The Beginning of the End
As much as he tried to focus and stay awake, it didnât work. Where he was able to fight off magic like it was nothing but fairy dust, something like a tranquilizer was real. And reality hurt. Reality forces you to your knees and by hell Bandit had been on his knees way too often to go back to this view. Thatâs why the Killer struggled so much, his pride, earned through blood and sweat, was what kept him going. But as he even heard Bâs words becoming muffled and melting into the rushing sound of his blood throbbing through his skull - he knew his world would soon turn black again.
And it did. As he stumbled backwards, falling onto the armchair after he had caught one last glimpse of Maliks fox smirk. A smirk that made him want to sink his teeth into these cheeks and rip them off along with the rest of his face.
Bandits arms were resting on the armrests, legs dangling to the sides a bit while his head had slumped forward allowing his pale hair to fall into his face. He wasnât moving anymore and obviously out of it. The tranquilizer had worked and as enough of the drug had spread through his system, it managed to lock Bandits mind back into that mental padded cell. Blank, nicely locked up and free of any sounds. His reality had pretty much stopped existing.
It had not taken very long, from the curtain call to the final act, to the bow to the encore, itâd all happened nice and swiftly. Anti-climatic, an experienced critic would say, but Malik didnât like climatic. Smooth and clean was his way, no blood on his hands if preferable. Â The blond took a step closer, arms falling away from their crossed rest over his chest. Instead he held them to his sides, moving forward to examine that the wildebeest was indeed deep in slumber.
"Interesting." Malik murmured to himself, shadow looming close over the slumped body. He even allowed a hand to mockingly ruffle the messy locks of white hair, the gloved one which hid unwanted scars from their previous scuffle - the one the former tombkeeper was not prepared for. "Donât worry," His voice was teasingly sweet, like talking down to a child. "Doctor Anderson promised he would be nice this time aroundâŠâ
The free hand reached for the small cellular device to his back pocket, flicking it open and setting about dialing.
"Lucky my memory remembers that number, or I would have kicked you in the throat for having burned those files." A playful sigh as Malik put the phone to his ear, adding as almost an after thought as he waited for the digital ring to connect, "Too bad, though⊠I had promised to return those to the Officer. Ah well⊠Heâll be distracted enough as is once I get digging on that pitiful Doctor of his."
The male who had still been out of it, of course couldnât do anything against the mocking gestures. Letting his hair being ruffled it simply fell back down to gently frame his rough features. Silence had filled the room for a while in which the King Killer didnât move an inch. This was - until one of his fingers gave a light twitch. The beast was slowly coming back to life and within a second his hand moved upwards to grab the Egyptian by the scoff of his shirt and pull him down so he had to stare right into the other personalities face.
"Why look what the cat dragged in ~"
The Psychopath mused and twisted Maliks arm enough to make him drop the phone before he stomped on it, breaking the device underneath his boot. "Nice to see you came back to play, letâs not have the dear doctor interrupt us, yeah?" He chuckled and then moved his arm around to toss Malik right against the wall. It seemed like the tranquillizer did only send Bandit to sleep and cleared the path for Mr.B to wake up and completely take over.
"This time Iâm gonna finish what Iâve startedâŠ" He slowly licked his lips, letting the saliva drip off his jagged teeth as his eyes stared at Malik like a hungry wolf staring at a rabbit.
One ring... Two rings...
Slurred consciousness twitched below him, but Malik's lavender eyes had already swiveled lazily to the Crime King's desk, about to stand and examine some of the contents - which, never happened, the vicious tug yanking the blond face to face with twisted, deranged features. Dilated pupils gazed sharply into Malik's own hues, staring so deep that he was certain whatever was left of his rotten dark soul felt slightly violated. The monster's hot puffs of breath disturbingly caressed the former tombkeeper's chin as it spoke, jagged teeth unmistakable. What the fuck...
Three rings... Four...
Abrupt pain from a twisted limb nearly jamming out of its own socket, the clattering of the plastic device to the floor before the undulated black rubber soles of combat boots crushed it mercilessly.
