death like me

Excuse me?! 

What kind of question is that– do you even know who you’re talking to? 

Hello. Earth to the circle in the glasses, I’m death. Sorta a big deal. 

Nobody gets away. FYI, since you clearly don’t know your shit, I invented the death club. No joke. Got the membership card to prove it. 

Every child knew to keep their window firmly shut and locked if they wanted to maintain a state of absolute security. They were taught from the cradle not to accept rides or candy from strangers - were taught not to invite any such dangers into their lives lest an unknown variable completely overtake them … or at least that should have been the plan. But Reginald Halpain must have somehow overlooked just how damn foolish and reckless his only son could be … or maybe not given the number of security measures he’d put into place. A father had every right to worry over the well-being of his child - and he apparently had cause to worry, since Leif had yet to practice true caution, dutifully falling into line with his father’s orders. 

                             Stay inside. 

                Don’t invite anyone over. 

         Keep your windows and doors locked at all times. 

                     Don’t answer the door for anyone. 

On and on it went … until he couldn’t even begin to differentiate between the orders. The same old thing, uttered over and over again, until his head felt on the verge of exploding. A relentless, throbbing ache that refused to abate no matter how many times he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will it away with all his might. It had reached such a level of vexation, in fact, that he would even welcome it at this point - because, well, the old fool wouldn’t stop treating him like some spoiled brat in need of firm guidance and an even firmer hand. It wasn’t so much the overbearing quality of his father’s overprotective nature that infuriated him; it was the lack of trust the man held in his son’s decision-making abilities - as though he expected his own flesh and blood to rappel down five stories in search of the next, big party. Sure, he might possess the agility of a warg. But amazing genetics aside, he wasn’t about to test the durability of a body that carried both animal and human genes by throwing himself into a dangerous, perhaps even fatal, situation brought on by his own foolish recklessness. 

            A smart move on his part.

     Or it would have been if he hadn’t decided to let the very danger his father had warned him about slip into his room with all the sleekness of a predator on the hunt. The window entrance itself had been slightly awkward at first, what with the way the man had leaned so far back that Leif had half-expected him to lose his balance and plummet five stories to his death in an outrageous, dramatic scene of tragedy. But it hadn’t taken him long to find his footing again. 

Staring wide-eyed at the thin, sleek barrel - despite wishing otherwise, the danger was very real; he was pointing an honest-to-gods, real-life gun at his head, finger hovering over the trigger in preparation for the kill shot - Leif unconsciously took a step backward, as though hoping that by creating distance between them, it would lessen the danger. 

          A fool’s errand.

“Better at breaking and entering?” He quipped thoughtlessly, his mind already beginning to grow numb as the possibility of death loomed ever closer. “You should really work on your window entrances.” He had to hand it to him, however; the man had to possess some modicum of skill, considering that he’d actually managed to reach his window through the utilization of such a risky, foolhardy method, which couldn’t have been all that easy. But what was even more surprising was the fact that this hitman - someone must have ordered his death; most likely to punish his father, who was considered a traitor by the government - seemed to be stalling. 

     Hesitating to shoot a harmless, defenseless kid … maybe?

Crystal blue gaze shifting from the glock to the gloved hand that held it, then lifting to that of the arresting face - no trigger-happy, gun-toting screwball should look that good - of his own personal assassin - golly gee whiz! Wasn’t he lucky - Leif gave a single nod in response.

           Any last words? 

     He had plenty.

But only a few stood out.

“Can I eat first?” Even prisoners were allowed one final meal - a meal of their choice - before they were forced to meet their maker. “Dying on an empty stomach leaves a bad taste in my mouth … and I bet all that climbing’s made you hungry too.” Someone who exerted so much energy in such a short amount of time was bound to be hungry. No one could argue with proven, scientific fact, after all.

