Harbinger of Death || Self-Para
“Out of the box poured disease and poverty. Out came misery, out came death, out came sadness - all shaped like tiny buzzing moths. All that remained in the box was Hope.”
Seven low-level Vincent thugs. Thugs ranked so low on the totem pole that their deaths would be nothing but expected, a breath of fresh air in disguise. They caused issues and were uncontrollable. Really, Judas was doing the Vincent’s a favor by getting rid of them; with the factions in disarray, no one was really paying attention to their own past their inner circles which lead to the filth coming up from the undercroft and taking over. No one paid attention to the pests except for him.
He thought he would’ve needed more time to observe his targets, but they were all so predictable that he only needed two days of observation from the rooftops to really understand their routines. Aaron and Brandon ate breakfast at the same restaurant every morning, met up with Damion after the latter had finished his workout. The three hassled and catcalled women as if they were paid for it.
Gus, a closeted homosexual, would fuck random men in an alley before meeting up with the others; claiming his ‘boss’ kept him later than usual. His favorite drink of choice was tequila straight up with a heroine chaser, possibly to drown out the fact that if he was ever outed to his friends, he’d surely be shunned. The close-minded fucks that they were.
Kurt was the run of the mill tough, burly, meathead with a hubris larger than his muscles, nothing special.
Now, Maverick and Reuben weren’t on Pandora’s list, brought into the fold by Jason after they had broken up. Maverick was the drug supplier for the group, somehow having ties to the Ainsworth’s drug running, which was interesting but not interesting enough to keep him alive; only interesting for what he had planned for the group’s deaths.
Reuben, being the greenest of the group, was the easiest to sway if it were in exchange for his life—not that he would have known that Judas planned to kill him all along; not until it was too late. The last to join… the first to die.
The seven of them always met at their hangout at ten o’clock at night, sharp. No exceptions.
Their ‘hangout’ was a rundown warehouse that they fashioned into an above-average deplorable space where they would start their nightly ritual of drugs and booze. Sometimes they would fuck random women that they managed to bring back there with them. All in all, nothing changed and they always poured one out for their fallen friend while they cursed Pandora’s name; plotting against her.
Pandora was right to fear them, their retaliation; in some way or another, they were all vile. Lowest of the low and not important enough to even be considered pawns. How Pandora had gotten wrapped up in them was beyond him, but Judas was never one that could judge; he’d also run with people that were low filth, but he forged his own story. With this… he’ll help Pan forge her own and all it took was a death. Not a huge price to pay when it came to him, not when he courted Death daily since he was young enough to understand what it meant.
Judas’ eyes focused on the ticking second hand of his watch as it made its final journey to mark ten o’clock. He sat in the shadows on one of their rickety chairs, waiting for the other six of his targets to visit their shitty excuse of a hangout. His posture seemed nothing of what one would expect of a seasoned killer, chin in hand seeming bored. However, anyone that knew Judas would know the front he put on, the way every one of his nerves sang underneath his skin; fingers itching to reach for the hilt of his knives and gun – ready to pounce like the lethal being he is.
Ever since founding the little group that consisted of the city’s greatest assassins, he’d barely had the time to do field work himself, being the face of the family and cultivating connections so that they’d survive against the tides of change in St. Cascadia. Judas knew that there was a screw loose or two to have his blood sing in excitement at this job. Adrenaline pumping at the prospect of killing, envisioning painting the walls of the dingy warehouse red and coating his hands in the deaths of those after Pandora. He wished the feeling of elation was because he was protecting her and doing what he needed to, but he would be lying. Judas stopped thinking he was made to be anything other than what Sullivan forged him into years ago, it only bred resentment when Sullivan was right. He was meant to be a killer in this life.
He heard the footsteps before the light turned on – the men walking like lemmings to their death. One by one they entered the door, attempting to flick on the lights, conversing among themselves attempting to figure out what was wrong with the electricity; finding that only one light worked. His lips ticked up on one side at hearing their exclaimed shouts. The light illuminated only one thing, Reuben.
The greenest member, the weakest link, the traitor that gave Judas access to everything. He never did promise the kid that he wouldn’t kill him, Reuben just happened to watch too many movies and forgot how the world worked. He didn’t forget, however, in the last few seconds left of his life as Judas held his head back and cut through the cartilage of his throat to sever his head completely. As the life dimmed in Reuben’s eyes, he knew that the city they occupied had no forgiveness for anyone, especially not the lowlifes.
