VENERATE

but while life is in me i will not stop this violence. hector carrasco. 46. virtue of death.

[unicornships]

Mare Sheehan and Colin Zabel being a total mood in Episode 2 of Mare of Easttown. xD

[hetor]

kashvi.

Kashvi Singh has something to prove. She is thirty years old and newly promoted Virtue and she intends to show Gabrielle Warden that she has made the right decision by doing so. More importantly, she wants to add to her crew, draw people into War who will extend their loyalty to her first and foremost. And so when Hector Carrasco tries to get her to leave his turf and people alone, she intends to come back. A competitive streak had been awakened in Kashvi when she set foot in her first prestigious international school, but her sheer refusal to lose is something that comes to her naturally. And so even after Carrasco bruises her ego ( and face ) she returns. 

It’s not hard, to find out those that can use a helping hand. That’s how she spins it, after all: she comes to this neighbourhood, in her expensive clothes and perfectly styled hair wrapped up in a pony tail, to help. She does not fit in in these kind of alleys, in this world, but Kashvi has a natural warmth that draws people in and plenty of promises she intends to keep. 

Alexander is in need of a steady flow of cash. He commits petty crime so what Kashvi offers is not the corruption of an innocent soul, but a helpful hand. Two thousand pounds a month if he wants to put those muscles to organised use and safeguard things she needs kept safe, with opportunity to earn up to three thousand, if not more, if he proves himself. He’s young, but he’s desperate and strong, and Kashvi has the benefit of being a beautiful young woman who drives all the way out here for him, in her flashy car. 

But as she talks to him, holding out an offer like the snake held out an apple in the garden of Eden, she is interrupted. Eyes roll at Hector Carrasco, making his expected appearance a little sooner than she had hoped, and she opens her wallet to pluck out her card and extends it to Alexander. “This has my cell number. Call me once you’ve had a chance to think. Any hour of the day.”

Attention is turned towards Hector, then, one eyebrow raised, “We hardly spoke, Hector.” His arrogance is met with her own, two hubristic mortals meeting in this abandoned alley as Alexander makes his exit. “As far as I know, I’m still allowed to converse with whomever I please, especially out in public. And Alexander was more than happy to hear me out.”

Kashvi stands like one of the furies, an Erinye, bound to do something on this Earth to the men that walked it for good or for worse. Hector feels a twinge of irritation just at the sight of her, but that racks up to anger very quickly when he sees Alexander take her card. Even as he turns towards Hector looking sheepish (good, he thinks, fucking kid) with his shoulders up near his ears, he still scampers off with the step of someone who thinks they’re going to be making a decent amount of money in the future. Hector stops him before he goes, puts a hand on his shoulder, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The glower conveys we’ll be talking later more than enough, because really, shouldn’t he know better by now?

Apparently not. Either way, he won’t have that business card for long if Hector has anything to say about it.

Hector turns his attention back to Kashvi and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how this should really go. She’s right: they hadn’t really discussed it last time, because Hector doesn’t enthuse any kind of person like her unless it’s life-or-death that he does so. Usually by then the matter’s taken care of, and he’s talking to a running back or a corpse. “I’m gonna give you one warning to fuck off. I’ve run out of patience.” It’s not just for her, a singular insult. No, this is insult on top of injury, watching the people he’s cared for the most get picked up into the sky the way birds of prey pluck their next meal from the dirt.

Hector can’t protect them all. Worse, he knows he can’t, but it still hasn’t stopped him from trying.

Violence is as violence does. It’s the theory he’s always run with. Commit acts of violence and you will, in turn, receive them in kind. But bloodshed has never bothered him. It’s a natural part of life, and judging by Kashvi’s face, which no longer bears the bruises from the last time they had their little toe-to-toe dance, it might not bother her, either. He’d be impressed if he weren’t so pissed off. “So.” He scuffs the asphalt beneath their feet with his shoe and remembers, then, that he’s still dressed in his pyjamas, a t-shirt and comfortable pants. If Alexander’s mother had gotten him half an hour later, he’d probably be wearing sandals instead of sneakers. He must cut an impressive figure. “What’s it gonna be?”

[hetor]

milo.

Milo’s got time to kill. 

Which didn’t happen too often, for Milo was a very busy man, sought after by many, to the point that the thought of having so much free time was hard to wrap his head around. But alas, having fully grown siblings did manage to reap its benefits, and with them running the ground work on their family business… he seemed to find himself in the rare position to go about his day at leisure. 

So he went to the museum, as one does when they have time to kill. Art had always given him a sense of respite amidst the absolute chaos that was his life. There was something comforting about it, the way masters managed to freeze time in paint and clay, chiseling moments into stone so that it could live on forever. Milo’s blood thrummed at the thought of it. So much so that he nearly overlooked the beautiful man among the marble. 

Almost. 

