Chapter Text
Nathaniel Wesninksi knew gentle hands, but he wished he didn’t.
It made everything worse - thinking of fingers brushing through his hair while it is instead yanked. Remembering practiced hands wiping blood from his face while blow after blow strikes home. Thinking of hope, but never being able to feel it. Wishing he’d never felt it in the first place.
When he lost Natalie Wesninski, he lost hope, too. The tangible kind, the kind he could believe in because it was right there in front of him, in his arms.
Now his hopes were shrouded in a doubt that was more certain than anything. They were shallow shadows that he knew could never own any validity, any weight. He hoped Natalie’s death was quick, hoped she made it to the afterlife she was so desperate to believe, hoped, hoped, hoped. But the sentiment had long ago rotted, a feeling that once brought a warmth to his chest instead accompanying a sick guilt.
He couldn’t help but think that If he’d never felt love, he wouldn’t realize its absence. If he’d never been warm he wouldn’t what it even was. If he never had a sister, he wouldn’t miss her like a hole in his heart. It was a selfish thought, it put bile in his throat as it surfaced again and again, but he had to be selfish. It was a selfish world, and he was going to survive it.
When his mother was dragged back to Baltimore, speaking news of his twin sister’s death, words dripping from bloodied and tear stained lips, he made a promise. To Mary, to himself; a promise that he would stay alive for all of them. He would not let Natalie be forgotten by all expect those with cruel hands and bloody fates. He’d remember her, he would live for her. Which meant he had to play the game rather than let himself be a a pawn.
In part he was glad that she wasn’t here to witness what he’d become, to see the trail of bodies he’d left in the hallway that stretched to his back, or the way he held to his knife like it was a lifeline.
He swallowed his thoughts, along with the blood in his mouth, courtesy of his newly split lip, and focused on balancing a knife and one hand and a gun in the other. Steady step after step he advanced toward Alek Raymond’s office.
If the operation was going according to their plan (the one that his team had thrown together a mere three hours ago,) then the executives gathered behind the large oak door would have no idea anything was amiss. No idea he was approaching.
The fourth floor was identical to the bottom ones, aside from the office the size of three others where Raymond’s desk sat at the end of the hall. The door loomed at him from the center of the corridor, the artificial lights strung above threatened his eyes with their harsh fluorescent beams. He wondered if the obvious lack natural light was some deliberate intimidation tactic - Nathaniel knew better than most just how it could ebb at the edges of one’s sanity.
He stalled when he reached the door to make sure there was no blood on his clothes or , a miracle, really, and then tapped the comme in his ear to unmute it.
“Fourth floor is clear, I’m ready to head in. Are we all set?” He talked quiet enough as to not be heard through the thick slab of wood.
“Yup, their commes are still blocked. No alarms have been triggered, and the cameras are still looping footage. We should be all set.” He nodded, even though she couldn’t see.
“Going in.”
“Alright, Red. Wow us.”
Her words were riddled with static, moving in and out of the harsh buzz, but the fact that she’d managed to get through their tech blockers on such short notice in the first place was impressive as it was. News of the companies rumored betrayal was new - three days new, to be exact - and that of the executive meeting even fresher. It was entirely possible that the ill intent of Braxton Tech toward the Moriyamas was fabled, but Kengo was becoming paranoid in his old age.
A complete termination, the first chance they got.
So when the wind brought news of a full executive meeting, that was to take place only three hours later, Nathaniel’s crew went into crunch mode. He’d never been more grateful for Casey. She was only a few years older than him, but she looked too worn down to be only 24. He understood - Nathaniel wouldn’t entirely surprised if he had a full head of gray by the time he was that age.
The rest of the building was a war zone, but bliss stood behind this door. And he was about to ruin it.
He pulled on a snotty grin, the kind that made him look like an arrogant son-of-the-CEO type, smoothed out his hair, hid his knife beneath his sleeve and gun in his belt, and pushed the door open.
It didn’t take long for Alek Raymond to notice him from where he stood at the head of the table. His eyes widened when they met Nathaniel’s, before he attempted to placate his features back into a mask of professionalism. He saw through it easily in the clenching of his fingers and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Nathaniel.” He pushed the words out like he was out of breath. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Blue eyes flicked through the room. He checked to make sure all twelve executives were present. Sure enough, ten men and two women sat before him. There were no visible weapons, but he learned long ago to always assume the people around him were armed. He returned his gaze to the CEO, clocking his gelled back brown hair and overly-expensive suit, his rigid posture.
He was afraid - he’d be a fool if he wasn’t. Nathaniel Weskinski stood before him, fiery hair, shit-eating grin and all. He was an urban legend, a folktake: where Nathaniel went, blood was sure to follow. Born of monsters, raised to become a monster, a machine made for killing. A Reaper.
