bastard of the barrel.

A smooth voice breaks the newly-hushed room, signaling to the man at the end of the table on the opposite side, starting on the left.

Leather dress shoes brace against the cool tile below foot, obsidian cracked through with beautiful runs of gold leaf. Only donating to the gothic look the antechamber held, each and every item and decoration in this room chosen by the careful hand resting on the table.

The male chosen only gives the leader a glance before going into the details of his report, but before he gets too far, there's a voice breaking the silence. 

One of the first, and most basic rules for them all: never speak while anyone else was. 

Your words are all of the same importance to Berith; and that doesn't merit your interruption. 

However, there's still a man on the opposite end of the table, standing up with sure-set anger in his features. So clearly readable, as though he was making no attempt to disguise the emotion on  display. 

 Forgetting himself, and where he stood. 

 "How do you know who the right targets are? We aren't even trying to engage the other fuckin' gangs in a battle over our turf! The Upper West just reclaimed the entire god damned business district for themselves!" 

Cool hazels lift to face the man, looking nothing short of unimpressed as Berith raises an eyebrow. 

With that action, the one who'd previously been speaking sits down in a hurry, not wanting to be a part of the upcoming... talk. 

"And who are you to speak up when you haven't been spoken to?" 

 The tension in the room practically sparks. 

 "Can't even remember the names of your own fucking me-" 

 "Take a seat, James." 

 Berith's eyes lock onto the man's furious black eyes, who, very pointedly, does just.. not that. 

Remaining standing, as his hands curl into tight fists resting on the table- but at the way the two men beside him- presumably friends of some sort- murmur under their breath for him to just listen and sit down, he does. Still looking at the man at the head of the table. 

 "Now, state your concerns."

 As though he was even listening to the man's worries, really.

"Were you not listening? There's men of yours being killed trying to earn back the district you lost, and you aren't even doing anything about it! Just sitting here in your fucking chair like you own the entire world, while you're losing territory by the minut-" 

 James doesn't get the chance to finish. 

 With a mere sigh and angling of his fingers, Berith has the man's head being lifted back before driven down into the flat surface of the table, a nasty crunch ringing out as the man's nose snapped from the impact. 

"This is why you listen. Collins, complete your report." 

 Hazel eyes drop to the man speaking as the report's finished off, the information that the man had failed to listen to- that Berith's push back into the district had indeed succeeded, and they owned it once more. 

 Hands tending to the broken nose dripping blood like a leaking faucet shakily move to Berith's eyes, drilling into his own once again as he speaks.

 "Had you merely allowed him to speak, and held your comments for after he'd completed the report, we wouldn't be here in this current situation. And you wouldn't be in the situation forthcoming, for breaking the single most important rule during meeting situations." 

 A delicate lift of the man's fingers has James's head lifting, against his will- as though someone was controlling him, forcing his thoughts and actions with the single thought coming from the man barely moving his lips in the throne ahead-

 "Down."

 James's head comes down hard on the edge of the table, the impact hard enough to splatter his papers with scarlet and drop to the midnight ground below. 

 At the emanating sound and sudden spray of blood, it was met with various shocked cries around the table, trying to scramble back and away- 

 From the twitching figure of the man's body. 

 From the way he's stilling. 

 From the growing puddle of blood staining gold leaf webbed tiles a faded orange. 

fight or flight begins to click in as that infernal clicking noise begins to burrow it’s way into your head, echoing, echoing, filling up every spare bit of silence in the room around you. 

your heartrate picks up, fragmenting each breath falling from your lips- before it stops. 

before the hand stops the blade with a single finger, running it back into it’s place. 

stoic as always, the shadowed form adjusts the magnet weighting beyond the polished surface of the metronome, resetting it before the blade begins to tick again. 

one hundred beats. 

these beats were much slower than the ones from before; but still holding an urgent pacing to them. 

urging your heartbeat to slow down, but still be on edge. you weren’t out of danger yet, or completely safe from the risk you’d been in just moments before. of course, with the fast change in pulsing, it doesn’t help to have it going slower. 

your mind latches onto the sound as the only noise within the confines of the empty room, utterly still other than your own breathing and the metronome. 

the ticking drags you in. it doesn’t have as much as an impact on your nervous system as the previous beats had, but it lures you in. keeps you waiting for the next tick to ring out. 

still on edge. 

another pale index finger reaches out to stop the blade’s ticking, readjusting the weighting as your vision blurs, oddly...tired, from the loss of the sound.

 where were you ? 

lucky for you, that confusion was cleared up fast enough, as the hand begins to swing once more. 

sixty beats per minute. 

as the ticking fades back in around you, each tick causes your body to relax. to slump back into the armchair you’d been seated in. 

relax. 

just focus on the sound around you, and the silence. 

focus on the lack of it. 

focus on the way your breathing’s aligning with the swing and bar, each and every one. 

rise 

(click)

and

(click)

fall. 

it wasn’t an intentional change, either, your mind molding around the sound as you take it your system. having adapted to the click. 

clinging to it, really. like it was your lifeblood. 

the metronome stops.

once again, the hand reaches forward, and slows the magnet to it’s furthest setting, dragging the blade back as its’ eyes watch you. 

release. 

click .

this time, it’s torturously slow. 

each click rings out with three seconds of the other, a drastic change from the per-second beats previously. 

your head falls back, eyes glossing over with the beat. 

one. 

breathe. 

two. 

breathe. 

three. 

