Just for the record, in case the Universe, the thousand gods in hels, some random bystander, Red, anyone, is keeping track: Martyn doesn't like this. Hates it, in fact. He loathes every step down the long road to his destination like he loathes the morning after a Colosseum match -- all hung over and sick from respawn. It's like a Monday morning, but worse, because generally speaking, he's lost, and his pride is giving him treasonous thoughts over it.
† There's also the persistent taste of blood that always puts his mood off. Hard to have a good morning when everything tastes like he got his teeth kicked in. †
His pride isn't giving him anything right now, aside from occasionally prodding his conscience to see if it's still alive. Martyn killed that ages ago, but a valiant attempt is made. Guilt, rare and fleeting, cracks an eye open and asks why he bothered to wake it. They both know it won't change his course of action. The whole menagerie of dust-covered emotions and impulses wakes, shakes itself off, turns over and plays dead again. Best to stay that way. He's got work to do.
Martyn ascends the steps of the grim, innocuous little building and enters through the front door. There's a perfectly good elevator, and he'll be damned if he takes the stairs to the sanctum below just to assuage his host's superiority complex. Best to set expectations early for this sort of thing. Martyn finds the elevator † hidden, but not particularly well in his experience † and descends. He schools his face into a bored expression and keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He's sure he's being watched, somehow, so he makes sure there's nothing to see.
† He's a professional. His clients don't intimidate him, nor does his work. †
† Professional. Just business. †
Well, all except for that little voice in the back of his head that keeps reminding him Helsknight got his ass kicked here. That's a little humbling. If he were very honest -- and he's not, but if he were -- he would admit there's a bit of a tremble going on in his limbs. Not enough to make his hands shake, but it's enough for him to feel it, like a half-formed shiver on his spine. He hasn't felt like this since. Hels. That rooftop maybe? When he was trying to be all brave and convince Tanguish to run? What a lark that had been! Bloody stupid, but he was allowed to be a stupid good person every once in a while.
† Not today though, probably. †
Martyn yawns just before the elevator stops, so he can prove how bored and unbothered he is when the doors open. Then he's down the hall, walking the clearly marked path, and ignoring the prickle on the back of his neck as his intuition rings warning bells. The Demon's hall is a massive trap, always poised to spring shut. He knows this. He shouldn't be bothered. He doesn't like the smell of the place though. That's new, and probably what's jangling his nerves right now. The air smells dark and familiar, like soil and heat, alongside something burning and chemical. Metallic almost. It makes him wrinkle his nose like a dog.
The Demon is at his potion brewing set, in the middle of taking hot bottles off the stand and adding ingredients. Martyn tries to get a good look at the counter as he approaches, but can't really make out anything useful. He recognizes the red flesh of dried netherwort poking out of a small canister on the table, a crate of empty glass vials, and a pair of unused blaze rods that radiate enough heat to warp the air around them. Two more cannisters are on the table, closed and unlabeled. The bottle in the Demon's hand is black, the liquid tar-like. Martyn takes another deep inhale, lips parted to taste the air so he can describe it to an apothecary later. He gets a mouthful of something familiar enough to turn his stomach, but not enough to actually give him a clue of what it is; rancid plant matter maybe. Martyn isn't a poisoner, but he's familiar with most of them, and it unnerves him to find a scent he doesn't know.
"Smells like a bad smelter down here," Martyn comments, trying to hit that perfect medium between bright and sarcastic. "Trying a new perfume?"
"You're late," the Demon says, not bothering to answer the question. His tail gives a single cat-like lash, golden spade flashing. Martyn makes sure to stop well out of its reach. "I thought you were a professional."
"Exactly I am," Martyn grins, rocking on his heels and sticking his thumbs in his jacket. "And a professional doesn't show up to see a client unless they're sure they won't get caught. You're on a lot of shit-lists you know."
"I don't know," the Demon sniffs, tilting the little black bottle in his claws so the nameless ichor inches towards the lip of the glass. "Who could I have possibly offended in the Colosseum?"
