[On a rooftop, a few blocks away from Hexoset]
It was 9:30 pm.
The sun had long since set, leaving the western horizon a violet-blue dotted with its first stars. A breezing wind whipped across a gravel-strewn rooftop, carrying with it the muffled thrum of the nightclub a few blocks away. Leading the neon sprawl of electric pink and cyan into the haze, The Basin cast long, distorted shadows at the feet of two silhouettes perched on the ledge.
Glossy black bodysuits defined their youthful figures, with neon-blue lines tracing their forms like luminous veins. Layered over the fabric were the rugged trappings of their trade: matte leather utility belts, tactical straps, and weapons sheaths. High-collared cropped jackets, worn over the suits, masked their features from the nose down. While the male's suit was seamless, the woman's design featured cutouts at the hips, breaking the visual flow of the glowing veins. One couldn't see their expressions beneath the polished visors of reflective glass that were their headgear. Mostly because it featured flickering highlights across its surface, showcasing data streams visible only to them. Etched into these operatives' sleeves was the insignia of The Arcane Eye.
Jasih, alias Shield, hunched low on the ledge in a predatory stance - his peculiarity to conjure energy barriers earned him the name. Gravel crunching softly beneath his boots, he kept his eyes pressed against the rubber seals of a pair of high-end binoculars, watching as the lenses captured the happenings in Hexoset's penthouse.
Through the magnified glass, the chaos appeared vivid.
Broco was barking orders at his Mercs, whose weapons were levelled at the patrons and runners, automatically transitioning them from passive security to active threats. Every few seconds, the Monger aggressively pointed toward the clients, then the runners, then the clients again. Sometimes to his Mercs. His face flushed a deep crimson, and the lenses captured the tight, white-knuckled grip with which he held his gun. Broco was frantic and on the verge of hysteria. It didn't look good. Still, all was going according to plan.
Ryken and Seraph, or Traore and Cleome to those not in the know, remained as they should be despite the mounting tension. They were composed, alert. Even the Mawborn sat in a state of disciplined ease. With the comms feeding Jasih every word they spoke, his trained instincts triggered a warning that they may no longer need to observe but prepare to engage. It seemed as though the operation was on the verge of getting out of hand.
Meanwhile, a spherical drone with a dark screen face hung in mid-air between the operatives, displaying glowing digital eyes shaped like two rectangular blocks. Equipped with metallic armour, it had a matching translucent visor and a pair of wing-like antennas. Jeenah called it a Joint Operational Juxtaposition Intelligence, or JOJI, for short - a moniker she gave all her creations because their hive-mind architecture allowed them to operate in swarms and exchange real-time data with each other using an AI core. But this drone wasn't autonomous right now. Using her peculiarity, Jeenah bound the drone to her will with a "Dominium Circuitus" spell, achieving absolute control while she remained miles away from the immediate danger. She ran tactical support from the team's HQ in Esrossa, pulling the strings through Joji.
"Looks like we might have a sitch incoming," warned Jasih, lowering the binoculars and sliding his visor up to place it atop his head, revealing a face defined by a calm but confident expression.
Dark-skinned in complexion, dark brown curls were pulled back in a low ponytail, framing features that were almost too striking for his line of work - a straight nose, full lips set in a thin line, and eyes the colour of orange fire. Those irises glowed with internal heat as they turned to his partner, Saedi, whose peculiarity was to shapeshift into any animal she had seen or ingested a DNA sample of, earning her the alias Anima.
"Lemme see that," she muttered, snatching the binoculars from Jasih's grip with a hand dressed in a fingerless glove, and settled back against a rusted HVAC unit, shifting the weight of her Detonator on her lap as she pushed her visor up with a thumb.
Joji's glowing eyes narrowed into thin slits. A static crackle hissed from its vocal components, the tiny inverted 'V' of its mouth twitching unevenly as it spoke in an electronic tenor. "Uh, define sitch, Shield. 'Cause from where I'm sitting, the Monger's heart rate is pushing stroke levels, and the Mawborn is about two seconds away from carving him like a turkey."
