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For as easy as it was to break into the various Mirror dimensions, even Heathcliff had to admit, infiltrating the legions of N Corp’s Inquisitors was almost laughable.
He’s had several years of practice, his methods down to an art. Learning mannerisms, practicing speeches, and picking up tricks to make people hear what they want out of him. The One Who Grips was no different. She was more than happy to invite him to a sermon for her Hammers. Anything to spread the good word of the greatness that is pure humanity, and discarding the wretched trash that was cybernetic augmentations. Of course he didn’t care for her petty words and higher ideals for this cesspit of a city. She let him keep his watch when he mentioned Director Hermann had sent him down here for a routine ‘audit’. An assertion of the recent crusade to District 11, and all.
It was a lie, though.
He was looking for someone, and it wasn’t this loony ‘savior’ of humanity.
No, it was another, someone clearly below her.
There were several familiar faces amongst her ranks. No doubt he’s ran into these people countless times by now. The stoic man with emerald eyes, that annoying lass and her fixations, even that whiny brat he could snap in two. He had noticed there were at least eleven of these recurring nuisances. Positions and relations would change, but no matter how many times he’s done this, at least one or two of these folk showed up. That at least confirmed he was in the right place.
No sign of the one he was looking for yet, though. He’d recognize him straight away. His time was ticking, and he couldn’t afford to waste it.
Heathcliff drug out his watch to make a show of how little time he had. The oh great One Who Grips looked as though she wished to skewer him right there, but was unfortunately bound by the company to not to do so. She hurried him along towards her chamber, where she commanded her Grohammer to summon the Hammers.
Soon a congregation filed in, with Heathcliff standing by, analyzing each and every person who walked by him. Surely he hadn’t missed the bugger he was after.
It was only as the lowest ranking members arrived did he finally spot his prey. A lowly Kleinhammer, relegated to the worst seats, and nearly left behind.
Another Heathcliff.
Drowsy, and shambling along like a corpse before collapsing down just in time for prayer. It was almost laughable how pathetic he looked. He clearly hadn’t slept well in days. Heathcliff could easily bash his head in, and he probably wouldn’t even notice he had been attacked.
Of course, a sermon was no place for slaughter, so the waiting continued. The One Who Grips sang her praises for the Director acknowledging the work she and her Hammers had performed, and other such bollocks. Nauseating platitudes, and faux affability for someone clearly out of her mind. The sooner Heathcliff could kill, the better. She was getting on his nerves.
Thankfully for him, she kept her sermon short, as she knew he was a very busy man. Reciting the scriptures had been skipped over, but not without a warning to all to make sure they are read by sunrise.
Everyone was cleared out, and Heathcliff hurriedly made an excuse to the One Who Grips as she approached that he must leave soon. She made no attempt to coerce him into staying, but that was as she too was pulled away by another. It was a perfect opportunity.
Like a creature in the night, he quietly stalked behind his prey. Several paces behind, as to not alert him of his presence. Not that he looked to be in any position to notice anything even if it was right in front of his face. He didn’t even need a disguise this time around. This was almost too easy. At least compared to some others he’s met.
His footsteps were uncoordinated, and the loose grip on his hammer signified he had little strength as to hold it.
What a pathetic, worthless creature he was.
He managed to shuffle himself into a dark corner of the lot, away from all the noise and prying eyes. Only then did he collapse to his knees, retching onto the ground in a sickening display.
Everything that came out was off-white.
Heathcliff watched as he heaved everything from his stomach, muttering slurred curses between each one.
Should there have been a single sliver of his tender heart that remained, he would have felt sorry for him.
Instead, he laughed. Cruelly. Loudly even.
It certainly caught Heathcliff’s attention. He tried to stand himself straight, thinking he had been caught by his commander. Not that he had the coordination to move so quickly. Falling flat back onto the ground, Heathcliff could easily see how distant his eyes were.
A bat was pressed against his neck, and a thick boot against his sternum. Weakly, Heathcliff tried to reach for his discarded hammer, only to find it just out of reach. His hand fell limp to the ground, giving up before he even attempted to fight.
Heathcliff leaned down low, his face curling into a wicked smile, “Never did I think I’d ever find a Heathcliff as fucking pathetic as you in my travels. Enjoy purgatory. You’re going to wish I killed you.”
With another wild laugh he removed his foot, only to stomp it down on Heathcliff’s face, surely breaking his jaw.
“May Catherine’s cries haunt you until your dying day.”