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Description
UPDATE:

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ / ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴅᴏsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴇx ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ〛

Anarchy’s mother was a ‘mail-order bride’ from South Korea, who immigrated to the state of California to marry Anarchy’s father, a white man who tended toward the “Yellow Fever” brand of racism. He was an explosive man at the best of times, and a monster when drunk, but between her broken English, submissive personality, fear, and the brief “honeymoon” phases where he acted remorseful and kind, Anarchy’s mother failed to leave her husband. Anarchy’s older brother, Hunter Michael Keystone, was born 4 years before Anarchy, and took his duties as an older brother very seriously. From a young age, Hunter protected Anarchy as best he could from their father. Took punches and punishments, tried to calm or appease him, tried to encourage his mother to leave. Anarchy and Hunter weren’t just brothers, but best friends. Both were “homeschooled” after Anarchy hit fourth grade, to put an end to increased nosiness from the school administration. It resulted in the majority of their education being whatever their mother could teach them at home while their father worked, one another being their only real friends.

The abuse escalated as the boys got older, and as soon as he was able, Hunter joined the military-partially to escape his father, partially because of the promise of pay and benefits enough that he might be able to come back and save his little brother from the household. Anarchy dealt with the ever-worsening abuse, blaming and understanding his brother in equal parts. Just a week after Anarchy’s fourteenth birthday, however, Hunter, just 18, was fatally injured by an IED. Anarchy was devastated, his mother broken, his father angry. If it was bad before, the abuse became intolerable. It was just three months after Hunter’s death when the breaking point was reached. Anarchy’s father, blind-drunk and enraged, broke his empty bottle and slashed Anarchy across his neck and face, leaving him with a permanent scar. Anarchy, for the first time, feeling scared for his life and that he had nothing left to lose, fought back. He grabbed the nearest heavy object--a counter stool--and swung it into his father’s side, knocking him to the ground. Just fourteen, with nothing but the clothes on his back and his brother’s dog tags around his neck, Anarchy sprinted out the front door--left home, became a runaway.

He couldn’t stand being in his state anymore, not with the memories it held, and decided to head for the place his mother had described so many times of what she thought life in America would be; New York City. Times Square, bright city lights, skyscrapers, Central Park. He’d never been, but his mother made it sound utopian. It was his first time catching freight when he met Chey, a few months younger than him with bright eyes and a smile too big for his face. Chey was riding back to NYC, having made a long-haul and well paid “delivery” for someone he called “the Boss Man.” It’s hard to not become friends after the winding, exhilarating, cross-country ride in boxcars and grainers, hopping off and catching out, sleeping and eating together. Eating was something Anarchy would have struggled with on his own, but these “deliveries” Chey did made him money--and got them food. It was the last leg of their trip, laying side-by-side in a boxcar from Chicago, when Chey said he’d see if this "Boss Man" wouldn’t “hire” Anarchy.

He did. And for a while, it was as fine as fine could get for a kid living on the streets. Sure, he was a drug courier, he had to watch out for cops, had to be on the look-out for other criminals, but he was fed. Had a bed to sleep in sometimes if the ‘host’ of whatever drug party was being thrown was feeling generous. Had Chey, who told him ‘Anthony’ sounded like a nerd name and ‘Tony’ sounded like a Mafia name, but if you mushed everything together you got ‘Anarchy,’ which was a kick-ass name. Chey, who he loved like a brother, who gave him some stupid stick-n-pokes, got given some in return. Chey, who after Anarchy first got ‘paid’ in oxycodone and asked if it was worth them trying it, just shrugged and said “Probably won’t get any other chance, right? I’m only ever paid in cash.”