Video game controllers were scattered across the table, letters atop buttons almost rubbed off from constant usage and tightened grip against their surfaces. Two half-empty glasses of lemon lime soda lie beside them, long forgotten due to the mistake made in a moment of high passion- perhaps it had something to do with the discarded controller lying on the floor at Marvin’s feet. 

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that a few minutes before, Chase had been apologizing to the magician profusely, due to the unintentional loss of grip on the YouTuber’s end- sending the controller flying when he’d began cheering for his win on the track. 

Straight into the face of the man on the couch adjacent- resulting in a shocked pause button smash and yelp. 

“You should’ve seen your face-” 

“You gave me a black eye, Chase!” 

Chase winces as Marvin removes the cold compress from his eye, moving closer to the magician and inspecting the canvas of faded lavenders and bruised blacks fading in darker. They form a ring around gentle blue irises, leaving the other a stark contrast with the naturally pale skin. 

He takes the compress into his own hand, quietly chiding Marvin to lie down as a flicker of guilt curls inside him. For once, the magician listens, albeit with a glare in the dad’s direction before resting his head against the couch cushions and allowing for Chase to press the cloth against his eyelid. Gently, and catching any drips with the fabric of his own faded Atari tee. 

“You- you owe me. I won’t be able to hold a show for weeks!” 

Chase scoffs, flicking a drop of water into Marvin’s face. 

“Just use some magic, you overdramatic house cat. Magic and makeup.” 

“Excuse me-”  There was one thing the duo could agree on, right now, between their infernal bickering, and that was a mutual thought: 

this particular game night sucked. 

Tags: 

Somehow, he’d been found out. 

The coastal villa he’d been living in- a rather posh life, if he did say so himself- was wrecked during the night, all thanks to the man standing before him with a twisted grin across his lips. 

All for him to be greeted with a pull on his very veins, causing the blood flow in his body to twist towards his arms- and pass out from sudden loss of blood, turning on a dime.

“Sleep well?” 

A sardonic laugh slashes his smile in two, revealing pearly canines as Berith’s hands pull the lever beside him back into it’s original position. Metal-cuffed wrists are thankfully pulled out of a bucket of icy water, long gone numb as any hope of using his magic had been bailed out by the dormancy of his flames. 

He stays quiet. 

“Aster.” 

Dante’s teeth press together as stormy blue eyes focus on a damp spot on the carpet floor, caused by overflow from the very bucket before him. Berith might be a son of a bitch, but he was a refined one- leading to why they were in what appeared to be...a VIP basement. 

Only the best for the Kensleys. 

“Perhaps this will help...encourage you further.” 

Berith’s eyes flash silver for a second as his lips twist with malice, fingering a fine silver cord to his left. It mimics the appearance of a theatre curtain cord- and it proves to be one and the same as he pulls it towards the flooring with a firm tug. 

Black velvet cloth rises, so in place in this basement that it seemed to merely be another wall; unknowingly guarding the second act of Dante’s night. 

The attraction before the pair could almost be called a very...fucked up dunk tank activity. 

Two figures clothed in shadow stand on a slim steel bar, face disfigured with a solid black mask- no mouth slits to speak of, but eyeholes were visible between the material. 

Both pairs of eyes brown, one soft brown and one darker. 

Feminine. 

 Hands tied behind their back, with what appeared to be a rough rope around their necks. Each bar was seemingly connected to a mechanism with a scarlet target, the center nothing more than a solid black speck. 

A tank below them sparks with live wires as their clothed toes brush along the electrified waters.  Berith's fingers tip his chin to the left, and back again.

 Toying with him. 

Using his emotions against him, like he'd been warned against all throughout his life. 

 Cold metal forms a constant presence against the back of his head, running through smooth dark brown locks as the hammer clicks, smooth velvet tones echoing around him. 

“...”

 "Choose one, Dante."

Berith's lips are positioned directly beside his ear, despite the demon's height being...shorter than the man's below him. 

No thanks to the glossy black masks disfiguring their features, the man wasn’t able to glimpse a single feature about the people that would give away their identity. 

 He did have the theatrics down, admittedly. 

"You aren't much better than Azazel or I. Admit it, Aster. Your family name isn't the honorary power it claims to be."

