Chapter Text
A hiss interrupts the party, breaking the tense air with ancient magic, and as Curtis moves aside he reveals David in all her eldritch glory. Long, pale feet gracefully walk towards them and with a wicked, teethy grin the witch speaks, “so much weakness.”
She releases a breath as her grin unnaturally widens, and through that breath a heavy fog expels and settles around the party.
Trapping them in their darkest fears. David would love to savor their last moments and turn them into a glorious, victorious feast.
——
“Sir!” O’Doyle shouts into the fog, hearing multiple whispers and faint yells in the background; too indistinguishable to tell which member of the party it originated from. Or which direction.
The half-Leprechaun uses his third sense and groans when his frontal lobe throbs from the massive amounts of fear and hatred covering his eyes like a veil. The damned witch’s magic was blocking him.
This caused O’Doyle’s cortisol to spike, feeling his heart begin to beat faster, knowing the upper hand was no longer in the agent’s favor. He can’t find anyone. The half-leprechaun has no clue if this is real or an illusion.
O’Doyle begins to walk in one direction and shouts, “Sir! Banks! Anyone!?”
He only hears the whispering that is far too hushed to decipher, though there was weight behind them. Something ancient.
O’Doyle wonders if they were the witch’s victims.
The half-leprechaun abruptly stops when he sees a shadowy figure pacing several feet away. The individual was facing away but the secret service agent could tell from the silhouette that it resembled - “…Sir?” O’Doyle caustically takes a step forward, unarmed hand reaching out.
He tries to use his third sense once more, and isn’t too shocked to find the mist was still blocking him.
‘Is this actually him?’ He wonders.
The figure turns sharply, and it was a Curtis - who smiles relieved and walks up to the half-leprechaun whilst sighing in relief, “Thank fucking Christ, O’Doyle! Are you alright? Where’s Banks -“
Squish
Both men’s eyes widen as a pale tentacle stabs through President Curtis’s chest, both shocked as the appendage wiggles at them, and when Curtis attempts to grab at it the tentacle slips past and exits out of the wound; sliding into the cloudy abyss.
The President begins to gasp and cough blood immediately - stumbling before O’Doyle grasps him to direct Curtis onto the swampy floor and grasping the wound with both hands.
It was warm…meaning this is real.
“Stay with me!”
O’Doyle looks at the wound, and is even more horrified to see the wound is located right where the heart’s aorta would be. A severely fatal injury.
One that he wouldn’t be able to temporarily fix until help arrived.
”No. No, no, no,” His grip around the wound tightens as he desperately looks around, “HELP! BANKS, THE PRESIDENT IS DOWN!”
Only the President’s gurgling is the answer to his cries.
The secret agent feels the warm liquid slip abundantly past his fingers.
O’Doyle begins to hyperventilate, looking down at the man he admired - the only man who saw potential in him, with helplessness and it takes all the power in him to speak, “Sir, I - I’m sorry, Curtis. I should’ve stayed with you,” he sniffs, “We need help - but, but there’s no way out of this mist. It’d be too late.”
”There’s gotta be - some. Something you can do,” Curtis groans through a gurgling throat, “You’re my boy.”
The secret agent can only look at Curtis with a teary expression, “I…”
The President continues to cough on his blood, reaching a shaky hand and grabbing O’Doyle by the sleeve of his arm. The two share a moment, which was immediately broken when Curtis utters the next three words.
“You failed me.” Curtis states, voice a hushed whisper and seconds after the dying man begins to gag; more blood spilling out.
Only this time, it was pure gold.
Starting from the wound the liquid gold begins to expel from every hole on the President’s body - ears, nose, eyes, mouth and Curtis’s gagging increases until he finally coughs up two gold coins.
Coins begin to thrust out of the wound like a geyser and O’Doyle stumbles back in shock as Curtis’s body distorts.
Flesh pulsating akin to bubbling soup, eyes bulging out of their sockets and limbs jerking as though the President was having a seizure. His noises were haunting.
Seconds after the President bursts into coins and gore.
