𝙥𝙖𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙

power, pestilence, pleasure.

[fletchergry-archive]

rfjofficial​:

@fletchergry​ | Midday Thursday, March 26th near Hyde Park

Was it in poor taste to drink and dine off of the suffering of Pestilence’s Seraphim? Perhaps. Did the Femeniases do so anyways? Absolutely. A haphazard, last minute get-together at Rafael’s sky high Mayfair penthouse. Littered with copious amount of champagne, tequila, and refined dishes taken straight out from The Conservatory - the cousins toasted to the long anticipated revenge against Victoria Pinkett. Instagram stories filled with celebratory debauchery, culminating in an all-too-painful hangover the next morning. It takes two aspirins, a hearty breakfast, and a steam in Rafael’s shower before some measure of clarity comes to him. Still - the morning after woes prevail, and Rafael decides its best to sweat it out. Nothing like his 10 mile run to wash away a hangover.

The London air is crisper now, lacking in the harsh cold of months prior. A promise of Spring, of new beginnings. And, more importantly, of lighter clothing and more forgiving fashion choices. His feet hit the pavement, halfway through his run as he dips into Hyde Park. The music blaring in his ear as he shares a smile with any half-pretty onlooker that comes by. Commitment never did rid a man of his flirtation gene. Mid-stride, he feels his Apple Watch buzz. Glancing down, he sees a text from his security team. Out of sight, but always present. A measure placed for his safety, and the safety of his family. Tall, Caucasian male - tailing you for the last mile or so. Rafael decides not to let up, continuing through the familiar park at fervent speed. He courses underneath the oncoming bridge, making a quick beeline behind it. One hand leaning against the other, hand already pressed against the holster bound to his hip.

“Let me guess? Victoria Pinkett sends her prissy regards.” Rafael accuses, self-satisfied smile to have caught the Pestilence Power on his tail. “You getting winded there, bud? We’re only halfway done this run.”

--

Only a goddamn maniac would start his mornings with a cool half-marathon around central London, and Fletcher didn’t have words for the guy who did it the day after a penthouse rave. He hadn’t seen the Instagram stories, but word travelled fast; fast enough that he’d left Silver Crest last night with even greater resolve to do unto Rafael as he’d done to Victoria. It would be a poetic, delicious vengeance, another erstwhile friend on the receiving end of a well-placed fist. He left his flat at an ungodly hour, sunglasses propped above his forehead, the comforting weight of a switchblade in the inner pocket of his jacket. Whistling a jaunty tune as he settled on a bench in Hyde Park. Come out, Rafael, wherever you are. 

And that he did, blazing through the park gates, faster than Fletcher had expected. He scrambled after the other man at a discreet distance - weaving through other joggers, mothers pushing prams, flocks of children on leashes. Sweat pooled pool at the back of his neck, under the thick jacket collar; Fletcher was dressed for an ambush, not a chase. But his attention narrowed to the figure fading in the distance and he surged forward, chasing his quarry under Serpentine Bridge - and lost him in the shadows at once. Fletcher slowed down, heavy breaths echoing in the stone tunnel along with the faint trickle of running water. 

When he passed through to the other side, Rafael was waiting. And Fletcher was ready, blade glinting in his hand under the midday sun. “Fuck you,” he said - although his face, red with exertion, betrayed him. “First of all, running as a hangover cure is absolute shite, what the fuck is your damage?” His words slowed as he caught his breath. Face to face with Rafael - Rafael Femenias Jr in the fucking flesh, at last - Fletcher felt a twist of nausea in the pit of his belly, and his hands shook from months of repressed rage. “Not just Victoria,” he said. “Did you forget about Mitzi? I’ve got a long list of wrongs to right.” 

Revenge was an easy justification. An equivalence that made intuitive sense: eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth (wound for a wound). It was harder to explain - to himself, to anyone - why Fletcher burned with such resentment for Rafael; maybe they were too alike, save the Femenias name and inheritance. Maybe it was watching someone as wretched as he was climb their way to the top, rolling in money and power and love. The grin on Rafael’s face felt taunting, and Fletcher felt his own expression shift into a snarl. “You look too fucking pleased right now, Raf.” He straightened and took a step closer, looming over the other man as he spoke about being only halfway done. “You can make up for the rest when you’re out of the hospital.”

[fletchergry-archive]

victoriapinkett​:

Location: Silver Crest Hospital

Timestamp: March 25, evening

With: @fletchergry​

Over the last two days, there had been a stream of visitors in and out, though admittedly, they blurred together. Her mother had been there, at some point, hovering over her. She hadn’t been able to stay long, too many other responsibilities, and Victoria could hardly blame her. The peace and quiet, at least for a short while, had been nice.

She was feeling quite lucid this afternoon, the television on the wall ignored in favour of her laptop. (Work mode, as she much as she hated to admit it, was never far from her mind, even now. It was easier than trying to grasp what had happened or sulk in pain.) She looked up when the door opened. Admittedly, she wasn’t sure who she had expected it to be, but it wasn’t Fletcher Gray. Not that she had any issue with him, but he hadn’t struck as the type to show up at her bedside.

Nonetheless, she smiled tiredly, setting her laptop aside on the tray. “Hi. Welcome to my humble abode. Normally I’m a better entertainer, but the best I can do right now is…” She glanced at the bedside tray. “Packaged ginger snaps.” Sitting up a bit further (though not without a wince) she leaned in to look up at him. “S’nice to see you, though. Really.”

--

The hospital was as much a part of Pestilence as the nightclub, but Fletcher rarely found himself in this other world - gleaming bright hallways and cutting-edge equipment, lab coats and scrubs, a whirl of activity. Not quite his scene, but he was here on gang business. He was almost chased out by the receptionist until he made a few choice threats about getting them fired (they were empty threats, if anyone asked). Stalking the labyrinth of corridors, he found Victoria’s ward - a private one, with the appropriate level of security after the move fulled Rafael Femenias Jr. had pulled. 