“My window entrances?!” The man formerly known as Thatcher asked in outrage. He glared, cocking the gun to highlight the fact it really wasn’t wise to insult the trigger happy armed intruder now was it? The fact that said trigger-finger seemed to be currently malfunctioning was utterly irrelevant. “My entrances are fabulous, thank you very much— it’s just been awhile since i’ve played spiderman.”                                                         Building scaling? Yeah. FYI. Not as easy as it looks.

But it was time to get this show rolling. He’d wait for the last words and then bang bang. One more tick on the chalkboard. Death stared totally flabbergasted (and not just because he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger) but had he just asked him for dinner? The hit man cocked his head, forehead scrunching up in a way that betrayed his age — he was certainly older than this blue eyed bairn — and he raised a hand, one single finger flagging out to point out his, well his point— 

the one he didn’t actually have.                 Sure, food was technically an activity,

                                         not really justified under the grounds of ‘last words,’ 

                                                                                  and yet even prisoners got a last meal, 

                      so fuck it. Its not like his stomach wasn’t already betraying him anyway (damn that calorie burning climb) it was growling all sorts of obscenities at the mere mention of food. Saying no would just be rude, really. It had nothing to do with an excuse for delaying. “Actually yes,” Death said surprising even himself and waving the barrel of his gun to assert his compliance— which on the bright side, meant it was no longer pressed against Leif’s head. “I could go for a bite.”    Now the real question was what?    He supposed it was the half-pints pick.    It was only fair. His last meal and all. Death moved away, tapping the barrel end of his glock against his own lips in ponderous thought and went to go inspect that picture frame he kept catching out of the corner of his eye, lifting it off the shelf to study the image— though remained very much aware of where his target stood in relation. Was that his dad? If it was he didn’t look much older than him. “So what’ll it be?” He asked, all ultra casual, like this was everyday conversation. “Chicken fingers? Tacos? Pizza? Ginger beef? Cereal? Lobster? Cheeseburger?” Ice cream? 

He was bored - bored, alone, and trapped, with nowhere to go.

Leaning his head back against the side of his queen-sized bed, Leif took a deep breath, held it for a few, long seconds, then finally expelled it, crystal blue gaze immediately honing in on the source of his petulant state - in the form of a four by eight family picture featuring one deceased mother, one overbearing father, and one, little wolfie trapped under his father’s boot with an itch to rebel. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting on the floor of his moderately decorated bedroom - mostly blues and grays, with black thrown in there for shits and giggles; he just knew hours had passed since he’d last spoken to his father’s security guards. The paranoid, old fool had wanted to station them outside his apartment - a twenty-four-hour surveillance, or so he’d demanded - but Leif had refused, threatening to take the first bus out of Las Vegas if he forced the issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the man. He did. He just happened to love his freedom more.

              Wait.

          No.

      That wasn’t quite right.

  He loved both equally, but he absolutely refused to budge on the latter.

That was not to say, however, that he didn’t take his father’s warnings to heart; because he did. He had. An expected outcome, considering that he was more than familiar with Reginald Halpain’s work history - knew just enough to not only keep a low profile but to also spot threats before they had the chance to storm his life, completely overwhelming him. Personally, he couldn’t understand why the old man’s previous employer wanted them dead. So what if he’d decided to settle down with a warg and leave that stress-inducing, batty life behind?  

         You can’t help who you fall in love with.

   Hey, there had to be some truth to that idiom. Why else would they write so many songs about it?

At the end of his rope - the poor thing was seconds away from snapping - Leif jumped to his feet in a singular, fluid motion, a gift from his mother’s side of the family, and plodded over to the large, sliding glass window, wanting to let some fresh night air in to see about airing out the irritation he currently struggled with.

         God, but he felt like a misbehaving child, seeking repentance for his shameful thoughts.

Flipping the latch open, he gently pushed the window open and would have gladly breathed in the fresh, crisp air if not for the shocking appearance of a black-gloved hand clinging to the windowsill - and attached to that hand was a black-garbed male who clearly harbored ill intentions judging from the dangerous piece of metal currently in his possession. Gaping down at the stranger, Leif briefly considered shutting the window but soon realized the impossibility of that action when he took note of the man’s close proximity to it and him - and so he settled on a muttered, “I … uh … think you have the wrong window.”

