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one-deranged-son · 4 years

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Wormholes to Another World

Originally posted in February 2nd, 2020

Retrieved on December 31st, 2020

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, religious symbolism, gun, blood, and mentions of rape and age gap relationships. Dead dove: do not eat. Reader discretion is heavily advised.

Ian Nashton

"Dad! Come on, let's go inside!"

It was a Saturday morning, but that didn't stop a hyperactive, sugar-fueled Jansen from running about excitedly as soon as the car was parked.

Two days ago was his tenth birthday, and their parents had promised to take him to the museum on the weekends.

Now, Ian wasn't a big fan of history as a subject in high school (because they never teach the interesting stuff, some things tend to be omitted).

He did, however, love going to museums for the artifacts and not to mention, museums are so full of interesting information, ready for him to absorb.

Even if he wouldn't get the chance to use them at school.

Their parents chose the Royal Ontario Museum, because it had a wide variety of exhibits, basically, something for everyone.

Jansen was 'armed' with an instant camera which he hung around his neck with a strap. He was most excited about the dinosaur exhibits. He also had with him a notebook and a pen—in case he wanted to write something down.

Jansen was dressed like a mini Einstein, complete with the patterned sweater. Ian, on the other hand, was dressed in black and grey.

The Nashtons often drove past the futuristic-looking building, but they have only visited the museum once ever since they moved to Toronto.

Both parents were often too busy with work, while the brothers had school and other extracurricular activities.

"Musée royal de l'Ontario." Ian muttered to himself as he read the sign just outside the museum—he wanted to practice his French pronunciation.

Whilst their father purchased tickets, Jansen's eyes caught sight of a dinosaur fossil display in the main lobby. His mouth gaped in awe as he looked up at the display. He impatiently tugged at Ian's jacket sleeve because he knew he shouldn't go alone to see it up close—luckily, Ian obliged and went along with his younger brother.

Whilst Jansen took a photo of the display (he had to sit on the floor and aim his camera up), Ian read the information board.

"Futalognkosaurus dukei…?" Ian read out with uncertainty, "I think I pronounced that wrong. Hm… discovered in Argentina… that's neat."

Once the developed photo has come out, Jansen wrote the name of the dinosaur on the bottom corner and some brief information on the back.

"You know, I can take a photo of the information board for you. Dad gave me his camera." Ian offered.

Jansen shook his head with a slight smile, "I'm good! I think I like writing it down."

"Alright, suit yourself, man."

The brothers returned to their parents when they heard their mother call for them. Jansen and Ian were given a map each.

"You two can go anywhere you want, but make sure to stick with each other so we can call you if We need to." Their father explained. "Here, take my phone."

"Don't let him out of your sight, be careful of strangers." Their mother added.

Ian took his father's phone and placed it safely in his other pocket. He then gave an understanding nod and a salute. "Will do! You two can count on me."

Needless to say, Jansen was overjoyed to have been given such permissions, and he energetically walked to where the stairs were.

"Oi! Wait up!" Ian exclaimed as he tried to catch up with the younger boy. "Mom said I can't get you out of my sight. Anyways, where are we going first?"

Jansen points to the second floor of the museum, where the animals—including the dinosaurs—were.

"Oh, right, yeah. Let's go!" Ian puts his arms around his younger brother's shoulder as they went up the stairs. Ian actually wanted to go to the third floor to see the ancient Egypt exhibit first, but he lets his brother lead the way for now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Five years ago, the young man visited the same place.

However, the genuine euphoria he experienced when he first stepped into the museum no longer fulfills his heart. Instead, with every step he took, it feels like a knife is being stabbed to his heart.

Jesus Christ, he feels his heartbeat spiking as shallow breaths begin to come out from his throat. A week ago when he revisited the museum, he was so sure that he's going to execute the plan. But now he can't help but lock himself in the stall, throwing his breakfast into the toilet when the realization finally hit him.

He's going to kill a man.

"Oh my God—"

He throws up again. Fingers clenching as he continuously pants out of breath. He doesn't know what he's thinking and he feels like shit for trying to think that he can do it alone! Countless ideas had passed through his mind before he ended up like a sick boy in this goddamn empty toilet, and now he thinks that maybe he should've stayed in a church and become some priest instead of doing... this!

‘You've gotta be kidding me, kid. I know I train you into some super-soldier, but I ain't letting you handle MY job. When this shit is done, Paul is gonna drop your ass into college, and then you can find yourself some pussies to hump—or probably dicks to ride. Dunno. You kind of giving me that aura to be a potential twink.’