"Indeed. That's exactly the kind of mess I'm talking about." Jasih responded, tapping his earpiece to switch to a secure, multi-way channel. "Saedi. You're seeing this, no? Give me an assessment."
Snap. Pop. Snap. Pop.
The rhythmic sound of chewing gum was the only response as she thought, making Saedi look more like a bored teenager than a professional operative as she took in a breath and blew a massive green bubble. She sure was taking her time expanding the bubble until it was nearly the size of her face before it collapsed with a wet smack. Indifferent to the sticky residue on her bottom lip, the woman scraped it off with a tooth. Fair-skinned, faint freckles dusted her cheeks in a constellation across the bridge of her nose. A thick, green braid was woven into her otherwise black hair, styled loosely with some strands falling around her face, where bright yellow eyes were accentuated with dark eyeliner and long lashes.
But in an instant, the almond contour of Saedi's human eyes flattened, elongating at the corners into a predatory tilt, stretching back toward her temples. Her irises bled from their natural shade into a brilliant topaz gold as a third eyelid flicked horizontally across her vision, amplifying the distance into high-definition, avian clarity.
"Tracking the Monger's pacing and weapon angles," she replied in a cool, detached voice. "He's losing his grip, looking for a scapegoat, and seems to think Ryken is the most dangerous one in the room."
"When is this bound to go absolutely out of hand?" Jasih asked, watching Broco throw another drinking glass against the wall.
"Twenty minutes, I'd say. At this rate, any more provocation from the Monger, and we'll be scraping intestines off the walls."
"Gross, that actually just turned my stomach." Joji squeezed its blocky eyes, twisting its digital mouth into an uneven line of distaste.
A chuckling Saedi glanced at the hoverdrone. "You're far too fragile for this, Jeen. You've gotta stop letting every little thing get under your skin."
"Hey, I'm not that sensitive. I only get grossed out by things that make me want to bleach my eyes."
"Uh-huh. Either way, we need an extraction plan." Another bubble of green swelled from Saedi's lips, expanding steadily. Pop. Jasih rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling an exasperated breath. "We didn't come to Altown to paint The Basin's street red."
He paused to think. Saedi's assessment of the situation was no exaggeration. If the Mawborn were to unleash her suppressed power, she would be a threat to every single person in Hexoset. Ryken and Seraph would be in danger as nothing more than collateral in the wake of her transformation. Especially because they did not yet know what patron god the Mawborn belonged to and what divine abilities she was blessed with. Jasih felt a familiar weight of dread settle in his gut. He would very much like to prevent an escalation, but Eliàna's orders to "be ready for anything" had been crystal clear.
A risk it was, to be taken for an operation that hinged on a paradox. But to succeed, the Mawborn had to use her divine abilities. To prove she was chosen at birth by an ancient will. But Ratelsi could only be provoked to use her true abilities by being placed in genuine danger, which was why the operation required orchestrating a real threat to produce a real response that then was evidence. This was particularly interesting to Jasih because it framed Eliàna's plan as something that could only confirm what it sought by producing the conditions for the phenomenon to occur.
A smart plan.
But what did it say about the Mawborn? All this so she would join their covert group of advanced Peculiars under the Primarch. And yet, she was the subject of an experiment she hadn't consented to, being wanted by people who only cared about her outcome in the most instrumentalized possible way.
Snap. Saedi was blowing gum again, interrupting the musings of the squad leader. Through the film of the expanding bubble, The Basin's neon lights distorted into a hazy, lemon-colored fever dream. Pop. The bubble collapsed into a smear against her chin, leaving a minty lemon scent.
Shifting her weight against the gravel crunching beneath her boots, Saedi slid the barrel of her Detonator over the concrete ledge. A metallic click echoed in the air when she flicked the safety off. "Unleash me, Shield. I'm all revved up, and mama needs a target."
The green phosphor glow from the lenses receded, revealing the burning amber of Jasih's eyes as he lowered the binoculars."Hold your fire, Anima. We wait for Ryken's signal."
