense for a second before squirming away. “Though not completely wrong.” His face takes on a mock scowl, but Ben can tell he’s clearly fighting a smile. “Do we have any good ideas?”

“Obviously yes.” Ben laughs, pushing a curtain of too-long bangs out of his eyes. “I mean, here’s one: sweet kolaches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Love, you’d rot your teeth out.” Vasil stares him down with fake concern, his sole golden eye fixed on Ben.“Yes, and put the dentist out of business.” His partner grins back devilishly, little familiar crinkles forming at the bridge of his nose. “That’s one less bill to worry about.”

“Such an enterprising mind.” Vas shakes his head and he laughs. “You didn’t miss your calling in business?” He kisses Ben on the forehead. “The world would tremble at your feet. Just imagine: Ben the mogul, oh so mighty.”

“Then it’s a boon I’m not in business. I would be too powerful.” Ben lets out a relaxed sigh. “You could call it… a good idea, even?”

“Sure, love.” Vasil rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

“Whatever I say?” Ben perks up, stands up from the porch stoop and drops one knee, pulling out the ring box in one fell motion. “Will you marry me?” The words soon come spilling out. “You mean the world to me. Being with you has made me so unbelievably happy and sometimes I can’t even believe we found each oth—” He stops as he sees Vasil’s eyes brim with tears.

Benzin stops, dread washing over his face. “I-is that a no?”

“No.” Vasil chokes out the words. “Oh gods no. Just, just give me a second.” He takes a couple shaky breaths, gathering himself before laughing. “You dope,” He manages to gasp out between laughs. “I love you. I love you so much.” He pulls Ben into a hug, whispering in his ear. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

-

The wedding was an impromptu affair at the courthouse, with two close friends as witnesses.

No crowds, no church bells, no cake, no flowers. Just heartfelt vows, quickly exchanged.

Regardless, it felt just right, this rosy intersection of past and future. Right here, right now.

But stay too long and we’ll get hate-crimed, they joke to themselves. They hurried out of the court building, giddy lovebirds grinning ear-to-ear.

-

Life carries on.

Being married doesn’t change much; it’s still the same old routines, now with wedding rings. A homey kind of familiarity, Ben muses, one that feels lived in.

His husband hears him grumble and vent about the working conditions, the despicable attitudes of both supervisors and authorities alike. “With the way they treat us, workers will get hurt.” Ben’s voice rises, the words shaking with fury. “Fuck, they already are getting hurt.”

Vas urges him to find something safer for work: if not for Ben’s own self-preservation, then for the sake of them both. Benzin struggles to find roles with comparable pay in the city, gradually resigning himself to mining labor in perpetuity. It pays barely enough to keep his debts in check, but enough nonetheless.

It feels like a desperate gamble, one taken day after day.

And yet, he gets used to playing with that kind of risk, gets real comfortable in it. Calculated risk, he tells himself.

He makes it through years, makes it past the decade mark.

It’s only a matter of time before life deals out a complete shit hand.

-

The sagging roof pours gravelly stone into the shaft, slowly giving way.

The workers all round power down the machinery. The air itself seems still.

They know how these stories end.

Karolinka alights on Ben’s shoulder, no longer singing. The foreboding dread settles, icily cold.

He cups her in his hands, trying to shield her from the worst of it. He huddles with the rest of the laborers, trying to seek refuge under more structural beams.

The sound of tumbling soil and stone is thunderous. Its crushing weight is suffocating.

He can only think of Vasil.

I won’t make it home, love.

I’m sorry that this is the end; we deserved more time. However much we had, those eleven years? It wasn’t enough.

It never could be—

Would it be too greedy to admit that?

-

He hears a familiar twitter. He finds it difficult to rouse, the fatigue overwhelming him.

Karolinka? A faint flicker of self still pushes to the forefront. What happened after the mine collapse? How long ago was it?

Clawed hands in the carnage, brutishly entangled in viscera. Mine?

The little bird, plumage ruffled and grimy, hops up his arm and happily rubs her beak on his shoulder.

The evidence of the onslaught in Ben’s wake, bright scarlet stark against drywall and hardwood. The horror sinks in, a chill deep in his bones. The smell itself turns his stomach. Did I do this?