He used to scoff at the idea, especially with the twink part, but now when he finally decides to do this Revelator shit alone, he feels like his old man was right. Even after repeatedly reading the plan and studying his target from the worn journal he managed to retrieve, he really still didn't know what it took.

"Come on, get a hold of yourself." He slapped his cheeks when he finally calmed down for his high. With trembling legs, he straightens his posture. Isaiah—shit—John walked out of the stall and reached out to the door. He's going to do this shit even though it means blowing up some precious dinosaur fossils. He's going to do this for the sake of the late John fucking Monsoon.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

When they reached the second floor, leapt away from Ian's grasp and began to marvel at all the displays. One of the first ones they saw was a large Barosaurus.

Ian figured that it must have been around 27 meters, at least. Though Jansen skipped that display in favour of the T. rex fossil.

Just like a loose cannon.

Poor Ian was a little overwhelmed with trying to keep up with his younger brother, how can someone have that much energy? He wasn't sure.

"Can you slow down, you dork?" Ian said, a little exasperated.

"If you walk like that during his time, you'd have been eaten by now." Jansen retorted whilst he gestured at the T. rex fossil with his thumb.

Alright, fair game. Though Ian still rolled his eyes and smacked his brother upside the head lightly. "Nerd."

Jansen responded by sticking his tongue out at Ian; the latter ignored it.

Ian looked at the map again and the 'Bat Cave' exhibit intrigued him. Firstly, he was a fan of comic books, and secondly, he thought bats on their own were cool.

"Hey, when you're done with this area, let's go to the Bat Cave."

Jansen nodded in silent agreement as he was busy writing something down at the back of his newly acquired photo of the T. rex. Ian squints to try and get a better look at what his brother was trying to do, and he saw a squiggly attempt of a T. rex chasing… somebody.

Perhaps it was a recreation of a scene from Jurassic Park. Who the hell knows?

Ian began to walk around the exhibit, snapping photos every now and then with his father's digital camera.

"Holy crap…" his eyes were fixated on the Quetzalcoatlus fossil hanging from the ceiling. Now it was his turn to have his mouth agape.

"Quetzalcoatlus northropi, wingspan of about 11 meters—possibly a bit more. Wow… I would so not want to live in the same era as these guys. Yikes, talk about terrifying." Ian muttered to himself, it was a habit.

The thing he was looking at was almost as tall as a giraffe! And it could fly! If it existed alongside humans, could it have hunted them? Ian grimaced at the thought.

He felt a distinctive tug on his jacket sleeve, it was Jansen.

"I need to go to the toilet."

Technically, Jansen could go by himself, but Ian thought he should come along—because he promised to their mom that he won't let Jansen get out of his sight.

"Alright. Come on, I'll take you."

Ian led the way to the toilet with Jansen following right behind him. Ian pushed the door open with such force that he… seemed to have hit someone right on the face.

"Oh—oh my god, I am… so sorry!"

Jansen grimaced at the scene and slid past his brother and the stranger—straight into the stall.

Even at a young age, Ian Nashton had an eye for detail, and he noticed that the stranger he just hit with the door had been vomiting beforehand (didn't do a very good job at wiping his face off, perhaps he was in a hurry).

"A-are you okay? God, I'm so sorry."

ㅤㅤ

John

As he was busy trying to reach for the handle, John (he's still not used to that name) was so caught up with his thoughts that he didn't realize when the door suddenly open and slammed straight into his fucking face. Instantly, he fell ass first 'cause his legs still feel like jelly and his head hurts like hell.

"Ouch-" he whined, rubbing his nose before wiping the edge of his lips when he realized that there was actually a stain of his vomit there. John hoped that the stranger didn't notice it. That would be super awkward.

When he looked up, his eyes caught the sight of two people. A lanky boy with glasses and a plain T-shirt, and a shorter one with scruffy hair, whose clothes look like was straight off imposing as Einstein or someone. Who knows.

Anyway, the shorter one slipped past through him without much care, so John could easily conclude that the one responsible for the situation he's in was the apologetic male. His face was masked in genuine worry and now John's heart ached because this dude is a good man. He didn't actually know him, but John got a hunch about it and now he can help but to cringe at himself because his plan would probably kill this man.

"Shit," John muttered.

He abruptly stood up and walked past the man. He didn't even say anything in response.

He just wanna get this over with.

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The stranger looked like he was just a few years older than himself. He had short hair, and a hoodie that looked to be two sizes way too big.

Not going to lie, Ian's first thoughts were that the stranger looked like a stereotypical loner or emo boy from those high school movies.

In those short few seconds of observing his face, Ian noticed the worried—no, anxious—expression on the other boy's face.