"Got 'em," said Joji's electronic voice. "We got the hard evidence against Broco Aqqa in the bag. I've met toddlers with better security than these guys. What a total joke." There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of cracking knuckles. "Fly drone's set, holding position. Feeds are clean and calibrated. We're green to capture the transformation in high-def. Don't look away now, folks."
"Roger that, Link," Jasih murmured a response.
Saedi spat out the piece of gum into her palm, flicked it into the abyss below, and said: "Loud and clear, Link."
The line stayed open. In the background of the feed, the scuff-creak of swivel-chair wheels rolled across a hard floor. Jeenah spun away from her wall of monitors, leaning back with her hands behind her Afro. The nineteen-year-old Peculiar had gotten her alias, Link, from her peculiarity to manipulate cyber technologies, either telepathically, verbally, or by touch.
"Honestly?" Joji's electronic voice softened, dropping the formalities. "I can't wait to meet this one. Anyone with readings this high is gonna be a trip. But it does make me wonder… what's the contingency if she tells us to fuck off?"
"Pfft. Not my circus, not my monkeys," Saedi replied, adding a heavy Venerite slug into her Detonator's chamber with practised ease before turning her avian gaze toward the sprawling view of the penthouse. Her grin turned predatory. "Besides, choice is a luxury she won't have for long."
A shadow crossed Joji's face as its brows wrinkled with concern for the Mawborn. But Jaish's next orders wouldn't let it dwell on it.
"Link, patch through to HQ. We're gonna need the help. Have them initiate a Citadel evacuation around the perimeter. Box Hexoset in. They have exactly thirty minutes to get here."
"Thirty minutes? Cap, Anima just said the fireworks start in twenty minutes."
"Which means the police won't get here until we're in the thick of it," Jasih explained, his hand tapping the gauntlet at his hip. "Don't count on the Paladins to fight our way out, either. When they breach, they're just securing the perimeter and pulling civilians. We're the cleanup crew" By "civilians", he meant the Normie tourists who came as patrons to The Basin. Of course, the Paladins wouldn't bother about the safety of the Peculiars. Why would they? Peculiars were of no importance when the lives of the "civilians" were at stake. Even so, the squad leader gave an approving nod, "Send a Joji to evacuate the others, too."
"Roger that, Cap."
[Meanwhile, back in the VVIP Lounge]
To say Broco's runners were confused would be the understatement of the century. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the penthouse had reached the highest level of stifling tension. The wind whispered, the moon watched, the stars listened to this joke of a betrayal, hoping to hold on to the memory of the fateful decisions that were sure to leave a lasting impression on everyone present. But the masochistic thrill that thought brought only spurred Ratelsi on, forcing her to anticipate, to keep pace with her current transition from "runner" to "captive."
That's why she chose not to react to the bovine creature at her back. Even though the muzzle of Styx's pistol was pressed firmly against the base of her skull. She had assessed Styx, found him beneath her concern, and made a conscious decision not to dignify his threat with a visible response. He didn't even say a word, just executing Broco's will without independent judgment.
Such a lapdog, through and through. Pathetic.
Next to him, Vesir holstered her sidearm, switched to a small, serrated blade, and pressed it into the soft skin of Timoth's throat. There. A more visceral, controllable threat. It wasn't the most efficient instrument for a hostage situation; a sharper blade would be more precise, but it was more psychologically destabilising. Which, maybe, was kinda true, given how the young man sat rigid, his eyes bulging as he breathed low, feeling the cold bite of the steel. Having correctly identified the relational dynamic between Ratelsi and Timoth, Vesir noted that Timoth was not the primary threat; he was the lever through which the primary threat could be managed.
Timoth, on the other hand, wouldn't stop scolding himself. The poor thing reminded himself of his catastrophic judgement and couldn't seem to steady himself no matter how hard he tried. Trembling sky-blue eyes darted around the lounge, but every time they caught Ratelsi's, a fresh wave of nausea hit him. Timoth understood they were only rotting in this room because he'd stubbornly insisted they deliver the contra. "You absolute fool," he hissed under his breath. Replaying their conversation in Oakeman over and over in his head, he cursed the eagerness that made him insist the delivery couldn't wait, even when Ratelsi had warned him the route was crawling with obvious danger. He'd promised to do anything to keep them safe. He'd asked that she trust him. And yet he… he'd valued material things more than their actual lives.