Benzin feels himself fade, snuffed by something feral, something desperate: it thinks only to act on instinct, to survive.

I can’t curb what comes next.

Each labored breath is ragged, the rasp almost a snarl. The beast lopes away, each powerful stride met with the crunch of concrete crumbling underfoot.

It has a will of its own.

Chaos is at the wheel.

-

Bits and pieces.

That’s all he can only keep hold of: bits and pieces.

Not that they’re bits he particularly wants to hold onto; he’s a backseat rider on this bloody joyride.

It was a bit amusing at first, like sitting on the shoulder of his own hired hitman. The beast crushed unscrupulous mining management underfoot, clawed its way through units of corrupt policeman—ones who’d ignored the mine shaft integrity reports, brushed off the worker complaints.

It got old pretty fast; that novelty quickly gave way to horror.

Seemingly impervious to their barrages and blows, the monster revels in the bloodbath, the vengeful carnage. It hungers for the life Ben lost, but Ben cannot rein in its bloodthirst.

He doesn’t want to imagine what pieces he can’t recall.

Get me off this damn ride.

-

A single figure stands in his way, their movements deft yet careful.

The beast grows wary. The grey man, armed with grey. It fears him: this man, the one who impaled it with the silver spear that still remains in its torso.

In a flash of passing lucidity—

Benzin fights to the forefront, a sluggish flicker in the domain of the beast.

The monster, hulking in stature, struggles to speak. “Vasil.” The word comes out a low growl, a flicker of something in Ben’s eyes—a kind of mournful longing, surprisingly human. “... Vas?”

The gravekeeper balks, horror etched on his face. “Oh gods,” he sputters in disbelief.

The beast lunges.

Ben screeches, tries to reel that damned monster back. It stops just short, claws raking within an inch of Vas. The reality hangs in the air between them, a secret suspended—one that can’t be ignored. He can see the grief so plainly in Vasil’s expression; his heart wrenches in turn.

“Ben?” The gravekeeper’s voice trembles, equal parts raw heartbreak and burgeoning hope. He holsters his firearm, shows his empty hands to the beast. “Ben, is that you?”

He feels a buckle in his authority over the beast; it heaves itself forward, throwing its might into Ben’s tenuous control. Benzin winces at its eagerness to rip and tear, to retaliate for past injury.

It lunges.

Don’t you fucking dare. He pushes their body down, bringing the beast down onto its hands and knees before Vas.

The whisper comes out ragged, soft, and broken: “Benzin.” A quiet determination washes over Vasil’s expression. He kneels down, reaches a hand out to cup the beast’s face. “Ben, I’m here.”

Vas, you idiot. My idiot. Ben fights to suppress the monster, willing it to stay down. He bobs at the forefront, feels the waves of the beast’s struggle for dominance. My lovely, over-optimistic goddamn idiot. You need to get fuck back. He shudders, torn between fleeing and staying; he feels himself start to slip under the surface. Can't you see I can’t completely keep it at bay?

“Vas... go.” He croaks, the words painful in his throat. “Please. Not… safe.”

“No.” The gravekeeper pulls his hand back, but shakes his head. “You should come home.”

Home, he thinks wistfully: of the little cabin at the border of the graveyard; sleepy afternoons in the sun; the shade of the linden tree in bloom, the scrap of ragged tricolor gently windswept; Vas, silhouetted in the glow of lamplight, carving away.

There’s no time to dwell. The beast rears again, intent on the kill. Ben furrows his claws into the ground, the concrete easily giving way. His legs buck behind him, kicking up pulverized dust with another attempted charge.

The moment seems still, somberly silent; they both seem to hesitate.

“I see you. I know you’re there.” Vasil says it quietly. “I trust you. I want you home.”

“Bad. Idea.” The hoarse words come haltingly; Ben wants to believe it can be safe, that he can be home.

“That’s us in a nutshell.” Vas smiles, his eyes teary. “Full of bad ideas.” He stands, turning to leave. “What’s one more? It won’t kill us: I can’t die and, well…”

He pauses briefly to consider a joke in poor taste; he continues, body shaking with laughter:

“News flash, you’re already dead.”

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