Rules: list the first line of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any.
I remember God; his face was broad and insincere.
(Consanguinity, Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil)
My brother’s eyes are like glacial lakes, in a Northerly country where I am not welcome.
(Comorbidity, Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil)
Someone in a book my brother used to own once said, “Man is a god in ruins”. Or wrote it, I guess; whatever. That book is mine now. Or at least, I have it. Only time will tell if I really own it. I wake up every day hoping I don’t.
(Anteros, Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil)
It was the wrong side of midnight when they finished the job, and strolled their blood-soaked bodies home over the moonlit cobblestone, swaggering aimlessly through the lifeless streets of Red Grave City.
(In the Days When I was Dear to You, Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil)
Nero splits before dawn, and that seems about right.
(Suppressio Veri, Devil May Cry, Vergil/Dante)
The fucker was heavier than heaven.
(Redux, Metal Gear Solid, Snake/Liquid, Liquid/Vamp, with Greekhoop)
"So a priest and a musician walk into a bar," Wolfwood remarked, flatly, on exhaling. "You'd think the second guy would have ducked."
(Exeunt, Trigun, Wolfwood/Midvalley)
Blane McDonough stood before the high white door he’d sworn never to darken again, and hated himself.
(White Night, Blue Interlude, Pretty in Pink, Steff McKee/Blane McDonough)
fͥucͣkͫed
( l a c u n a e, Mr. Robot, Tyrell/Elliot)
Board under his arm, he stood on the warm sands under the boomerang-shaped screams of the seagulls, far from the sounds of the carnival; calliope music and shrieks of delight, faded by the roar of the waves, dwindling on the wind that carried them.
(The Devil, the Saint and the Perfect Wave, DmC: Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil)
And a bonus, because why not:
If I'm honest, I feel better here than I have in a long time, like a creature returned to the sea.
(Confraternity, Devil May Cry, Dante/Vergil, unpublished)
I guess from this you can draw the conclusion that I rarely open with dialogue (it's always effective, but somehow I tend to see it as a cop-out - I tend to do this most in very short fiction/vignettes), and I mostly prefer a short-sentence stinger, though I occasionally employ a longer, rhapsodic, mood-setting sentence.
Where Elliot is a hitman and gets himself into a sticky situation.
Note: This was a lot of fun to write !! I wish the Mr. Robot fandom wasn’t so small. The show is very underrated when it reality it’s woke as hell and deserves more recognition. Plus Rami is in it, of course. That’s always a plus. Much love and enjoy x
Word count: 2.8k
---
Mud soaked through the dark canvas of his shoes and Elliot grits his teeth but keeps moving, hood masking his sharp features, the tension of his jaw and redness rimming his eyes. The gun felt heavy on his belt, easily concealed as he treks forward, faster now but still several paces behind his target, close enough to keep him in view but far enough away not to attract attention. Killing Terry Colby would be easy. Being the CTO at E-Corp meant his ego was bloated, he knew that he was important, blinded by the fact but unaware that he had a target on his back.
If Elliot managed to kill Colby--which he knew with great confidence that he would--he would get paid handsomely. This wasn’t his first time working for Tyrell Wellick and knew the man would hold up his end of the deal. He had a lot to lose; a wife and child, his reputation, all of which Elliot could destroy without as much as a second thought. Elliot had made sure Tyrell was aware of this; if Tyrell tried any funny business at all, Elliot would expose him, would make it impossible for him to recover.
The air was cold as it bit at his skin but Elliot blocks out the numbness of his face, the stiffness of his fingers. The sun wouldn’t rise for hours yet and the fact that Colby was combing the empty streets of New York alone was an unexpected treat. It would without a doubt make his job easier. Elliot picks up his pace, sliding slightly on the mud that had begun to congeal with the chilling autumn weather. It was on the cusp of winter now, stuck in the sort of in between that Elliot despised.
Terry continues at a slow pace, lax as he sips on a coffee and whistles without a care in the world. Despite the fact that he had a highly trained assassin trailing him.