The tension in the room escalated with each step he took forward. He walked slowly, delibaeratly, before taking an empty seat at the table directly opposite of Raymond.
“Oh, you know,” He propped his feet up on the table, nonchalance. One of the scariest things about Nathaniel was the way he carried so many lives on his shoulders but never seemed to be weighed down by them. His smile and his sharp tongue and the playful lilt of his voice made his enemies cower more than any blank stare or dead look ever could. “Just making the rounds.”
“Right,” He swallowed thickly, trying to meet his eyes but failing desperately. Nathaniel wanted to laugh. He hated the hysteria wired into him, the way he could just… turn everything off. Turn everything into a game, save the weight of it for later. He’d be the first to admit that maybe there was just the slightest chip in his sanity.
“You know, Raymond,” He chuckled. “I’ve been hearing some pretty interesting things.”
Something flashed in the older man's eyes - panic, or intruige, even. Everything, all the way down to his posture, read guilt. When he didn’t reply, Nathaniel pressed forward.
“Rumor has it you’re questioning your loyalties. Tell me it isn’t true.” He mocked dissapointment, using it as a taunt to draw a response from the older man. He watched as Raymond’s eyes worked their way around the room, he could practically see the gears turning in his head, hear the whirring of machinery. But the answer was clear on his face. He opened his mouth to reply, to plead, it seemed. But Nathaniel’s simile turned into his father’s, his voice steely, apathetic. Completely cold. A deep and dark shadow of what it was before, cruel playfulness abandoned. “And here I thought we were friends.”
In the flash of his hand, a kife was imbedded in the man’s chest. He stepped back with a grunt, clutching at the wound in his chest as if he could stop the red flowering around it, before collpasing. It all took only a few seconds for him to still, and when Nathaniel looked up, he was staring the barrel of a gun. Several, actually.
This didn’t suprise him, not in the slightest. He slipped back into his make-believe friendliness, but amped up the mocking in his tone, and tipped his chair back.
“Now, now.” He drawled. “You don’t want to hurt me. Raymond got what was coming to him. That doesn’t mean the rest of you should get your panties in a twist.” The lie slipped past his lips easily. He knew that none of them were to leave the room alive, but they didn’t need to know that. Not yet.
He stood lazily, lifting his arms above his head in a big stretch. He used his reach to grab the woman nearest him. She squeaked in surprise, and tears were already streaming down her face as Nathaniel positioned her to be his human shield, grin still firm as he peered over her shoulder.
He’d seen at least five of the men glancing at her in the short amount of time he’d been in the room, checking her out, no doubt. Hopefully that’d be enough to make them hesitate, as well as their morality, he pondered.
He didn’t waste any time while he still had the advantage of their shock, and reached for the weapon tucked into his belt. Four guns were pointed at him, he’d deal with those people first.
He raised his arms over the woman and shot at the furthest armed man, nailing him right between the eyebrows with a sick thud, and ignoring the mess of blood and brain matter spreading on the floor below his body. The woman screamed, only for the sound to intensify when Nathaniel launched her forward into the man closest. His gun sent off of a stray shot, lodging itself into the ceiling, and Nathanie’s own went off before the man could reload.
There was a brustle behind him, and he brought his elbow to meet the disturbance on instinct. There was a sick crack of bone, and blood began rushing from the culrpit’s nose as he screamed in protest at the pain.
Nathaniel dove out of the way just in time, the bullet meant for him emdeding itself in the broken-nose man’s chest. He used the suspect's shock at the missed target to take that one out as well.
The rest of it was sickeningly easy, a haze of futile attacks and flying fists, only a few of which landed. But by the end of it, it was him and twelve bodies at his feet.
He didn’t even have the capacity to feel bad, the sight of blood and brain matter didn’t make him go queasy anymore, the thick scent of iron was too familiar to make him gag. Instead, he patted himself down for injuries. He’d definitely have some nasty bruises, practice tomorrow would be uncomfortable, but that was nothing he couldn’t handle.
He stalked out of the room after delivering a quick “cleared” to Casey, taking a brief intermission in the bathroom to wipe what he could of the blood off his face, and continued down the stairs to where they were finishing up the last of the termination.
The rest of the night was a familiar blur - he floated his way back to his apartment, to the shower, into his bed. He was used to feeling this more often than not, this complete apathetic haze, dissociating himself from the world, his body and his mind, so he didn’t have to register the events that sat waiting for him. If he did, if he really let himself feel it, remember it, think about it, he didn’t think he’d be able to survive.
So he settled into bed and stared at he ceiling instead of letting himself drift into nightmare ridden sleep.
______
When the next morning rolled around, Nathaniel was running off less than two hours of sleep, and three cups of the strongest coffee he could brew.