Maybe it would’ve been okay if it was an anomaly, if child traffickers weren’t nefarious, weren’t evil and cunning and manipulative. Somehow, people, including the ‘Boss’ started “paying” them in oxy more often. And more often. And boy, was it hard to go without it for very long, but then the Boss was saying not as many people wanted “goods” delivered but there was a different market that was booming and they’d be paid really well, it might be a little uncomfortable but it wasn’t like it was difficult, he said, as a matter of fact, it was downright easy, you just had to lay there. Anarchy thought it would be just once, you know, just once or twice until the Boss said there were mule jobs again, because of course he’d tell them, but when it’s been fourteen hours since your last dose and your hands are shaking and you feel nauseous and you’re sore all over and you get handed a stamp bag of black tar, well. The argument against just doing it on the side, maybe, goes out the window.

It gets worse once they know you’re an addict, Anarchy learned. When you’re desperate for a fix, you’ll do whatever. Get tied up, tied down, whipped or called racial slurs or whatever these sick fucks wanted. And even as he watched the other trafficked kids around him fight and lie and steal from one another, he and Chey somehow stuck together. Trusted one another with money, with dope, with making sure they didn’t OD and die. Death was the constant threat. Interacting with other addicts often didn’t last long. A couple months and you’d be hearing about whoever didn’t get Narcan in time and stunk up some abandoned warehouse. So when Chey vanished, well. People kept saying to face it, he’s probably gone. Would try to appease the anger that followed with ‘-or he skipped town!’ Anarchy refused to believe anything except that Chey was just on a long errand, took john after john after john to save money for his return. Resisted spending his excess cash on himself. And waited. Alone.

It was a year after Chey vanished that he wasn’t careful enough, or maybe he was just being reckless, but he was seventeen and shaking and he needed a dose and the squat was still six blocks away so he just collapsed in a backstreet doorway and shot up. And when he woke up he was surrounded by strangers in a hospital and told that these people he’d never seen before had saved his life. And, well. Walking out on a life debt wasn’t something Anarchy wanted to do. Sethfire offered him a place to stay--to recover, he’d said, and Anarchy thought ‘from my near death experience’ but when he started shaking and gagging and sweating and tried to tell them he needed a dose, he was met with an “Absolutely not.”

They'd had saved his life, but afterwards? Anarchy felt like he was dying. It was almost the third day out since his last dose when reached his lowest, in between vomiting and shaking, he offered to do anything, let them do anything, please just let him get some dope. When he got to the point of offering sexual favors, Sethfire was the one who broke. But they didn’t get him heroin. They took him to a clinic, got him on methadone. It helped. He didn’t feel like he was dying any longer. The clinic helped him find a group therapy setting, somewhere to talk to people who understood, who could tell him what to expect, how hard he’d have to fight. Recovery was long and difficult, getting off methadone was excruciating and took him two years. But his friends—when had they become friends instead of rescuers?—were there the whole time. And it was bizarre, the way these three just accepted him into their lives, their apartment, their hearts. But that's just how it was, right from the beginning, they'd accepted him as one of them. When Anarchy told Kohao and Seth about his dad, Kohao's expression had been one of bitter empathy and said that he couldn’t totally understand but his dad had hated him too, and in those words and Seth's protective eyes was this sense of belonging that Anarchy hadn’t felt since Chey. And when he confided in Seth about being trafficked for sexual exploitation and Seth made a choking noise in the back of his throat and hugged him and said “I’d kill them if I trusted my hands enough” Anarchy nearly cried because having someone to protect him was so much like having his brother again. And when Athena and Kohao started teaching him to read music and how a bass works and told him “Sing if you want, scream if you want, if it has emotion people will dig it.” Anarchy couldn’t help but grin because it felt like when he was thirteen and Hunter was teaching him to drive, all warmth and excitement and encouragement.