Fletcher pushed the door open and froze at the sight of her - worn, exhausted, still with her laptop open on her bed. Worse than he’d thought, but he covered it with a smirk and a once-over. “You look great. Feeling alright?” The question was perfunctory. He figured Victoria could take care of herself. They weren’t close enough for him to sit on the bed; instead he pulled up a chair so he wouldn’t have to loom over Victoria like a vampire. “I’d settle for ginger snaps,” he said, and helped himself to a biscuit - free food always tasted good. “Figured a Seraphim deserves a better care package, though.” 

Like the one Fletcher was about to offer her. He waved aside her pleasantries and cut to the chase. “Femenias has fucked with us for the last time,” he said, still smiling despite the hard gleam in his eyes. He was tense in his seat, desperate for Victoria’s green light; at long last, a reason to come for Rafael’s neck. “Tell me to make it right and I will.” It was a proposition crudely made, but Fletcher wasn’t the sort to worry about his boss’ feelings. If Ricardo were here, this would be his job. Someone had to take over. 

[fletchergry-archive]

glitchxxd​:

-

     A devilish smile inscribed itself on Enzo’s lips. Fletcher hadn’t even the slightest idea how much the hacker knew about himself and his little Pestilence friends. Classified files of drugs, illegal trades, a multitude of people connected to the lab fires of his parents’ accident, even more so to the people he knew were in the club somewhere, lurking and trying to undo the leak Enzo had orchestrated so beautifully a couple of weeks ago. The thousands upon thousands digital and physical currency they had lost all under the fingers tips which held the catalyst of tonight’s distraction. Enzo twirled the cigarette in-between his thumb and index finger, eyes glued on the figure in front of him. Fletcher had changed as well, but joined the wrong crew of criminals. “I’ve been up to no good. Not in the slightest.”

     He would never go out of his way to hit Fletcher at a smoking point while Death was collecting the prized target, but Enzo felt the hand clamping onto his shoulder, the strong grip not allowing his features to falter. When he thought of all the wrongs the big figures hiding in that club did, the plague they seethed amidst London, disgust settled in his entire body. “Last thing I checked, I don’t owe an explanation to nobody.” Piercing eyes were pinned on his old pal, the rum kicking in and making his mind dizzy for the better. 

           Distraction initiated. 

     Lifting the cigarette high in the air as if demonstrating with his free arm, he took a long drag and as he released the cloud of smoke its flame was extinguished in Fletcher’s clamped hand and escaped his grasp. He grasped the nape of the other’s neck and pulled his head in with a sharp movement, foreheads colliding into each other much like the explosions last month. A sharp pain struck Enzo’s head and it felt fucking amazing. Blood rushed to his head, fists curled and ready to bring it on. “Come fucking pull it out, then, mate!” The Angel had always preferred to attack behind his computer screen but tonight, the exhilarating rush of what was about to unfold worked like a drug to him. Why not let out some pent up anger on some Pesties, he thought, bracing himself for Fletcher’s reaction.

He smelled stale piss and cigarette smoke, the stench of every London alleyway, and beneath it the tang of blood soon to be shed. Enzo’s face morphed into someone else entirely under hazy streetlights, wearing a cruel smirk that belonged to a stranger. What the fuck happened to you? Fletcher wanted to ask. Of course he’d thought about Enzo in the long years intervening. This wasn’t the reunion he’d imagined. There were secrets buried beneath that smug grin, and it only infuriated Fletcher even more. Whatever the hell up to no good meant. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a fucking computer programmer or something,” he said, dismissively. They’d always been up to no good - that was nothing new. But it was the way Enzo had said it, the promise of consequences to come. 

“You’re on Pestilence turf,” Fletcher added, slowly. Giving his words time to sink in. “You’re still beholden to that.” Enzo levelled him with a look that sent a chill down his spine, and instinct took over. His stance shifted to accommodate a swing that never came, not expecting the cigarette stubbed into the back of his hand, the grip around his neck that would reel him in and smack their foreheads together. “Jesus fucking Christ!” 

Their little catch-up session was over before it had even begun. He spread his palms and shoved Enzo in the chest, hard, breaking the other man’s grip before closing the distance again to launch a fist into his face. It connected with a satisfying crack close to his eye and Fletcher sank back onto his heels, grinning widely as he faced the other man. That would leave a nice bruise. “Feels good, don’t it?” he asked. It was the catharsis in Enzo’s voice, matching his own rush of adrenaline. There was stinging pain everywhere - his knuckles, the burn on his hand, the crown of his head. And it felt good. He’d missed brawling outside PEST, a stupid Angel who didn’t know any better and didn’t have to. 

In his peripheral vision, most of the smokers took off. A few moved closer, patrons hungry for blood. Fletcher lunged at Enzo again - he was done talking, and eager to give the people what they want - raised to grab the other man’s shoulders and drive a knee into his ribcage. 

[pennywises]

John Boyega + Bill Skarsgård  → Naked Singularity Trailer (2021).

[fletchergry-archive]

vincentkilatan​:

A degenerate, alcohol-laden smile encompasses his face. A hint of pride that Enzo’s spectacle landed exactly where they intended. In the midst of tending to his best mate’s bruises, the question was asked - was it worth it? And though Ricardo was now in their custody, a feat in and of itself. This secondary benefit of having rattled both the influential Power and his corrupt boss sweetened the deal. Fortunately, the smile is taken as one of affection and ease. His fingers curling along that mop of brown hair, as he had many times before. “Baby, you got to calm down.” A touch of condescension as he says it, but he marries it by lingering close to his ear. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He croons.

“I’m sure he had it coming.” A quick glance back at the pub, where Enzo was undoubtedly taking pink-hued shots and engaging in easy debauchery. The physical pain of days prior, subdued by the victory they were inching towards. “You mean apart from you?” Vincent laughs. “You’re the shadiest person I know.” Not including the lot of duplicitous people behind Pale Stallion’s closed doors. “No, I just came around for a good time. Didn’t see much. Why?” He narrows his brows in effect. “Is it not safe to be hanging around Pest right now?” Shining of concern, much like a helpless doe in the woods.