The alleyway they’re about to pass seemed almost too perfect but Elliot doesn’t question it as he follows close behind him and pulls him into the darkness, pressing him up against the brick with a forearm to his throat. The man screams with surprise but Elliot is quick to muffle the sound with his palm, hissing with pain when Colby bites into his flesh, harsh and desperate. There’s an unpleasant, pungent smell that fills the air and when Elliot looks down, he finds Terry had pissed himself, overcome with fear.
Elliot cocks his gun, the cool metal heavy in his palm and presses the gun to Colby’s forehead before pulling the trigger. There’s only a faint buzzing noise, the shock of the bullet muffled by the silencer he had attached earlier that morning but Elliot’s own blood roars in his ears, quieting it further. He feels the warmth of blood splatter on his neck and cringes but otherwise doesn’t move. He can only take him in when he’s sure he had stopped breathing.
An eerie sort of silence washes over him and Elliot grimaces, hiding the body the best he can before going two blocks down to the car Wellick had promised to leave. When Elliot makes it back to the site, he pulls the car as close into the alley as he could dare and throws Colby’s body into the trunk before wiping his blood stained hands on his pants and makes his way to the arcade. Wellick would be waiting there and Elliot was eager to rid the body and get his pay.
He’s glad the sun was yet to rise as he pulls into a parking space and carries Colby’s body through the entrance. Elliot finds Tyrell sitting beside the skeeball lanes, looking anxious and watches his face go paper white when he takes in Terry’s body. “What?” Elliot mutters, dropping the body like a sack of potatoes, the thud loud in the empty silence. “Take a good look before I burn his body,” He continues, prying the dried blood from beneath his fingernails.
Tyrell stumbles forward, a green tint taking over the stark white and Elliot merely grimaces once he turns and gets sick a few feet away. “He’s...” Tyrell trails off and Elliot rolls his eyes now, quickly becoming irritated.
“Dead? Yes, that’s what happens when you hire a hitman,” Elliot says with a sort of venom that has Tyrell flinching back. “Now hand over my pay. I need to get rid of this body and would like to do so before the sun rises,”
Tyrell swallows loudly, eyes wide and hands over a wad of cash, watching as Elliot undoes the band and counts it before him. If Tyrell had shorted him, things wouldn’t end well. After counting it twice, Tyrell sighs with relief when Elliot nods with approval. “Alright,” Elliot says, shrugging as he pockets the money. “Get out of here, unless you want to watch,” He holds a grim smile that has Tyrell shuddering with unease and he says nothing as he backs away from him.
Tyrell didn’t want to witness Elliot burning Terry Colby’s body, didn’t want to smell the bitter tang of melting flesh. The sight alone was enough to haunt him for weeks so he leaves Elliot to it. He had Elliot’s contact information, the number of a burner phone Elliot would undoubtedly trash within the next few days. If Tyrell didn’t see him again before then, he knew the chances of coming in contact with him was unlikely and that bothers him more than he’d like to admit.
***
“Shit,” Elliot grits his teeth, waves of pain washing over his abdomen and limps over to the arcade, thankfully not far off with his hands pressed to his stomach as black dots dance across his vision. He takes his phone out, that shitty burner he had bought three days before and calls the one person he can think of as he tries to steady his breathing.
“Elliot?” Tyrell murmurs with surprise. “Are you alright?”
“No,” Elliot chokes. “Where are you right now?”
“At home,” Tyrell says instantly but his voice is hushed, still heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you to meet me at the arcade. Bring rubbing alcohol, gauze, a lighter, a pair of needle nose pliers and a metal butter knife,” He instructs, words muddled.
“What—“
“Just do it,” Elliot snaps. “And hurry up,” He hangs up the phone then, applying more pressure to his stomach and tries to ignore the warmth of his own blood on his hands. It bothered him more than anyone else’s blood did; the blood of his enemies was of his own cause but the sight of his own, injured by an outsider caused nausea to rise up in his throat. Elliot had been trailing his next client, a younger, lower ranked associate at E-Corp who had managed to turn the tables on Elliot, bringing out a gun of his own and shooting him with barely a glance.
Adrenaline ran like acid through his veins and Elliot fights hard to steady his breathing. Panicking wouldn’t solve anything but the fact that his vision had begun to tunnel only worsened his anxiety.