What his friends saw under the dimly lit bulb that seemed to swing on a single string of electrical wire was Reuben’s severed head on one of the only side tables that littered the warehouse. Crimson pooling and dripping off the sides, splattering and cooling on the concrete ground. He took that time then, between the other’s chaos and panicked movements, to make himself known; the figure of his body bleeding out from the shadows he stayed in as if he were himself a shadow.
“Hello, boys,” Judas spoke with a crooked smile as he sauntered to a stop behind the side-table, his eyes moving – assessing. He had to give them credit, the older ones who had been in the group the longest paled – they knew who he was. They knew what he meant; their death and most likely no survivors. He knew they thought they’d never see him in person, Judas Langley was an assassin of a certain caliber – likely to go after the Vincent’s than the common ilk, and the fact that he was standing before them meant someone sent him there.
“Where is the bitch,” the meathead said, Kurt– the one that Judas could have figured would have stepped up as leader, pretending that he’s ‘alpha’ material, when he’s nothing but a wannabe. He had some braincells though, apparently, since he managed to piece together who had contracted the assassin. Judas cocked his head, the movement almost robotic, the crooked smile never leaving his lips as he spoke, “Pandora sends her regards.”
Being as seasoned as he was, with so many deaths under his belt, he could almost see the fight playing out in his mind– knew their moves before they knew it. Even with the minimum information on the lot from Pandora and what recon he did, they were so fucking predictable. He could have yawned if the prospect of killing all the assholes didn’t make him giddy. Some would be rooted in terror, not able to act for the first couple seconds of the fight, while others would have their fight or flight activate in the face of a superior threat that he was.
Unsheathing daggers stowed in their holders on his thighs in each hand, he threw them with startingly accurate ferocity– embedding into the calves of the two who attempted to run. He promised slow and painful deaths. Their screams filled the space, bouncing off of the rickety walls and greeting his ears like a song as he readied himself for Kurt running towards him. Two others joined the fray with Kurt. He underestimated the hierarchy, the little lemmings following Kurt into certain death– he was more of a leader to the ragtag group than he anticipated, but the additional bodies in the initial fight against someone like him was still inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
He watched Kurt’s movements and attack in slow motion, dodging out of the way of a punch he wasn’t so sure would have even hurt him in the first place before thrusting an open palm up to meet his elbow, the resounding snap cracking through the air and Kurt’s attempt to stifle the screech of pain making him grin devilishly. Blood was rushing in his ears as he watched Kurt bend slowly, taking a running jump before kicking the burly kid over– using the momentum to propel himself towards the two that were rushing him side by side like Kurt was a driving board.
They’d obviously never heard that one should never run in a straight line towards an attacker, it only made them an easier target as he reached out with his arms, close lining the two in the throats and taking them down to the ground. While they were winded, he tucked and rolled. It was utter child’s play, but he wasn’t expecting any different from people that thought so highly of themselves when, in reality, a speck of dust counted would be appreciated more.
The one that was left standing, the one frozen as he expected was the other green member. Maverick, the final nail in the coffin of his plan, and he was smart. He supposed the kid would have to have some street smarts to be involved with some sort of drug run in the Vincent territory, drawing a gun against Judas. He was the smartest one to face the assassin, though he was still leagues below Judas fucking Langley. A shot rang out, the ear-piercing sound making Judas’ ears ring but otherwise unfazed as he maneuvered to the side so that the bullet missed him, skidding to a halt just before the kid.
With one thrust upwards with his hand at the kid’s wrist, the handgun flew through upwards. Judas kicked the kid in the sternum, pushing him backwards and away from the weapon, grabbing it in his own hands before aiming and pulling the trigger twice. Another set of wails as the kid fell to the ground with fresh bullet wounds to his kneecaps, Judas turned as he saw Aaron and Brandon charging him, the two numbskulls that he had close lined having regained themselves enough for another joint assault. Absolute morons.
