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The Broker sighed as he entered the eerily quiet halls of the Church of the True Eye. Blood and grime caked his clothing, though miraculously, his hands appeared clean. His trademark smile adorned his face as he seemingly waltzed through the halls of the sacred grounds, making his way toward his personal chambers.
The church smelt oddly sterile, as though no inhabitants had walked through its walls in ages. With how late it was in the day, however, The Broker supposed it had just been cleaned and everyone had retreated to their quarters. He’d returned to the church after a long day of wandering across Crossroads and hunting targets down with Scythe.
Once he reached his room, he let out a loud sigh. A selfish part of him wished to take his clothes off and collapse into sleep, but he knew better, considering the blood had seeped through the fabric of his suit.
He silently hummed a tune as he undressed, folding his stained clothes and putting them on the floor in the corner of his room.
He walked over to his bathroom, fully undressed.
Standing directly in front of the large mirror it housed, The Broker tilted his head in confusion. He didn’t recognize the person staring back at him.
A calloused hand reached toward the glass before pulling away just as quickly, as The Broker blinked away his confusion and let his faux smile dissipate.
He stared at his body in the mirror, fingers tracing around each and every scar of his. He silently recounted the backstories behind each one, though the utterly clinical look on his face failed to budge.
Once he reached his chest, a soft, barely noticeable smile reached his lips as he traced over his chest scars, satisfied at the flatness of his skin. The ugly, now-gone lumps of fat had haunted him for years. He stretched his arms, eyeing the various stitches across his appendage.
Briefly, he thought of Medkit, always willing— rather, forced to— patch him up after he’d get injured; self-inflicted or not. His mind grew foggy as he stared down at his legs, tracing over the patch of scars on his thigh, covered by an ugly bruise that was sure to last for a few days at best.
They weren't deep, but were repetitive enough to cause concern under normal circumstances. Though, with how many scars The Broker already possessed, they didn’t send alarm bells ringing in anyone’s mind.
He played with the banged-up skin, squeezing and groping it before he groaned in frustration. A part of The Broker wished he could feel pain, just so that he could experience the guttural feelings that lead so many former acolytes— traitors of the church— to bubble up into bursts of screams, sobs, and tears.
He thought further. Did the traitors have friends? Families? Lovers? All things— well, save for friends, The Broker envied. He wondered what it felt like to taste someone else’s body on his tongue; what it felt like to enjoy the complex flavors of a warm meal after a long day (the church fed him, but because of his lack of taste, he was forced to eat scraps of whatever meal the rest of the members were having); what it felt like to get comforted as someone dressed your wounds...
A small gasp left his mouth as he peered down to look at why his hand felt so wet. His hand was sticky with blood, a claw-shaped gash on his right thigh. His heartbeat thumped against his ribs, adrenaline coursing through his veins as a soulless smile spread across his mouth.
He decided to shower. Not so much as a wince slipped out of him as he crudely applied soap all over his body, making sure to squirt some onto his open wound.
He grew angry at the sight of the sudsy gash, the sudden urge to further harm his vessel haunting his mind. He wasn’t sure when this cycle of self harm had started, but for as long as he could remember, thoughts of ‘if you fail this mission, you can see the blood pouring out of you later’ filled his mind as quick as sand flew downward in a glass timer.
He wondered how many more failures he could manage before the church grew fed up. Nevertheless, they needed him. A mistake or two wouldn’t hurt.
His thoughts were broken by the soft chiming of bells, signalling the passage of time into the next hour. Despite rinsing himself off, his wound still looked nasty. He resisted the urge to play with it, thanks to Medkit’s insistence that touching his wounds would lead to infection.
The Broker donned his cult-mandated nightgown before looking himself in the mirror again. He let out a soft huff before making his way out of his room, holding his face in his hands before releasing himself and donning his signature smile. He skipped toward Scythe’s room, knocking exactly four times on her door before stepping back and rocking on his soles.
“Hiya, boss!” He began, refusing to make eye contact with the obviously tired woman. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your assistance.” The Broker’s hand subconsciously sat on his thigh, wondering if the blood would soak through the fabric of his nightgown.
Scythe sighed, rubbing her eyes awake.
“What d’ya need, Broker…? This late…?”
“You have a first aid kit, don't you?” He grinned, lightly pushing Scythe to the side and entering her quarters. The Broker sat on the floor, crossing his legs, as he waited for Scythe to get situated.
An exasperated Scythe grumbled back to face The Broker, putting a hand on her hip as she stood.
“‘Ya really know how ‘ta push my buttons, Broker.” She said, sitting across from him. “I’ll fetch it. ‘Nother mission gone wrong?”
“You could say that.”