Milo’s gaze tracked him, stepping between statues to conceal himself so he may have time to observe the other. His face was not familiar… but there was something about him that called at an older part of Milo’s soul. The strong curve of his jaw, and the slope of his nose, like a portrait Milo had once studied with fervor, only to have it’s memory fall between his fingers like sand after lifetimes of not meeting. 

He watched the other stop just before a statue of Nero and decided he would make himself known. With a well practiced smile and a relaxed gait, he sauntered over, stopping just beside him to look up at the once emperor of Rome. 

“Do you think he could’ve ever predicted he’d end up like this? Part of an art display?” 

Milo paused for a moment before nodding his head thoughtfully, hands folded neatly behind him. 

“I think he knew exactly where he would end up.” Milo finally said, turning to the other and raising a brow. “Men like him strive for one thing, after all.” Another pause, the word dancing like fire across his tongue even before he could speak it. 

“Immortality.”  

Hector’s newfound company takes the slower approach, circles around him like sharks circling blood in the water. He’s not bad to look at, at least, something Hector tries to appreciate in spades. He’s got a regal sort of air about him, the kind of composure that Hector would’ve felt bad about fucking with before immediately trying to fuck with, just to see if any cracks in the marble would develop. He looks like he could be right up there with the rest of them, an honest-to-god work of art. He hasn’t come across anyone like that in a long while.

Hector bets now that this stranger is up to their eyeballs in money. Just rolling in it. He seems the type for that, too.

He laughs. It’s quiet, but it’s not unnoticeable, either. A person walking by turns their head but keeps strolling. “You think he knew he’d end up here, in some museum? I think even the Romans were a little too egotistical for that. Maybe he thought he’d end up sitting with the gods.” That was their whole thing, wasn’t it, vaulting themselves to eternity through the worst kind of acts?

He thinks Nero was assassinated, but he can’t remember now off the top of his head. If he was, he probably deserved it. “You say it like you know how it feels. You want to live forever?”

Yeah, definitely up to his eyeballs in money. Rich with a capital R in front, the fuck-off kind of cash.

“Sounds like a nightmare to me. After a certain point you’d think whoever you were would be surpassed by who people thought you were.”

[hetor]

may​.

-

“No disappearing.” It’s said with a firm shake of her head, a staunch refusal at the very idea of them slipping away anywhere. “You and I know that it’s not just enough to cut out the rot and hope for the best, you have to prevent the rot from returning. When we remove the power from these three families, we won’t be resting on our laurels, we’ll be preventing them from doing anything like this again. The disadvantaged of the city shouldn’t have to live in fear of their return.” Her expression was smooth, levelled, but there was an emotion in her voice that she didn’t bother to hide. Hector should know how she feels, that this wasn’t just an excuse to fuck around with some expensive weapons and laugh at a few billionaires for her. She had a stake in this. She gave a shit.

May couldn’t help but smile at the conclusion drawn about his fate. It was not an unreasonable assumption that all of this was highly conditional, in fact, she’d probably consider him a fool if that wasn’t his first thought. But it’s important that he understands his freedoms now - she has no intention of removing him from one prison only to entrap him in another. “We’re not like them, Mr Carrasco, you’re very welcome to say no and you won’t be thrown back behind bars if you do. Regardless of whether or not you wish to join us, you didn’t deserve to be in there. If you decide to decline, we can part ways as friends and we’ll wish you the best. Of course,” she adds, “That’s not to say we don’t want you with us - we very much do. But this is a job offer, and one you’re very welcome to turn down if you choose.”

His summary of Uriel as the one all dressed in black incites a short laugh, and she makes a mental note to repeat that to them later. The volume of questions doesn’t bother her, rather they bolster her, as she reasons that he wouldn’t ask so much if he didn’t care about what she had to say. “There’s a good number of us. We’re smaller than the other gangs, but we’re newer, and much more selective. There’s a chain of command, as you might expect. You would have to pay a few dues if you chose to join us, but given your experience and skill I can’t imagine it’ll take you too long to work your way up.” His assessment of himself as alright was a vast understatement, from what she knew. He could probably run rings around most of their recruits already - hell, he could probably run rings around her. The title of Angel would not be attached to his name for long, of that she was certain. 

“I’m Uriel’s second-in-command. I oversee everything, relay his orders, make sure they’re carried out, take a few of my own. Mostly, I gather information. Officially speaking I’m a journalist for the media company that we own. If you choose to join us you could find a regular job during the day, or work with us full time, it’s up to you.” She leant back in her seat and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Another pause as she had before, her words hanging in the air between them.

“Please feel free to ask more questions, I understand that this is a lot of information for one car journey.”

–

May holds herself with an air of absolute certainty and fields his questions with little to no difficulty. He tries to digest the information provided to him one sentence at a time, and swallows his surprise to process it later. If he were younger he probably would have had some kind of fucking… outburst, by now, he doesn’t know, but the shock is settling over him now like a heavy blanket, covering him entirely. So Hector nods along, keeps his head down, folds his hands, one over the other. Rubs at the small scar in his thumb and thinks.