Perhaps he was vomiting due to anxiousness? Ian guessed so, but before he could ask again—if the stranger was okay—he went away.

"Jansen? I'll be outside—I'm uh… gonna apologize to that guy I just hit."

Ian Nashton made a split-second decision, and that was to go after the poor boy. The bathroom door shuts before Ian could hear his brother's response.

Ian caught up with the other boy—thanks to his (ridiculously) lanky legs and matched his pace with the other.

"Hey man—I'm sorry for hitting you with the goddamn door. Uh… were you… okay? Back there? I couldn't help but notice you had some…thing on your face."

He wanted him to notice the vomit stains, but he wasn't sure if it would be too weird or not.

ㅤㅤ

John

John was so sure that he would get away this time, but what are the odds? Guess having long legs has its perks, because John was so confident of his speed walking skill, but the peculiar boy stopped his step.

John almost tumbles backwards and falls on his ass—again. Thank God for his dad's ruthless training, though, now his reflexes are doing a spectacular job.

John takes a step backward. At this point he really, REALLY wanted to run away through the other side, but when he noticed the Einstein rip-off coming out from the toilet, John didn't.

So instead, his eyes flickered to the boy. A frown across his face.

What the fuck?

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The way the boy moved about in the museum made Ian think that he was hiding from someone—that could explain the hoodie and the panicky tone the latter was speaking in.

"I—? Wanted to make sure you were okay? Because it looked like it hurt. And I didn't mean blood, okay? I meant—I noticed some vomit stains on your face."

Ian shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, looking like this was his opportunity to flex. He heard the bathroom door open again, and out came his brother.

The moment Ian turned to glance at his brother, he heard fast footsteps walking away from him.

Another split second decision, he gestured for Jansen to follow him—slowly—as he followed the strange boy.

Truth be told, in the other boy's eyes, Ian must be equally as strange.

"Wait! Just—wait." He now stopped in front of the boy. And so, begins his speech at the speed of light voice.

He wanted to make his point known—and to show off, for some odd reason.

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth, though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

'You didn't even wash your hands, they're dry as bones' was what he wanted to add, but Ian refrained from doing so.

"Now, I doubt it was food poisoning because your body language and stammering suggests otherwise. I also noticed the staggered walks and you being unsteady on your feet, it's as if you've been running a marathon.

Was it nerves? Perhaps. Fear? Most likely. You see, the sclera—the whites of the eyes—often show more when someone is in fear.

Speaking of eyes, your eyes also seem to dart from one security camera to another—as if you're paranoid about something.

Conclusion? I think you're running away from someone. Or, you have been."

Ian let out a deep sigh after he was done with that monologue, he only took breaths whenever a sentence ended.

Jansen, who was within earshot of the conversation only shook his head and muttered to himself, "Oh boy."

"You telling me about the museum being crowded also seem to support my theory—I mean… it's a Saturday! Of course it'll be crowded, I'm not worried about it."

Ian let out a sheepish chuckle, as if he hadn't just gone all Sherlock Holmes with the other boy. However, it seems that Ian was self-aware

That, and he noticed that a few grown-ups were giving them strange looks as they passed by.

It be like that when you only hear fragments of conversations.

"Sorry—I uh… I'm a guy that notices everything."

Everything except social cues, apparently.

Jansen huffed and puffed his cheeks in annoyance, he felt that Ian was being weird AND keeping him away from the Bat Cave—which was something he really wanted to see.

The younger Nashton approached John with a friendly and apologetic smile, "I'm sorry about my brother and his idiosyncrasies, he likes to show off."

Ian sputtered and scoffed defensively, "I do not!" That was an obvious lie. "Do you even know what that word means?"

The young boy nodded confidently, "Idiosyncrasy, noun. A mode of behavior peculiar to an individual. Example: one of Ian's little idiosyncrasies is that he likes to observe people to the point where it's borderline creepy."

Despite his somewhat squeaky voice, Jansen spoke as if he was already a university student. It was obvious that he was an avid reader who loved to read things that are way above his reading level.

The younger boy then took off—possibly headed for the Bat Cave. Either way, he provided the definition of 'borderline', too. In case Ian questioned him again about what it meant.

The split second decision that Ian made now was to chase after his brother, but not before he looked back at the stranger. Whom he gave an awkward wave to.

"Uh—bye! I'm sorry for the door!" Then he proceeds to run after his younger brother.

