sheol sometimes believes, for one reason or another, that they were above it all. it helps, that now there are people in cloaks that watch their every move, worship an aspect of them that, even though is not them, exists entirely at the base of their skull. though the worship of their mother's underlings was never what they sought. for whenever it decides to unveil itself, it takes sheol with it. while they claim that they are entirely indifferent to the thought of being consumed whole but the unhinging maw of a snake, they don't wish to die. it seems, after every continuous hiccup and downturn in their life, only fair that they can act however they so desire. death their primary spoken language; it has always followed them wherever they step, tracing their path with utmost delicacy. sheol dares to even think, after so many moons of entering this seedy under - belly of the world and after such resistance to letting themself submerge under the staining ink of crime, they're deserving of killing and being killed. for what is better justice, than to rip life from people who doubt you? preventative, is it not? to not just show them what you are capable of, but have it be the last thing that person will ever learn? this is what that locust speaks into their ear any time they have doubt. some nights, they'd grin, alone in their candle - lit room, happily, deliriously—- some nights, they'd threaten to rip their hair out of their scalp, wishing to dig their fingers into their flesh and rip it out. of course, it was right. of course, they had no choice but to listen when they were alone.
but right now, they aren't alone. no matter how much of a stomach sheol's grown, how much tolerance to the malevolence they developed, they still cannot look down to the face of someone who was begging to be let go, swearing at them, spitting venomous speech. their visage blank, turned away from the target after aiming their weapon, and squeezing the trigger with a gloved finger. it wasn't until the ringing ended and silence was all that remained would they look back and get someone else to deal with a body. a sigh through their nose: what an inconvenience... they think, muttering an apology and falling silent upon hearing footsteps, not the silent movement of worshippers and cultists that were watching from shadowy corners and through binoculars into the window. head barely turns to meet the unfortunate sight of tony. instead of running, they twist their gaze back away from him while they reset their weapon, "sorry if, if, if you were looking for him," chin gestures to the lifeless cadaver quickly growing cold between their legs where they stood over him. like they didn't know he was. his silence, sheol's learned, is never a great thing. assassin's aware that he's thinking, or assessing them. cold concrete offers no love, the dim light of a single bulb flickers, so sheol feels the need to fill the quiet. perhaps it's one - too - many of the people that tony's acquainted with turning up with bullets in their heads, one - too - many people that were under scrutiny from his business turning up, that they don't even get a word out before he states,
( ' tell me why you're really here. ' // from tony ♡ ; @scrrface )
it's almost like things haven't changed. sheol still wishes to pounce and give him a mirroring scar on his other eye. he gives a command, and sheol's expected to give an answer? has he ever said something, requested something of them without money attached, that they abided by? yet, sheol manages to keep the acidic bile that gives them heart burn at bay. they believe they owe him that much, they could exercise some decorum. but only some. over their shoulder, they cast him another gaze. their lip twitches into a smile, fake and not even given that much energy, "why, can't i, i, uh... find a unique way to, to, to say hello to my best friend?" they snide, holstering a pistol uncharacteristic of them. as quickly as their lips pull, they drop. "what does it, it, it look like?" their foot lifts as they turn to fully face him, peeling off gloves and tucking them in their back pocket, "taking care of a, a, a problem of ours. maybe a, a, uhhh... 'thanks', is in order."