How high’s five stories, really? Can that kill me?

Doing what you’re never supposed to do while holding on for dear life — looking down — Thaed gulped, knuckles ghosting against brick.

The nearest car looked a little bigger than his foot, give or take. Totally survivable, right? “You couldn’t have just taken the stairs,” he grunted under his breath, ignoring the stupid, chirpy little voice that rang out a mocking ‘or you could have just fucking sniped him.’ It would have been bloody cleaner, but those stupid fuckers hadn’t the insight to equip him with some magical way to conceal a gun. Oh hell no. That would mean using deductive reasoning and logic. Besides, with the way everyone and their dog collars were hooked up with cameras something more close range was necessarily. You can’t just waltz around all willy nilly joe casual with a bloody sniper rifle.

Even if it’s in a case.

Oh shit. This was it. Goodbye cruel world.

The squeak of glass and metal cut his panicked introspective into two eyes wide open. Was he— he was! The fool was totally opening the window. Who does that? Seizing his chance, Thaed thrust an arm forward, hand weighed down by his glock, dangling all nonchalant over the windowsill. “The wrong window?” He parroted, the cadence to his voice full of skepticism, the sort of sure, that’s what they all say kinda dismissal. It should be noted he still leaned wildly backwards (in spite of his earlier fear of falling) and seemed to do a mental calculation. This was totally fucking it.

A split-second later and with the gun clenched in his teeth he was climbing inside— that itself a task, graceful entrance totally a fail. It was a small window, or at least the portion that was open, and he wasn’t. Small. Thaed made up for it by springing up to his feet with the prowess of a predator, the clock finding it’s way out of his mouth to point at the targets head — aww fuck, he’s just a kid. Not that it mattered. It's not Hannah.

“You’re Leif Halpain aren’t you?” He lined up his shot, the barrel end wobbly under all the tension in the air and holy shit were those the bluest fucking eyes. “Those contacts?” Thaed asked casually, knocking the safety off (what, you thought I put a loaded gun in my mouth without being safe?) He took a step forward, finger finding trigger, and damn those eyes. Large and pleading, they were electric, the space between them sparked and sizzled. He squeezed his finger, trigger half-depressed, though not enough for the release to catch and just stood there, like an idiot, the tip of the gun still wavering slightly. “I should apologize, I’m usually a lot better than this.”

Accidental/unusual reasons to stick together

Leif Halpain 200 West Sahara Avenue, Unit 508

Thaed stared at the card he’d found this morning in his dead drop, and then up at the building, and then back down at the card. Yup. This was the place. Great, guess it’s time to bypass another top notch security feature— azure stare stuck on the rather accessible balconies and it hit him: Room 508, that was only what? The fifth floor, tops? Lips twist into a smile. Oh yeah. Totally doable. Way more fucking fun too.

( Remember kiddos, it’s important to have fun. )

In fact, fun is the third and final pillar of his belief system (following a loaded gun and Hannah). After about the 100th kill, it starts to sink in just how quickly life can be taken away, and how important it is to cherish every last second, even the gruesome ones. That’s a lot of heads to watch blow up like fireworks and fruit. Having decided on the fun route, the hit-man redirects saying fuck you to the front door and leaps up off the ground, fingers threading onto a ledge, heaving himself up with an over-dramatic ump. Okay. Maybe it was time to lay off donuts for breakfast.

With precision and finesse (accuracy not limited to bulls-eyes) the thirty-six year old gets up on the rail, balanced on the arches of feet before taking a running leap at the wall, feet carousing vertically before catching the next ledge. Pulling himself up and over requires twice as much gasping as the first time, but he kept his momentum and made it up to the fourth floor. One more to go, better get the gun out.