"JANSEN SLOW DOWN, DAMN IT! YOU'RE GOING TO BUMP INTO SOMEONE OR SOMETHING."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth," the boy begins to blabber. John doesn't really know what to expect; his mind is filled with a lot of question marks. "though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

He was right. The peculiar boy was right and it was not only because John was bad at details, but it was simply because this fucking boy is good. With every explanation, John's eyes kept on widening. And when the rip-off Einstein decided to join them in the ‘wholesome’ conversation then blabber a motherfucking word that surely shouldn't be able to be said from a kid his age with the same attitude as a spelling bee judge, John's jaw dropped.

What the fuck.

John was so busy thinking about what was going on to the point he almost forgot that his main purpose in coming here. He was so stunned that he almost missed the quick 'bye' and another apology coming from the lanky boy. And John didn't even know what's happening to him since his first reflex is to grab the man by the wrist, twist him so they're staring face-to-face with John's hand steadying him so he doesn't have to suffer the same embarrassment like what John did.

As if that panic attack never happened, John's gaze was intense. Some might think that he was trying to bore holes into the man's skull with his shocking grey eyes, but no. It was the other way around.

His voice was quiet and barely inaudible as he said, "Run."

Then John let go of the grip and stormed away. His plan is already ruined and he could feel his foster parents judging him from Heaven (or Hell) because of it.

Shit. He's distracted.

ㅤㅤ

Ian

How often does one meet children around one's age who happen to be geniuses? Not very often, apparently.

Ian hadn't gotten far when the strange boy gripped his wrist and yanked him back—as if it was a scene from a cliche TV drama or something.

This boy is definitely stronger than he looks—had he not been wearing an oversized hoodie, maybe Ian would have been able to make more deductions.

"What are you—" Ian stopped abruptly when he gazed into those eyes. He had never seen such an intense gaze come from a kid before, not even in high school bullies. For a short few seconds, Ian thought the boy would shove him away or even hit him.

Ian won't blame him, to be honest.

After what seemed to be an eternal staring competition, the strange boy said something.

A word. Barely audible and soft, nearly drowned by the museum's ambient noise.

"Run."

Then that boy lets go of his wrist and stormed off to god knows where.

Ian grimaced as he rubbed his wrist—for god's sake, the kid had an iron grip!

"Run from what?!" He tried to ask, but the boy kept walking away.

This time, Ian doesn't chase after him. The boy slowly turned around and continued to walk in the other direction.

"What's with him?" Ian whispered to himself as he continued to rub his wrist. What if they bruised? How would Ian explain that to his parents?!

ㅤㅤ

John

What the hell was that?

John cringes. He's definitely blaming the telenovelas. As John continued to storm away from the boy, he hoped to dear God that his warnings were heard. He didn’t even know why he did that, he just felt like it was the right thing to do.

He's distracted for sure.

Well, fuck that. John shook his head and pulled his mask up. He had already caused some ruckus and looking suspicious won't get him anywhere. So now John walks slower and watches as people walk past him, too caught up with the exhibit to the point they don't even notice him.

Great, at least one of his back-up plans worked smoothly.

Now John walked back to track his steps, deciding to take the stairs to the ground level and into the security room where he had gracefully hid his stuff in the ventilation. When he reached the ground floor, it was fairly empty, so John didn't hesitate to slam the door open. There were only two bros chilling in the room, five feet apart 'cause they're not gay. One of them shot an incredulous look, but before they could say anything, John aimed his gun at them.

Their faces dropped, John smirked.

"What's your password, dear?" John asked the man when he finished blindfolding and securing the cuffs on their wrist. He doesn't really like calling them with pet names, but his old man always does that and he's following it. With a trembling voice, one of the guys answered with his pass code . And of course John didn't waste any time and straight up opened the reminders.

‘DIRECTOR VISIT.’

John's smirk grew wider.

Recently he heard that his target, Scott Martin, the director of the museum, is coming over to check the place. And really, John prefers a stealth attack than a motherfucking firework show, but he's the Revelator now. He gotta be... flashy.

(‘Kid, what's the point of doing this shit if people ain't either trembling or praising yer name?’)

He sighed.

John places his legs on top of the table, tying the laces of his shoes, extra tight, so it won't trip him later on when he gotta run for his dear life. This is his debut and John ain't gonna mess it up. With his sufficient amount of knowledge, he wiped the security footage of the previous week, destroying the evidence of his presence from the database.

When he's done with it, his focus reverts back to the current footage. It was still relatively empty even though it's the weekend, but what he cares the most is the very fact that in about twenty minutes, the director should have arrived and John needs to prepare himself for the worse.

He has dual Glock 26 strapped at the sides of his thigh, an AK-103 for his main support, an M203PI launcher secured on his back, and with that much of a weapon (not to mention how he carries some hand grenades and other spare knives), John realizes how much of a hassle this Revelator job is.

But he knows he can't back off now.