The proffered freedom without a price comes as the biggest surprise. He looks up a little when she says it, because it’s not — what he was expecting. The chance to pull the car over, get out, and walk away? It doesn’t even sound real. He feels tempted to do so, just for a second, because there’s a certain power to that ability, but he decides to finish hearing her out instead. Second-in-command. Yeah, that makes sense. He spares her a brief look when she mentions climbing the ranks, paying his dues. Always something, but if it gives him the chance to strike back at the families which have caused London’s root-rot to thrive like noxious weeds, Hector can’t think of a better opportunity to fuck them up thoroughly.

“So you point, I shoot?” It’s not an objective he doesn’t understand. The opposite, actually. All of this makes perfect sense. Higher power sending down missives, but he’s the one holding the gun. Smaller than the other gangs must mean more tight-knit, and he has to wonder if they’re the sort that amount themselves to family just because they spend a certain amount of time together each week. The concept of working in a team is unfamiliar to him. Almost all his life, he’s had to go it alone. Adjusting will take some getting used to. May mentions a day job, and he scoffs a little: he’s going to have to figure out something, see what he can do as a cover. Can’t imagine the police will be too happy if he’s out and about, recognizable.

He’ll also have to find a place to stay. Enzo is the first option that comes to mind. Would his brother even want to see him?

“I’ve got — a sibling. Enzo. I’d need to…” Four fucking years, and you can’t even get the words out. “I’m happy to go with you, but I’d need to see him, too. Make sure he’s okay. Not dead in a ditch somewhere.” Enzo’d wired him money for a little while there, after he stopped visiting, but beyond that, communication’s been null. He leans forward a little bit and meets her eyes. “Listen, you don’t have to sell me on any of this. You’ve already got me. The deal’s too sweet for me to even consider turning it down. But I’ve got a laundry list of other people to take care of, too. People who kicked me while I was down. Are you — your people — gonna have a problem with that?”

[valtsv]

What do you think of the "revenge bad" tropes frequently found

it actually pisses me off sooooo much when characters are like "ohhh but if i hurt or kill the bastard who made my life and others' a living hell i'm just as bad as they are!" like grow up and shoot him what are you catholic

[valtsv]

"but i'm too good to kill anyone! :(" i'm not. give me the gun.

[hetor]

alicia.

–

There was always something intriguing about those whom she couldn’t quite pin down from one encounter, drawn to the mystery like a moth to a distant moon. However, the process of unravelling it had not left her with a satisfying result a lot of the time, it still proved difficult to ignore; an itch she couldn’t help but scratch. Like embers from a dying fire, the same curious urge had been piqued when Hector had approached her with the bravado of someone who appeared to know what they were doing (in spite of her being on a date with another person). The decision to indulge him had been swiftly made, handbag pulled onto her lap, number written on scrap paper before being passed over to him.

Alicia had joked in the moment that if he thought he could do better to be her guest, but the bar of her expectation had dipped quite low. Once seated in the restaurant, her gaze starts to wander - moving idly over the other patrons until she notices Hector approaching. Mouth twists upward in greeting as he settles into the seat opposite her, her expression marred moments later by the slight furrow that appears in the centre of her brow that forms while listening to him. She hadn’t even had time to order a drink.

“Don’t apologise,” undeniable that she appreciated it regardless of whether or not it was necessary. “If I think you’ve done something that warrants it, I’ll let you know, but until then -” Brow lifts, dismissal and challenge, smile widening fractionally, making it apparent she was teasing in spite of the truth held within her words. That, and she would have given him another ten minutes before deeming him truly late but he didn’t need to know that. “Besides, speeding tickets are a nightmare, I can hardly blame you for wanting to avoid one.” It helped that the majority of those she accumulated had conveniently disappeared, which wasn’t something she’d admit to freely. “What is it you drive?” 

–

There’s something about Alicia that rings familiar to him, and since he saw her trying to enjoy the unfortunate date he’d chosen to interrupt, he’s been drawing circles around it. Names run through his head one at a time, but they never seem to stick, or they’re not quite right, or they don’t fit her face. He knows her from somewhere, but saying so aloud had felt like a bad idea at the time. He’s aware of her association with Famine — he doesn’t think he’d be here, otherwise, but outside of that association is a note pulling at his sleeve, tugging, constantly asking for his attention.

He settles a little further in his seat, trying to play up sheepish as best he can. The waiter swings by to grab their drink order and he uses the moment of distraction to clear his head. She hadn’t seemed upset, maybe a little perturbed judging by the furrow in her brow, so he figures he’s made it out alright.