He didn’t bother going for a run, in two short hours he’d be heading back to the Nest. The only good thing that came out of his missions for Kengo was the change of schedule, interuppting the rigorous practice regime that took up his entire life otherwise. He was glad the summer was nearing a close, so he could return to 24 hour days and get out of that cave and go to classes now that he was finally a freshmen.
He was called out for assignments often enough, once every two weeks or so, the most being twice a week when things got busy or Kengo was cleaning house, but being in the Nest for even two hours at a time was suffocating as it was.
It was one of those rare bright sides he forced himself to see to keep sane.
As it often did when he had time to let his thoughts rome, his mind turned to his twin sister.
His father had wanted to use Natalie to settle is debts with the Moriyamas, not himself. She was meant to become the perfect backliner, number three. Nathaniel was to become heir to the Butcher. But she’d made it out with Mary, and Nathaniel hadn’t. A twist of fate that evolved quickly into worst case-scenario
The whole situation quite effectively pissed off his father - he’d wanted to keep Nathaniel all to himself. He went on and on about how he would make the perfect Butcher, how he’d wanted to train him, fine tune every aspect of his skill until it exceeded those of Nathan and Lola, until he was unstoppable killing machine, a horror to rival the original.
Nathaniel didn’t know if it was for better or worse that Kengo accepted the compromise - for him to play for the Raven’s in his sister’s steed, but to work for his father when he was needed. He continued training with knives, combat, learned all there was to know about the weaknesses of the human body, while also running himself rargged on an Exy court.
He had to be a great player, he had to meet and exceed everyone’s (The Master’s, Riko’s) expectations, while murdering on the side. He had to balance two, equally horrifying worlds as if his focus wasn’t divided. But he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have just one of them, if it would be better. If it somehow would be any worse.
It was a viable distraction, that was for sure. And when it wasn’t literal torture, he really did love playing Exy. Maybe in another life he’d play it out of pure want, rather than need. But fantazising about such things did more harm than good, so he shut down that train of thought before it could leave the station.
Things were somewhat easier now with his father in prison. Nathan’s lackeys were still roaming free, but laying low since the FBI raid four years ago. He was incarcerated on charges of fraud and money laundering, but there was still a risk of exposing the bigger operation. Lola still payed him visits every few months, but it was worlds better than the daily torture she made him endure when he was a kid. Only occasionally did he carry out tasks for his father, now following orders mainly from Kengo who’d long ago seen his worth.
He sucked down the last of his third cup and rinsed it out absently. Yes, technically this was his apartment. But he was only ever here when he was called out for an operation, and that was only when the assignments were near enough and went smoothly enough to return for a night or two. The only things he’d added to the building in three years of “owning” it were a mug Casey had gotten him for his birthday last year, saying the depiction of a leprechaun on the front “reminded her of Nathaniel,” and an out of season christmas blanket hastily thrown on the back of the couch.The furniture was there before he ever was, and there were what could be described as the contents of a junk drawer strewn around, like pain medicine and disregarded papers. But that was the only proof of life within the neutral colored walls. It was still the most homey place that’d ever been his.
He dug a ratty black drawstring out of the cabinet over the sink and hauled it over to the coffee table. His makeshift first aid kit was inconsistent and in no means sanitary - but years of being injured with no one there to pull him together had taught him how to survive with nothing but the clothes on his back and what he could find in his bedroom drawers. He pulled out pieces of an old cut up shirt he’d designated for gauze, sorted through fishing line and thread he’d used in the past for stitches, until he found a bottle of prescription pain meds a doctor had given him some years ago too soothe the pounding in his head.
He prayed it wasn’t a concussion, but he’d never been the lucky type. He closed his eyes in hopes that the aching would subside.
Time lapsed, he hadn’t realized he’d fallen back asleep until someone pounding on the font door startled him awake, the images previously floating through his mind arranging themselves to expose the gaps of logic and the feather-light colors the real world didn’t offer.
He heaved his body upwards and toward the door, where Matsu waited on the other side.
He was an older Japanese man, years of wear visible in his graying hair and the wrinkles adorning his forehead and under his eyes. He didn’t speak much, which Nathaniel could respect. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than stale conversation. Matsu had been his chauffeur of sorts for years, keeping an eye on him in case he did something stupid or needed medical attention, which was often, or when he just needed to be carted around.
His presence also meant that it was time to head back to the Nest. He stepped back from the door and made to grab his duffle from the bedroom, stopping only long enough to assure everything was inside, and followed Matsu out the door silently.
The ride went by faster than he wished, and it wasn’t long before they were rolling up to the gates of Edgar Allen. The sky was characteristically dark, threatening rain, holding it over their heads like a debt.
The hallways were empty, meaning either the team was sleeping or they were out on the court. It was hard to keep track of their 16 hour days when he was called out, no matter how hard he tried. He never knew what exactly he was returning too. Which, although it was the least of his worries most of the time, was definitely another inconvenience to add to the evergrowing pile leading to his next breakdown.