Not today, not ever.

John's eyes were fixed to the screen. For a short moment his mind wanders to the lanky kid and to the absurdity of their encounter. Soon he found himself biting the inside of his cheeks. There's a lot of things to think about and that kid ain’t it.

In about nineteen minutes the director should arrive. In about thirty minutes the bomb strapped in the airways and hidden behind some exhibits should blow off.

He gotta be ready for that shit.

John clasped his hand.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Just as Ian thought, his younger brother was indeed at the Bat Cave. It was a gallery of a literal bat cave, complete with realistic wax sculptures of twenty different bat species as well as some invertebrates.

The boy had his back turned to Ian, so he snuck up and placed his hands on his younger brother's shoulder in an attempt of surprising him.

"Boo!" Ian exclaimed.

Jansen was visibly startled, but he didn't scream or even make a sound. All he did to respond was to elbow the older one in the stomach.

"You're despicable." Jansen grumbled.

"Dethpicable." Ian repeated, but mimicking a certain cartoon character.

Jansen puffed his cheeks and rolled his eyes—he ignored what Ian just said. "So, where'd your new friend go?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Something weird happened, okay? He just... grabbed my wrist and yanked me backwards. Like a cliché drama scenes." It left many questions in Ian's mind. "I don't know why he did that, and I don't like not knowing."

"Forget that! Gee, what are you trying to be? Sherlock Holmes?!" Jansen's mouth formed a slight pout as he aimed his camera at the ceiling of the cave. The sculptures looked so realistic, he was sure if he didn't know any better he'd guess that they were real bats.

A beep broke the relative silence of the exhibit. It was a text message from dad which read.

'We're at the café right now, come on down if you feel hungry.'

"Hey, mom and dad's at the café, should we go down or not?" Ian showed the phone screen to his younger brother.

Immediately, Jansen shook his head. "Not hungry yet."

Ian responded with a quiet 'ok' and types a quick reply.

Out of the two brothers, Jansen was a much faster reader than Ian, so it didn't take him too long to read everything that was present about the bats—less than ten minutes, actually.

The next gallery was the birds gallery. And upon seeing a crow on display, Ian asked Jansen to take a photo of him and the crow using the digital camera. Ian posed so that he and the crow were facing each other—as if having some kind of thoughtful conversation.

This gallery had drawers that you could pull out with various species of birds on display inside.

Jansen busied himself with those, while Ian was more interested in the ones behind glass cases. Such as the 'flightless birds' display.

The cassowary always reminded Ian of the raptors from Jurassic Park. From the sharp talons, to the shape of the head and the 'expression' the specimen seemed to have.

People often say that lizards like the Komodo dragon were the closest thing humans would have to a dinosaur, but Ian would argue that birds were closer—at least when it comes to theropods.

It was a rather nice way to spend the day, roaming around the museum with minds as absorbent as a sponge. Jansen was obviously enjoying himself, and so was Ian.

Like ripping candy from a child, the situation quickly changed when there was a sudden, deafening roar of an explosion, and before he could even process the sound, out of the corner of his eyes, the boy noticed a similar sound coming from the air vents. Followed by a fierce column of flames—like a dragon breathing fire from its mouth.

Ian instinctively leapt towards his younger brother and enveloped him in a protective embrace as more of those terrible sounds erupted. Screams from visitors soon joined.

The side they were on should be reasonably stable enough compared to the opposite wing, but the building was an old one.

As more explosions were heard, the ground shook and some artifacts began to topple over.

Jansen covered his ears and began to cry out of fear. Ian had the right idea to stay away from ventilation shafts in case more explosions would erupt.

He was terrified, too, but he tried to be as brave as he could for his younger brother's sake.

Immediate dangers were fires, more explosions and the building crumbling. The bulk of the explosion seemed to have come from the ground floor.

It hasn't even been a year since the World Trade Center collapsed—was that kind of thing going to happen today, too? Were they going to die?

The brothers hugged each other tight as they sat beside a sturdy display with their backs against the wall. Both had tears running down their faces, but Ian was silent and tried his best to analyze the best solution to this situation.

As much as he wanted to keep his eyes shut, he kept them open—and saw that the ceiling threatened to give way and collapse.

The logical thing to do was to get to the ground floor as quickly as possible—he's heard that stairwells can be one of the safest places (as they tend to be strong, structurally). But neither he nor his brother dared to even move away from their shelter.

Other visitors on the floor either tried to find cover or run to the stairs in a panicked frenzy.

Ian tried ringing his father, but both times, the call wasn't picked up—either his parents were already dead, or they were busy with their own survival for now. Ian hoped it was the latter.