“A Rebel,” he says, gesturing with his hand to make an angled plane. “It’s a motorbike, sort of slanted. Looks a little like it didn’t get finished being put together before they sold it.” He chuckles. “If they pulled me over and tried to give me a speeding ticket, I think they’d probably try and nail me on whatever else they could think of the minute I showed them ID.” Or lack thereof. The dead-man-walking body is still a strange one he’s trying to learn to inhabit, and Hector’s sure the process has been less than graceful for anyone who’s been paying attention. “I think I’ve pissed off every single cop in this town at some point or another, last four years not withstanding.”

It’s a careful, tacit little move he’d tried to sketch out in his head on the drive over; which parts of him should he make real, and which parts of him should cease to exist? He clears his throat. “So, what do you do?”

[hetor]

enzo.

He’s grown used to being by himself again. in the way that people get used to life reverting to normal, the things he adjusted to – Hector’s chaos, their fighting, their shared meals – disappearing and replaced by the aloneness Enzo knew once before. Like he was never here, like he never had a brother. And honestly, sometimes he believes that himself.

Being alone means there’s nobody to tell him what to do, he can do what he wants, and there are no prying eyes looking over his shoulder at his screen or telling him to eat properly. It’s just him. All day, every day. Stuck inside his mind and on the screen, sometimes going days – weeks – without speaking to a real, in the flesh, person. He tells himself it’s fine, as he types away on his computer, he speaks to other people every day.

It’s as he’s just pouring his instant ramen into his bowl, settling in for the afternoon, that three knocks echo through his too-big house, inherited by from his late parents. Shit. A fork clangs on the tiled kitchen, dropped in Enzo’s surprise to have someone show up, in a way that reminds him eerily of a ghost long gone. Clad in his pyjamas, he scrambles to the window, peering out onto his parent’s front porch.

And there’s the ghost.

“Hector?” his voice shakes more than he wants it to when he clumsily unlocks the door, blinking at the apparition of his much older brother. It can’t be. But even with the impossibility, it is. Older, haughtier, but it’s him. “What- what are you doing here? Did you escape?” the very real possibility shoots fear through his already paranoid mind, and he hurriedly gestures for Hector to come inside, “shit. quick, get in, before the pigs see.”

Enzo gestures for Hector to come inside, and he’s no fool, so he crosses the threshold without hesitation. This home had once belonged to their father and his younger wife — and he could remember the number of times he’d been inside before trying to take Enzo under his wing on one hand. From what he remembers of it, it hasn’t changed much: dustier, maybe. A little more haphazard, less meticulously taken care of. He gives Enzo a once-over: dressed in sleep-clothes, looking half awake, not too different from the way he’d been last time Hector had seen him outside of prison.

Enzo had visited a few times. And then he’d stopped coming. He still doesn’t know why.

They do not embrace. This, maybe, is the most important part. Now, more than ever, the valley of years between them stretch long and wide. When Hector helped Enzo bury his parents and tried to soothe the wound of an accidental death, they didn’t know each other well. They certainly don’t know each other now, but Enzo had still been the first person Hector had wanted to see. The first person who came to mind once May let him go.

He swallows around an odd lump in his throat. He waits until the door is closed before speaking, as if to confirm his brother’s paranoia. “No, I didn’t break out, or escape. I — it’s complicated, Enzo.” Truthfully, he doesn’t think he could pinpoint where to begin even if he really tried. “They just let me go. Walked me right out the front gate like I was someone else entirely.”

It feels as bewildering as it sounds. He flexes his hands, as if to spur himself back into the world of the living, but it doesn’t really work. He distracts himself from looking at Enzo by looking around the house, instead. “I like what you’ve done with this place.” (He can’t tell what Enzo has done with the place.) “Has it — it’s just been you?”

[hunterschafer]

Pedro Pascal as Javier Peña NARCOS (2015-2017)

[hetor]

vincent​.

-

It was a lonely road on the way to a revolt. Not many would light themselves on fire, to watch corrupt institutions burn. He’s faced the brunt of rejection, more times than he could count. Criminals who only wanted to line their pockets, rather than use their skills to change the winds of the world. Liberals who spewed abhorrent opinions, while sipping on €5 oat milk lattes and took sponsored ads. There were countless people who managed to disappoint, and he’s long decided that he would rather burn alone than settle for a spark. However, he finds out that he’s not alone. There were people angry, insane, and passionate enough to get the job done. And for the first time, in a long time, there’s a chance. Not hope, or a promise of success - but a chance.

How many chances did the likes of Hector and Vincent get? Not a lot, he imagines.

Maybe it’s what pulls the hot-headed Virtue into Hector’s orbit. He sees a version of himself; darker, more troubled, and haunted. Is this the person Vincent is set to become, twenty years from now? Hector might not be a traditional role model, calloused fists and heavy folders of infractions. But he had his convictions, and was capable of doing what needed to be done. Ultimately, isn’t that the kind of man Vincent wanted to be? He’s lost in the thought, as he looks up from the bright phone screen at the man chewing at his fries. Something tender and idealized, lingering in those typically mischief-ridden eyes. And yet, he turns back to old habits, refocusing on the screen.