Fuck! Fuck!! FUCK THIS!
Ratelsi's stoic silence only made his guilt worse. What was she thinking? Was she mad? He wanted to scream an apology but felt he didn't even deserve to do so. Not yet. Not until she gave him some sign that she was okay. Yes, he was afraid. For himself, for Ratelsi. Consistently, urgently, and in ways that were threatening to override his self-preservation.
Mhode physically restrained Seraph with his hands on her shoulders, ensuring no interference. She could not act, but her turquoise eyes flashed unkindly. It was, even if she hated to admit it, a foresighted tactical choice on Broco's part. It spoke of how she was perceived by these people who had evaluated her as a different kind of threat. She was being categorized as someone who would act if given the opportunity. The calloused hands on her shoulders were not about containing her strength. They were to contain her initiative. The fact that Broco's Mercs read her that way suggested that despite Seraph's minimal actions in the entire charade of a deal, they'd noticed her observable presence. It must've communicated that Seraph would make a move if given room. Amused, she almost smirked. Well, shit. This could not end fast enough.
Her bright turquoise eyes glanced at Ryken, whose focus was consumed by the dark bore of Broco's pistol held inches from his brow. The black circle of the silencer looked like a bottomless pit. Desperate to break his trance, Seraph didn't dare call out, instead tilting her head just enough to catch the flicking halo orbs in her pupils. Then she waited for Broco to be distracted. The wait was short, for the Monger's piggish eyes darted wildly, scanning the lounge as if a solution to this absurd situation would materialize from thin air. Sweat streamed down his temples as he muttered incoherent words to himself. Now, Seraph softly tapped her knuckles against Traore's thigh. His trance broken, bright amethysts glanced at Seraph for a fraction of a second, noticing as she subtly jerked her chin toward the now pacing Monger.
Was she urging him to hurry up?
It would seem so, given how she held his gaze with a fierce intensity, silently willing him to catch on to her hint before Mhode's hand tightened on her shoulder. Ryken narrowed his eyes menacingly. The ugly creature leaned in until his cracked lips were inches from Seraph's lobe, his foul breath hot against her skin. "It's really quite rude, ma'am," he whispered. "Why yous so desperate for your boyfie's attention when I'm right here witcha?" Slowly, he unfurled his fingers, revealing a wet, twitching mouth embedded in the center of his palm, complete with a row of yellowed teeth and a muscular tongue.
"Yous see," he murmured, pressing his hideous peculiarity against the sensitive nape of her neck, "my powers may be useless for fightin' but theys really good for making yous as uncomfy as I wantcha to be."
Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Seraph recoiled as far as her restraints would allow, her skin crawling with a deep revulsion as the wet muscle licked across her spine.
"Don't move," Mhode hissed. "Just focus ahead."
And so she did. Appalled and fighting the urge to retch, Seraph forced herself to settle back into her seat. Why did she have to get stuck with this one, huh? As she sat there, she vividly pictured her webs flaying the skin from his bones in a thousand tiny pieces. After witnessing what just happened and unable to do anything about it, Ryken returned his attention to Broco, watching as his trembling hands almost clutch his head. A man who needed this many weapons to conduct a business conversation was, by Ryken's accounting, afraid. Good, he was breaking. Hmm… Maybe further provocation would speed things up?
But then, Broco snorted irritably into nothing, then turned his angry gaze back on his hostages."HoloSmarts. Now!" he ordered, thick veins bulging like taut cords along his neck and temples, pulsing rapidly with each scream he forced out. "Slowly toss 'em on the table. Without 'em, yer don't gotta call fer cavalry."
Each target had been covered - a gun to the skull for the most dangerous threats, a blade for the one who might panic, and restraint for the one who might slip away. So, yes. The Monger was convinced he had enough control of the environment. That he was not worried about anything going wrong. His Mercs were strong. He paid them heavily, and they would protect him!
