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Morning in the Revengencers’ lair always started the same way.
The half-basement they called their lair always smelled of damp, gun oil, blood, and yesterday’s smoke. Light barely filtered through the barred windows, mold and rust creeping in patches. Magnus sat at a beat-up table, hunched over a mug of espresso and whiskey—definitely not the best combo for six in the morning. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, ash dropping straight onto the tabletop. He hadn’t eaten properly in like two days. He just didn’t want to. Food always felt superfluous, heavy, a pointless drain of energy; chewing felt like a genuine ordeal, one he couldn’t always face. Why bother when you could just smother everything inside with caffeine and nicotine?
The Assassin stood at the old stove, which looked older than the two of them combined. His powerful body was covered only by a black tank top and army fatigues. He seemed almost relaxed—a staggering rarity given his line of work—and it mostly happened when Magnus was the only one around. He was frying eggs in some unidentifiable oil, along with sausage, bacon, and some thick, sludgy porridge, meat included, obviously—a dense, high-calorie breakfast that could have fed three. He needed it to keep the killing machine he was running; to stay fast, strong, tireless. And breakfast, as everyone knew, was the most important meal of the day.
He watched Magnus from the corner of his eye. The man looked especially fragile today—ribs showing through his old jacket, cheekbones sharpened. The Assassin felt a familiar pang. Not exactly concern in the usual sense; he didn’t think he was capable of caring about someone else. Something darker, maybe even selfish. Magnus was part of the plan. Not just an ally or another tool—something much closer. And watching him destroy himself was irritating.
“Magnus.” The low, distorted voice came out almost soft, as if he were genuinely trying to sound like he cared. He set a plate full of food in front of him—hot, smelling of smoke and spices. “Mixing antidepressants, painkillers, booze, cigarettes, and coffee for breakfast is a godawful idea for your body.”
Magnus looked up. His one good eye was exhausted; the other was half-lidded.
“It’ll be fucking fine,” he rasped, dragging on his cigarette. “Been doing it for the last ten years. Still alive, as you can see.”
The Assassin sighed heavily, sitting down across from him. His face, in a relaxed state, looked even more wrong—subtle distortions, scars, that near-cadaverous pallor. He picked up his fork and started eating himself, still eyeing Hammersmith sideways. Every meal for him was a serious affair, approached with military enthusiasm.
“You look like a corpse, Hammersmith,” he said suddenly, with clear irritation. “Eat something. Do you ever eat? Heard that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”
Magnus looked at the plate. It smelled appetizing. Part of him even wanted to put something in his mouth, if only for the company. But his body fought it desperately. Food felt like a rock in his stomach, and any thought of chewing made him nauseous. He pushed the plate away and grabbed his mug instead, taking a long gulp. The alcohol and coffee burned his throat nicely.
“That shit was invented by capitalists to make gullible morons stuff their faces with bacon in the morning.”
The Assassin froze for a second. He seemed genuinely irritated by Magnus’s crude words, the way he was acting like a damn annoying child right now.
“If you keel over, who’s gonna be there when we finally tear those Dethklok bastards apart? Have you ever thought about that?”
Magnus went quiet. That was rare. Usually he’d snap into sarcasm or anger. But now, with no one else around, he allowed himself a second of weakness.
“Fine…” Magnus muttered at last. “One bite. And don’t look at me like I’m some wounded puppy you need to fatten up.”
The Assassin smiled faintly, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He pushed the plate closer, holding out the fork. Magnus took it with a scowl but did put a bite in his mouth. He chewed slowly, almost by force, as if he might throw up at any moment. The Assassin watched, unblinking. There was something almost tender in his gaze—insofar as that word could apply to a man who enjoyed dismembering people on hooks and could crush a human skull with his bare hands.
For a few minutes they sat in silence. Magnus forced himself to eat a couple more bites. The Assassin finished his enormous portion and even poured him a second mug—just regular coffee, no extra whiskey.
“See? Didn’t die,” Magnus grumbled, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“Not yet,” the Assassin replied. “But if you keep this up, I’ll tie you up myself and spoon-feed you. Every fucking day.”
It was supposed to sound like a threat. Yet there was a strange, fractured warmth in his voice. Magnus snorted, not daring to answer. For a moment he even leaned back, taking a drag and blowing nicotine smoke at the ceiling. They were both broken. Both sociopaths, capable of monstrous cruelty. Both obsessed with revenge. And yet, in rare moments, something resembling closeness flickered between them. As if they were trying to be human with each other, even if it came out crooked and deeply awkward.
“You eat too fucking much,” Magnus said quietly, to lighten the mood. “Fucking cannibal.”
“And you eat too little,” the Assassin replied, giving his shoulders a slight squeeze. “A strong wind could blow you away, huh?”
They both fell silent. Somewhere above, beyond the walls, the forest rustled. Down here it smelled of food, smoke, and a faint trace of blood. Magnus finished his cigarette. It was almost peaceful, in a twisted way.
But both of them knew it wouldn’t last. Soon they’d have to get back to the plan. Soon one of them would say the wrong thing, or the other would snap. But right now, on this particular morning, they were just there. Two monsters, trying to pretend they could care for each other. They both knew it wouldn’t end well, especially given their situation. But why not pretend, just for this small moment, that things could have turned out differently?