“You should get on the gram. Keep up with… Whatever you’re into.” He didn’t seem like the type to follow TV shows, memes, or sports. But everyone had something, and after years in the clink, surely Hector could do with some re-orienting about the world. “A lot can change in a couple years, man. Start with the gram, and maybe we’ll move you up to Tiktok.” Vincent is hesitant to start the immersion into Tiktok just yet. Might be too much, too soon. He crinkles his nose, and purposely squeezes the end of the ketchup - just enough to get a bit on Hector’s fingers. “I’ll make you one.” Vincent resolves. “Your handle can be Hectorch.”

“Pull the car around. No harm in taking a look. We can say we’re lost tourists.” Vincent agrees, reaching into the paper bag and pulling out a chocolate shake. “It was cheaper to get a large than two smalls.” He advises, reaching for two straws. He pops them into the drink, taking a sip from his own pink straw. Only after taking a sip, does he nudge towards the intersection. “Head down there, I think we have to go around the whole square.”

—

Hector’s shameless, so he takes a long drink from the shake without much thought before pulling the car around the block. It’s a slow, almost meandering drive, but not so slow that it would catch any attention out of the ordinary. He grabs a napkin for the ketchup on his fingers, but not before shooting Vincent a look that borders on unimpressed. “Kids these days,” he says, a little sardonically and with a breathless chuckle, “with the gram and the TikTok. Whatever happened to writing letters?” He can’t blame Vincent for it, however. Just one look at that phone of his and he already knows what Rafael Jr. is up to. In fact, he’s maybe a little impressed. It’s a kind of ingenuity he might not have thought of, but the rich constantly making a scene about how rich they are isn’t out-of-the-box, either.

Quietly, he hopes that whatever meal Femenias ate gives him a sour stomach. It’s the least the world can do. After that, he hopes that he gets his kneecaps bashed in, and then next his head. It’s the least Hector can do, and with a long look at his company, the least Vincent could do, too.

There’s not quite so much activity in the back as there was in the front, and Hector puts the car into park and puts his seat back a little with a sigh. Eyes roving for any sign of danger draw their way to the back entrance, less heavily fortified but still a little intimidating looking. He passes the shake back to Vincent, flexing his hand to rid it of the chill. “You can try, but no guarantee I’ll even end up using it. Seems like a good way to shoot myself in the foot if I’m not careful. Oh, Hector? Yeah, he was in prison, and now he’s on...” there’s a slightly strangled cough, obviously uncomfortable, “Instagram.” Christ, it even sounds strange coming out of his mouth. “You sign me up for that and I’ll teach you to drive a getaway car. Then we’ll all be in trouble.”

He ducks his head down to put the car back into drive when someone steps out from the back with garbage bags in hand, but they’re back inside before there’s anything to worry about. Still, he figures it might be better to crawl on along anyways, so the vehicle resumes its creep forward back towards the front. There’s an appealing charm to Vincent that Hector can’t wrap his head around. Reminds him in some ways of Enzo, towards the end, when he’d seen his brother’s carefully-crafted shell start to crack around the edges. All of that had ended up right in the garbage, of course, but he’d been hopeful for a little while. Moreso, Hector thinks of himself when he was younger and so full of fire he could’ve burnt the entirety of London down just with his temper on a bad day. He’d tried, once or twice. Hadn’t worked. “Can I ask you something?” Which is, of course, exactly the thing a person says before asking anyways. “What got you into all of this? I got lucky, I know that, but you remind me of me when I was young, and frankly, kid, that’s never a good thing.”

[hetor]

may​.

May tapped the divider between the front and back of the car as she slid into her seat, calling out, “Next stop, please”, before taking a moment to watch the prison slide away through the tinted glass. Her gaze moved to her companion, surveying him. He looked a little tired, and a little angry, but most of all, he looked wary. She could hardly blame him, from what she knew there hadn’t exactly been many opportunities for him to form a strong sense of trust. A wry smile formed at his words, and she gave a quick nod. Straight to business, no fucking around. She liked that.

“You’re familiar with the Wardens, of course.” There was no point phrasing it as a question. The man had just spent four years incarcerated because of them, she was sure the name Warden was burned onto his psyche like a brand. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that in the time you’ve been inside, their wealth and power has only increased. Everything that they were doing to your community before, they’re still doing now. Worse, in fact, because there’s no longer someone like you around to defend everyone.” 

“You’ve heard of the Femenias family? And the Pinketts?” A beat for either a confirmation or a denial. “They’re very much cut from the same cloth. Disgustingly rich, exploiting the poor - I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you.” May waved a hand dismissively. No point in lecturing him on what he already knew at a time like this. “Well, to put it simply, our organisation was created to destroy them. They’re too powerful for anyone official to stop them, most likely anyone who can do anything is already in their pockets anyway. So we’re using… unofficial channels, let’s say.” Another smile, this time broader, more mischievous. “They’re War, Famine, Pestilence. We’re Death.” 