Glancing at one another, the captives reached for their wrist. One by one, they unlatched their HoloSmarts with a faint click. The first band was set down gently, its screen fading into darkness as it touched the bioluminescent table. Others followed, sliding their devices forward as if surrendering a part of themselves. Soon, the table became a collection of lifeless wristbands, of their control being stripped away.
Ryken's jaw tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed as he prepared to feign a negotiation or instigate further provocation, depending on which came out first, but his line of thought was shattered by a guttural snarl of rage from one of the runners. Despite being under the threat of execution, Ratelsi looked at Broco venomously. Mischievously, even so boldly, that her malachite eyes glowed brighter with an unearthly brilliance. In truth, she wasn't even angry yet.
She was incredulous.
Not at the danger in the room but at the audacity in betraying professional terms, as though Broco had committed an offense so egregious that she needed to hold him accountable for it. She respected the job enough to do it properly, but she did not respect the man who contracted it. They'd earned their payment, and he was attempting to withhold it through force, which she found utterly comedic.
Did he have a death wish? The guns, the knives, his patrons, his Mercs - all of that were secondary to the wrongness of what Broco was doing, which to Ratelsi was the actual problem here.
"Tell me you're joking," she spat dangerously. "What the fuck is this, Broco? If you wanted the crystals, you could've just taken them! But setting Timoth and me up after we risked our lives for your pathetic little deal? Look at me. Talk, you fucking coward, before I make you!"
The tremor in Timoth's chest betrayed the panic he tried to suppress. Their eyes met again, and though his gaze quivered, it did not waver. But the blade in Vesir's hand remained an extension of her cold intent. She pressed it harder across the side of Timoth's neck, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to let the red flow. A thin drop of crimson escaped the steel, tracing a slow path down into his collar. "Bup, bup, bup…" Vesir said to Ratelsi in a chilling lilt. "Talk more, and his neck goes bye-bye."
Timoth's face paled with desperate clarity as he slowly shook his head, begging Ratelsi not to say anything, showing her the unhidden fear etched into his expression. Yet, beneath the surface of that emotion, the terror in his eyes held a protective resolve. Timoth's lips parted, but no words came, only the unspoken urgency of his gaze. He wanted to say something… but what? Still, in that moment, Ratelsi got an inkling that his greatest dread was not his own fate, but hers. Suddenly, as if summoned, the words he'd spoken softly to her at Oakeman suddenly repeated themselves in her mind.
"Yunno I'd do anything to keep us safe. Especially you."
Meanwhile, Broco, who had been pacing the entire time, stopped to look at the blood on Vesir's knife, then at Ratelsi with weary, simmering hatred. "Yer think this is a joke?" He growled. "Tis about time I got rid of both of yer. Especially fer what yer did to my man, fer how yer disfigured him. I been looking the other way for Timoth's sake, but that well's run dry now."
Ratelsi's response was a loud, sarcastic laugh. She spat a glob of saliva onto the lush carpet, making Broco recoil in disgust, and sneered. "Bullshit." His stated reasons were not his real reasons, and she refused to treat the lie as though it were worth addressing seriously. What she was looking at was a man who needed armed Mercs to feel powerful, which was, by her measure, the definition of cowardice. And Ratelsi refused to pretend otherwise just because the circumstances demanded it.
So she fixed her gaze on the man in question. "You're a fucking joke, Mhode. Hiding behind your little mutt because you've got no spine of your own. You're shaking at the thought of me ripping your jaw off, aren't you? Maybe I'll do us both a favour and actually do it."
Mhode shrank a little where he stood but forced a smirk and tilted his head as if the threat meant nothing. The curve of his lips was a little too brittle to be sincere, yet the taunt worked because it was accurate and unprovable in the moment. He couldn't refute it without completely confirming Ratelsi's words. If he reacted with anger, it would confirm that she got to him. So performative indifference was all he could respond with, even though his body told otherwise.
It was noticeable to Ryken, though, how Mhode's fingers twitched against Seraph's shoulders, betraying the tremor of unease rippling through his body. Even Seraph noted Mhode's fear leaking through in that unguarded body language. Both Peculiars seemed to realize that the ugliness on Mhode's face was Ratelsi's doing.
