Chapter Text
Pyro
Glistening black and white suits flush with opulent maroon, spilling from chandeliers of red glass. Intricate crimson tapestries flecked with gold. Women dancing fluidly behind red, gauzy veils, rubies dangling about their ears and cuffing their wrists.
Pyro enters the ballroom and all he sees is red.
Lips, whispering. About him? Should the fear be so tantalising? Red shoes glance off marble floor, reflected hazily in the polish. They tap to the quivering violins fifty pairs of sweeping feet.
It’s hard to believe this is his actual life and that he’s not been transported into one of Shelby’s fanfics. He, Jack Von Pyroscythe, dutifully welcomed in a room of the most wealthy and influential people on the continent, all thanks to Scott’s boundless generosity.
He’s a student at a uni where it’s normal to wear crocs to class. When did his friend group become centred around a noble?
The room is stupidly lavish, a fantastical ball with all the luxuries of modern engineering. A star system of orbs circle lazily above their heads. They seem to spin how the earth rotates on an axis, but craning his neck reveals it a trick of the light.
Of course Scott’s decorations will be as mesmerising as he is— the single spot of blue in a pool of crimson— and equally as dizzying.
“You look phenomenal, my dear,” he’d crooned, adjusting Pyro’s pressed shirt and tilting his chin to inspect the makeup artist’s tireless work. Any lingering pain from the plucking and prodding ceased to matter under the soothing gaze of those lidded eyes.
And then he’d let go.
It’s loud. Pyro will be louder than the other talking. He’s ‘Jack’ here, not Jackie or anything else his parents think him to be. Just Jack, Scott Goldsmith’s friend, and he’s not lonely anymore.
It’d be crazy to feel alone around this many people.
Emboldened by the silk on his back, Pyro approaches a cluster of the upper-class. They eye him smilingly as he singles out a woman at random, sweeping into a low bow for her appraisal.
“Care to dance?” he asks theatrically. She pays the smattering of giggles no mind, extending a sweetly gloved arm (is everyone else wearing gloves?) to guide him closer to the source of the tinkling music, murmurs fading into the chorus around them.
A poised hand settles on his shoulder. He misses Shelby’s encouraging squeeze from the start of practice when the nerves still messed up his counting. Slow fingers drag teasingly downwards as he moves the girl to the will of the band, green or blue eyes flashing in promise as the hand trails seductively down his chest.
He’s so lucky to be here.
A spin. A conversation. A glass of red wine. Are the fountain basins also spinning? The orbs are moving more erratically than before. Pyro wonders why.
Jack doesn’t care. He’s having fun! He’s making conversation, finding common ground!
A glass of wine.
He is grateful to be here.
A man dressed in green. A man with brown hair. A woman in black. A woman in red.
A man in red.
A woman.
A glass of red.
“…Jack.” Pyro? “Jack?”
Scott’s not looking. Scott doesn’t care. Of course he does. Doesn’t he?
A glass of red wine.
A blonde man, dressed in green. The same as before? Far away words, a lurching in their stomach, a panic rising in his chest. You’re too hot to have a meltdown right now. He squeezes his eyes shut…
…And excuses themself. What would Scott think? He’d think there’s no need to take it so seriously. No rush, promises the voice. No rush at all.
A hallway; ten, eleven, twelve tiles of stone. Bile in his throat, makeup irritating his eyes, his legs spurred on and on and desperately moving. Out, out, out.
Fresh air.
Fresh air.
Pyro scrabbles at his belt and finally breathes.
It’s not enough.
Has he eaten? Was there even food available?
A stone wall against his back. Grass beneath his feet.
Will they notice the grass stains on his pants? He… can’t worry about that right now.
Breathe in the roses. It’ll be winter soon, he has to make the most of the smell…
His hands are cold and clammy against his face. A slight breeze ruffles his hair like his mother’s loving touch when he was little. He gasps silently, not quite a sob, dragging his knees closer.
They’ll surely see— the guest list will be all over social media tomorrow. What will they think? Will it start to be enough?
Look, Mum, it’ll say. Look what your son can do without you.
Pyro enters the garden. The sky’s red, too.
-
Nobody’s waltzing out here. The chill is too sharp, dampness clinging to the back of his suit. He catches a faint voice on the wind— lovers, maybe, making out in a bush somewhere.
He pushes himself up, acutely aware of the dirt up his nails. Scott has a bi-weekly manicure. Scott always entertains gossip.
The deepslate bricks are smooth and solid, supporting Pyro as he treads softly along the wall, drawing nearer to… is that Owen, just around the corner? Maybe it’s the drinking, but he can’t remember seeing him all night. The low, grating tones of anger sound harsh and acrid after hours of soft pleasantries. Owen’s never been super easy to talk to, but they’ve never heard him growl.
“They deserve it, the lot of ‘em,” Owen spits. Pyro’s joints lock into place. “How many cared? How many offered up a single ounce of empathy before?”
A shiver prickles his neck. He overhead him talking to Scott like that once, after a badly timed remark about how he came into his fortune. Owen must be really upset to be getting riled up like this.
“Not a single person here has a shred of decency. What I’m doing here is CLEANSING.”
Pyro holds his breath, heart rattling errantly in his chest as he tries to make any sense of any of it. Who is he— what—
Huh?
Another voice. Someone he doesn’t know, composed and plainly spoken. “So you admit you tried to poison the fountain tonight?” asks the stranger.