At this point May paused, casually glancing out of the window to check where they were, while also giving Hector a chance to absorb everything. He had a lot to adjust to, and she was conscious that she shouldn’t overwhelm him too much too soon. When she continued, her voice was more earnest, eyes intently studying his face. “We removed you from prison because we believe that you would be an asset to us in the destruction of these people. And we believe that you deserve a chance at revenge.”

—

He gives a single nod when she mentions the Femenias family, and then the Pinketts, in acknowledgment that he’s listening to what she has to say. It doesn’t take long for him to decide that he likes her, and he likes the proposition she’s putting on the table for him, too. The car’s quiet when it drives. He can barely hear the rumble of the engine, and while he sits there, hands folded, Hector tries to take the time to think. It’s a lot of information being thrown at him at once, but there’s no denying the way his pulse had picked up at the mention of the Wardens. War. Fitting. Maybe a little on the nose, but fitting. The rest all make sense.

“Your organization was created to destroy them,” he rasps, leaning back further in his seat. It’s a nice sentiment, at the very least, destroying the powerhouses that be and take advantage of those who have no other option. “And what happens after that? You just planning to... what, slip away? Disappear into the darkness, never to be seen again?” If he sounds bitter, a little cautious, it’s because he is. It almost sounds too good to be true, and as he watches May’s face for any changes to her expression, with the way the light falls on it, she looks like some deity from another world. What she’s saying, what Uriel had said — she believes in it, with conviction.

“I can’t say no. You know that. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” Four wall cell, cold all the time, scheduled meals at exact times, hands itching for a crowbar or hammer to hold and closing around nothing. “And trust me, I’m grateful for it.” Unspoken: happy to be a weapon. It’s all he’s ever been, he knows. Thinks, sometimes, that it was the one thing he was put on this earth to do. But that shit gets exhausting when you’re doing it all on your own, when you’re fighting on several warfronts and coming home defeat after defeat after defeat. It crushes you. Does Death have collateral for that?

“I already tried taking them on my own. Did alright, for awhile, anyways.” He had. They’d spoken his name with fear at one time, but as soon as he’d been put inside, whatever status he’d had may as well have been snuffed out. Sad story, but realistic. It happens. “How many of you are there, exactly? Can’t just be you ‘n me ‘n the one all dressed in black, can it?” Not an army, he hopes. Hector’s never played particularly well with others. But obviously they’ve got more to them than appears if they’re picking him up in a Rolls Royce. “What about you? How am I supposed to make all this work, exactly? What do you do?”

[hetor]

on the nineteenth of november in 2015, hector tries to chase @kashvis​ off for good.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even realize it’s happening until Elena comes knocking on his door that night, her eyes creased at the corners with concern and mouth set into a hard frown. That’s when he knows something wrong. That’s when he realizes he’s only been treating the symptom and not the actual problem.

“She went after my son,” Elena murmurs, voice low in her throat, tone lingering on just that side of wronged that only mothers can get when they’re so enraged they can’t manage to wrangle it back in. “Hector, please.” He’s already shouldering his jacket on and preparing to step into the cool night air, braced for... something. He’s not sure. Confrontation, inevitably, but the anger he can feel brewing in the pit of his stomach is something far uglier. He wants this done, and he’d thought after last time it would be, but Kashvi seems determined to prove him wrong.

The door to his flat clicks shut behind him. The pistol tucked away under his coat is comfort enough, but he can only pray it won’t come to that. He descends the stairs towards the alleys where the kids who are too young to know better linger to smoke cigarettes and cause a ruckus and make stupid choices too soon — kids like Elena’s son, Alexander.

When he makes it down, it’s just the two of them in the alleyway, lit by the lights from the street and the occasional car driving by. It’s late, but not late enough that no one would be out for her to go for if she wanted to. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes a few steps closer but stays far enough away that there’s a few feet between them. Enough space to act, if necessary.

Hector’s jaw feels tight when he speaks, but his voice belies arrogance, haughtiness, maybe even a little impatience. “You know, I could have sworn we spoke about this last time.”

[biscuit-shooter]

[hetor]

on the fifth of january, hector goes to meet @enzocarrasco​ for the first time after spending four years in prison.

If you were to ask him, all those years ago, Hector Carrasco wouldn’t have been able to give a concrete answer in response to why he’d taken Enzo in. He’d been in his late thirties, Enzo not even twenty, and their interactions in spite of their father’s awkward attempts had been... difficult at best. Strained, some might even say. But Hector had arrived on Enzo’s step without a single thought to it, darkening his half-sibling’s doorway with the intention to do something good.