“What? We aren’t friends?” Surely in between alcohol-fueled hook ups and conversations about nothing and everything, they could be considered friends. “Didn’t I? I was hoping you’d remember from that time I mentioned it on our first date.” He banters back sarcastically. Knowing fully well that the closest they got to a date was setting a time and place for a hook up. “They can wait a little longer.” He placates with a laugh, mercurial hands finding the sides of Fletcher’s waist. “I’d invite you in. But I promised them I’d stop bringing my bad boy hook ups around. I think they’re tired of the revolving door of fuck boys.” He kisses the roof of his teeth, suggestive hands darting underneath Fletcher’s shirt. “I’m not, though.”

--

The voice close to his ear makes his hair stand on end. He schools his face into a serious expression, invested in this game of chicken now. It’s been a while since someone called him baby. “Then how did you mean it?” Fletcher asks. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’re probably the most dangerous thing at PEST.” With a face like that, of course he is. “Just a wee disturbance, but it’ll sort itself out.” Didn’t see much, Vincent says, and Fletcher believes him - wants to believe him, so he does. Besides, Pestilence has seen worse, including the harrowing losses of last month. A missing Dominion (who can hold his own very fucking well) is nothing they can’t deal with.

“’Course,” Fletcher says. Although sometime in the past decade, his idea of friendship has grown a lot more – amorphous. There aren’t many outside the gangs that he counts as friends; no one else seems to understand the world they inhabit. “I’m just teasing, baby.” He raises an eyebrow as warm hands slide under his shirt, enough to distract him from his curiosity about the Stallion’s locked doors. It’s been a while since someone called him a fuckboy, too. In fact, Fletcher thought he’d aged out of the term. “Is that what I am? I was friend just a second ago.” His own hands come up to stop them, closing gently around the other man’s wrists.

It’s as good a birthday present as any. Fletcher kisses him, chaste and friendly, without any real heat; not their usual speed, but it feels right. “Happy birthday.” The words are weighed with gratitude. Vincent, unlike most people he hooks up with, is warm without asking too many questions, and it feels like something to cherish. “Don’t fucking leave PEST early again or you’re banned.”

[fletchergry-archive]

kyungxsoon​:

Death fills the screen, fills the air, like slow moving gas, expanding and overtaking a space before anyone realizes what’s happening. She watches, with everyone else, as three lives are ended. Ky doesn’t blink away from the violence or horror of it but nails dig half-moons into her palms, as rings imprint themselves into soft flesh.  She feels something twist in her, a conflict rising from the pit of her stomach as she sees the life seep from Ricardo, spilled water slowly trickling out before them. It’s unease at the realization that she feels…vindicated in some way. That no act of cruelty goes unpunished. 

She feels the scar on her palm and digs nails in deeper. A reminder of the end he’d sought to give her. The one she’d fought like hell to avoid. It’s justice, she tells herself, karma even, though she doesn’t believe in such a thing. Lucky, maybe. A coincidence. But she herself is the master of such things and Kyung-Soon had nothing to do with this. With any of it. And yet. There’s relief. In death, Ricardo can no longer haunt her. His ghost may linger at the edges of dreams, but he is no longer the threat – the guillotine hovering above her neck, ready to come down with vengeance at the opportune moment. 

At the sight of Leon, she feels guilty for not feeling more, having never known the other Power beyond polite interactions within the institution of Famine. Still, she can’t help the visceral reaction to seeing a man lit on fire. She glances away until the camera pans to another. To the final sacrifice of the night. Juno brings a twinge of sadness, of an old friend lost. Someone she’d not spoken to in some time but who’d undoubtedly played a hand in Kyung-Soon’s success. The exchange of information, of secrets handed off like collateral of who to nudge, who to cater to, had given Ky the step up she needed to rise in rank. In exchange, she’d share bits of conversations she’d heard, people with whom the Warden was making deals with and needed leverage on as she proved her merit within her family’s organization. If this can happen to a Seraphim of War…the statement doesn’t finish as lights come up and coffins rise in turn. 

There’s panic in the room, rising up as people gasp, as the sound of horror and grief mingle. There’s a swam of people leaving, and a swarm of people staying.  Ky might’ve stayed put and been the dutiful soldier she’s made herself out to be these past weeks, had she not caught a glimpse of a familiar face. May. Something in her goes cold and she swallows the rock suddenly lodged in her throat. It's  jagged edges scrape down larynx as she takes a breath. She dislodges her clutch from the crook of her elbow, taking it one hand as she makes after the other woman. Ky pushes through the crowd of bodies, jostling towards the coffins and some doing everything they can do to get away from them. 

Maybe it’s not May. But even as she thinks it, it feels foolish. She turns a corner, heading down the hallway she swears the other was just walking towards when she’s yanked back and shoved against a wall. Eyes wide for only a second before narrowing at Fletcher as she loosens her grip on the small blade in her trouser pocket. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She spits, fucking tired of being manhandled in fucking warehouses. “What do you mean, what did you do.” She laughs, as if she can’t believe what he’s actually asking. It’s caustic and sharp and not at all like the friendly sound that might otherwise echo between them before. Before was dead and gone and they’d all witnessed its execution five minutes ago. Ky can see the distress on his face ( and supposes the lack of it on hers doesn’t bode well for her ), but ignores that fact and shakes her head.  “What are you even saying?” 

--

It’s not red he sees but a foggy grey at the edges of his vision, clouding his thoughts, filling his throat. There is a part of him - quiet, buried deep - that wants to be proven wrong. Kyung-Soon’s face is limned by an overhead light further down the hallway; Fletcher absorbs her cold, stony expression, the cruel twist of laughter on her lips. He makes his inferences. She must have a hand in it somehow, of course she does, because kidnapping Ricardo once wasn’t fucking enough.

The validation weighs heavy on his chest like a stone. Old, trusted friends have proven treacherous in the past weeks. Enzo, and Jack - there one moment and gone the next, a glimpse so brief he could’ve imagined it (if only). And now Kyung-Soon. Betrayal leaves traces of bile in his mouth. 