A light had fallen just a few meters in front of them. The noise of the impact caused more screams from other visitors, including his brother, whose sobs got louder and more frantic.

It's easy for others to say 'stay calm' in a survival guide or even a drill, but when the real thing happens, it would be hard to stay calm because the fight, flight or freeze response would kick in.

There wasn't much Ian could do right now, because even if he tried to run to the nearest stairwell, there might be a chance that the ceiling would collapse and crush him—he and Jansen were relatively safer where they are right now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Tick, tock.

John fiddles the sleeves of his shirt in agitation. His heart is thumping furiously against his

ribcage; the cold sweat begins to roll down his forehead as his eyes peers over the monitor. Two more minutes and then the director should enter the building already. Less than 15 minutes later, the bomb should go off.

He can't mess this up.

What John didn't expect is that his target isn't taking the usual route. He didn't stroll around the exhibits, flashing that disgusting smile of his then locking himself in his office. This time, though, this time is different. He's talking to two of the visitors, but it doesn't seem like they're doing some random, casual chat. Their eyes are glimmering with excitement and delight, and soon, John finds out that the three of them—let's not forget about Martin's guard dog—are going to have lunch in level B1.

That's where the least of his explosives are located. Probably only three of one kilogram plastic explosives strapped on the vent or the corners of the building. This doesn't go as smoothly as he planned.

"Motherfu—"

His words got cut off when a sudden explosion shook the ground. John's eyes widened. Siren blaring all across the hall and in his head. He glances at the clock, the bomb set off three minutes early.

He was lucky that it wasn't exactly the main attraction, because if his old man was here, John sure he's going to get himself grounded for this carelessness.

His eyes darted back to the monitor. Everyone was screaming and running like little ants. The T-Rex bone on level two had fallen down like cookies crumbs. John skimmed through the screen looking for Martin, and when he realizes he's running away to the main floor, John curses again.

"What's going on?" One of the guards barked. The metal cuffs on his wrist rattled by his frantic movement. "What are you doing?!"

Tsk. He almost forgot about them.

"Ain't nothing happenin' around here, sweetheart," John cooed, although his face was showing obvious distress. He's glad that he blindfolded them.

"Be good for me, will ya? Stay still."

John wore his thermal goggles and stormed out of the room. He could see a lot of people curling away from the explosion spot, trembling and crying their eyes out while struggling to protect their precious organ from whatever will happen next. Some of them are too stunned to move while the others trip and fall while trying to go to a safer place.

John shot his bullet to the ceiling, everyone stopped moving even though their screams just got louder.

Columns of fire had spread to the second floor as the explosion kept riling up without mercy. Glass shatters and some railings had blasted off from its place. There were four guards surrounding Scott Martin when John arrived at their floor. All of them trying to get their boss to flee from the chaotic scene. Martin, however, seemed to get himself stuck, being pulled back and forth by a hysterical woman.

"My sons! Scott, my sons are not here!"

"Madeleine—it's too dangerous here!"

"I'm not leaving without them!"

(John's muscle tensed.)

He throws a smoke grenade at them. Receiving a loud shriek and multiple curse words from their directions. Without a second to waste, he started to aim for their legs. Empty bullets clanking to the ground as it hits his first target in the place he wants.

"GEORGE!"

John cringes inwardly. He seems to slip his aim.

With the rest of the guards, John just disturbs their personal space and landed hard kicks and punches before eventually shooting their feet to immobilize them. Martin was practically blinded by the smoke, but when he saw the shadow of his own demise, he screamed.

"Y—You! The news said you were dead!" His voice was trembling. He tried to back off only to trip his legs 'cause the body of his stunned guards.

"Sorry for leaving ya hanging, babe," the Revelator smirked under his mask. Looming over the man who had graciously fallen down, ass first. He can't see his target's face clearly due to the lenses, but he could sense the fear masking each of his words.

"Got myself into trouble with them FBI dogs, hope you didn't miss me that much." The Revelator squatted in front of the cowering man. He pulled the expensive tie and leaned his face closer. "Have you confessed?"

The man was trembling, still. When the Revelator takes his goggles off to reveal his steel gray eyes, the color of his target face drained immediately.

"W—what do you..."

"SCOTT!"

The Revelator stopped in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he tears his gaze off from his target into the source of the voice. The previous woman who had hysterically refused to evacuate herself is hugging what seems to be her husband. A trail of blood coming from his leg, courtesy of the bullet.

"Oh? Are they your friends, Martin?" The Revelator's eyes were cold and intense as he continued to shoot daggers into the woman's eyes. The grip on the other's tie getting stronger and stronger.