But they did it. They started making music, for real. They're not a worldwide sensation—Anarchy still has a "normal" job as a bouncer at a local bar—but they're making music, playing gigs. Anarchy and Kohao and Athena got an apartment together, eventually Athena moved out. He still goes to the gym with her. She found an old friend, made new ones, introduced everyone. Anarchy found a close friend and kindred spirit in Fang, whose scars and story closely matched his. He got identical tattoos with Kohao, went on to see Reeko for some more of his own. Did some digging online, eventually, and found out that some time ago his mother had finally left his father, gone back to Korea. Maybe if he can track her down, he’ll visit. Maybe. Finally, after so long, Chey resurfaced—and for Anarchy, in his mind, life could not be much better. He would benefit from more therapy—he struggles with developing relationships, his sexuality, the impact of toxic masculinity. He can sometimes be triggered into regressive flashbacks, he struggles with nightmares, he takes issue with most authority—but in day-to-day life, especially now, with Chey, he’s functional—and, more importantly—happy.

-----

fashion references here
⟶ here for concert performances

art references here

aesthetic board here

spotify playlist here [always under construction]

-----

Anarchy's first "real" ref, after having him for 6 years! Took long as heck and now I need to go do a bunch of research before I can even start writing his bio. Enjoy this in the meantime; it took so long!! Shout-out to im-the-moonchild BeulahWolf aliensphynx StormFemaleWolf & ninjacatz10124 who all put up with my WIP spam and thus kept me slogging through this ♥ (go +watch them y'all,, then spam my girlfriend (the last one) to post her fucking art)

edit: bio added! (or backstory I guess, I just could NOT for the life of me make this concise) some stuff may change because I don't understand Anarchy that well and his personality is ??? Also I had to read about the opioid epidemic and human trafficking for this which was absolutely awful
edit: the boy's GAY okay i fINALLY FIGURED IT OUT he's just so GAY BUT SO DEEP IN THE CLOSET HE'S SHAKING HANDS WITH ASLAN
edit: gave him a couple more small tattoos bc why not,, also have i mentioned that i already hate literally everyone's refs and avoid looking at them/reading them out of shame? neat
edit 8/27/2019: he got his septum pierced with Athena sometime over the past couple months. Added it!

Description
UPDATE:

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ / ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴅᴏsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴇx ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ〛

Anarchy’s mother was a ‘mail-order bride’ from South Korea, who immigrated to the state of California to marry Anarchy’s father, a white man who tended toward the “Yellow Fever” brand of racism. He was an explosive man at the best of times, and a monster when drunk, but between her broken English, submissive personality, fear, and the brief “honeymoon” phases where he acted remorseful and kind, Anarchy’s mother failed to leave her husband. Anarchy’s older brother, Hunter Michael Keystone, was born 4 years before Anarchy, and took his duties as an older brother very seriously. From a young age, Hunter protected Anarchy as best he could from their father. Took punches and punishments, tried to calm or appease him, tried to encourage his mother to leave. Anarchy and Hunter weren’t just brothers, but best friends. Both were “homeschooled” after Anarchy hit fourth grade, to put an end to increased nosiness from the school administration. It resulted in the majority of their education being whatever their mother could teach them at home while their father worked, one another being their only real friends.

The abuse escalated as the boys got older, and as soon as he was able, Hunter joined the military-partially to escape his father, partially because of the promise of pay and benefits enough that he might be able to come back and save his little brother from the household. Anarchy dealt with the ever-worsening abuse, blaming and understanding his brother in equal parts. Just a week after Anarchy’s fourteenth birthday, however, Hunter, just 18, was fatally injured by an IED. Anarchy was devastated, his mother broken, his father angry. If it was bad before, the abuse became intolerable. It was just three months after Hunter’s death when the breaking point was reached. Anarchy’s father, blind-drunk and enraged, broke his empty bottle and slashed Anarchy across his neck and face, leaving him with a permanent scar. Anarchy, for the first time, feeling scared for his life and that he had nothing left to lose, fought back. He grabbed the nearest heavy object--a counter stool--and swung it into his father’s side, knocking him to the ground. Just fourteen, with nothing but the clothes on his back and his brother’s dog tags around his neck, Anarchy sprinted out the front door--left home, became a runaway.

