@mossweaving, for reaper—
You know that feeling of being followed? A presence hungering to taste just the frayed edges of your shadow seared into the earth, keeping a maliciously curated berth until the very final moment? Every sound—from footfalls to a hitched breath—amplified, beating to the chorus of one's own suspicions?
Jack felt that often. He felt it so often, in fact, that he was desensitised to it. While many would find their heart shuddering in the pit of their throat, Jack's usual response was but a lucklustre eye roll—one so half-hearted that it barely quirked his brows. It came with the territory of being a vigilante targeted by an international manhunt.
So many stalking eyes, so many fingers itching to reach for the weapon loosely clung to their hips—they all blended into one another at the end of the day.
Well, mostly.
This time was different.
The movements were unnatural, and what sounds they bloomed even more so. If he had to liken it to anything, it was almost like being haunted by a ghost.
The night deepened. Most city-dwellers had long since sought to retire to their homes, some stragglers from nighttime entertainment found themselves fighting gravity to keep upright. Others had resigned themselves and their consciousness into the curb. Alcohol, bodily expulsions, and perfume welded into a horrible malodour that stained the dark streets. Skyscrapers cordoned off much of the natural sky, leaving the everwatching stare of digitalised advertisements, stretched high enough to kiss the heavens, to cloak the streets in their light. The light was selective; if the commericalisation couldn't keep their eye on you, murk reigned supreme.
Normally, this time of night was when Jack got most of his chores done; he knew some local faces that could keep his reserves topped. He'd been particularly craving a restock of one materials so he could prep some homemade fixes to strips of garb.
A downward glimpse in a puddle slowly draining into the sewer grates. Again, he saw something—but not enough to make any concrete conclusions. His brows knitted, drawing a deep furrow down his forehead.
"Motherfucker."
Time moved slow. Agitation nipped at his shoulder blades. A grunt and Jack peeled to the side.
He needed to make them show themself.
He led himself up a decrepit fire escape that was barely holding onto the flank of the building, each step spurred a groan that could've only been pulled from metal decades old and clinging to the last vestiges of life. He led himself up to the barren rooftop and waited. Waited for any indication that they'd hounded him all the way up here.
… There.
A tilt of his head allowed the visor stretched widely over his visage to erect a mirror-like reflection, letting him glimpse upon the presence that lurked behind him. His eyes shot wide. Ire ripped through his body like a fire in the summit of summertime; hot, dangerous, overpowering. If he was in a space of introspection, he might've realised that the emotion was too wrought, rolled up with so many moving, grinding layers which exposed convolution, but ultimately: rawness.
But he wasn't in that space.
And what he felt, in that moment, was anger.
A switch flipped; a blur of limbs and body and mechanisms and Jack had spun on his heels to face him, weapon readied.
"Why," his voice hissed betwixt clenched teeth, jaw gnarled with tension, "why show your fucking face here."
Gabriel. Reaper.