O’Doyle blinks, a few pieces flying past him, and becomes surrounded by piles of gold and jewelry.
He quickly gets up, nearly stumbling and surveys the area for any sign of the witch or one of his comrades.
When he doesn’t see anything the half-leprechaun growls in irritation, wiping his eyes before beginning to walk forward once more.
’At least I know now this is all an illusion. I need to break free and find Curtis.’
O’Doyle closes his eyes and takes a calculative deep breath, continuously putting into his head that none of this was real, and focusing on aligning his chakras.
Only to be disappointed when reopening his eyes - the infinite piles of treasure still there.
Water witches are one of the more powerful of the elements, having multiple forms and tricks up their sleeves - since David is no longer bound and has presumably eaten that she’s at full power.
Meaning that while the illusions still aren’t able to touch the victims, they’re harder to break free from.
He notices the whispering growing louder. No longer in the background like a fan’s hum, instead they rang loudly like cicadas in the summer. The half-leprechaun could only assume that meant he was getting close.
A red and green blur of motion is caught in his peripheral vision as it vanishes past a pile.
’Oh fuck no.’
”I swear to god I’ll fucking kill you if you do this!” O’Doylr hisses towards the black abyss that rested above, his gut uncontrollably squirming and the agent hated himself for it.
”Quit yer gurning, Francis.”
Bracing himself, the half-leprechaun turns and - there she was.
Waves of burnt cinnamon hair flowed freely behind a shorter figure in a green dress, the outfit’s style similar to that of a traditional Irish garment, and the illusion’s face showed how old she was through crow’s feet and smile lines, her thin lips painted red, and ghoulish eyes twinkling from the gold’s reflected light.
“Wow. Okay first of all, she’d never wear anything that fancy,” he scoffs whilst narrowing his eyes at the illusion, “Secondly, she’s way uglier.”
She rolls her eyes, “You still have that poxy mouth, I see. I figured somebody would’ve muzzled it by now.”
”Not everybody is you.” He snaps back, turning around and walking the opposite direction.
He will not tolerate this magic bullshit.
The Leprechaun rises from a chest filled with coins. Her figure, now dressed in her usual wardrobe, laid leisurely across the treasure as the illusion watches him walk past.
”Despite the many times you’ve disappointed me you are still part of the clan, A stóirín,” the term of endearment leaks with mockery as she calls out, “and it seems it’s time you finally accepted that. “
At that O’Doyle turns to face her, “I’m not one of you,” he shouts, “this isn’t even real!”
She tilts her head in an unnatural manner, neck cracking, cat-like eyes widening as her frown turns into a wicked grin and the illusion cackles, “Oh, my. You havn’t seen yourself yet?”
A mirror appears before O’Doyle in a whiff of golden smoke, who sees his reflection and automatically gasps; taking a step back at the image before him.
Not only was he somehow shorter, the agent was wearing a traditional Leprechaun outfit, and his ears were curved to a point.
The half-leprechaun looked like the spitting image of his mother.
“This is real, Francis,” she slips up behind him and the son jerks at the smell of booze wafting in his personal space, “you are of the Daoine Maithe. You can never escape that.”
With a trembling hand O’Doyle touches his right ear, fearing it would be real even though he knows it’s all an illusion, and lets out a breath when he feels the blunt earlobe.
Closing his eyes, the agent takes a deep breath to prepare himself, and in a blink of an eye turns and grabs her by the throat; lifting the leprechaun up in the air.
His mother lets out one choked gasp, staring at him with surprise.
“It wasn’t fun seeing you again. I really hope you’re living a shitty life,” he pulls out his gun from its holster and points at her stomach, “My friends need me now.”
Her face ghoulishly distorts as she demonically cackles, “Friends!? What friends, when you make one mistake they’ll throw you in a locked cell and happily watch you wither a - !”
He shoots.
When he blinks the illusion is broken - his mother now a limp tentacle dangling from his clenched fist and detached from David.
O’Doyle scans the foggy area for any more signs of threat and hears Banks shouting close by.
He runs in that direction.
.
.