And, of course, in the way of all the other times Hector’s attempted to do something good, it fell through. Gutted, from the belly up. He’s turned that particular train of thinking over and over in the palm of his hand, desperate to figure out why the world could be so unkind to people like him and so generous to others who would see it burn if they had the chance. All that work, all that time, the blood, the sweat, the tears, for nothing.

Until Death. Until Uriel. Until May, with her wry grin and the knowledge that he might be a good fit. He feels like he’s in some kind of waking dream, where the things he touches and hold take half a second to fit inside his palm. He doesn’t know what to think, except to laugh at the quiet irony of it all: here he is again, darkening Enzo’s doorway, mouth dry. He has to work himself up to it to actually knock — had to work himself up to even showing up — but no one else is here, so Hector doesn’t beat himself up over it. Tries to take his time. A trembling hand raises, lowers, steadies itself, and then raises again. Three knocks to the door.

And then he’s left to wait, and pray that Enzo actually answers.

[maryjanewatscns]

Pedro Pascal as Javier Peña in NARCOS 1.02 “The Sword of Simón Bolívar”

[hetor]

vincent.​

-

The beauty about targeting the one percent of the one percent, was that a simple Google search could suffice. Femenias Energy’s heir wasn’t some rice farmer from Manila, like Vincent’s own father - gone too soon. His billions meant that his ostentatious penthouse was as quick as a reverse image search away. It’s no surprise, then, that he ends up in Mayfair. But what is, is the man in the driver’s seat. One would half-expect it to be his partnered Dominion, and sure, he thought of asking him first. But some things required the finesse of street smarts, of people that were used to skating by. And there was no one as savvy in this realm, as Hector Carrasco himself.

There was something of hero worship when Vincent first learned of his fellow Virtue. A criminal whose reputation far preceded his own, with transgressions far loftier than Vincent’s arson and attempting destruction charges. Anyone could be a crook - most of who they targeted, the worst offenders of all. But few did it in the name of something better, of something true. And what was Hector Carrasco, but not the real deal? True to form, he doesn’t gush in Hector’s company. Instead, likeness and friendship is proven by his playful and chaotic sensibilities. He jumps into the front seat of his car, donning lightweight clothes and hands full of brown paper bags.

He’s halfway through chewing on french fries, his ketchup packet open in his opposite hand as he balances the meal on his lap. A quick glance up at the pristine building, where Famine’s head lives. With a rueful shrug, he leans forward, inspecting the surrounding people. “At least five guards on top of the door man.” Vincent assesses, haphazardly tossing the bag of french fries onto Hector’s lap. He wipes his hands clean of grease, before pulling out his cell phone. A quick jump on his Instagram reveals him at some boujee dinner, and he tilts the bright phone screen in Hector’s direction.

“He’s finishing up dessert. We should wait. Once he pulls up, the guards should follow him up to the suite. We can get a better look.” Vincent resolves with a nod, only to pause again. A contemplative and curious thought, as a mischievous smile lines his lips. “Are you on the gram, old man?”

—

Vincent reminds Hector of a severe rainstorm contained in one body. He’s difficult to keep track of, sporadic at the best of times, and even harder to predict. It’s years of experience and months of already having to deal with some degree of bullshit that keep him from jumping when Vincent practically launches himself into the front seat, lunch in hand and a scheming kind of look in his eyes. He’s patient while Vincent pulls up his phone, not really thinking about it, only to get an eyeful of what looks to be some very expensive bullshit. Some kind of... soup? Stew? He can’t tell at all, but it appears nightmarish.

Hector busies himself with working on the french fries Vincent has so generously decided to grace him with, popping a few into his mouth and chewing without really thinking about it. The building looms overhead like some sort of post-apocalyptic achievement; he can’t help but be disgusted by it. What sane person needs to display their own pride in such a way? Maybe that’s the thing. No one, Hector thinks, whether they be part of Famine, War, or Pestilence, can possibly be sane and do the things they do to innocent people without regard for the lives or the scar tissue they leave behind.

He gestures for Vincent to pass the ketchup before eventually just snatching it out of his hands, impatient. “No, Vincent, I am not on the gram.” It’s not that social media eludes him or mystifies him. He wasn’t locked away during the stone ages only to emerge in some kind of cyberpunk future. There’s just... no point to it, Hector thinks, especially when he’s technically still supposed to be sitting pretty in Pennington, unwell as ever. He’s lucky Uriel ever pulled him out, something he tries to remind himself of every day when he gets a little too haughty. He has a list of people to visit nightly and kick the shit out of for their various roles in his arrest. It’s nearly twenty names long. Thus far, he’s crossed six, and plans on going for seven as soon as he has a few hours of free time. That’s where Hector’s pride goes. Where does Vincent put his? “I won’t be getting one, either, thank you very much.” He lets the old man comment slide. For now.