"No one important," Martyn scoffs. "Just the one who's got a pretty new face now because of you. His PR team had a riot making the new banners."
"Amusing."
"Expensive," Martyn corrects. "And EB doesn't like it when people faff around with his gladiators anyway."
"EB is a washed up ex-Champion who lost his nerve the moment he lost to Helsknight," the Demon says dismissively, flicking his tail again.
† Well... That was a bold statement. Should he dispute that? There's what's left of a loyal dog in his ribs that tries to growl, and Martyn muzzles it. Barely. †
"People like EB. His opinion matters. Even to his brother, which is saying something, I think." Martyn muses, drawing out the sentence like it's a new, delicate thought. The Demon doesn't amend his statement. Martyn doesn't let the silence sit for too long. "I'm just gonna cut to the chase, yeah? Who am I after, and why?"
Finally, the Demon diegns to pause his work and glance in Martyn's direction. "After?"
"Look, I've been around this block once or twice, yeah?" Martyn smiles easily. "I've done hits for you before. And, not to imply you're predictable, but most people don't hire me for assassin work and then turn around and ask me to steal paperwork. So..."
Martyn wiggles his eyebrows in perfectly-feigned eagerness. The Demon smirks, a derisive expression, and returns to his work. He hooks a long claw into the bottle, delicately drawing out some of the potion. It beads briefly on his claw before slowly evaporating, leaving the long talon stained black.
† Definitely poison. †
"No," the Demon hums. "I must admit I don't require any paperwork stolen."
He stoppers his mystery vial and turns to hold it out to Martyn.
"I don't work with foreign substances," Martyn says, and he's only halfway lying. "Legal reasons."
"An assassin cares about legalities?" The Demon asks, clearly amused by the idea.
"Sure. You know how easy it is to get framed for murder around here?" Martyn slips out one of the many daggers he carries from a pouch on his sleeve. He picks at a spot of blood beneath his fingernails -- the same spot he always picks. It would probably stop bleeding if he stopped the habit, but gods if he didn't need to fidget sometimes. "I've done that service a few times too, as it happens. Anyway, if I don't know what it is, I can't course correct for it, yanno?"
"Course correct?"
"Collateral damage," Martyn shrugs. "Will that shit sterilize if I wash a glass after? Does it absorb through the skin? If some thief palms it while I'm walking, do I have to worry about someone's lungs melting out their--'
"If a thief steals from me, they'll deserve what it does to them!" The Demon snarls, sudden and vicious. His tail lashes so hard the barb clatters against the table leg, ringing like a struck bell.
† Definitely a poison, and a bad one at that. Martyn promptly decides he's not touching it unless it's in an insulated box, and even then, that's stretching his trust. †
"Steady on," Martyn laughs easily, holding up his hands placatingly. "No one's going to be stealing your science fair project. Like I said, I don't work with unknown--"
The Demon moves like a snake does -- lithe, liquid movement that's more color and blur than shape. Martyn isn't expecting to be attacked, so the dodge he executes doesn't quite cut it. He feels those long claws ghost by his neck, barely grazing a stinging line across his skin. Martyn swears and puts a hand to it, grimacing at the small spot of blood on his fingertips.
"The hels is your problem?!" Martyn snaps, backpedalling, his dagger flipped in his hand so he can actually make use of it as a weapon. "I'm not doing shit for you if you're going to--"
Martyn winces.
"Going to--"
One of his knees very abruptly buckles. Then he's on his side on the floor, breathless and dizzy. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, and a crawling pain that spiders down his vein from the cut on his neck. Every heartbeat draws it down, makes his body flinch painfully, against his will. It's a very sudden reaction, and it takes every bit of restraint in his body not to panic.