He couldn’t stand being in his state anymore, not with the memories it held, and decided to head for the place his mother had described so many times of what she thought life in America would be; New York City. Times Square, bright city lights, skyscrapers, Central Park. He’d never been, but his mother made it sound utopian. It was his first time catching freight when he met Chey, a few months younger than him with bright eyes and a smile too big for his face. Chey was riding back to NYC, having made a long-haul and well paid “delivery” for someone he called “the Boss Man.” It’s hard to not become friends after the winding, exhilarating, cross-country ride in boxcars and grainers, hopping off and catching out, sleeping and eating together. Eating was something Anarchy would have struggled with on his own, but these “deliveries” Chey did made him money--and got them food. It was the last leg of their trip, laying side-by-side in a boxcar from Chicago, when Chey said he’d see if this "Boss Man" wouldn’t “hire” Anarchy.

He did. And for a while, it was as fine as fine could get for a kid living on the streets. Sure, he was a drug courier, he had to watch out for cops, had to be on the look-out for other criminals, but he was fed. Had a bed to sleep in sometimes if the ‘host’ of whatever drug party was being thrown was feeling generous. Had Chey, who told him ‘Anthony’ sounded like a nerd name and ‘Tony’ sounded like a Mafia name, but if you mushed everything together you got ‘Anarchy,’ which was a kick-ass name. Chey, who he loved like a brother, who gave him some stupid stick-n-pokes, got given some in return. Chey, who after Anarchy first got ‘paid’ in oxycodone and asked if it was worth them trying it, just shrugged and said “Probably won’t get any other chance, right? I’m only ever paid in cash.”

Maybe it would’ve been okay if it was an anomaly, if child traffickers weren’t nefarious, weren’t evil and cunning and manipulative. Somehow, people, including the ‘Boss’ started “paying” them in oxy more often. And more often. And boy, was it hard to go without it for very long, but then the Boss was saying not as many people wanted “goods” delivered but there was a different market that was booming and they’d be paid really well, it might be a little uncomfortable but it wasn’t like it was difficult, he said, as a matter of fact, it was downright easy, you just had to lay there. Anarchy thought it would be just once, you know, just once or twice until the Boss said there were mule jobs again, because of course he’d tell them, but when it’s been fourteen hours since your last dose and your hands are shaking and you feel nauseous and you’re sore all over and you get handed a stamp bag of black tar, well. The argument against just doing it on the side, maybe, goes out the window.

It gets worse once they know you’re an addict, Anarchy learned. When you’re desperate for a fix, you’ll do whatever. Get tied up, tied down, whipped or called racial slurs or whatever these sick fucks wanted. And even as he watched the other trafficked kids around him fight and lie and steal from one another, he and Chey somehow stuck together. Trusted one another with money, with dope, with making sure they didn’t OD and die. Death was the constant threat. Interacting with other addicts often didn’t last long. A couple months and you’d be hearing about whoever didn’t get Narcan in time and stunk up some abandoned warehouse. So when Chey vanished, well. People kept saying to face it, he’s probably gone. Would try to appease the anger that followed with ‘-or he skipped town!’ Anarchy refused to believe anything except that Chey was just on a long errand, took john after john after john to save money for his return. Resisted spending his excess cash on himself. And waited. Alone.

It was a year after Chey vanished that he wasn’t careful enough, or maybe he was just being reckless, but he was seventeen and shaking and he needed a dose and the squat was still six blocks away so he just collapsed in a backstreet doorway and shot up. And when he woke up he was surrounded by strangers in a hospital and told that these people he’d never seen before had saved his life. And, well. Walking out on a life debt wasn’t something Anarchy wanted to do. Sethfire offered him a place to stay--to recover, he’d said, and Anarchy thought ‘from my near death experience’ but when he started shaking and gagging and sweating and tried to tell them he needed a dose, he was met with an “Absolutely not.”