Damn. How? What had he done?
Those questions were hardly relevant now and wouldn't be answered anyway. So, they returned their attention to Ratelsi and her insistent demands that Broco explain himself, watching with the informed eye of people who already understood her role in the grand scheme of things. Ratelsi would trigger Broco to act, which would in turn trigger the Monger to force her to use her powers. The Mawborn was already doing exactly what the operation needed her to do, but she was doing it entirely on her own assessment of the situation and for her own reasons, which meant everyone else had to adjust. They couldn't control what happened from here on out, only observe the situation and manage the aftermath. Though Jasih and Saedi would help, managing the aftermath would be a chore. And if one of them got hurt…or worse, died..
No. No need for such negative thoughts. Eliàna was perfect in her plan. She had said: The Mawborn cannot be reached through the normal channels of control because she thinks more clearly under pressure, and the experiences of her reality are simply different. Unpredictability is her greatest gift; be ready for everything.
Those words have been proven correct in Ratelsi's refusal to accept that the power dynamics in the room were what Broco thought it was. She was telling him, through her taunts, that his control of the environment was an illusion she hadn't agreed to participate in. So far, there were no loopholes, and it wasn't in Eliàna's interest to put their team through unnecessary risks. That conclusion left Ryken temporarily at ease.
"...you should be bleeding out on the floor right now for touching me with your filthy hands. But it's a beautiful day, so I'll be lenient and let you choose which hand you want to keep."
The fucking arrogance in this bitch! That was the final straw! He was trying to think, and she wouldn't FUCKING SHUT UP! Broco was tired of being angry at her. He was tired of making exceptions for her because of Timoth. This was his chance to resolve his perception that Ratelsi was a problem that had gone unaddressed for too long. He didn't even look at her anymore, only curtly nodded to Styx.
THWACK!
Timoth shot upright, fury igniting in his eyes like wildfire. The blade pressed harder against his throat, but, rage eclipsing his fear, he ignored it. Obviously, he was being used as leverage against Ratelsi; he knew that. Still, Timoth thrashed in his seat, yelling through the sound that was a loud echo in the stillness of the room. "Hey! How dare you?!? Hands off her!!" Even if some part of him knew that she was not the one who needed protection, sky-blue eyes flashed brightly as magic pulsed dangerously beneath Timoth's skin, begging to be unleashed. The sight of Ratelsi being struck filled him with a wrath that drowned out rational thought. Each exhale was a defiant growl.
But he was making his own situation more dangerous.
Vesir had to hold him down so he wouldn't press any deeper than she'd want. It'd be no fun if he killed himself. And even worse, over a girl. Any threat to a loved one was more controlling than a direct threat. She'd done it many times, so she knew. But what Vesir had not yet understood was whether that was enough to override Ratelsi's other instincts.
Seraph gasped, hand over her mouth at the sound of the slap. Ryken only narrowed his eyes, while Broco let a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his lips as if he'd been waiting for these reactions all along. Anger, fear, calculation, smug delight - the room vibrated with a clash of emotions.
None of which were Ratelsi's.
Yes, Styx's backhanded strike had connected with her jaw with enough force to shatter bone or knock out a human. But there was nothing humane about Ratelsi's durability. Her head barely snapped to the side, even though the friction tore the delicate skin of her bottom lip. Even though she did hear a sickening crunch that hadn't come from her jaw. She just sat there for a bit, head slightly bowed, before she began to chuckle. It was a bubbling chuckle filled with evil mirth that turned into a full-blown laugh as she turned her gaze back to Styx.
"Come on, do it again," Ratelsi taunted. Blood leaked through her teeth, but her eyes never left his. She dragged the back of her knuckles across her chin, leaving a wet streak. "Harder this time. Just remember, big guy, hit me twice as hard, and the rest of your fingers might just break. Not just two."
