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chris will have to cling to the possibility that heugh's confidence amounts to a verbal spray and pray of accusation rather than there actually being any of his own cards placed on the table. with a grimace, he steps backward until his tailbone meets the edge of the counter and leans back on his hands. it takes a few moments to get the speechlessness out from under him and he is conscious to spend them looking more offended than uncomfortable.

" did i, what? murder a senator? " he tilts his head and lets heugh sit with how ridiculous he makes it sound coming from his mouth. " are you confusing me for a mirror, heugh? "

jacob heugh is a large man. what phil might have in height, jacob has him in weight; they have their talents, of course, but it is very much akin to watching a sledgehammer and a scalpel stand up against one another. heron and shield are two sides of a coin - one mottled, one shiny.

better make it look good, big dog. jacob grins, mouth bloody, from the opposite side of the ship deck and he's dressed in tactical gear, he's got a stab vest and he's heavy -- weighted down -- so when the ship pitches heavy in the raging storm, it's to his advantage. phil, as ever, is in a suit. that is piss-wet through and clinging to every tight wire in his shoulders. this is what happens when you don't coordinate your efforts, when inter-organisational conversations aren't had and well. you end up chasing the same fucking tail.

tugging off his tie, he grins. " alright. "

it's a short, savage fight. jacob hits like a hammer, even holding back. the punches he pulls still lodge in phil's ribs like a ham wrapped in tyre-rubber, three sudden pops into the space between his lungs and kidneys; there's another in his stomach that knocks the wind out of his long frame so hard, it brings him to a knee.

the ship pitches again. the bay of bisque is a cruel fucking bitch.

y'got nerve comin' out here. look atcha, phil. this ain't your style no more. jacob has to yell over the rain and the wind and the storm, and phil gets to a knee and shoots him a wink. " maybe. maybe not. " and with a speed that deceives given his frame, he launches himself across the short distance and finds his shoulder wedged into jacob's torso, the grunt lost in the hail. the charge backwards like a two man rugby ruck and jacob's back finds the corrugated metal of a shipping container BANG breaking in time with a lightning crack.

     *   @brutlist,   𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄  :  THE OVERSTORY, PT. 2

     this man,  the one that some have named the bear,  his arrival had not been accounted for in the last few weeks of careful preparation.   the thought does cross his mind that it might be wiser to take his leave.   but anatoliy has met many men,  and in the end the only names that matter are the ones left upon their headstones if they are lucky and loved enough to be buried with one. 

❛ y’know, there’s just no art in it anymore. ❜  he flicks his wrist, thumb resting on the bottom part of the  phone screen.  elbows hung over the pier’s railing and shoulders heavy. he can finally set this idea down and his lip curls at it, dismissive.  ❛ used to be, you had to get to know someone, talk to ‘em, buy ‘em a beer. ❜

𝐡𝐞𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦 ,   even as the full power of his muscles loses its concentration to things like fatigue in the half - light ,   or the cruel ,   selfish nature of time ,    the demands it makes of his bones.    chris isn’t the kind of man that would allow that to put a dent in his ego ,   not when there are a number of other ways to keep heugh on his toes outside the use of a heavy hand.

More than the eyeball reaper emblem interpolates them — it has to. A viral sizzle reel of torture porn featuring former top-killer Nix and a sea of backyard gladiator style death matches in an array of settings…primarily Gotham…flashes across a red iPhone. Each gory scene transitions with blood splashing across the drone and/or ‘INSERT NAME, WINS’ in bright pink. ‘Skizm’ runs side by side with the media-fed ‘Kill the Rich’ on every bare stretch of wall in the city. 

Escape almost seems like an oasis from the chaos, guarded by plants and fairy lights on the patio — more like the Bratva, though Joker avoids making it obvious there are eyes peeking through the curtains inside and men in parked vehicles fully armed. Joker clears his throat, continues sliding the glass of water around that he hasn’t touched, then taps the transcript of a podcast by Daddy Doubletapz titled, ‘Kill the Bitch and Stream It.’

Joker keeps his eyes downcast, though the table’s begun to jump from his shaking leg. Lilac starts to fuss in her pink rabbit onesie, so he unbuckles and lays her in the crook of his arm. “You think,” he runs out of wind, “you think there’s a twelve-step program for these nutjobs…or should I just resume blowing holes through their heads in groups?”