#stefastian

Chapter One: I May Have Misplaced Her

A firm shove pressed into the side of Sebastian’s ribcage, rousing him to semi-consciousness. The air stank, sour, damp and metallic. He rolled onto his side, shoving the object away. The carpet under him was damp, and his body ached. “Fuck…” he breathed. His head throbbed, thoughts slowly uncongealing, but sluggishly, like his mind was filled with resin.

The object pressed back against him, this time his shoulder, and gave a shove, hard enough to roll Sebastian back onto his back. Sebastian squinted his eyes open, trying to blink away the blur. A fuzzy figure stood over him, and a glossy, brown leather shoe sat heavily on his chest.

“Are you going to wake up, or should I just kill you like a dog and be done with it?” Dripped a smooth Italian voice.

“Oh fuck me.” Sebastian groaned. Not him.

“Another time perhaps.”

“Like hell.” The former detective reached for his revolver, but the other man lifted his foot and shoved it harder against him, jamming the sole of his shoe down onto Sebastian’s fingers, pinning them against the the grip of the gun. Pain shot through Sebastians hand. He grunted.

Stefano looked down at Sebastian with an expression of bland disinterest, as though the two of them had not just been trying to kill each other mere moments ago.

Was it moments? Time was a weird thing in here, and Sebastian had apparently blacked out, which didn’t help. The last thing he remembered was pelting the asshole standing over him with a barrel full of shot. And then, nothing.

Roughy he dragged his hand out from under the artists shoe with one sharp tug, then knocked it off his chest. He snatched the revolver from his holster and trained it on the bastard. “What the hell is going on?”

Again, that dispassionate stare. Stefano half turned his back on the former detective, refocusing his gaze out a nearby window. The muscles around his eyes tensed for a moment. “War.” He said dramatically, like a femme fatale in a film noir. “That is what has happened.”

Sebastian didn’t move from his position on the floor, revolver still set squarely on the other man. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Stefano’s lip twisted in irritation. “You are such a rigid, ignorant creature aren’t you? Still stuck in the pattern of what was, unable to see now what is, a slave to the primal impulses coursing through those delightfully developed veins.” He let out a soft, bitter sound, halfway between a chuckle and a scoff. “Alas, our little dance will have to wait, Sebastian. Now, do try to keep up.”

“Cut the shit Stefano!” Sebastian barked. He pushed himself up off the tacky floor and stood, still a good 6 feet from the other man. “What happened? Why isn’t one of us dead?”

“We were, interrupted.” He lifted a gloved hand, motioning to the window with a fluid gesture.

Sebastian frowned, deep lines carving out between his brows. He looked at Stefano, then at the window, where a soft warm glow was coming through, like the light of a sunset.

Stefano couldn’t be trusted, there was no doubt in that regard. He was as psychotic as they come. But in the short time he’d known the man, he’d never seen him be even remotely deceptive about his intentions. He was as open as his ego demanded. Brazen. In there anyway.

Keeping his shoulder flexed, along with the weight of his gun, was making the wound from their unfinished battle throb. He gripped it with his left hand and sighed, fixing the artist with a hard warning glare for a long moment, before lowering the revolver with his right.

As he neared, the light coming through was so bright, it seemed almost like day. But it wasn’t. It was fire. Fire engulfing every structure, tearing through the crumbling world like a crimson tidal wave. “Who..?”

“Father Theodore.” Stefano drawled the words with great distain, as though speaking them left a bad taste in his mouth.

Theodore, of course. That fucking pyromaniac. But how did he suddenly get so…

His daughter.

The core.

Theodore must have went ahead and taken her when he discovered that Stefano had no intention of just handing her over. It was the only way to explain how he could have done all of this so quickly, become so strong, when before, it was the artist that had the run of the place.

Rage flushed through his body. Stefano must have been distracted by their fight. Theodore must have snatched her right from under the careless photographers nose. After all that big talk, he couldn’t protect her, not even for his own grand design. “You son of a bitch!” He turned, grabbing Stefano by his scarf, backing him up and shoving him against the wall with surprising swiftness.

Stefano snarled like fox in a snare.

“You let him take her?!”

“I didn’t do anything.” Stefano spat back. “She was just gone! Everything started to fall apart. It was…” the anger in his expression faltered, crumbling into one of grief. He shook his head. “She was just, gone.”