The door to the arcade opens with a squeal and Elliot takes Tyrell in; he was holding all that he had asked, looking confused but goes paper white at the sight of his blood soaked shirt. “Elliot what the fuck,” He hisses, coming to his side.
He didn’t have time to explain, only rids himself of his shirt and takes the knife, lighter, pliers and alcohol from him. Tyrell watches as Elliot disinfects the tools, then his wound and grits his teeth to keep from gagging as he watches Elliot dig into the wound before pulling out the bullet he had been hunting for. “Fuck me,” Elliot whispers with a grimace before disinfecting his wound once again.
When Elliot begins to heat the knife with the lighter, tinged with black but not quite red hot, Tyrell’s eyes widen. “What’re you doing?” He yelps.
“I have to cauterize the wound,” Elliot mutters, not looking up at him. “It’s too deep for it to clot on its own and I’d probably need stitches but there’s no way in hell I’m going to the hospital so this is my best bet,”
Tyrell looked close to passing out himself and he has to steady himself on the pinball machine, not sure he could believe his eyes as he watches Elliot press the knife to the injury in short bursts, as if he had done it dozens of times before and maybe he had. “Holy shit,” He mutters but can’t help but gag this time at the smell of burning flesh. It was the exact thing he had avoided days before when Elliot had killed Terry Colby and yet Tyrell found this so much worse.
“Hand me the gauze,” Elliot chokes and Tyrell does, barely managing to look in his direction as he takes it, hands soaked dark with drying blood. Once Elliot had wrapped up the wound, he sighs, relieved but winces at the pain that still remained. He limps over to the popcorn machine, opening up the popper and Tyrell’s eyes widen with surprise when Elliot pulls out a small baggy of off white powder. He had a hunch that Elliot had been on some sort of drug but opiates? That would’ve been his last guess.
“Thank you,” Elliot mutters after doing two lines for good measure.
Tyrell can’t help but shake himself out with confusion. What in the ever living fuck was happening right now? “Are you going to be okay?” He asks, the only thing he can come up with and watches Elliot nod sluggishly.
“I’ll be fine,” He promises, running a hand through his hair before shrugging his shirt back on.
Tyrell was relieved to see colour was beginning to return to Elliot’s face. He looks down at the shirt he wore, a medium grey stained crimson and grimaces before shrugging off the hoodie he wore, a last minute decision when he rushed out the door to meet him and says, “Take this. It wouldn’t be very smart to walk around Queens in a bloody shirt,” The sarcasm is thick in his tone and Elliot rolls his eyes but takes it nonetheless.
“See you around, Wellick,” Elliot says simply, as if they had just been discussing the weather and Tyrell’s eyebrows furrow with confusion.
“That’s it?” He whispers, eyes wide as he watches Elliot pull the hood over his face, looking nearly unbothered. “You’re just going to go?”
“Did you... need anything else from me?” Elliot asks, sounding just as confused.
“No, I just—“
“Then I need to get going,” Elliot shrugs. “My client is going to be pissed I let him go and I need to find him before shit can hit the fan,”
“Shit hasn’t already hit the fan?” Tyrell asks incredulously and Elliot shakes his head with the slightest smile.
“Shit would hit the fan if I were dead,” Elliot says, zipping up his hoodie and turning his back to him.
“Are you sure you should be going out to find that guy after you just got shot?” Tyrell whispers, uncertain.
Elliot sighs and when he turns toward Tyrell again, he finds him frowning deeply. “If I don’t, the consequences of letting him free will be worse off,” He says simply and doesn’t give Tyrell the chance to respond before he leaves the arcade.
Tyrell stands there, buzzing with confusion as he watches Elliot limp out before the door screeches behind him and he disappears. He knew he shouldn’t leave Elliot to fend for himself but wouldn’t be much help in any case. He didn’t know the first thing about killing anyone and the sight of blood made him queasy and yet... he couldn’t bare to leave him alone.
Tyrell leaves the arcade after making what could be the most foolish decision of his life. He finds Elliot barely outside of the parking lot and trails him, a few feet back. Tyrell knew Elliot was still on cloud nine, morphine settling deep in his blood so he would be the last thing on Elliot’s mind.