His jaw sets.

It seems like tens of hundreds of years ago, back when he was merely a novice with his own skills, that they'd seen one another for the first time. 

Back when he'd netted himself a mafia seat and run like a coward from battle less than two months later. 

Dark eyes dance with malice as the demon nearly snarls his words out between gritted teeth. 

"Before you do inevitably go off on your tangent about being correct, do me a favor and ask me if I care."

Before he can say another word, a splintering pain cracks through the back of his skull, as though the gun’s barrel had been slammed against the back of his head. The demon groans, light fracturing before his eyes as he leans over, blinking rapidly to try and gain a sense of his own surroundings once more. 

“Open your mouth again.”

Berith’s voice is alluringly calm, a thin lie for the controlled anger underneath. 

Even without the added threat, the older man’s head pounds enough from the hit to keep his mouth shut for a while, merely fixing an eye on the demon. 

“I said pick a side, Dante. You’ve already proven how much of a complacent you can be when it comes to my plans, so make this easier for the both of us.” 

The once-absent presence of the gun near the back of his head was replaced, enabling the man to hear the hollow whirl of the gun’s chambers. Loading a single bullet into the barrel. 

Dante lifts his eyes. 

He gives the two figures shaking with fear one last look, barely able to realize who was who- all he could tell was that one was a woman, and one was a male. Smoke was the aura around the man- like freshly lit cigarettes- while the girl was more of a...ocean scent. 

The water spits sparks towards their feet, occasionally making contact with the ring of skin between the cuffs of their pants and the tops of their shoes- and sending a shock through them, undoubtedly. 

But they didn’t make a sound, most likely muffled by Berith’s tricks. 

His eyes slide over to the female’s dark brown eyes- almost black. 

“Left.”

A gunshot rings out before Dante can let the breath he’d been holding out. 

Carnival-like alarms ring out as the target’s met, sending the scarlet bullseye back- with a hole though the center of it. Metal draws away faster than the victim can react, and the sound of a body hitting water- and the sickening shocking effect- echoes throughout the darkened chambers. 

He doesn’t cry, much less show saddened emotion.

Asters don’t cry. 

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The stress was enough to make him sweat, even with the planning he’d taken,  and it did. No one likes wet clothing.

Two teenagers glare at him from the center of the surprisingly well furnished hideout, wrapped down into softened velvet armchairs with twin clear sprays of water. The substance had wrapped around their wrists and tied them down to the armrests, traveling upwards to fasten to teens to one another with their forearms back to back.

There was no reasonable answer for the bruises and inch-long cuts they’d both suffered, with about three each.

Information has a price.

No bonds for their heads or mouths yet, as neither of them had really mouthed off all that much. 

Save for the one with strawberry-pink hair cursing at him using...candies? Whatever being called a ‘rotten peppermint patty’ and ‘plastic-mold gummy bear’ meant, Berith didn’t quite care for it. 

Along with the other one, the one with messy brown hair knotted into a braid...they were merely glaring at him, but every so often, they seemed to....-vibrate?- in their seat. 

Certainly a trick of the eyes. 

Right? 

“When will your father arrive?” 

His first words to the pair were ones of calculated weight, measured out for the moments of silence before, and yet thrown out with all the grace of plastic-wrapped rubbish. 

The brighter boy manages an extremely non-threatening scowl before turning away, but the other one- Alphie, his research had garnered, they/them and rather...ordinary- spoke up, almost certainly vibrating in their seat this time around. 

“Why’d you take us? Where’s da? Where’s dad?” 

With an over-pronounced sigh falling from the man’s lips, Berith stands up from his own ornately decorated armchair, catching the hilt of the emerald-inlaid blade with one final flick of his fingers. There’s barely a space of ten feet between the chairs, but each step he takes makes it feel as though it was an eternity, widening the distance as the silver of his weapon glints from a diamond-decorated chandelier light. 

“I couldn’t give a single damn caring about your father’s husband. I want your father, the one who goes by the name of Marvin Delvaux, here. We have a matter to settle, and he seems to ...spurn my beckoning. Seeing as you two are the closest ones to him, exempting the space girl, and the husband, you were the best ones for the job.” 

He could see Alphie visibly tense, and another few steps were taken forwards as the strawberry-blond boy speaks. Erin Attwell, taken in by this family, as Alphie had.

“They wouldn’t come here, they’re not pissbabies like you. Marvin and Jackie are better than you could h-” 

Pissbaby? 

Berith blinks in semi-shock at the teen’s statement before rolling his eyes, flicking his wrist and binding a bolt of water across his mouth, cutting him off mid sentence. 

“You don’t know the magician like I have. The fool would do anything for his loved ones.” 