† Breath deeper. Slow your heartbeat. †
Martyn has been poisoned before, many, many times. It's a side-effect of working with it so often. He's felt every nauseous, cramping, painful, burning, itching side-effect poison can give -- sometimes controlled, sometimes not. The thought he keeps coming back to, as the Demon circles him, is that poison isn't supposed to work so quickly. Most of it takes time. Has to be metabolized somehow. Hours. Days. Multiple dosages. This stuff hits like a hoglin, and like a hoglin, persists long enough to try and gore him to death. His body feels weak. He shakes. It's hard to breathe.
And it's familiar. He's run into this before, but gods if he has no idea where. Not right now, while he tries to breathe slow and deep and wait it out.
The Demon crouches beside him, tail curled primly around his ankles like a cat, massive wings an arching shadow in the dim light. He gently places another potion bottle on the ground beside Martyn.
"That will take the effect away," the Demon informs him, eyes glittering with sadistic glee. "Though I'm afraid it's another unknown, foreign substance."
Martyn manages a very thin laugh. He bares his teeth like a dog, even while he writhes on the floor through whatever poison-pains this stuff keeps burning him with. It's still creeping down his throat like fingers, pins and needles down his collar bone, and his arm starts to go numb, like someone's cutting a line through him and breaking off pieces. He doesn't want to know what it'll do when it finds his heart. Some muscles get deadly when they go numb.
Martyn grabs the potion and struggles with the cork. His hands have gone stupid and weak, and the frustration of trying to save himself makes his heart beat faster. By the time that needling line of poison reaches his chest, he's getting close to panicking again. He has to keep reminding himself to breathe, even as numb fingers scrabble at the cork on the bottle.
† He wishes Red were here. Gods he doesn't do that often. He doesn't wish Red knew most things he did outside the Colosseum, but right now, he wants someone massive and snarling between himself and the Demon. He wants his Lord to trivialize the bottle, and then break someone's neck on his behalf, and gods damn the consequences. He wants winter and blood like he wants his next breath of air, and the Demon sits and watches him, and smiles. †
With some effort, Martyn manages to draw up his knife and knock the top of the bottle with the hilt. The glass doesn't break evenly, but at this point, he doesn't care. All he cares is that he gets a mouthful of relief. Whatever the antidote is, it's thick and near-tasteless, and coats the back of his tongue. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if it were just colored milk. Regardless, it, like most poisons, has to be metabolized, so he lays on the floor and breathes deeply and waits. He doesn't close his eyes. Not around this absolute nutcase, who has apparently decided poisoning people is a fun new hobby. He watches the ceiling, the way the light plays on the guilded blackstone and carved reliefs, and tries not to worry about the fact that he can't feel his hands, or his jaw. His mouth tastes like blood -- he must have cut his lip on the bottle. The needling pain tap-dances over his lung, and the odd feeling of numbness that crawls with it leaves him feeling like he's suffocating.
† Breath in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He does a slow count to ten in his head. Then twenty. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in-- †
The creeping poison fizzles out of his body, leaving him lightheaded. He only realizes how shallow his breaths were getting, because suddenly he's gasping in deeply and coughing it out again. Then comes nausea, his body's most natural what the fuck was that?! reaction to the whiplash of living to dying to living again.
"Fucking," Martyn snarls between coughs, "bastard."
"You took that surprisingly well," the Demon hums. "Was it too mild?"
† Martyn decides he's going to save the poor fucker this is meant for, because honestly, what the literal hels? †
"Too mild?!" Martyn barks a derisive laugh. "Try fucking overkill. What are you trying to poison? A gods-damned Ender Dragon?"
Martyn manages to shakily stumble to his feet. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and spits onto the floor. Gods and saints he hates the taste of blood.
"You survived it just fine," the Demon says dismissively, returning to his brewing stand.
"I survived a drop," Martyn argues indignantly, smoothing out his shirt as though he is almost poisoned to death every day. He thinks he's doing a good job of it -- the whole nonchalance thing. There's emotions under his sternum that he keeps forcing down. "With an antidote on hand. If you're trying to respawn 'em quick, just use a knife. Blood's not that messy, good lord."