“‘Ya couldn’t ask ‘Kit to heal ‘ya when ‘ya were in Crossroads?”
“I’m afraid not!” He grinned, slightly rocking back and forth.
Scythe sighed. “Alright, let’s see it.”
The Broker let out a shaky breath as he lifted up his nightgown, a strange mixture of nervousness and excitement bubbling up in his body.
She silently winced at the gruesome wound, still somewhat frothing with soap. “You didn’t… wash yourself correctly, Broker.”
“Ah. Pardon that! I can go wash it off.” He chirped, making his way toward her bathroom. While he rinsed it off, Scythe went ahead and got the aforementioned first aid kit.
Once The Broker washed his wound off to the best of his ability, he sat back across from Scythe, his breaths hitching as she inched closer to his skin.
“Hold still, ‘kay? It ain’t gonna be as pretty as anythin’ ‘Kit could work up, but…” Scythe gently put a hand on his thigh and began to work.
—
“Atta boy. All better, huh?” Scythe said, applying the final layer of gauze on his wound. The Broker shrugged in response— uncharacteristic, Scythe noted.
“That's unlike ‘ya,” she said. “Not smilin’.”
“If it's a smile ‘ya want, Boss…!” The Broker said, pointing both index fingers to the corners of his mouth. “Then it’s a smile you’ll get!”
“Broker. Cut the crap.” Scythe said, gripping him by the shoulders. She knew The Broker wouldn’t dare to go against the Family’s orders— much less against her orders— but then, why were his sloppy-at-best mistakes happening more and more often? Why was he purposefully letting targets run free? Why was his selling of Brokercoins not quite as insistent? Nor was his recruiting— hell, he wasn’t even eating meals with the rest of the Family anymore, if at all. “The Father’s been talkin’ ‘t me about your failures. I’ve been seein’ ‘yer failures.”
A shiver went down The Broker’s spine as he shifted within Scythe’s grasp. “I don’t— a mistake or two won’t hurt me. It’s fine.”
Scythe tightened her grip on him, eliciting a gasp from him. “This isn’t about you. It’s about the Family. Don’t forget who’s in charge, Broker.”
The Broker looked away from her, a painfully dull look on his face. He stared daggers into the floor as he slightly shivered in her grasp before she let him go. “Look, I— I don’t wanna interrogate ‘ya, Broker. Just… what is goin’ on with you…?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, Scythe—” She straightened a little at the mention of her real name, and not her title. “I’m fine.”
“Y’know— okay. Yer not fine. And that's okay—! I just—” Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought. “I don’t understand. This ain’t like ‘ya. Failing ain’t like ‘ya. The Family’s concerned— hell, I’m concerned—!”
The Broker balled his fists into Scythe’s nightgown, frowning with apprehension as he began to speak. “Scythe,” he gritted out, releasing his grip on her and instead wrapping her in an embrace, tears threatening to bead in his sockets.
“I’m fine. I’m fine—” Scythe sighed into the touch, softly patting his back.
“Alright, Broker. Yer stayin’ here tonight. I sure as hell don’t want anythin’ bad happenin’ ‘t my second in command, now, do I? Whatever that’s happenin’ in yer room is harming yer ability to work for us, so I don’t think I wanna be takin’ any chances.”
The Broker blinked in confusion. “Ah… if you're sure…” he replied in an uncharacteristically timid tone, knowing he wouldn’t win the argument even if he tried. The Broker climbed into her netted bed, refusing to properly lay down until Scythe came next to him.
Scythe soon climbed up next to him, holding her arms out for him to wrap himself in. The Broker yelped at Scythe immediately trapping him in her elbow, roughing up his hair as she grinned. She eventually softened on him, watching him get situated on her chest.
A comfortable silence filled the room, occasionally broken by the soft sniffles of The Broker.
“You’re really nice, boss…” he said, wrapping his arms around her. Scythe chuckled in reply, “consider me charmed,” she said, raking a hand through his hair. The Broker curled his tail around her leg, rubbing his head against her and purring softly as he felt his eyes slowly shutting.
“‘Ya should sleep, Broker. It’s alright.”
The Broker sighed in response, holding her tighter as he drifted off into sleep.
—
Scythe stared up at the ceiling as The Broker laid on her chest, fast asleep.
She sighed, her mechanical hand softly whirring as it played with his hair. Thoughts of The Broker’s failures swarmed her head as she attempted to distract herself. She looked down at him, soft breaths leaving him as his chest rose and deflated. Calm.
Would his repeated failures cause him to lose his status within the church? Or worse, would he get put to death, like so many others before him, some of which Scythe herself had to be the executioner for—
She shook her head and sighed, once again looking at The Broker.
‘Oh well,’ she thought.
‘We’ll hav’ta talk tomorrow.’