Five seconds... Six seconds...
The pounding beating of Malik's heart was all the blond heard rushing in his ears, everything like white noise all around, time seeming to slow. It was easy to see it all unfold, his eyes wide, feeling his own booted feet lift from the floor as gravity propelled him in one effortless throw - the psychopathic beast was ever so strong, stronger it seemed. The world spun, vision unclear, dotted and shit from such a slam against the wall, back feeling a disgusting 'crunch' from within. Shit...
Seven Seconds... Eight seconds...
It wasn't so much internally as an unpleasant sting and clattering of glass to the floor reminded him the rest of the tranquilizer's darts had no doubt shattered from the impact, the disgusting liquid forming an inappropriate puddle to the floor that could have easily came off as urine had it not been for the strong antiseptic scent. Blood mixed in with it in a lazy, dancing haze, Malik's back feeling soaked. Fuck... Nine...
Retreat. Fuck plan C. Scrambling like a drunken man on death row, Malik dared no macho face off this time around, adrenaline already pushing his instincts to ignore disorientation and fight to retreat for the door. Broken shards embedded within his back would have otherwise stung like a bitch, the mixing substances ticking his conscious time down like an ugly bomb. If that shit got within his blood stream, he was as toast as Bandit's subconscious.
Ten....
The hallway looked just as bright as headlights on extra killer volts, but that could have just been the miscalculating blond's disoriented head, the slam against the solid brick wall no fucking joke. Something had to have broken, but instincts kept pushing, making Malik take a swift turn down further towards the hall. He had to find a way out. Flee and re-plan. Fuck everything else. Fuck his pride. Fuck Anderson.
Nine...
Back into the club may have been the best choice, but a concussion didn't like making shit easy, robbing all sense of direction and letting the Egyptian gamble on which door he was reaching for. The first was locked, but the next further down turned free with a pleasant click - yes, back exits were never allowed to be locked.
Eight...
It led to rusted, dirt salted steps, Malik taking the time to turn around and shut and deadbolt the entryway behind him. He didn't know if the deranged monster was after him or not, but cutting off the chance at all costs seemed the most logical in this clouded, muddled thinking.
Seven...
Vision swam, steps feeling endless as the blond descended, skin feeling scorching, clothes heavy. Fingers had to grip aggressively onto the rusted iron railing not face dive the rest of the way, Arabic curses droning their way past Malik's lips. Where the fuck did this lead..? Where was the fucking exit?!
Six...
Two doors awaited at the bottom, though in hindsight Malik would have wished he'd taken the left one, jingling the knob to the one that looked most like a exit despite no indication. Gambling had never been his thing unless the outcome had been predictable, but in a state of life or death, one would come to realize that these kinds of things were far away from perception, as if all reason left to sail far away and leave nothing but raw, animalistic instinct in survival.
Five...
Within was something no soul would ever wish to set optics on, no matter how bent on surviving, no matter how torn on getting out - within was the perfect recipe for panic.
Four...Â
A psychopathic serial killer's playground, rotting bodies strewn and hanging, some sewn together, others thrust within split open flesh in places no limb should extrude from. Blood marred the walls, both dry and wet in matted places, all sorts of DNA in this room combined into a murderous slurr. The smell was wretched, sickening, invading the senses like a physical mutant disease which bent Malik's legs to a shaking, pathetic whim, uncertain of when he'd exactly fallen to his knees in pure, disturbed shock.
Three...
There was a bin of organs and limbs alike, some cut up on what looked like a butcher's workspace. An eyeball was blankly staring at Malik with a deranged sense of pity - as if judging, whispering. No. That was merely his consciousness beginning to fade, thoughts merging with incoherent memories, voices of past memories overlapping and animating every object in this room. Shock was an ugly thing, a counterproductive paralysis when coupled with tranquilizing fluid concocted for a five hundred kg beast... Even at such a small dose seeping in through bleeding cuts...
Two...
Footsteps. They echo'd closer. This was it. The end.
"Fuck..."
One...
Darkness.