No turning back now. His stance doesn’t change; instead his hand tightens in the fabric of her jacket, holding her in place. The last time they’d spoken, Kyung-Soon had asked if he would kill her on behalf of Ricardo. Fletcher knows the real answer to that now. “Guess you got even,” he snaps, and then tugs her away from the wall and shoves her, hard. “Don’t play dumb, Ky. That was some fucking sadistic shit.” Turning their deaths into a spectacle, their pain into a flourish. He’s killed before – they all have, in this line of work, but it’s always been perfunctory for him. Whoever the speaker was, there had been a note of pure delight in their voice. Ricardo didn’t deserve to die for someone’s schadenfreude – worse, for someone’s fucking recruitment ad. 

“Who were you working with?” he asks, stalking towards her. The walls of the narrow hallway seem to absorb all sound, sucking their voices in. No noise from the warehouse reaches them; it’s like they don’t exist. “Christ, should’ve known you’d fold for the first gang who came knocking. And you really think you’ll get away with it?” Maybe they offered Kyung-Soon a way out – of Famine, of this life. Tempting, even for him, but Fletcher knows the only way out is through. They have too much blood on their hands to be absolved so easily. 

[fletchergry-archive]

prisephone​:

Priscilla’s not thinking. Thats the point of PEST right? She was reminded on the dance floor, reminded that this place is for feeling, forgetting, and just fucking letting go. Too wrapped up in the reopening, in reinstating it’s former glory that she had misplaced it’s purpose, and Fletcher is the one that reminded her, and perhaps the only one that could. So here she is, back against the cold brick wall, and the warmth of Fletcher’s body drawing closer, hand at her waist pinning her there, the smell of tobacco on his breath as she reaches up to capture it– Then the sudden and abrasive feeling of her phone vibrating against her skin where it’s pinned beneath her dress. Her eyes find her Power’s for a moment, her thoughts circling the last time he stood this close, the memory of his lips against her own, a memory she can’t seem to shake. But her cellphone serves as a wake up call, a reminder that she can’t disappear into the madness like everyone else, that she has a job to do above all else. 

With a hand on his chest, Priscilla gently pushes Fletcher away as she reaches into her dress. Turning away to hide whatever wayward emotions might be playing across her features, the Virtue clears her throat and accepts the call. “Yeah?” The voice on the other end of the line is speaking urgently, almost stumbling over their words in the rush to get them out. “Wait, wait, slow down. A bomb?” Priscilla listens intently as the news is repeated, a weight settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. “Did anyone get hurt?” Thank god for that, but with a sickening realization, the woman realizes PEST could have been the target, and a selfish part of her is simply thankful it was the labs instead. “But we fucking paid those assholes! A billion fucking pounds!” She turns to Fletcher now, her face a picture of shock and rage. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure.” The line goes dead, and Priscilla slowly lowers the phone, looking at the dark screen for more answers that nobody has. 

“We’ve been bombed,” she finally says, running a hand through unruly hair. “And hacked. The medical manufacturing sector has been leaked to the public by some anonymous anarchist bullshit. So… We’re fucked.” She is silent for a moment, before “GODDAMNIT!” The word ricochets off the alleyway walls, making the silence that follows even quieter. Cold blue eyes are alight as she looks at the Power. “Can’t catch a fucking break.” Taking a deep breath she pauses, eyes flashing to Fletcher’s lips for a split second. “Thanks for the dance,” she says, before turning to pull the door open again, music flooding out. “Come on. We need to find Fazal.”

Taking a careful, tiny step backwards puts all the distance in the world between them; literal breathing room, he thinks, because he does remember to breathe. Fletcher looks away too, afraid of what he’ll see on Priscilla’s face. Afraid of what he’s done to her. Their breath fogs in the cold night air around them, and he thinks about lighting a cigarette again. He knows what will happen – what always happens. They will walk back into PEST, arms bumping companionably; they will go back to being coworkers. By unspoken consensus, they will never speak about this. It will happen again.

Fletcher doesn’t register Priscilla’s words; rather the horrified surprise in her voice when she says bomb. He inches closer, phone already in his hands to make a call – to bring security down on the heads of anyone involved. It’s so rare to see Priscilla lose her cool and that shakes him more than anything, but Fletcher keeps his face still. A bomb. A billion fucking pounds. This is information he doesn’t know what to deal with; words about a data leak, way above his pay grade. “Pris,” he says, his voice sharp, and swears under his breath. What do you need from me? 

And he doesn’t miss the flicker of her gaze on his face. “Pris,” he says again, quieter, just as she turns to head back into the nightclub. “The Labs? I can drive us.” He knows better than to ask for an explanation now, when she’ll just have to repeat herself to Fazal later. They’ll sort it out, they always do; but for now they’re back to Power and Virtue, and he doesn’t get to demand things of her. Fletcher shakes himself out of it and follows.  

[fletchergry-archive]

oflightfeet​:

Friends in odd nooks and crannies. Having spent almost a decade running around London in an attempt to find a reason to stop running, Wren has acquaintances scattered around the city. Fletcher Gray is one of those, a friend made before Famine, before this fucking gang war, before another friend had vanished without a trace. Both Gray siblings, in fact, have found some kind of spot in Wren’s life, though that’s a fact they’ve tried to forget now that bloody enemy lines have been drawn.

Fletcher texts. They give a one word reply.  The news that one of Pestilence’s members has disappeared is filed away but Wren does not do much with it, not until Leon too has gone missing. They send a text against better judgement, knowing that there’s risk to meeting someone tied to Mitzi. But the words they had said to him over the phone echo in their head. Expendable pawns. And Leon, a low-ranking member of Famine, was exactly that, and while Wren did not doubt that does that outranked him were trying their best, they longed for something to do themselves. To their superiors, Leon could be replaced. To Wren? Not so much.

Familiar ( and most importantly, neutral ) territory is crossed with trepidation. The dive bar is laced with hazy memories, clouded by alcohol. They have a switchblade in their boot and a butterfly knife stocked in their back pocket, just to be sure. He orders a beer, to be polite to the familiar face of the bartender, gives a nod and a smile and then turns. Wren does not intend to stay long. 

