✍ this is for sybil → aspen & kaleb
Nothing seemed to cure the endless aching in his chest — not the countless carnage trailing behind him, not the fire that licked along the skin of his arms, not the screams of men as he broke them, bone by bone, and left them for dead. It was a pain unlike anything he'd ever felt in the past, a throbbing that overtook the cavity that contained his heart and hollowed it to the absolute core. Finding out Malachy hadn't let Imogen go was a blow not only to his ego but to emotions he didn't know he had the ability to feel, sentiments he wished he'd never discovered. So it was only natural for him to begin sweeping the border, red-tinted eyes peeled for those who didn't belong past the edge of Central Park, or whose path had led them around the wrong side of a building. Therapists would describe it as an unhealthy coping method, but for as long as Aspen could remember his mother had fully supported his killing habit — in fact, it was one of the few things she actively encouraged him to do. It was his duty to the city, she said, to clean the streets of scum. And so he slit throats and snapped necks and held up his end of the deal.
Blood-stained fingers leaving tracks on the wall as he dragged them against the cement of a building, Aspen glanced up at the full moon above him, ignoring the disturbed glances those who passed gave him. Dripping crimson stains soaked his shirt, giving every reason for people to stare, but he didn't care — he was far past caring, past being careful. He was just one person in this massive city, and those folk would soon forget the blood-covered boy they'd passed on the street that night, moving on to the next unimportant event in their lives without incident. But here Aspen would be, racking up bodies under their noses, no one knowing better than to keep quiet.
The streets cleared with a ghostly swiftness, and he realised he'd entered a part of the Bronx most known for its violent gang activity; many would feel unsafe here, constantly glancing over their shoulders and searching for any sign of danger. Aspen, however, knew better than to worry — his reputation was protection enough. A flash of light-coloured hair caught his eye and he turned on his heel, eyes narrowing in search of Marlow's familiar stocky build. It would be just like him to sneak over the border despite his recent near-death experience, and if one lesson wouldn't be enough, perhaps the second time would be the charm. His body melted into flames, reassembling itself in the same spot that he'd just seen his target — oddly enough, it wasn't Marlow who greeted him, but a Comity recruit who went under the guise of Storm. "What an unpleasant surprise," he chirped, casting a ring of blue flame around the boy so he couldn't escape. "You aren't quite the man I was looking for—" he paused, a recollection surfacing in his mind, "—but you'll do. I kind of owe your blood to a friend, so this is convenient, yeah?"
Palm glowing with white-hot heat, Aspen allowed his fire to extinguish, stepping over where it had been and delivering a sharp uppercut to Kaleb's chin before swiftly crouching and sweeping his feet out from under him, enjoying the sharp cracking noise his skull made as it hit the pavement. Aspen swung a leg over the boy and bracketed his hips with his knees, fingers swiping across his face and leaving long, thick burn marks across his cheeks. "This is for Sybil, in case you were wondering — couldn't tell you why, but if I'm going to fucking kill you I may as well give you a reason," he chuckled, patting the boy's jaw lightly before slamming a fist into the same spot and listening for the bone cracking. Two fingers lined the skin of Kaleb's arms with fire, the skin beginning to bubble and blister almost immediately, but he made sure to keep the temperature of it low enough as to not make the process quick.
His hands blindly wandered to yank the other's up from where they laid, flames still dancing along his flesh, and Aspen snapped his thumb in one clean motion. "This little piggy went to market—" crack "—this little piggy stayed home—" pop "—this little piggy had roast beef—" snap "—this little piggy had none—" click "—and this little piggy cried like a bitch." Using one fist, he slammed the boy's elbow down onto the concrete, a satisfying crunch echoing around the area as it shattered. The bone protruded grotesquely from his arm and Aspen, happy with his work, set in on breaking each joint in Storm's opposite hand, gleeful like a child on Christmas. This was, of course, his favourite pastime. "Y'know, if your jaw wasn't shattered in…" he paused to think, focus still on disconnecting ligaments, "approximately six different places, I'd ask you what you did to piss Sybil off so bad that she set me on you. Like, Jesus — you really have to fuck up bad for someone to send me after you. She could've asked someone who would've done it swift, like Olson, or she could've done it herself. But shit, she picked me, and that means she wanted it to be done nice and slow."
All the metacarpals and phalanges now broken, Aspen smoothed his hands over Kaleb's legs as if petting the skin affectionately — but where his hands tracked, second-degree burns appeared. "These are second degree," he hummed, "I'd do third but then it wouldn't hurt. Also, if you were going to live, these would heal in ten to twenty-one days with probable scarring." The ground beneath the boy's head was now coloured with a viscous puddle of blood, the pool slowly growing as blood rushed out of the cracked base of his skull. "I think I'll do a little anatomy lesson for you, and speed this up a bit. I'll do you two favours, but don't tell Sy," he purred, tugging a thin knife out of his pocket and making two short, deep gashes on Kaleb's inner thighs, close to his knees. "Those are the left and right femoral arteries. You have about three minutes before you lose consciousness, and five until you die of blood loss. Any last words?"