"Tell me, Scott, do your precious friends know about what you did in the dark?" He smirked. "Do they know about the scam you did at the auction five years ago? Do they know about how you graft the fund for this museum? Do they know your excessive lifestyle and your personal preferences on young boys?"

The Revelator eyes flickered back to the man. He can sense his heartbeat pacing up. John rummaged his pocket. He let go of his grip and walked towards the woman.

"Here's all of the evidence from the past five years," he said, there's a slight change of tone as he hands a piece of flash disk. The note of his voice was quiet, almost gentle.

But before the woman could muster any protest, John's attention shifted back to his target. As the Revelator caught the sight of him trying to run away, he shot his legs in an unmistakable accuracy.

"Alright, I guess you already know about this, and yes, ma'am, I ain't the type to make false threats. I suppose you already know what to do 'cause if you don't, damn shit, I'll fucking call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Do the right thing and you'll live, do the wrong thing, then you'll live as well, but ain't so sure 'bout your sons tho. Ain't giving ya any clue 'bout it."

The Revelator stood back and pulled his target by the collar away.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashton family was full of scientists. Ian and Jansen's parents were no exception, with their father being a physicist and their mother being a marine biologist.

Their mother has published a book about lesser known sea creatures and it has brought her some taste of fame in the scientific community. As it stands, she actually intended to write more books, perhaps in conjunction with her husband.

A brilliant man, he was, but he doesn't have the patience to sit down and write a book, let alone edit it.

It was a surprise for them to have run into Scott Martin, who was an old friend of Madeleine from her time in university. Scott was beyond delighted to see the pair visiting the museum, but particularly Madeleine as he mentioned that he needed some scientific input from her for a new exhibit.

He was even so kind to invite them to lunch at the B1 café!

However, she thought the bodyguards were a little on the excessive side. Surely a museum director wouldn't need that much, right? Then again, she knew just how much Scott liked to be flashy, perhaps this was one of those times.

Her husband, George, tried to get their boys to come join them, but it seems that not even the prospects of lunch can stop their young minds from being curious.

Everything seemed fine, with Madeleine and Scott chatting away while George listened. Every now and then, he'd chime in with his bone dry humor.

Not a single one of them would realise the tragedy that's about to befall them.

When it happened, George hadn't heard a sound that loud in ages, he also hadn't heard his wife curse so freely and colourfully in her native French tongue ever since Ian was born. He was the first to jump into action, putting a protective arm around his wife as they immediately tried to find a safer place.

They needed to get upstairs to the main floor, otherwise the basement might as well be a cold, stony grave for them both if it gave way.

It seems that the presence of Scott's bodyguards was a convenience as they fearlessly helped the couple evacuate the basement onto the ground floor.

The serene and magnificent atmosphere they saw that morning turned into that of chaos and panic in just a few seconds after they heard the first explosions.

Not long after they arrived at the main floor, there was a single gunshot, indicating that this was not an accidental explosion but rather, a deliberate attack.

The gunshot only made everyone's panic increase by tenfold, especially Scott's, as he tried to drag the couple outside to safety. Madeleine stubbornly wanted to stay and look for her sons, and they had an argument.

George was silent for most of it. While he agreed with Scott that it was too dangerous for them to stay there, he also didn't want to leave his boys behind.

Just at that moment, he felt some vibrations in his left pant pocket—he had gotten a couple of text messages, but before he could check them, his vision was obstructed by a thick cloud of smoke. He heard his wife shriek and curse again, then he heard his own scream as a sharp, searing hot pain struck his left leg.

"GEORGE!"

Madeleine screamed as her husband slowly fell to the ground. She frantically felt around for where the wound was and when she felt the warmth of the trickling crimson liquid, she took off her scarf and wrapped it tightly around George's fresh wound to help reduce the bleeding.

"Ow, ow, ow—easy, Lena. Easy." George hissed through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying to stop you from bleeding out, dear. I should have said it will hurt a bit, I'm sorry."

The couple mainly ignored the conversation that Scott was having with the attacker, mostly because they were focusing on each other.

Only when the attacker mentioned a confession did Madeleine turn around to face the two with a confused and horrified expression on her face.

She had heard of The Revelator on the news. She heard about the things that he's done, but more importantly about his (apparent) death not too long ago.

Yet... it seems that death couldn't keep him down, because... there he was: a mere couple of steps away from her and her husband.

Why on earth would the Revelator target a museum's director of all people? Is that why Scott had so many bodyguards with him?

"God... Scott?" Madeleine's voice was soft, almost like a whisper.

What has Scott gotten himself into?

Madeleine couldn't see the attacker's face very clearly, but from the looks of it, she figured that he couldn't have been much older than her eldest son.