The Demon gives a thoughtful hum, seeming to concede the point.
"Anyway, I charge double for poisonings when I get poisoned as collateral damage," Martyn sniffs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "And as a special thank you for that palava, I want it up front."
The Demon has the audacity to roll his eyes, and Martyn considers trying to kill him on principle. But he doesn't know if that poison is still on his claws, and it's a nasty way to die. He doesn't fancy laying beside the man whose kidneys he just knifed, gasping like a beached fish, and leaving all his gear behind.
"Don't be so bitter," the Demon hums, offering a smile that Martyn wishes he could carve off his face. "I knew you were more than capable of saving yourself. Now."
The Demon drops an impressive bag of diamonds on the table, close to the brewing stand. He's treating Martyn like a greedy henchman, like he can lure him back in striking reach. If he could do so without looking scared, Martyn would take a large and obvious step back. As it is, he thinks he's looked weak enough around this particular employer.
† Perhaps he should play into the miserable lackey angle a bit more. Pretend that diamond purse is really enticing enough to forgive and forget, if only so the Demon thinks he has his measure. But gods damn it, he still has some pride. †
"Your task is simple," the Demon says, replacing the vial on the burner. † Martyn hates it when people say that. The task is never simple. † "I need this vial brought to the Colosseum covertly and left at the feet of a certain statue in the hall, discreetly."
Martyn narrows his eyes suspiciously. Alarm bells are starting to do their opening ring in his head.
"You want me to be your mule?"
"I want someone who comes and goes regularly, without suspicion, who knows how to be covert." The Demon uncorks another vial and pours the contents into the burner. Martyn immediately places the sharp smell as dragon's breath. Lingering. Not really a dilution, but it'll give the poisoned idiot a little more time to get help. "The pickup has been informed not to engage if you're still hanging around, so do actually leave it, instead of sneaking around."
"I can be discreet," Martyn says, crossing his arms. "What's it for."
"I feel like the objective of a powerful poison is obvious."
"Fine. Who's it for?"
The Demon flicks his tail petulantly. It's a bad tell. He needs to work on that. Martyn doesn't take the large step back that he wants to, but he recognizes the warning sign of an attack, and prepares himself for the task of dodging.
"How about I pay you triple, double your amount now, and the final amount later," the Demon hums, glancing over his shoulder at Martyn, "and you stop asking me pointless questions."
Martyn flashes another easy, doggish smile, "I would love to accept that, really I would. But see, we've got a match coming up, and I can't help but notice some... Correlations between you and your timing, if you catch my drift."
The Demon gives a tuneless hum, simple acknowledgement.
"Now, me? I don't care all that much. Playing fair is overrated," Martyn shrugs, dropping his hands back into his pockets again. He palms one of several small glass marbles tucked away in his inventory. "But Red gets pretty picky about cheating, and he's a bit scarier than I am."
"Ah I see," the Demon chuckles condescendingly. "The loyal dog isn't just a stage plot?"
"Unfortunately," Martyn sighs dramatically, and shrugs his shoulders. "My life gets a lot easier when he's happy."
The Demon pulls the new potion from the stand and corks it smoothly. He tosses it to Martyn, and Martyn catches it easily. The glass is still warm, the contents an absolute shitshow. The black ichor boils.
† Gods and saints, but it still smells familiar. That's going to bother him for awhile. †
"And, if I simply wish to make your life easier?" the Demon asks, and flashes what is supposed to be a beatific smile. But the problem with being in this business for awhile, is that Martyn knows when a smug bastard thinks he's pulling one over on him.
"Easier," Martyn tilts his head to the side. "Like rigging a match?"
The Demon chuckles, and this time it's a distinctly threatening sound. He grabs up the bag of diamonds from the table and dangles them in a claw. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you're a hero Martyn. Heroes don't hire themselves out for blood."
† Oh boy. †
"You are absolutely right," Martyn agrees. "But spiteful people do."