They’re walking for hours and Tyrell couldn’t help but be the slightest bit impressed at Elliot’s stamina given the fact that he had been shot earlier that night. They stop in front of a shitty motel 6 and Elliot strides in confident as ever. The front desk is abandoned so Elliot walks behind it, looking through the clientele sheet and finds his target’s room and makes his way there. Tyrell is barely able to trail him without giving himself away but manages, sighing with relief when Elliot stops in front of one of the first few rooms, crouching down to pick the lock. Once it clicks, a muffled sound in the silence, Elliot physically relaxes, looking relieved.
He walks into the hotel room, gun raised and painted with his own blood but he pays it little mind as he walks further into the room. He finds the man asleep on the pull out couch, hand over his eyes and Elliot grins, taking aim before pulling the trigger.
His death was quick and Elliot grits his teeth, bitter. He wished that the man would’ve suffered, given what he had done to him but knew this was for the best. He takes his phone out and calls the agency he worked with, a secret government corporation who often took care of the bodies and gives them a run down as quickly as he can. “And hurry,” Elliot snaps into the receiver, holding his side which had begun to ache all over again. “It’s been a long night and I don’t feel like waiting,”
Elliot moves toward the doorway, frowning at the door which was left ajar. He had closed it when he had come in. Tyrell doesn’t have the chance to hide before Elliot spots him, heart racing with fear. “Damn it,” He hisses, eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Tyrell watches as Elliot puts his gun in his belt, hiding it under the hoodie he still wore and tries to work his tongue to form any sort of explanation but comes up empty. “I—“
“You wanted to snoop,” Elliot cuts in, voice sharp. “What was the point in that? Wanted to watch me kill someone, did you?”
“No, I just... I wanted to make sure you were okay,”
“I told you I would be,” Elliot snaps, moving forward and pushing him out of the way, locking the door before pulling Tyrell toward the hotel exit. “We need to get out of here before they show up,” He mutters.
“Who?” Tyrell asks, confused and Elliot rolls his eyes with irritation.
“The corporation I work with. They take care of the bodies so the murder doesn’t get traced back to me. My boss would’ve had my head if I hadn’t gone through with this mission, that’s why I was so desperate to make sure I got it done,” He explains as they walk back out into the cool night air.
“But I’m the one who contacted you,” Tyrell says with furrowed eyebrows. “I didn’t contact any sort of corporation to get to you,”
“I take cases like yours into my own hands,” Elliot says simply. “I like the pay people like you give and I know how to get rid of bodies myself. I just don’t like to,” His voice was even as he spoke, sounding calm as they walk across the hotel parking lot. A black Escalade pulls up beside them and Elliot nods at the man who rolls down a tinted window. “A17,” He says before he and Tyrell continue on.
“Where are we going?” He asks softly and Elliot sighs, pulling the hood up over his face.
“I’m going home. I don’t give a shit where you go,” He shoves his hands into the pockets and sighs with frustration when Tyrell continues walking at his side. “What?” He snaps, finally losing his temper.
“I... I don’t want to be left alone,” Tyrell murmurs, looking down at his hands.
“You have a wife and kid. Go back to them,”
“They’re not home,” Tyrell lies quickly, unsure why he was doing so. Maybe it was the fact that it wasn’t exactly him who wanted company. He had a feeling it was Elliot who didn’t want to be alone.
“I know a good barbecue place not far from here,” Elliot says eventually. “Want to get something to eat?”
The smallest of smiles makes its way onto Tyrell’s face and he nods, finally looking up at him. “I’d like that,” He admits and the silence that falls over them not long after is more comforting than not. Tyrell finds a sort of beauty in it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
To the three of you still reading Mr. Robot in almost-2025 - let's languish in the dark taint between Xmas and NYE and have some late-night Tyrelliot. Bonsoir, pervs. <3
Happy Tuesday--here's some Tyrelliot. I have two smaller chapters coming hard and fast on the heels of this one, but I wanted to put it out there, because it's a behemoth.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/41220738/chapters/114258460
