“I can see that.” Priscilla Rubin addresses dryly, her lips pursed and a contemplative glance at the man currently pinned against the brick wall. A hand on her hip, and a signature blade in another. The dynamic between Pestilence’s cautious Virtue and her assigned Power always hinged on their entirely different dispositions. Fletcher could be reckless, temperamental, and vengeful (sometimes, simply for the sake of being those things). But his ruthlessness and quick-thinking was often the proper balance for Priscilla’s caution. Always one to think before she leaps, it did her well as a Virtue managing one of Pestilence’s most important assets. Still - there was a benefit to acting first, and thinking later. Fletcher is proof of that, and one man had already paid the price.
“Drop him.” She decides, undoubtedly earning Fletcher’s righteous protest. But her lips curl into a placating smile, gesturing to the unconscious body already strewn on the ground. “You need someone to send the message back to their boss.” She reminds him, slowly approaching the unconscious body. Her fingers rest against his pulse, warmed by the blood that Fletcher had drawn. “After all,” she pops her lips. “If a body is found on enemy territory, and no one’s around to talk about it - does it really make any noise?” The strength of Pestilence rested in their subtlety. They never beat their chest like Famine, or raised arms like War. Silent and deadly, would be their ammo. But they exposed themselves now. The first to break the Truce, and enact necessary evils on their enemies. Why not strengthen the message by allowing the frightened Angel to report back to their superiors?
“I mean it, Fletch.” Priscilla rises back up, as she places a placating hand on his shoulder. A softer tone, but not any kinder. “Drop him. It’s the smart play.”
“A dead messenger is still a messenger,” something sinister glinted in his eyes, triggered, no doubt, since the recent events unfolding in London. “Reckon it will make enough noise when one of their own is found dead on their own territory,” he shrugged, but obliging with Priscilla’s request, the grip on his victim’s neck loosened. Hinging on the edge of life and death, the man dropped on the ground with a thud.
Fletcher had never been big on authority and following command - but not when it came to Priscilla. Earning Fletcher Gray’s loyalty was no easy feat, but she had – one of the very few people who could count on Fletcher to have their back, come hell or high water, and to do their bidding. Wherever Priscilla went, Fletcher followed. Whatever Priscilla wanted, Fletcher made it happen. No questions asked.
“Now, listen here, sock puppet,” as a parting gift, the Power slapped the man to render him awake enough to hear the message, “Tell your boss that Pest was here to collect what they’re owed, if it wasn’t fucking clear enough already.” With that, he finally let go, and turned his attention to the Virtue. “Want to get out of here? I mean I could to this all night, but...”