They find the Pestilence Power in the back, cloaked by shadows and they are glad for it. They sit down, place their beer on the table. Wren does has no plans to drink from it tonight. “Good evening,” they say, the words tasting oddly formal on his tongue. A few months ago, they would have embraced Fletcher, albeit a bit awkwardly as they tended to be, flashed him a grin. But he looks well, they think. That’s something. “Fuck. I mean hi.” Wren traces a line in the condensation of their glass. “How do … we do this? You go first?” Fuck, they really want a sip of their fucking beer. “Are you okay?”

The last time he saw Wren was –

He can’t remember. Before the truce broke, which seems a lifetime ago. Maybe he’ll mention it to Ricardo, when he shows his face again – so when you took that little fucking holiday of yours, we actually did some inter-gang bonding, so thanks for that. Maybe Ricardo would find it funny. The gratitude is sincere, though, in a twisted way. Wren is an old friend and Fletcher trusts him the way he trusts all old friends - bloodshed aside, he would have their back in a fight. It just depends on who they’re up against. 

So he lets himself relax as Wren approaches, jacket falling open to show he isn’t carrying. Just in case they’re looking (and Fletcher’s sure they are). He says good evening and Fletcher can’t help a surprised laugh. It’s not their usual style, but he can work with that. “Greetings and salutations,” he says, teasing. But Wren gets down to business quickly, settling into the chair across from him. The setting is familiar; the game is not. “Hell, I can go first, if you want.” No reason not to lay his cards on the table, and he does, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the rough wood. Hopes Wren can’t tell how hard he’s trying to look relaxed. 

“Ricardo’s been gone for almost two weeks now.” Fuck, has it been that long, what the fuck are they doing? He fumbles a little for the next words. “I don’t know. We don’t have a lot of leads, but they took him from his flat. I thought you all – Famine might be involved after what happened the last time.” In truth they aren’t fully cleared in Fletcher’s mind; nothing Femenias does is above suspicion.

Their last question warrants a raised eyebrow. Not exactly business-like.  “I’m fine.” He decides not to mention that Rafael Jr fucked him up this morning, although it was one man versus a fucking security detail. Not a fair fight by any means. Fletcher steadies himself with another swig; it was hard enough to set this up, and he will not be sidetracked. “…Are you okay?”

[daebom]

Bill Skarsgård as Willard Russell in THE DEVIL ALL THE TIME (2020)

[fletchergry-archive]

vincentkilatan​:

It was the danger of their falsehood - balancing the thinnest of tight ropes, with the frailty of their anonymity. Although it may not seem like it, Vincent was not naturally duplicitous. His words were too frank, too honest to play the mind games that Sacha or Laura play too well. Manipulation wasn’t his forte. Fanaticism and commitment, however, were powerful motivators. He manages through, vanquishing the stomach-churning guilt in the back of his mind. One that only sees the harsh light of truth, in Wren’s breathes and Ginny’s knowing eyes. But not now, and certainly not around Fletcher Gray.

In another time, in another world - maybe they stood a chance. They got on well enough, genuine laughter and shared impulsivity as a driving force. But Fletcher was a man for whom ideals shifted, based solely on where his pockets could be further lined. A man who seemingly stood for something, yet nothing at the same time. And it’s people like that, that Vincent feels little qualms about lying to. Frankly, it’s what they deserve. So he smiles, pink-painted fingertips lightly threading along the small hairs on the back of his neck. Warm affection and boyish lust, meant to distract. Though to keep Fletcher away from a party, from a drink? Easier said than done.

“Is it ‘cause of all that shit that went down at Pest a couple nights ago? I left early. Too much drama. I wanted to fuck about in peace, not watch you kick the shit out of some guy.” Or, more accurately, the exact proper amount or drama. Enzo may have paid the price, but soon enough, Pestilence will reap Death’s colossal rage. “My friends aren’t mopey.” He shrugs, flashing the Power a withering glance of disbelief. “Mhm,” he murmurs, opening up his pink jacket to reveal the ‘Birthday Boy’ sticker against his baby pink shirt. “My friends threw me a surprise birthday party. Twenty-fucking-seven.” He shrugs, purposely ignoring his ask for a drink. Lingering closely, as his head tilts in a seemingly flirtatious manner. “Aren’t you gonna wish me a happy birthday?”

-

They peel away from the pub steadily, leaving the seductive pink-hued glow of that window behind. Fletcher frowns, his sodden brain struggling to make any real inferences about this - apart from the creeping discomfort he feels, the suspicion that something’s off. But then warm fingers curl against the back of his neck, and Fletcher’s mind draws a blank. Vincent is reliable that way, diversion embodied in human form, so disarmingly carefree. Must be nice, he thinks; living without the shadow of a gang looming over your head. He doesn’t want to be reminded of that night, of Enzo’s bruised face, but it comes anyway. Betrayal leaves a bitter taste. 

“Something like that,” Fletcher says, and he knows Vincent isn’t being accusatory, but he can’t hide the defensiveness in his voice. “It was an old friend, and he was mouthing off. So.” He pauses. Even if he’d left early, Vincent was the sort to notice things. “You didn’t see anything odd? Or anyone shady hanging around - apart from PEST staff, obviously?” He knows he should ask, but he hates the crush of tension in his chest at the thought of Ricardo. For five fucking minutes Fletcher wants to go without thinking about Pestilence. 

The obnoxiously pink jacket is a welcome distraction, as is the man wearing it. The evening’s theme is fairly obvious at a glance. “Yeah? Wouldn’t mind being one of your friends.” As he speaks, he inches closer to inspect the sticker and lets his gaze linger. The birthday party explains the pub’s closure, but it’s still fun to feign indignation. “Fuck off, really? You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.” Fletcher grins at the teasing note in the other man’s voice, hands moving to pull the jacket tighter around his shoulders, like he’s about to zip Vincent back up. “I could give you a present now, but you shouldn’t keep your guests waiting.”

