AN: Warning: Rated M for dark themes, torture and blood.
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Alice—One of the duties of running a Tea Shop was providing live bodies for the Queen. Outcasts, the unwanted, tea heads too far gone to be of further use at parties, suspected Resistance agents, even the occasional enemy that needed to disappear. No one knew what happened to them, no one cared.
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Pages from Hatter's Notebook
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Stone Cold
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It was the best thing that ever happened to me, getting accepted into the Queen's training program. If I was good enough, I could even make it to assassin level. Top of the cream, that's something. Something for a kid from down in the barrens.
I'd never had nothing, lived from day to day. Running herd on a pack of boys—my crew. Taught them tricks of the trade, how to beg, dip, scavenge and anything else to stay alive. Taught them how to survive. March's crew—gang of ragtag boys from down in the barrens. All except one, the little, rich kid. The one who didn't belong.
The only thing I'd ever loved—one dark-haired boy who never failed to look up to me with complete trust in his dark eyes. So smart and yet so dumb at the same time. Couldn't beat the innocence out of him.
Met a girl called Jilly, a wild thing with flashing eyes. She made my heart beat fast and I wanted her. Would have her no matter the cost.
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Mandatory visits to Doctors Dee and Dum. Guaranteed to make you a better man.
"We shall make you an artist." They promised. "Your name will become a household word. Feared and admired by all."
After a few visits, they brought in live subjects. Showed me where to touch to make them scream, where to touch when I wanted silence. How far the knife could go in again and again without killing. How to avoid vital organs and keep them alive, begging for death.
The first was an old man, a tea head, lost to reality long ago. When the knife kissed his face he screamed. The blood trickled down into deep wrinkles, red rivers running to fill his screaming mouth, dyeing his scruffy beard red to drip, drip, drip on his dirty bare feet. A scream was not the song I wanted to hear. If you cut to deep, too soon, they can't sing at all.
Men are actually easier to get to sing, they have more sensitive parts. Parts you can nail to the tree and you don't even have to tie them. And if they have the fortitude to rip free, well there's always a knife through the soft spot just above the wrist and into the tree. None of mine ever pulled free from that.
They can sing without their eyes, oozing dark holes of madness blindly seeking the light that never comes. Cut the scalp and the blood runs into the empty wells to fill and overflow again and again. But you want to wait till the tears are finished. Tears mix with the blood and you have a whole new color to paint with.
The next was just a girl, she couldn't have been too much older than me. They let her loose so I could catch her. She screamed and fought, scratched me with her nails. Ripped them out one by one after I staked to the tree. She had beautiful red hair, I wanted to scalp her and keep it, but they wouldn't let me. She had information they wanted and they wanted it quick. They wouldn't even let me play with her at first.
Her skin was so soft and creamy, I thought about skinning her and making something out of it, but again, the Queen was in a hurry. They said I could play with her when they had their information. She didn't live long after that. I don't do corpses. I want to feel the fight, want them to know who killed them.
The body holds 12 pints of blood. You can lose 4 and still live. Four takes a long time, one drop at a time.
The Queen would often come and oversee my training. I think she likes me. She's one scary bitch though. One sick old cow.
The Queen kept interrupting, "No, no. The knife is not a weapon, not a tool. It's the extension of your hand, just like your fingers. Use it to caress, to make love to your subject. Go slowly, never rush, never hurry. The object is not to kill. You must learn to keep them alive. You must learn patience"
"You are a painter, skin is your canvass, the knife your brush and blood is your paint. Each painting is different and lovely."
"You will learn to see what the painting should be before you start, learn how to make it come into being. The strokes, the touches needed to make it sing."
"You will be told the answers you need to listen for, what song we want to hear. You will be given questions, prompts if the subject is reluctant."
"There will be interrogation and straight kills. There will be retrievals and hostages."
"You will study your subject and learn who or what is best used to persuade them."
"You will take your orders from me."
"You will learn to make your own knives, and if necessary, how to use anything at hand as a knife or weapon. Nothing cuts like a broken piece of glass."
"You will learn to defend yourself, to take on men twice your size and break them."
"You will learn to move though the night, like the wind. The only sound, blood hitting the ground and you'll be gone before that."
"Once you graduate, we will send you out to hunt. You will be given skills to help you locate and persuade. Knowledge will be implanted directly in your mind."
"You will learn to kill, to kill, to kill, to kill. TO KILL."
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They were right about the knowledge, soon I just knew. It was like Hatter's teaching machine only quicker.
Soon I could hear the whispers no matter where I was. Kill, KILL, KILL. They kept tune with the pounding.
Eventually, even the injections didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. I had learned to cut, to slice to create a masterpiece.
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AN: It's not my fault. Talk to Alaina Downs, she led me down this dark path and then left me all alone with March.