Stealth was important in the game of crime and mishaps, whether others seemed to appreciate it or not. There were soldiers on the field that ran into battle with their weapons raised, war cries screaming from the pits of their throat, their bodies taking bullets yet their minds forcing them to push forward, eliminate the threat. There were commanders, like his brother, who enjoyed the stampede just as much as any other goon and he, too, ran head first into battle, wanting to feel the taste of blood on his skin and soak in it as if it were a nice bath. There were the presidents, who sat heavy on the other line barking orders and saluting their men as they came home wounded, but alive, and rarely did these men see the plight of battle anymore...rather, they remained cooped in their kingdom, praised and worshiped, for good causes.
And then there was him; a strange mix of soldier and background noise...the cleaner. The hums of battle were an echo by the time Deimos came to a crime scene, and he could only relive the moment according to the angle of the blood splatter or the bullet holes penetrated into the opposing walls. He was not a magician, and he could not make anything disappear permanently, no matter how often the clutter of Hades's underground army believed it to be true. But to clean it up, to hide it temporarily until something bigger came across the desks of the overworked NYC crime-labs, until the people who perished in the battle were long forgotten and no one was exactly looking for them anymore...that was Deimos's long-term plan. Patience, and stealth. Because getting caught at the crime scene was not particularly the endgame. No...in the end it was all about placement, subtly, illusion...
And saving his fucking brother.
Deimos left all coherent thoughts of stealth behind him as he plowed through the city with Hades riding shotgun, and when he pulled up closer to the docks he could smell the shift in atmosphere from the various vendors that sold their stinky fish at the crack of dawn, and even in the middle of the night they were beginning to set up their stands...oblivious to what was going on, that there could be a dead body hanging out nearby ready to taint their meat. Bi-standers were never an ideal part of the plan, but Deimos decided in the moment that pulling some con to get them away from the docks would be more suspicious then acting like he belonged.
He parked his truck and stepped out, flinging the duffle bag across his shoulders...hearing the guns within rattle and clang together. He double checked the strap around his ankle holding his smaller piece, the holster under his jacket carrying twin pistols, the hunting knife attached to his belt. Inside the bag was a sniper and a few grenades, and other AK's in case a more violent and demanding approach was needed. The god of terror looked over at his boss, exchanging a wholesome and energetic glance that spoke a thousand words unsaid; if Phobos was hurting so was he...he could feel it, like sparks of chaos reaping the blood from his veins. And no one understood that more than Hades.
He didn't have a plan. All he knew was that his brother was here, somewhere. And he'd rip the spine out of the man that stupidly decided to place a finger on him.