If Pyro didn’t feel like retching before, he does now. He presses a fist against their mouth, eyes flared and stinging with the effort to keep today’s alcohol down. Even so, they can’t quite bring himself to regret drinking so much. The escapism do be too good.
“On or off the record?” Owen mumbles.
He’d laugh if he wasn’t actually going to be sick.
The other man in the conversation (whose pronouns Pyro can’t currently ask) is American. Canadian? He’s a sociology kinda guy alright, dabbling in Latin doesn’t automatically make him good at noting accents especially when they’re low and pleasant. He also seems completely unfazed by Owen’s intensity and, therefore, must be a bit of a freak himself. There’s a common theme here somewhere.
“That depends. Was the doctor involved, or is he just the inspiration?” Owen barks out a half-laugh, half-cough, scraping the bottom of his vocal chords.
“You think you know everything about us.” The intimidation is somewhat diminished as he devolves into aggressive spluttering. There is a smile in the stranger’s voice as he murmurs something Pyro can’t quite make out. Owen flings himself backwards, an astray lock of hair nearly sending them scrabbling as it appears just around the corner.
“You poisoned me?!” he hisses loudly, spine arching in protestation. Pyro is horrified and wills himself to become one with the wall.
“You overdosed,” the man recites calmly. “It’s unclear whether it was an act of suicide or a miscalculation.” Holy shit holy shit holy—
“This is a precautionary measure. You’ve demonstrated dedication when it comes to murder, and I won’t let you attempt it again.” —SHIT. “You don’t have to die,” he allows, the thumping in Pyro’s skull almost drowning out the words. He rubs fiercely at his temple, restraining a shaky breath as the back of Owen’s head dips back out of sight. “I have the antidote on me, if you choose to turn yourself in.”
“I’m going to rip your eyes from your skull and thread them onto a necklace,” Owen groans, gargling over his own words as the mystery substance takes hold. He must now be partially paralysed or being held down, the audible struggling barely reminiscent of the threat in his tone. Pyro might as well be pinned down himself, his muscles tight and frustratingly unresponsive despite the adrenaline buzzing through his ears.
“Please don’t,” the stranger says mildly. Owen’s response is garbled and wracked with protestations, evenly desperate and increasingly bloodthirsty.
It takes minutes for them to die out completely.
It takes minutes for him to die.
He doesn’t beg. The graphic descriptions of what he intends to do are more visceral than even that, searing into Pyro’s brain like metal.
In his mind, he’s the one holding the wire.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out here. Did he… did he do it like that? The images come so clearly, he…
He’s blinking so hard it hurts. He didn’t kill Czeslaw. He can’t believe he killed him. He can’t, he won’t, he didn’t.
Does it matter?
The ninja. The strange, unfeeling man standing over a body (oh god, Owen stood up for Pyro that one time, and he didn’t even scream for help—); if he’s here to kill killers, is Jackie next on the list?
He’s a student at a uni where it’d be weird to wear crocs to class, but they all still do it. He has intrusive thoughts about shutting up the assholes who make his life hell. His criminal record is clean.
Officially.
He wouldn’t believe him, either.
He (the stranger) is coming around the corner. He’s going to die (Jackie, Pyro, not the stranger, he can’t fight for his life. Jack, not the stranger. Apo called him a scared mutt, Apo calls him a twink, Apo has arms like sticks and could throw him across the room if she wanted), oh god, he (Jackie, Pyro, not the stranger, he can’t defend himself for his life. Hasn’t he proved that, time and time again as he’s bruised and kicked and bloodied day after week after month after year of his life?) is going to die—
Shelby says he’s sweet for not wanting to hurt them but he does, oh, he does.
Scott thinks he’s weak. Scott thinks he’s dangerous. Scott keeps him at arms length.
(Scott’s right to do so.)
‘Ninja’ was right. He’s clad in shadows, the only speck of colour a bright red cross hanging from one ear. A shiny pattern of black brocade shifts across his waistcoat in the streaky moonlight, drawing their notice from the black gloved hands held purposefully at his side. His brow creases upon seeing him, the only sign of acknowledgment on an achingly neutral canvas.
He could be a guard. He could be anyone.
He could kill him right now and nobody would care.
He’s kind of hot Pyro’s a normal fucking human being and cannot be held liable for the suitably irrational thoughts distracting from their impending demise.
“Hm.” His eyes are brown, almost black. Calculating.
It must be the first time they’ve noticed the colour of someone’s eyes all night.
-
Abolish
The target was easy to follow. CCTV has been completely disabled for the entirety of the event out of privacy, and personal electronics were removed with a scanner at the door. As predicted, Owen proved unwilling to comply.
His death was slow— at the Organisation they believe in giving their targets time to change their minds— but assuredly painless.
Abolish stands smoothly up from his work, the target’s kinky hair crossing like thorns over his limp face, mouth marred with blood. At first glance, an observer would mistake his jewellery as the source of death, red gems trickling down his neck in romanticisation of a wound. Abolish takes the moment to appreciate the irony as he turns the corner, abruptly stopping his mental notation as he almost barges into the listening form of a pale guest.
Jack.
Great. Perfect! No, this is what he gets for not diving into the files of every single person in attendance. It’s one thing to cover his back under suspicious circumstances, but it’s something else entirely to deal with a witness.
Abolish braces himself. He sighs internally, the spare needles wearing into his pocket as he forces himself to step lightly on by.
There was an unexpected complication resulting in the requirement of the additional forms starting B2. Completely my fault, but nothing I won’t be able to handle myself.
No backup requested. Embarrassing, for a Veylocke.