@hckrgod - in the valley of wolves
“Do excuse me,” came a voice from the back of the warehouse and in a matter of moments, the ricochet of bullets came from the men with guns he brought for protection.
You couldn’t just be the King of Gotham without the muscle, after all.
“I have reason to believe you’re holding a young man hostage,” Oswald told a man who raised his weapon to him, which was promptly shot from his hand. “And for that, I must say.. naughty naughty…you know the rules.”
There was clemency and he drank it up, even going so far as to close his eyes and inhale deeply, showing a vulpine set of teeth before nodding his head that, yes, all of those who disobeyed one of his rules was to die.
“No harming young ones,” he says, and when every last traitor had spoken their last did he approach the young man in the corner of the room.
And something softens in him, as if he’d never ordered dozens of men to die moments before.
“I’m deeply sorry,” he says, and his voice is thick with woe. “I never wanted any harm to come to you, young man.”
And Oswald Cobblepot, the self-imposed Jackal King of Gotham, extends his hand.
“Can I help you?”
there were so many things that could go wrong with a job. ——— lack of payment. running out of time. or a strong instinct to drop it and instead do the RIGHT THING. his hands had always been covered in crimson and smudge. a brittle cold beat in his chest. pushing everyone away fighting through life on his own. and yet something had him destroy the very algorithm he had been working on. he had been in America for what seemed like years now under a new employer. payment had been set up he had it almost entirely finished, SOMETHING THAT COULD SHAKE THE WORLD, something that could have destroyed it if given to the wrong set of hands and these hands before him, were wronger than what God allowed.
a baton across the face had head tossing towards the side due to impact. crimson dotting his lips as it dripped from parting. he spat and grinned curls curtaining his face as he was drenched in water. two days of torment. he had been through worse. arms strapped behind him bounding him to a chair. a punch to the gut had him choking on air, he was starting to lose his sense of living. what mark had he made on the world? would anyone notice. lids fell closed over golden eyes sucking in a sharp breath. HE WOULD EMBRACE IT, welcoming death with open arms. no connections, no ties, nothing that bound him.
BUT LUCIEL , YOU CAN’T GIVE UP … NOT NOW.
but nothing came and instead he was opening eyes to a gruesome sight that had him widening them. what? wincing as the sounds of beating and gun shots grew louder. chew tightening before his gaze finally lifted to the leader of this little massacre. minutes of silence he heard the clacking of shoes and cane before his eyes cut coldly at the one in front of him. show some respect was the first that he could think of but one boss could be just as bad or worse as the next. head dipping back he grinned, showing off sharp canines that drenched in red. some of his own and some from biting before attempting to fight back with tied limbs.
❛ releasing my arms would be a blessing … since they are starting to go numb. ❜