Baltimore Live
A Foxhole Court One Shot
TW: Honestly the normal Foxhole Court stuff, blood, mentions of torture, ya know, the usual
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A problem with a situation like this was that when word got out, word got out. The Press was always hungry for something to sell, from exaggerated stories to heartbreaking accidents. They would do what ever they could to sink their claws into a fresh piece of meat.
They always had sources, eyes and ears in places they should not be. Places like the FBI. They thought everything had been secured, tied down with layers of paperwork and near impossible security. But, there was a small crack, a crumbling part of the wall hidden in shadow that no one saw.
That is how it began. The Press had been covering the Butcher's blood trail for years, and at the slight wisp of a chance to catch him in the act, they were swarming like bees.
The cameras were pointed at the deathly silent house. The few reporters that had managed to show up were held back by the Feds, but because of the seriousness of the situation weren't able to stop the cameras.
They promised they wouldn't show the video live. They did however, promise the stream it directly to the FBI headquarters. Directly where the Palmetto state foxes were being questioned
"Get this," one of the male reporters whispered, pointing just past the police barrier and at the dark figure as he was guided to his knees by a masked man.
The man guided the figure's hands to his head, and left without a sound. A tense silence drifted through the streets, even the press holding their breath, waiting for the Feds to move. Finally, they did, lights and find all pointing at the man. They converged full force, shouting and yelling while trying to shove back the flashing cameras and frantic reporters.
"On your feet!" One of the reporters had gotten close enough to get sound. "Nathan Wesninski! You...are..." The Fed trailed off as the man tilted his head up and revealed the destroyed face of Nathaniel Wesninski. "Medic! Get a medic over here!"
"You're too late," He almost hummed through the pain. " My father is dead."
"Your father." The agent glanced back at the house and then to Wesninski. "Your father?"
"My name is Nathanial Wesninski, and my father is dead."
Andrew stopped breathing. The rage, the anger, the damn fear that shot through his body at the sight of Neil's battered face. Tearing him apart was the first and only option, hanging him on the tower's flag pole. But the laughter was what stopped that train of thought.
Andrew, Wymack, Dan, Abby and a few Feds all watched the small TV as a strange grim stretched across Nathaniel's face. And then, the laugh, one Andrew never, ever needed or wanted to hear tore through his vocal chords.
Andrew had been so done with everything for so long. He didn't need to feel, he didn't want to feel. In the end it only hurt him more, it only made things worse.
He should have known. From him breaking their deal on the bus, to that damned "You were amazing," how the hell did he not see it?
Andrews fingers curled around the bag, Neil's bag, not whoever the hell had the camera shoved in the face as he was carefully loaded onto a stretcher. He should have stopped this, he could have stopped it.
Somewhere behind him, Dan swore and turned into Abby. "No, that's...that's not him."
"It is." Andrew ground out.
"Dammit." Wymack turned with Dan and Abby.
But Andrew didn't stop staring, didn't stop clenching the duffle strap, the phone, everything Neil kept so close left behind for him. For Andrew.
It was a terrible feeling. A terrible fucking feeling for sure.
*unedited*