Martyn drops the potion bottle.
† It's an objectively bad decision for a multitude of reasons.
† Firstly, it's a lingering potion, and he doesn't know what this poison is, but he has an idea it'll be bad when it gets in his lungs. Secondly, he can't prove this is going to be used in the match, but his intuition, the little suspicious bit of Red's demon that he imagines is in his head somewhere, is pretty damn sure it can only be that. Thirdly, the Demon is one of his best clients, and he pays well. Cutting that tie is gonna sting. †
† Fourthly, when he told EB he was approached for a hit by the Demon right before a big Colosseum match, EB had expressly told him not to do anything stupid. And this? This was pretty stupid. †
Martyn turns and throws the little pearl in his hand the second the potion has rolled from his fingers. His entire world tilts and snaps, and he is slamming into the wall by the elevator before the glass can shatter. The Demon howls. There is a sound like wing beats, and Martyn presses the elevator call button in time with them. The doors open. Martyn rolls inside and presses the button for the ground floor. The doors shut just as the Demon's shadow eclipses the light in the hall.
Martyn spits. His mouth tastes like blood again. His head spins. He sinks his hands in his pockets again, finds a potion that flutters gently at his touch, and uncorks it with his teeth. Sugar and netherwort tangle on his tongue, and the swiftness makes him feel like his bones are vibrating. He's bouncing on his heels by the time the elevator doors open again. He shoulders his way through the front door and leaps over the open maw of the Demon's downward staircase. He palms another enderpearl and throws it through the nearest broken window he can see.
Claws tear through the arm of his coat. Martyn spins, faces the Demon ascending from his lair on angry wings, claws bloody. Martyn clocks it's one of the poisoned claws at the same moment he goes crashing against the interior wall of a second story building. His head is spinning, his teeth ache, and he can feel his heartbeat running up his bicep like fire.
"Oh no you don't," Martyn snarls, tearing his belt off with quickened hands. He wraps it around his arm above the spreading poison and pulls it tight with his teeth. Tighter, tighter. It hurts. A lot. He groans at the ache of a cut off limb, but the spinning in his head starts to ease almost immediately. The creeping pain doesn't ascend past the makeshift tourniquet. Martyn keeps the belt in his teeth long enough to drive a new hole into the leather and buckle it in place. Every breath is a staggering swear, profanities to every god he can think of, because they all hate him, specifically.
The glass of a nearby window shatters as the Demon barrels into the room. It's dark in here, and the hesitation as he tries to get his bearings is the only reason Martyn goes unnoticed as long as he does. Martyn throws a knife that glances off the hardened scales of the Demon's neck, but it startles him back a few steps.
† Amateur †
Martyn leaps out the window, throwing another pearl as he goes. He manages to flip the Demon off and grin just before the teleport tries to pull his soul out of his body. He lands hard and it hurts. He tries to push himself to his feet with his dead arm and screams, which is as inglorious as it is involuntary.
The Demon shouts that he's a coward. Martyn giggles.
"It's my best quality," he snarls, and runs as fast as he can down a side street. He's all adrenaline now, and the gods' worst ache. There's enough blood in his mouth to send it spraying when he breathes, and he's starting to doubt it's all from his cut lip earlier.
† Whoever made enderpearls so annoying to use owes him a drink. Preferably one with regen but he's not terribly picky. †
The thing about swiftness potions is they make him faster. They don't make life easier. His breaths come in gasps, quick and shallow. His vision is still a little strange from the teleports, jerking and tilting when he turns his head too quickly -- which he does often. His heartbeat is a tangle in his ribs, tripping over itself over and over again. His world narrows to alleys and side streets, and rare glimpses of Evil X's tower. He orients himself around it, trying to find the Colosseum.
† EB had offered to send a buzzer with him, and he'd refused like a prideful idiot. †
"Dad, come pick me up," Martyn chuckles to himself, half-mad with sensation and adrenaline. "I don't like this party anymore. The big kids are bullying me."