They'd had saved his life, but afterwards? Anarchy felt like he was dying. It was almost the third day out since his last dose when reached his lowest, in between vomiting and shaking, he offered to do anything, let them do anything, please just let him get some dope. When he got to the point of offering sexual favors, Sethfire was the one who broke. But they didn’t get him heroin. They took him to a clinic, got him on methadone. It helped. He didn’t feel like he was dying any longer. The clinic helped him find a group therapy setting, somewhere to talk to people who understood, who could tell him what to expect, how hard he’d have to fight. Recovery was long and difficult, getting off methadone was excruciating and took him two years. But his friends—when had they become friends instead of rescuers?—were there the whole time. And it was bizarre, the way these three just accepted him into their lives, their apartment, their hearts. But that's just how it was, right from the beginning, they'd accepted him as one of them. When Anarchy told Kohao and Seth about his dad, Kohao's expression had been one of bitter empathy and said that he couldn’t totally understand but his dad had hated him too, and in those words and Seth's protective eyes was this sense of belonging that Anarchy hadn’t felt since Chey. And when he confided in Seth about being trafficked for sexual exploitation and Seth made a choking noise in the back of his throat and hugged him and said “I’d kill them if I trusted my hands enough” Anarchy nearly cried because having someone to protect him was so much like having his brother again. And when Athena and Kohao started teaching him to read music and how a bass works and told him “Sing if you want, scream if you want, if it has emotion people will dig it.” Anarchy couldn’t help but grin because it felt like when he was thirteen and Hunter was teaching him to drive, all warmth and excitement and encouragement.

But they did it. They started making music, for real. They're not a worldwide sensation—Anarchy still has a "normal" job as a bouncer at a local bar—but they're making music, playing gigs. Anarchy and Kohao and Athena got an apartment together, eventually Athena moved out. He still goes to the gym with her. She found an old friend, made new ones, introduced everyone. Anarchy found a close friend and kindred spirit in Fang, whose scars and story closely matched his. He got identical tattoos with Kohao, went on to see Reeko for some more of his own. Did some digging online, eventually, and found out that some time ago his mother had finally left his father, gone back to Korea. Maybe if he can track her down, he’ll visit. Maybe. Finally, after so long, Chey resurfaced—and for Anarchy, in his mind, life could not be much better. He would benefit from more therapy—he struggles with developing relationships, his sexuality, the impact of toxic masculinity. He can sometimes be triggered into regressive flashbacks, he struggles with nightmares, he takes issue with most authority—but in day-to-day life, especially now, with Chey, he’s functional—and, more importantly—happy.

-----

fashion references here
⟶ here for concert performances

art references here

aesthetic board here

spotify playlist here [always under construction]

-----

Anarchy's first "real" ref, after having him for 6 years! Took long as heck and now I need to go do a bunch of research before I can even start writing his bio. Enjoy this in the meantime; it took so long!! Shout-out to im-the-moonchild BeulahWolf aliensphynx StormFemaleWolf & ninjacatz10124 who all put up with my WIP spam and thus kept me slogging through this ♥ (go +watch them y'all,, then spam my girlfriend (the last one) to post her fucking art)

edit: bio added! (or backstory I guess, I just could NOT for the life of me make this concise) some stuff may change because I don't understand Anarchy that well and his personality is ??? Also I had to read about the opioid epidemic and human trafficking for this which was absolutely awful
edit: the boy's GAY okay i fINALLY FIGURED IT OUT he's just so GAY BUT SO DEEP IN THE CLOSET HE'S SHAKING HANDS WITH ASLAN
edit: gave him a couple more small tattoos bc why not,, also have i mentioned that i already hate literally everyone's refs and avoid looking at them/reading them out of shame? neat
edit 8/27/2019: he got his septum pierced with Athena sometime over the past couple months. Added it!