Hector mulls on this as he moves his gaze over the place. The doorman, the guards, the people walking by with their heads tucked down, eager to get home — and then the buildings bracketing it, quiet but not necessarily unfrequented by guests. Even as they encroach upon the evening, Hector can see them filtering out to meet with their friends, share dinners, break up with their partners. A thousand little lives, a thousand little goals, only some of which intercross with each other. “You think it might be easier to go around the back? I figure it’d be less busy back there. Then again, he might also expect his enemies to approach from behind instead of up front.” Could be more guards, could be less. He looks over his shoulder and then at the cupholder. “Did you get anything to drink?”

[hetor]

may.

Uriel was very specific about the people they chose to join Death.

They could not simply pick up thugs from the street like the Big Three did, muscle that did their work for a price rather than a cause. Their operation was far too valuable for that, their secrets too numerous and too vast. After all, what was the point of forming a secret organisation if you were just going to let any old rabble in? No, the people that joined Death had to be trustworthy, talented, driven. They had to have either a strong sense of justice or a deep-rooted hatred for authority (both was a bonus). A violent streak was helpful, but not essential, as that could always be developed along the way. 

May often heard about people who could be suitable to join their ranks through her work. Old news articles, whispers from contacts, London’s criminal folklore - names would land in her lap on a fairly regular basis. Many of them didn’t pan out, of course, their reputations not holding up under any intense scrutiny, but occasionally there would be a name that she could pass on for Uriel’s inspection.

Hector was perfect. A vigilante, relied upon by his community; violent but with a need to protect; a history of rallying against War; deeply wronged and likely with a desire for revenge. Frankly, they couldn’t have dreamed a better candidate. He was so good, so right for them, that Uriel went to go and see him personally - a rarity these days, when they were so heavily involved in other matters. May had received a text from Uriel shortly after his trip to the prison consisting only of two short sentences. Pick him up at 11am tomorrow. He’s what we need.

She was leaning casually against the black Rolls Royce, arms lightly folded, when the gates opened to reveal the man that she hoped would be their newest recruit, stepping away from the building that he never deserved to be confined in. “Hector Carrasco.” She took a couple of steps forward, away from the car, and greeted him with a smile. “My name is May Nguyễn, I’ve been sent to meet you. Uriel asked me to express his regret that he couldn’t collect you himself, unfortunately he was called away on other business.” For a moment she turned, opening the vehicle door behind her, before facing him again with raised eyebrows and an inquisitive head tilt.

“Would you like to get in? We have a lot to discuss.”

—

He feels a little like an oyster or clam that someone has picked up and dashed on the rocks to crack open and eat.

Well: maybe the feeling isn’t quite that visceral, but it’s close. Scraped out, hollow, unsure and on uneven footing to boot. After his meeting with Uriel, things progress very quickly. He is sent back to his cell, told to wait, and then in a matter of hours he is being pulled out, dressed in the clothes he arrived in — comfortable, not flashy, thank goodness for past his foresight — and then he is pushed out into the open world and told to wait. The back of his neck immediately begins to prickle, warning signs of something. Go back, a voice in his head whispers. Go back in, tell them this was a mistake, that you’re not supposed to be out here. This is not how it goes.

Except it very much is. Years and years of brewing on nothing but equal parts rage and loss have put him into a state that borders on wild, maybe a little frenzied. A bullet could be buried into his back. Maybe that’s all this is, some kind of ruse on part of one of the gangs, War being the most likely option. A funny little joke to them, cruel and twisted. Set him loose and then cut him down with freedom the final thought in his head. Hector clenches his fists around the strap of the bag they’d given him with his meagre belongings, because he has more or less, nothing. This is it. He’d never thought he’d die without a fight, but time, loath as he is to admit it, changes things.

The gates opens.

Two things catch his immediate attention: the Rolls Royce, and the woman waiting for him, looking very much like the cat that caught the canary. She steps forward and in spite of her casual air Hector is immediately taken aback with the feeling that she is not someone to fuck with. He swallows when she introduces herself, May Nguyễn, but politely nods in return, trying to remain restrained. Is the sun always this bright? Why the fuck is the sun shining today, of all days? He doesn’t say anything as she runs through her apologies, or rather, the apologies of her employer, Uriel, who had not promised to meet him. They’d been vague, really, but altogether convincing. It’d been easy to see why others might fall in line behind them.

“Yeah,” he manages to rasp out, “thanks.” No nice to meet you, or what the fuck is all this, just... yeah. He gets in the car with no fanfare. The door snaps shut behind him, and he waits to address her when she’s sitting inside. None of this feels real, but it’s tangible, right within his grasp, so it has to be. Out, out. Four long years, and you’re out. And then: I’m going to burn every fucker that put me in there to the ground.

He reels his temper back in before speaking again, leaning forward, elbows on his kneels. “You said we have a lot to discuss. I’m all ears.”

[pedrohub]

I have an ear for accents.  I’ve lost my accent entirely.   I have an ear for that as well. 

PEDRO PASCAL as OBERYN MARTELL in Game of Thrones 4.06.