[fletchergry-archive]

geniegrayx​:

Genie let her brother flail around trying to search for the right thing to say, without any hint of wanting to help him find the right words. If they even existed. Neither Gray was great at communication, not with each other. Probably not with others either really. So, even if she didn’t get some enjoyment from watching her brother struggle, she wouldn’t be able to offer any of the right things he was supposed to say in this situation because she didn’t know what to say either.

Instead she lifted her feet onto the couch, and pulled her sweater over her knees tugging the hood over her head and pulling the strings until her face was half hidden inside of the cozy fabric. Only a groan given in response.

Though a moment later she straightened up,  “do you mean did I see them torture three people to death?”  Perhaps they could say that at least Ricardo’s death seemed to be … peaceful? Or had he just denied them the satisfaction of letting them know they had caused him any sort of pain?  “They set a guy on fire, Fletch,”  Genie said tossing her arms up dramatically.  “What the fuck kind of person does that?"  Batshit evil people, that was who. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to unsee what happened, if she was ever going to be able to go to sleep again no matter what she did.

She gave a childish pout, curling back up into herself and resting her chin on her knees her eyes flickering over towards the bag sitting next to the couch, then back to her brother.  ”What? No!  I’m not–“  She looked almost offended at the idea.  “Why would I do that? Fuck those people. If they want to help people maybe use the money they wasted on their pretentious fucking presentation, stupid ass costumes, and murders to build homes and pay rent for low income families, and donate to schools so children can fucking eat. Fuck those people.” Genie did not vibe with people like that, beyond the violence. Anybody who would rather make a spectacle pontificating about how people should help others, rather than actually going out and doing something. Your super edgy avantgarde art show wasn’t going to change a damn thing you pretentious asshat. (Fuck Banksy as well by the way).

Internal rant aside…

"I’m leaving – We’re  leaving. Soooo, you should go and pack your shit too, because I’m looking at flights out of here. Where do you think Mum and Dad will want to go? There’s a flight to Australia before noon, there’s one to the States in a few hours… Or we could go south! Somewhere in the Mediterranean? Or what about the Bahamas? We can go pretty much where ever we want,”  Genie said assured, as she looked down at the phone in her hand.  “I can find multiple people interested in buying Jack’s car off us within the next couple of hours. Do you know how much those cars go for? Over five million, probably over six if we start an auction for it. Six Million, Fletch.”

He groaned and tipped his head back over the top of the sofa. “Yeah - yeah, that part.” Exactly what he wanted to hear: that his sister had been there for the most traumatising event in his recent memory, and she’d seen the whole thing. It reminded him of late nights in front of their lousy telly when their parents were at work, how Fletcher would refuse to let Genie change the channel because he’d wanted to watch horror movies. Imagine being responsible for your younger sibling being scarred forever. Her question pinged something buried deep in his mind - memories of all the dirty work Pestilence had asked of him. What the fuck kind of person does that? Fletcher shook his head. “I’m pretty sure we’re just as bad,” he mused. But at least they were self-aware about it. 

Still, Fletcher was relieved that Genie hadn’t been sucked in by their spiel. Because - if he was really honest with himself - he’d been tempted, seduced by their words. A promise no one had offered to him before, that he might be part of a mission. All he’d ever been was a cog in the machine; no one expected more from Fletcher, least of all himself.

He relaxed slightly on the sofa, watching the indignation spread on her face. “You and your fucking bleeding heart,” he said, and it was almost fond. “You didn’t think about it? Not even for a second? All that shit about ending violence and a brighter future seemed right up your alley.” Fletcher’s gaze landed on the stuffed bag again as Genie spoke, sounding even more frenetic. “Are you planning a holiday? We can lie on the beach and drink out of dinky little coconuts with colourful straws.” 

His wry grin faded quickly at the prospect of leaving London behind; if Death made good on their promise, this was just the beginning of a bloodbath. Pestilence could drown for all he cared, but their people were his people, too. “I can’t leave,” he said, at last, mouth set in a grim line. Someone had to avenge Ricardo, right? Being a Power meant he owed them something, and being an Angel meant you could still save your own skin. “But you have to get out of here.” 

It was decided. He stood, reaching for the handle of Genie’s bag. “Yeah, sell the car first. It’s probably fucking cursed at this point.” All his qualms about stealing a dead man’s car had faded, but the Aston Martin painted a target on their backs - if Death had a watchlist, Fletcher figured the Grays would be on it somehow. Although, knowing Genie, she could get rid of it easily. “I’ll drop you off at home, and you take Mum and Dad - wherever, the fucking Bahamas, anywhere but here.” 

[fletchergry-archive]

30th MARCH, LATE / MORTEM / @kyungxsoon​​

He doesn’t close his eyes when Ricardo dies (or rather when the image of him dies, because God forbid there was a witness to his execution, no one who loved him). He barely absorbs the words being spoken in a monotone, descending from the speakers. Only the man’s stoic gaze levelled - not quite at them, but he can imagine that Ricardo is staring out at Pestilence, at the people who should’ve protected him. What’s the fucking point of calling themselves a gang if they can’t even do that? His first guilty thought is that they could’ve taken anyone - Genie, Mitzi, Priscilla, himself. Hands close into fists by his sides, shoulders taut, ready to spring into action as the screens fade to black -  

And then a burst of light overhead. 

Fletcher blinks, and it’s like the three coffins materialise from out of nowhere. He doesn’t have to go any closer to know, but somehow it’s worse than just seeing it on the screen - the immediacy of it, the icy cold of his corpse. There are gasps all around him, horrified and surprised and aggrieved, but Fletcher wants none of it; he doesn’t want to fucking think, he just needs to go. His mind is a blank. Movement catches his eye and he follows it instinctively - weaving his way through the crowd of people, familiar and unfamiliar faces blurring together, until he stands in the hallway outside. Heartbeat roaring in his ears to keep time with his footsteps as they echo in the darkness.

It’s like a game of roulette, isn’t it? The question flashes through his mind suddenly and cuts through the fog, and just then he knows - well, he doesn’t know fuck all but he knows, somehow, that it was a riddle. And the answer is standing before him now. He grabs Kyung-Soon’s shoulder, pinning her before she can get any further. “What the fuck did you do?” he snarls. “What kind of sick revenge - ” The words get stuck in his throat as he chokes back a sob, fist curled around the label of Kyung-Soon’s jacket. 