He raised the gun to the two advancing on him, pulling the trigger to be met with an audible click. Judas sighed, turning to Maverick, holding the empty gun up, “three bullets, really?” The kid garbled out some curse at him, but he turned away; knowing that the kid wasn’t going anywhere quickly. Facing the two again, they had the audacity to grin at him at hearing the empty gun– thinking that every inch of him wasn’t a weapon. Judas chucked the empty gun at Brandon, smacking the guy in the forehead, before wheeling on his heels and using his momentum to swing his leg around in a roundhouse kick– meeting the other in the temple. They crumpled like wet tissues onto the ground, he grunted at the disappointment of the fight.
Dealing with the different men was like playing a game of chess– calculating and dealing with certain pieces at certain times. Stalking over to the two he’d thrown his knives into first, the coward runners, he followed the blood trails. They’d managed to get pretty far through the warehouse, using each other’s bodies to push themselves standing and wobbled like a three-legged race since each one were sporting wounds in opposite legs. Judas purposefully made noises with his movements, wanted them to realize he was coming for them and it only made them hobble faster towards the exit. “Uh-uh,” Judas tutted towards the duo, “there’s no escaping your fate.”
Taking a couple more daggers from their sheaths he threw them at the duo again, their unwounded legs. This time, however, it wasn’t merely in their calves. Calf wounds they were able to still walk on, though excruciating. This time, he didn’t want them to move at all. The streak of silver imbedded themselves into the Achilles tendons of the two, cutting the fragile string of tissue as if it were merely warm butter. The two collapsing to the ground with agonizing screams as their feet lolled– no longer connected in a way to be useful.
He gripped the two’s legs, fingers digging into the flesh of their legs above their fresh wounds, the crimson of their blood leaking through and around his grip, dragging them back towards the others in the center of the warehouse. Most of them were where Judas had left them, however he noticed that Kurt was now up and moving– hiding in the shadows attempting a surprise attack. Judas didn’t think Kurt really had it in him– but at least he knew that he wasn’t going to be completely bored. Fighting someone who fights back is more entertaining than fighting cowards.
He kept walking towards the center of the warehouse, pretending he didn’t clock where Kurt was right away. Over-confident people tend to overstep their means, which was exactly what he did. Coming from the shadows, similarly to how Judas did, he swung with his undamaged arm– attempting to target Judas with a tire-iron that only God knows where the fuck he got it, but it didn’t matter. Using the leg of one of the two he’d lamed, he blocked the blow, a sickening crunch and subsequent cries only pointed to a broken tibia.
Pushing the two he’d been dragging to the ground, Judas grappled with Kurt; twisting the tire-iron out of his grasp, maneuvering his arm just so there were no obstacles in the way as he delivered a swift hit to the guy’s nose with his forehead. Slight pain buzzed in his head, but nothing he wasn’t used to– blood spurt from Kurt’s nose, splashing down his own clothes and Judas’. Not that you could really tell, wearing all black was purposeful. He kicked out Kurt’s legs, pinning him down with a foot to the chest; pulling out his own gun, knowing he wouldn’t face the same problem as before with an empty gun. “You should stop moving, it’s less painful that way.” His words punctuated with two shots into the abdomen– not lethal right away, but easily enough to down someone for the time being.
Slowly he gathered those wounded enough to not move anymore to the center, piling them into a groaning pile with Kurt laying at the top. Fitting for an acting leader. From the bottom of the group, the two that had merely been unconscious struggled to free themselves, the clawing noises of their fingernails on concrete sounding like skittering mice. The heel of Judas’ boot came down on the forearm of one, holding it still as his had gripped the offending hand, wrenching it to the side quickly and snapping the bones easily. The other guy, seeing what happened to his friend tried to retract himself, play unconscious game even though he was an atrocious actor– Judas was so tired of cowardice, taking his gun again and putting holes into the guy’s hands like he was crucifying him.
Holstering his gun, he walked to the corner where he’d stashed all of his things for the last part of his plan, dragging it back in the center near the pile of soon to be dead bodies. “How many times did she suck your cock to get you to come here and do her dirty work?” a voice rang out from the pile, wheezing and pained. Judas gave an exasperated sigh. There was nothing he hated more than cowards than someone who uses the last of their words to try and get under his skin. He didn’t reply, which only made the other man brazen. “Oh, I see, she’s a real good fuck then? You know, Jason never would share but I bet if he did, she’d’ve slept with every one of us to get what she wanted. The fucking whore.”
