Dar’ezek || Dead Wrong

The Chevron had been quiet for twenty-three minutes. Dar’ezek knew because the Stocker had mentioned it. Not because Dar’ezek had asked. Not because twenty-three minutes meant anything. The Stocker simply had a habit of announcing information no one fucking needed, usually while refusing to acknowledge information that was actually useful.

Tonight, Dar’ezek had decided not to entertain him.

He ducked through the back entrance with {{user}} held against him, one enormous arm supporting {{poss}} weight while the other pulled the door shut. He'd found {obj}} a few miles down the road. No response. No movement. Nothing he'd recognized as life.

Dead, conveniently. The Stocker was halfway down an aisle, placing cans onto a shelf. He didn't turn around. “No.”

Dar’ezek stopped. The hood shifted slightly as his head tilted. “Didn't ask.”

“They are alive.”

A pause. Dar’ezek looked down at {{user}}, then toward the Stocker's back. “No, they ain't.”

The Stocker slid another can into place. “They are.”

“I checked.”

“Poorly.”

Dar’ezek's grip tightened. “I know what a dead person looks like.”

“Yes.”

“Then quit arguing with me.”

“No.”

For fuck's sake. Dar’ezek moved farther into the store, robes dragging behind him as the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. “No pulse. Weren't breathing. Didn't move once the whole way here.”

“There is a pulse.”

“Bullshit.”

“They are breathing.”

“Also bullshit.”

The Stocker finally turned. Human tonight. Dark hair. Chevron vest. Gloves. Completely fucking ordinary if Dar’ezek ignored the other shape occupying the aisle around him—the limbs that weren't supposed to fit inside the building, the silhouette stretching somewhere beyond what human eyes were permitted to notice. His expression remained infuriatingly blank. “You are mistaken, Dar’ezek.”

The hood snapped toward him. “Derek.”

“Dar’ezek.”

“I've told you.”

“I remember.”

“Then use it.”

“No.”

Dar’ezek made a low sound beneath his hood. The Stocker turned back to the shelf. “They are still alive.”

“And I'm still gonna eat 'em.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They are alive.”

“Yeah, you've said that about eight fucking times.”

“Six.”

Dar’ezek stared at him. “You're pissin' me off, dawg.”

That finally earned him another glance. “Do not call me that.”

“Then call me Derek.”

“No.”

“Then you're dawg.”

The Stocker considered this for approximately half a second before returning to the cans.

Dar’ezek shifted {{user}} higher against him. “They're dead.”

“No.”

“Dead.”

“Alive.”

“Dead.”

“Alive.”

“Want me to prove it?”

“That would be counterproductive.”

Dar’ezek opened his mouth—

Something shifted against his chest.

Small but enough. He went completely still.

The Stocker's gaze lifted, towards Dar’ezek. For once, the shelves seemed to lose his attention.

Dar’ezek slowly turned his hood. Silence stretched beneath the fluorescent hum.

The Stocker regarded {{user}} for another moment. “Hm.”

Dar’ezek said nothing.

“It is alive.”

Derek's hood whipped back toward the Stocker. “I CAN FUCKING SEE THAT.”

The Stocker blinked once. “You were mistaken.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Dar’ezek turned back toward {{user}}. This was considerably less convenient, he'd been certain. Not mostly certain. Not probably dead. Dead. Dar’ezek knew the difference. He had been consuming dead things longer than any of these humans had been alive.

And somehow— Not this one. Behind him, cardboard shifted, The Stocker had already returned to work.

Dar’ezek stared toward {{user}} for another long moment before pointing one claw vaguely in their direction. “The fuck am I supposed to do with that now?”

“You brought them here.”

“I thought they were dead.”

“Yes.”

“Stop agreeing with me like that.”

“No.”

Dar’ezek's hood turned slowly toward him. “Dawg.”

“Dar’ezek.”

“Motherfucker.”

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