[fuckyeahzade-blog]

[fletchergry-archive]

27th MARCH, 9 PM / A DIVE BAR IN DALSTON / @oflightfeet​​

At a table buried in the farthest corner of the pub, Fletcher nurses a beer and some greasy peanuts, complimentary for an old customer. “Been a while,” the bartender says in greeting, with an edge in her voice; Fletcher simply shrugs. Since last year, to be precise. Since before the truce broke. He hasn’t had much opportunity to have a friendly drink with Wren at their old haunt, although friendly might not be the right word for this one. The atmosphere remains, like a place stuck in time - the quiet rumble of football on the television by the bar, shitty hard rock music over the jukebox. 

Their place, after stumbling out of a club in the wee hours of the morning, when it was too late to keep dancing but too early to go home. Most often with friends; rarely just the two of them. He figured Wren would appreciate familiar territory, even if the both of them have their guard up. It’s not Wren he’s worried about - it’s who they might bring. He pulls his phone out, scrolls through their text conversation to just over a week ago. 

          > someone’s missing           > just need to know if F is involved           > one word, yes or no

It was meant to be brief, and Wren’s reply was about as dismissive as expected. The next time their name popped up on his phone screen was an unpleasant surprise - and a clue, that this went farther and deeper than either of them might have expected. A reason for them to exchange any information they had (but not quite a reason for Wren to trust him, as much as Fletcher would like him too).

Difficult for someone of his stature to be discreet, but Fletcher tugs the collar of his jacket up anyway, and sinks his chin into his hands. The brass knuckles are a comforting weight in his pocket as he scans the pub periodically, not often enough to stand out as suspicious. His gaze flickers upwards when the door swings open, but quickly returns to the drink in front of him. There are eyes everywhere. 

[fletchergry-archive]

vincentkilatan​:

@fletchergry​ | Around 2AM on Thursday, March 16th at The Pale Stallion

In the haze of pink, Vincent feels his pulse race. The enigmatic energy of Death’s ranks, easily sweeping throughout the familiar pub. Purpose, desire, and humanity - pulsing through them to the beat of Backstreet Boys (because, really, what was a Death celebration without Jack’s relentless boy band obsession?) There’s a smile of turbulence that encompasses his face throughout the night. Never much of a “joiner” or a “team player,” it’s a change of pace that’s surprisingly welcome. In this ragtag group of misfits, Vincent finds himself fitting seamlessly. True to the theme - every surface is an outrageous shade of pink. From the pink streamers, all pink dress code, and even vodka-based pink cocktails (he could reckon a guess whose idea that was). It was a night dedicated to him, and he can only wade through the chaos. For once, Vincent Kilatan belongs - and it feels good.

He’s just about ready to push towards the bar, claiming himself the “birthday boy” and deserving of first crack. When, to his visible annoyance, the prying grey eyes of Fletcher Gray are visible through the Pale Stallion’s windows. “Fuck,” he manages to keep a smile, the Pestilence Power’s hazy gaze catching his through the foggy mirror. “I’ll handle this.” He says, to Jack or Sacha or Enzo. Really, whoever was near enough to catch the lover’s shared line of sight. He hastily moves out of the front door, teetering out onto the sidewalk. “What? Pest got stale already, Fletch?” Vincent attempts to chide, far too intoxicated to be babysitting the renegade Power. Especially after the recent events under Pest’s luminescent lights. “If you were looking to fuck, you should’ve just texted me.” Vincent placates, hand quickly on Fletcher’s shoulder, attempting to turn him away from the window. Lest he catch sight of Jack Tanner, before his grand re-introduction into society. “What are you doing here?”

--

Another long day and another long night spent in search of Ricardo have turned up nothing, a fucking black hole of absence where the Dominion used to be, and Fletcher’s not - used to this. The restless feeling that tells him they’re stuck, and if they don’t figure it out soon, they’ll be stuck (frozen, petrified) forever. It makes him want to lean into despair, and so he does. He gets drunk behind the bar at PEST first, then lets himself sober up enough to get a taxi to the Pale Stallion because he can’t stand to be around the rest of Pestilence right now. Sometime in the last eight years, all his friends had become gang members. That might be a bad thing. 

After he stumbles out onto cobblestone streets and frosty night air, Fletcher makes a beeline for the familiar doors of the Stallion. Shut, oddly enough, and locked tight, but he can hear music and conversation and laughter within. He turns to the nearest window and it glows, inviting. He wants to throw himself in it, to be in that warm light for a moment. Vision blurring as he presses himself up to the glass, Fletcher’s gaze searches a sea of pink and finds an especially pink smudge of hair. Hey, he mouths, hoping someone looks his way in the crowd. 

He has his hand raised to knock on the window when Vincent emerges from the Stallion’s front door, and Fletcher grins as he tries to slink through the crack in the doorway. But Vincent moves faster, gently nudging him in the other direction. He makes a small noise of protest and follows, leaning on the other man. “You don’t know the half of it,” he groans. “Everyone’s so fucking mopey. Not like the people in there.” For good reason, since they’re less one member, but Fletcher neglects to mention that part. Vincent’s suggestion that he should’ve texted makes him snort. “You saying I only look for you when I want a shag? That’s not very nice.” Trying to steal another glance through the window, he asks, “What’s going on in there? I want a fucking drink.”  

[fletchergry-archive]

glitchxxd​:

     Tonight was all about new experiences, as much as being a decoy and causing chaos could be considered as such. Enzo was strolling around PEST commanded only to find someone important and keep them occupied. The smoking area seemed like the perfect fit to find someone and make sure they were busy with him while Death had their plans inside. They never mentioned to him a specific method of distraction, so the hacker had to improvise. His blood was already intoxicated with a few shots of rum, the sweetness of it still lingering on his tongue. It was meant to give him bravery or a rush of irrational thinking, the only thing he had to be careful for was a gun against his temples and a pulled trigger.