The Demon's shadow passes overhead, stalking him like a cat, and Martyn thinks that's stupid, because dogs are supposed to chase cats, not the other way around. He wants to bark. He's already growling. Blood always makes him think of winter.
"Pull yourself together," Martyn pants, grinning. "You're delusional."
† Gods, but hunting with a pack had always been bloody amazing hadn't it? †
Dogs weren't meant to run alone.
"Get a grip." Martyn breathes, leaning around a corner to glance into the busy street beyond. "Gotta hold it together a little longer, man."
There's a vendor up the road in a cart he recognizes as someone who owes him a favor. That's as good a place as any, Martyn decides. The Colosseum is in sight, but it's too far away. He should ask Tanguish about his workout routine -- the lizard's got stamina for leagues. It's unfair really.
Martyn darts down the street, scattering helsmets like dandelion fluff. Everyone looks at the man staggering and bloody and recognizes bad news when they see it, including the vendor he's running towards. He tries to shutter his window, and Martyn just barely slips a hand inside before he can.
"Shut up," Martyn interrupts the shaken vendor before he can so much as stammer. "I'm about to respawn, and I don't want to lose everything I own in the process, yeah?"
Martyn slips behind the counter while the vendor continues to stammer in horror. Admittedly, it's a lot of blood for a normal person to deal with. Martyn slips his coat off, hissing painfully when he has to jostle it off his bad arm. He feels worlds lighter the moment it's off. He picks off the tourniquet next, whimpering ingloriously as he does.
† Like a kicked dog. Dog. Always a dog, Hand, hound. Start barking. †
"Never make deals with demons," Martyn grins at the poor unfortunate vendor. "They'll take your head off your shoulders."
Martyn is back over the counter again, hand flickering for a spare dagger in his boot. The Demon descends on him like a wrathful god, driving him into the ground with his pounce. There are hands on his throat, and a knee against his chest makes one of his ribs creak and give. Then he's airborne, being dragged up to heaven. The air whistles by his ears, cool on feverish skin, and howling like wolves. Red wouldn't stand for this.
"I am going to make sure," the Demon snarls, "some of that poison makes it to Helsknight's blade."
Martyn's shoulder is numb. That searing line of poison is lurchung towards his sternum like it has a vendetta. He hasn't died in a while. He thinks about the best way he can go, under the circumstances.
"Good luck getting that shit past Red's demon," Martyn grins. "It sees everything."
Martyn rips his little dagger up, shearing through the thin scales of the Demon's wrist. The dagger has been poisoned with harming, and Martyn knows from experience it stings like blaze fire. The Demon drops him. The fall will kill him. Martyn knows it will. But he refuses to die on anyone else's terms but his own. Not since he first met Red, and burned to death in a siege he knew he'd lose. His quick little dagger flashes up again--
And the Universe said: Who are you?
And the Universe said: You don't know, do you?
And the Universe said: Neither do we.
-- Martyn respawns gasping and flailing, and finally falling. His mouth, predictably, tastes of blood. He hits the ground beside his bed coughing, his whole body a throbbing, tingling, shivering mess. And he's laughing. Gods, but it's been so long since he's died and respawned again. The relief at being alive again, and the horror that he died at all, are electric emotions in his stomach. He can't stop shaking.
Red barges into his room, ripping the door aside so hard it slams and shakes on its hinges. When he kneels at Martyn's side though, he's gentle. Careful. Like he knows Martyn is fragile. Martyn hates and adores it, because he doesn't want to be fragile. He just woke up and he feels alive, alive, alive, alive.
"I'm the only one who's allowed to prepare your weapons for the match," Martyn hisses at Red through half-hyperventilated breaths. "You hear me? Only me."
Red responds, but Martyn can't hear him. He's too busy freaking out way more than he should be. He buries face in Red's chest, and breathes in the smell of winter and blood. And Red holds him, rubbing circles into his back, and croons soft lullabies against his ear.