With his back towards the wall, and body facing the teens, his blade was inches away from Alphie’s neck, ready to draw blood if need be to get this damned man out of hiding, after all these years- 

So he’s able to see the way their lips blossom into full smiles within moments, shoulders straightening as their eyes both fix on a point behind him- 

Ah. 

Probably should’ve done something to take care of the parents, rather than leave them be- 

“Berith!” 

Shit. 

Seafoam green cracks a vertical line in the wall before widening into the familiar circular portal of the magician wielding it, slicing open as fire swims off of the man emerging from it. 

Formerly blue eyes roll with dark blue flames, a color rarely seen at Marvin’s hand, before he levitates over to the demon, gripping his white dress collar and lifting him about an inch off the ground. 

Only raising the two-inch shorter man to Marvin’s level. 

Behind the two, from the portal, a baseball-cap wearing entity with wild purple hair leaps down, accompanied by a supersuit clad hero in red and black. 

Nebula and Jackie, both hellbent on making one man pay. 

Neb grips the hilt of a baseball bat, eyes dancing darkly as a single nod from the hero at her side leads her to the tied down teens, followed soon after by Jackie himself. 

Those bonds would take some time to work through. 

While they led on, Marvin’s fingers tighten around Berith’s collar, burning the fabric under his mere touch, as he yanks the man up higher, pure rage and adrenaline dancing through his red-hot blood. 

“Marvin, old friend.” 

Even in this scenario, Berith gives the magician a winning smile, toes barely brushing the ground, as his knife was only gripped tighter between the fingers of his right hand. 

“Don’t you dare call me that ever again. Not after what you did.” 

Marvin’s fingers tighten, burning Berith’s upper torso and shoulders, along with either side of his neck- but it didn’t garner an emotion other than a mere flutter of pain from the man. 

Emotions run high and fast between the two of them, as Marvin lowers Berith to the ground, only to grab at his wrists and form a fiery linking chain- but he wasn’t fast enough. 

Sometimes, the numbing power of adrenaline, in certain parts of the body, was a disadvantage. 

What he didn’t notice was the knife slipping into his rib cage. 

What he did notice, however, was the sudden stabbing pain searing it’s way through his chest, causing a scream to tear from the magician’s lungs; multiplied by two. 

Multiplied by twists. 

The second wound leaves the silvery blade slick with blood, the winning smile formerly displayed on the demon’s face extending more into a sick grin. Dislodging the weapon, scarlet shines against the delicate carver, the amount of blood dripping from the wound becoming wildly disproportionate for a blade injury of that size. 

“Gotcha.” 

Blood magic. 

A subset of water magic. 

One Berith’s training had let him learn, and handle well. 

And one that caused the magician to drop to the ground, sucking in a rattled breath as his hands rise to the feline shaped mask crowning his features, ripping it off in a search for air. 

His hands fall to the ground, trying to raise themselves to the wounds to heal. 

The leather dress shoes before him click against the ground for a moment before a wave of whitewater rises up; 

and Berith Kensley is gone. 

“Jackie-” 

Vermilion shades flash before Marvin’s eyes as he nearly slips in his own blood, feeling the coppery liquid soak into his clothing as it formed a decent-sized puddle below him. 

Neb and Jackie had managed to loosen the bonds just enough for them to slip out, but upon Berith’s disappearance, they slid away, splashing against the ground. 

Just in time for Jackie to glance up, and see his husband lying in a pool of his own blood, breathing raggedly. 

“MARVIN!” 

He doesn’t wait for the others. He doesn’t wait for anything, or anyone. Not right now. Jackie’s footsteps thump across the wooden flooring, falling to his knees- damning the bruises, sure to form.  

The trio can hear his shattered cry, and they glance up, almost confused- before their eyes widen. 

By the time Jackie’s reached his body, Marvin’s magic is flickering across his chest, trying to stitch the first wound up. Flickers of spring green essence manage to staunch the flow somewhat, but deep carmine bursts fight back, bringing forth the damage once more. 

Seems as though someone left some of his magic in Marvin, as a residual. 

As insurance. 

“Hey, love.” 

Marvin manages a grin, glancing up at the man, despite the white fabric turned cerise-red all over the front of his chest, and the strong scent of copper throughout the area. 

“Don’t you ‘hey, love.’ me. You keep your eyes open right now, Delvaux.” 

Tears roll down the hero’s cheeks as he grips the scarlet smeared fabric within his fists, holding the man’s mask in the other as he’s pulled Marvin into his lap. 

Blood dribbles out of the wounds steadily as Marvin’s magic intensifies in color and speed, flying back and forth, and yet it’s barely doing anything, capping off the blood flow. 

Marvin’s breath rattles within his chest as he manages to speak again, the blood loss getting to him. Spots dance before his vision as he struggles to stay awake, the magician seeing blob-like spots of his family’s faces. 

“Guess I should’ve...figured out a way to talk this out over coffee, then.”