The things he held in his hand clattered to the ground save one of the many jars of clear liquid, just before he whirled around on his heels, prowling towards Kurt. He was the one he figured that had spoken such words like the small minded fuck that he was, Judas figured; Judas’ face a solid mask of no emotion as he knelt on front of the offender, his knee pressing into his chest and arms, forcing him still. “I’m not going to waste my breath on you more than to tell you that you don’t deserve to speak of her,” Judas hissed, his hand shooting out to grasp Kurt’s jaw with a bone crushing intensity, pushing his fingers into the skin of his cheeks forcing his mouth open.
With one easy movement, Judas unsheathed one of his knives, pressing it into Kurt’s mouth. Nicking gums, teeth, and cheek, he forced the blade down into the muscle of Kurt’s tongue. The movement was awkward even for him since he would have rather grabbed the man’s tongue and cut it off cleanly, but this was more painful. More deserving of a piece of trash that Kurt was. He didn’t care that blood was pouring out, he didn’t care if it was splattering against him and even marring his emotionless face. Cared even less for the choked screaming. Judas kept plunging and cutting into the tissue until he was able to flick out a mutilated resemblance of a tongue; a wet plop sounding from it hitting the concrete flooring. “That’s better,” Judas released Kurt’s face, though he was sure the other didn’t hear his words over the garbled and strangled weeping.
Judas retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the crimson from his face and hands before opening the jar that he’d placed on the floor; dipping the cloth into the liquid and plopping it on the ground. Carefully and meticulously, he analyzed the warehouse and catalogued all of the weak spots; advantageous for the finale, before wandering back to the group. Upending the liquid from the jar he’d carried, Judas moved it in a circle, coating each one of them with the chemical. Soon the warehouse began to smell of pungent chemicals, his own nose turning up at the fumes. After making sure that each of the boys were coated, he threw the rest of the jars shattering into areas that were well populated with debris, which was easy since the warehouse was so run down. Their idiocy was only his gain.
After he’d sufficiently emptied all of the turpentine that he’d brought save for a small amount he held in his hands, he walked back to Kurt who’s wailing still didn’t cease– grasping his jaw once more and upended the contents into his mouth; the blood mixing with the acrid chemical. “See you in hell,” Judas said, lighting a match and placing it near Kurt’s face– the fumes catching fire and rapidly combusting. All he could hear as he backed away quickly, tamping out the own fire that had started on his fingertips, were the screams of those he’d come to end. Their final breathes reaching a maddening screech of victory. Of course that wasn’t all he needed to do.
Leaving out the door the men had come through initially, fire licking at his heels, he barred the door shut; matching all of the other doors that he’d closed shut before he even went in. This was always the final play, the end game; the slowest death he could ever provide. An agonized death of fire sloughing off skin, putrid smell of burning flesh hanging in the air. If they somehow managed to move they’d find that there was no escape. Unearthing a bag Judas had stashed in the bushes outside of the warehouse, he reached in and retrieved on of the many bags of drugs that Maverick had stashed in the warehouse and shoved his knife through one in into the door and dumping the rest around; leaving it for all to see before spray painting the door in large bold letters in red.
Thieves.
Now Judas didn’t mind if he was linked to this crime if he had left evidence behind, though from the black billowing smoke that came from the shattered windows at the very top of the warehouse, he knew that no one would find anything. However, he didn’t want this coming back to Pandora in any way; a simple red herring to point any officials into thinking that this was related to the drugs that the kid was running into Newford. Not necessarily a plot from Ainsworth himself, but lower thug versus lower thug.
Grabbing his bag, Judas disappeared into the darkness; watching from afar while he waited for the officials to arrive. First firefighters attempting to put out the flames and police officers closing off the area, then ambulances when the firefighters realized that there were bodies amid the flames. Chin in hand, much like how he waited for his targets to arrive, he waited for his targets to leave in black bags that held their charred remains. The fire dwindled down after blazing for several hours, around the same time they pulled the last of the heathens out, storing their remains in another body bag.
That was it, the last of his targets confirmed dead. The contract was closed. He blew a sigh through his lips as he stood, encapsulated by the darkness that still hung heavy now that the light of the fire died in front of him. News vans shot down the streets, the area becoming a clusterfuck of media. He didn’t need to tell Pan that he had the job completed. She’d surely see it. Knowing that, he retreated– ending his time as the harbinger of Death.
At least for today.