     Hearing Fletcher’s voice was something Enzo didn’t anticipate. Memories flooded him, snatched bills from drunk teenagers, substances sold to those who wanted to increase their party high. Reaping the rewards and calling it a day, making profit of stupid teenagers. Then, their partnership ceased, to each their own path. Enzo felt pity for the other’s way, joining Pestilence and possibly even doing far too well there. The question made Enzo scoff, tongue clicking in decline. “A lot has changed mate. Too fucking much, actually.” the hacker growled, almost, trying to take his demeanour under control. The more time he talked with the other, the better. Slowly taking a more concise form, the idea of distraction didn’t sound so bad to Enzo now. The hacker wasn’t sure what exactly Fletcher did for the enemy gang - for all he knew, drugs, stealing money, possibly being responsible for the death of someone unfortunate enough to cross the wrong path of Pestilence’s abundance of connections were all options laid out on the table. Hell, some stinging words couldn’t hurt.

     “How about you? Here to sell your shit drug stashes off to someone stupid enough to buy them?“ Enzo took the offered cigarette, lighting it up after nimble fingers pulled out a lighter out of his pocket. Taking a slow drag and letting the smoke cloud the distance between them, he smiled devilishly. “Or maybe drowning your own past decade in booze? Which poison did you pick, Fletcher?“ It was normal nowadays that Enzo spoke to people from Pestilence with outright aggression. He had his reasons, irrational or not.

--

The other man’s tone wiped the smile from his face immediately - sure, they weren’t fucking bosom buddies anymore, but this was the kind of vitriol he was used to from rival Angels. Certainly not from Enzo, his mouth twisted into a ferocious grin that didn’t sit right with Fletcher’s memory of him. There were times when Enzo would retreat into himself, back in the day, and Fletcher had respected those long stretches of silence. Maybe this animosity had always been there, under the veneer of their partnership. 

But let it be known that Fletcher Gray gave as good as he got. He straightened, like a cat swelling to its full size to intimidate an interloper. "You know an awful lot about me for a bloke I haven’t seen for - how long has it been? Six, seven years?” Fletcher watched the smoke leave Enzo’s mouth, and somehow, that felt like the last straw. The lazy, insouciant way he took a drag; the clear contempt in his eyes, even in the dim light. 

He took a step closer, then another, and another. Crowding slowly into Enzo’s space. In his peripheral vision the few smokers lingering outside shuffled backwards, but kept their faces turned to the exchange. He couldn’t defuse the situation; he didn’t know how to play the peacemaker. “What’ve you been up to, big man? Too good to hang around a pusher, now?” A hand clamped down on Enzo’s shoulder, his grasp on the firmer side of friendly; tightened when he said the word poison, leaving the bitter taste of betrayal in Fletcher’s mouth. The man before him was not the Enzo of seven years ago, his Enzo. And he wasn’t the same Fletcher, either.

“I can pull the chip out of your fucking shoulder,” Fletcher hissed, “Or you can tell me what your problem is.” 

[fletchergry-archive]

geniegrayx​:

Where: The Gray Sibling’s Flat When: 31 March Who: @fletchergry​

Genie had gotten home before Fletcher did. Ducking out of that horrible place and leaving the moment she could without a word to anybody else. She managed to keep her shit together long enough until the door to her flat closed shut behind her and then … started freaking out.

Maybe she was young, or naïve, or just had a distaste for violence. Maybe everything her brother had ever said about her – that she just should not be here, or involved with any of this – was true. Maybe it was. But Genie had never even seen a dead body before, not a fresh one. And she’d absolutely never seen anybody who had been murdered VIOLENTLY. There had been shootings at Pest a few weeks prior, and that had been really bad. But this? And they were supposed to join up with them? They were supposed to believe their intent was to … change things? Take out the corruption? This was coming from the girl who could regularly lift over a grand a night yet was still living in a shitty tiny little flat with her older brother, because she gave away the majority of what she earned. These people seemed like they just wanted to hurt people.

Fuck that.

Fuck them.

Fuck this.

It was a couple hours later that Genie had changed into a cozy sweater, pulling it over her knees as she sat curled up on the couch. Her phone sitting next to her, and the entire apartment a complete mess from her grabbing random things and shoving them into a bag. All she had to do was wait for her brother to get home, convince him to pack all of his things too, and then they could just … get out of here. They could sell Jack’s car (which they were absolutely going to have to do now that they knew he was not fucking dead) take the money and move somewhere out of the country.

Easy. Simple. They would be out here in a couple of hours. Genie tapped her fingers impatiently, her leg jiggling as she sat on the couch perking up, as she heard the front door open.  “Fletch? Is that you or are the evil cult people here to murder me too?”

“Evil cult people,” he said, and immediately wished he could take it back. Snarking at his little sister was a kneejerk reaction, even at the worst possible time. Fletcher triple-locked the door behind him (three more than his usual) and shuffled into the living room, jacket crumpled on the floor in his wake. He slumped onto of the sofa, a familiar setup with Genie at the other end; adrenaline fast draining out of him. Rubbing the side of his face blearily, Fletcher tried to think of an appropriate older-brother thing to say in this moment. “Do you, uh - d’you want to talk about it?” 

It sounded so stupid and unlike them (what was this, a fucking therapy session?) he shook his head and groaned. “Fuck, sorry. God, I don’t fucking know.” It was silly. Fletcher wished he could apologise - not for dragging Genie into this, but for not trying harder to get her out. “Did you see the whole thing?” He could only guess at the identities of those involved, since they had any number of embittered gang rivals. And then there was that little skull, the image burned into his brain. Fragments of a puzzle he couldn’t fit together. This was why Fletcher left the masterminding up to his Dominion. He had no idea what to make of Death and the threat they posed.

There was a large bag by Genie, he registered, and the flat was a mess - more so than usual, half-emptied of their shared possessions. “Where are you going?” He paused to examine her face. No fucking way. “Are you joining the evil cult pe - Death?” It was all too possible to imagine Genie texting that number out of perverse curiosity. Or worse, leaning into her weird Robin Hood shtick, sucked in by the promise of transformation and a better world.