The confused silence that followed that taunt deserved to be frozen in time for Ratelsi to appreciate more often. Timoth faltered in his thrashing, trying to decipher if she was being reckless or had a plan. It kinda seemed like it was more of the former. Styx stood frozen, his hand still hovering in the air. But then he looked down, and his eyes widened in agonising confusion. His index and middle fingers were bent at unnatural angles, already beginning to swell and darken to a deep purple. He flexed his hand instinctively, only to sharply hiss through his teeth as the reality of the fracture dawned on him. He was confident in force. Force had always worked before. But now, Styx stared at his own hand as if it belonged to a stranger. Being the muscle who broke things, not the one who broke on things, this turn of events deeply unsettled him.
Meeting himself for the first time in a way he didn't recognize, he muttered in disbelief. "My fingers… They….they snapped."
Vesir's grip on the knife against Timoth's neck faltered for a fraction. Her predatory confidence dwindled, replaced by a cold spike of instinctual alarm. Looking from Styx's mangled hand back to Ratelsi's grinning, bloodied face, suddenly, all of Mhode's fear around this woman didn't seem much of an exaggeration anymore. Even though she'd witnessed what had happened between them last week, Vesir had perceived Ratelsi as someone frightening to just Mhode but not genuinely threatening to a professional like herself. But now, Styx's broken fingers had revised that assessment. Now, something animal in Vesir recognised the wrongness of what just happened before she could consciously process it.
Broco's eyes darted toward Styx, the smug delight in his gaze slowly giving way to stunned awe. He knew the girl was tough, but seeing a bulky Peculiar like Styx break himself against her face like glass against stone was something else entirely. Tch. What the hell was this? A fucking freak show, that's what!! He had to do something. Anything. Now. NOW!! This fucking bitch had shifted his perception of her from a manageable problem to an uncontainable situation in the span of a few minutes. And he had no revised plan to deal with it.
Ratelsi's chuckle grew louder, more melodic, and infinitely more dangerous. She tasted the copper from her split lip and found it satisfying. She was genuinely, darkly delighted. Something in her found this funny in a way that was not entirely comfortable for anyone in the room. It told Ryken and Seraph that the Mawborn truly does not experience her own extraordinary nature with humility or discomfort.
"I warned you, didn't I?" Ratelsi purred, pressing her face closer to the confused Styx. Oh, how she liked this. She found it amusing when people discovered what she was, even if it was a fraction of it. There was a sadistic pleasure in the revelation for her. The pleasure of being understood at last after the annoyance of being underestimated. She'd been patient with their slowness.
"Aw man, look at that. Two of them snapped like dry twigs." Ratelsi tilted her head, her malachite eyes glowing eerily. "Go on, Styx. Hit me with the other hand. Let's see if you need a matching set to finally understand who you're playing with."
Ryken was beyond amused by this, by the complete inversion of the power dynamics. Hostages do not permit their captors to act. The fact that she did so naturally, without apparent awareness of the irony, showed that Ratelsi genuinely did not experience herself as a captive in this room. If not for the current situation, he would applaud the Mawborn. With a standing ovation, in fact.
But instead, Ryken watched Ratelsi with a growing sense of thrilled fascination, finding her presence more intoxicating than the danger surrounding them. The audaciousness of her spirit stirred a rare excitement in him, sparking a sudden, playful desire to indulge in her games simply for the entertainment of it. "You truly are a marvel, Ms. runner," he murmured in a suave, knowing smirk.
All eyes turned to him, questioningly.
Chuckling softly, Ryken raised his hands in surrender, then gave a curt, respectful nod toward Ratelsi, adding, "I must say, I deeply admire your courage in such a, shall we say, thoroughly unpleasant situation."
Seraph pouted her lips and rolled her eyes in response to his praise for the Mawborn. Timoth arched a reproachful brow, while Ratelsi looked straight at Traore, but her gaze felt lazy, detached and analytical.
See, right there. That character aroused some passionate interest in Traore. But he would not buttress on that yet. "However," he continued, switching to a persuasive tone. "Rather than this back-and-forth, perhaps I could simply appeal to the Monger instead?" Ryken gestured vaguely at the exit with an expression of mild distaste. "I would find it dreadfully tedious to have to fight my way out of here. It simply isn't in my noble nature to engage in such common brawling, you see," he finished with a charming, unapologetic grin.