Jean’s bed was made when he entered, the door to the bathroom left open, so Nathaniel dropped his duffle on the bed, took a long, deep breath to swallow his frustrations, and rushed down the hallway to get into gear.
He should have been surprised when he found Riko waiting for him in the practice room, helmet rucked tightly beneath his armpit, but he wasn’t. He knew Riko so well at this point, after growing up beside him, that it was even predictable when he was going to break his predictability.
He was leaned with his back to Nathaniel’s locker, left leg propped up on the metal, feigning nonchalance. If he really didn’t care then he wouldn’t be missing practice for a chat. Nathaniel merely quirked an eyebrow and stepped closer, but the taller boy didn’t budge. He resisted huffing an annoyed sigh - Riko thrived off of any negative emotion, even the petty ones. Instead, he let a small smile grace his lips. It looked genuine to those who didn’t know he didn’t smile without intention.
“You’re late,” he hissed.
“And you’re missing practice.” Riko ignored him, opting to run his eyes over Nathaniel’s body as if searching for some explanation as to where he was. They both knew there was nothing either of them could do about his periodic absences, but Riko liked to pretend he was in control. He was jealous of the attention his family gave Nathaniel. The latter loved using this to his advantage.
“What did I tell you about your tardiness?”
“What you said and what I heard are two very different things,” The grin splitting his face widened - it was a familiar look, a version of his father’s cruel glint that was specific to him. Subtler, but no less frightening. “All I heard was an empty threat. I’m sure you father wouldn’t take kindly to you breaking his things. After all, I am much more valuable to your family than you.”
Riko grit his teeth, shifting slightly on his feet. “You can smack me around like a child, but you can’t hurt me. Not really.” He looked away to signal that he was was done with the conversation and began going through the motions of changing out. He stripped his shirt first.
Beneath the cotton lie a graveyard of horrors that Riko could never compare to. Scars of all kinds, flat white, fluffy purple. It stretched over the expanse of his torso, collar bone to naval. Reminders of the torture he’d endured his whole life under the shared custody of the Nest and his father. It was more scar tissue than untouched skin at this point, a sight even he couldn’t endure for long.
It drove his point home, the way he knew it would. Nathaniel had been tortured, spent his whole life on the brink of survival, and yet he still hadn’t broken. Riko would be the last to succeed.
He smirked when Riko flinched, looking away after a few seconds of trying to brave the sight. Nathaniel gave him one last flick of his hand, urging him to move away from his locker, and the boy finally stepped forward and stomped out of the locker room.
______
Walker.
Renee’s fingers ghosted over the lettering on the back of her jersey. White interrupting the harsh orange she’d grown to love over the course of her freshman year.
She’d been Renee Walker for four years now, but still the sight of the letters filled her with a warmth she would never be able to describe. It was hers, a name given to her when she didn’t have one, that had seemed too artificial just like the rest of them, that she’d somehow made her own. She grew into it, like the baggy clothing Mary gave her when they were running, like the cross necklace she used to think she didn’t deserve to wear.
She wasn’t Natalie Wesninki anymore. Maybe she never was - Natalie was a symptom of survival, someone who did as her father asked, acted the way she had to in order to see another day. But she’d always been someone else inside, waiting for the chance to roam free without fear. And now she was finally on the surface, given a name, given a purpose. Renee Walker, number nine, sophomore goalkeeper for the Palmetto State Foxes.
She was happy to be back on campus, back with her team, her family. But this year was different than the last.
She tried her best to swallow down the anxiety, she fought to keep her eyes from flicking to Kevin when she entered the longue where most of the foxes were already waiting. Instead, she let her eyes fall on Janie Smalls, the new freshman striker that sat alone in an armchair near the far wall. Her hands squeezed together tightly over her lap, dark green eyes flew from face to face, almost entirely hidden by a thick mop of black hair.
Renee approached her silently, offering her no more than a gentle smile, and rested on the wall a few feet from the girl.
It was only then that she let her eyes find Andrew’s group. They sat at their usual couch, Kevin squeezed between the twins. She greeted Andrew with a nod, returned with a manic smile and flapping hand.
And then her eyes moved to Kevin - Kevin, who didn’t recognize her from their few meetings as children. Kevin, that had spent nearly seven years with Nathaniel after Renee left. Kevin, who she was trying so hard not to resent.
This was the year Nathaniel was to join the Ravens.
This year, Renee was going to bring him home.
She knew her being here was stupid. Witness protection was fragile, every TV appearance ran the risk of the Moriyama’s dragging her back, every good block, every mention in the media, interview for a magazine.
She didn’t care.
She was going to save her twin brother. She was going to free him, she was not going to leave him behind. Not again.