How odd, she had always imagined this figure to be an older man. Perhaps there were multiple 'Revelators' in existence, who the hell knows?

Now it was her turn to have a protective arm around her husband. She tried to return the daggers that was shot into her eyes, but only fear and confusion were present in her dark brown eyes.

The things the Revelator talked about were unknown to the Nashtons, except for Scott's expensive taste, which they thought nothing about as it was not really their business as long as the money came from an honest source.

Madeleine at first didn't believe what she heard, but a quick glance at Scott's face (the smoke had dissipated enough for her to see better), she saw what seemed to be a look of guilt.

Personal preferences on young boys. Did he mean...?

Her thoughts quickly shifted to her two sons, and how Scott had met them both at a fair. She remembered how he would often stand close to her sons rather than to herself or her husband. Of course, at the time that seemed like nothing to be alarmed about, but with this new information, the thought of what Scott might have intended made her shudder.

When the Revelator started to walk closer, she curled away in fear while George tried to pull her closer.

"Stay back!" George barked, despite knowing that he probably couldn't do a single damn thing with a shot leg.

Puzzlingly, the Revelator didn't brandish a gun or even a knife. No, he gave Madeleine a flash disk instead.

The sudden change of tone was terrifying, naturally. It was a juxtaposition. How can someone so violent have such a gentle voice?

Madeleine observed the flash disk in her hands, not entirely sure what to do with it at that moment. Regardless, she puts it in her pocket. It looked to be a real, functioning flash disk rather than a bomb.

Both of them flinched when Scott was shot with such high accuracy. At this point, though... they were just glad it wasn't them that had gotten shot.

"I-I don't know anything about this! What do you want me to do?!" The woman screamed. She wanted to chase after them for answers, but George held her back.

"George, let go! What if he's done something to our kids?!" She began to get hysterical again, but George pulled her into a comforting hug and kissed the top of her head soothingly.

"Lena, honey. They're alive! They're on the second floor, in the bird exhibit. We could try going after them."

"Not anymore! You're hurt! I can't leave you, nor would I want to risk more injuries!" She sobbed softly into her husband's shoulder, at that moment, she didn't know what to do.

"I told them we were on the main floor. Let's hope they can make it down as fast as possible. You see that flight of stairs over there? That is very close to the bird exhibit upstairs. Their side of the building is rather sturdy. I think they'd make it." George explained as he rubbed the back of Madeleine's head soothingly.

"Shit, shit, shit." Ian hissed when he saw columns of fire that had rose to the second floor. He knew they couldn't stay here forever.

He thought he had heard another explosion from downstairs, but it sounded more like a single gunshot, followed by more screaming.

"W-we're dying h-here, aren't we?" Jansen choked out in between sobs.

Ian's stomach turned. They have had lockdown drills at school before, but nothing ever really happened at their school. Now, this? This was the real deal.

"No, we aren't." Ian's voice sounded so sure, despite his actual uncertainty.

There were more gunshots. Ian counted seven, though he could be wrong, considering that the screams of visitors were competing with the shots.

The boy glanced at the closest stairwell again, should they risk it and run? He wasn't sure.

Five minutes after he heard the first few shots, the phone in Ian's pocket buzzed. It was from his father!

"J! Mom and dad are downstairs! We should probably go down now!" Ian slowly stood up, he tried to pull Jansen up with him as well.

"B-but—" The younger boy started.

"No buts! We have to go, NOW."

Jansen reluctantly stood up and stayed close to his brother as they made a run for the stairwell. Thankfully, the only thing they had to dodge were a few pieces from the ceiling, and they hurried down the stairs.

Upon reaching the main floor, Ian saw his parents on the ground. There was a small pool of blood near his father's left leg, and upon closer look, he saw that his mother's favourite scarf was wrapped tightly around the wound.

"MOM! DAD!" The two boys screamed in near perfect unison as they ran to their parents.

"Ian! Jansen! Thank goodness you two are okay!" Madeleine's voice had cracked as she wrapped both of her sons in her arms. "Your father's been shot, we need to leave."

"I don't think I can really stand. God—it hurts to even move it." George groaned lowly.

"Mom and I will help you up, dad. Come on!"

Ian and his mother had some difficulty getting George back on his feet, but eventually, they managed to do it.

The four of them slowly walked towards the main entrance. They avoided the Queen's Park entrance because George had noticed that that side of the building was threatening to crumble.

ㅤㅤ

John

"I'll do anything you say! P—please... just let me go!"

Amidst the roaring, raging fire, the voice sounded like a mere whisper. The Revelator's steel-gray eyes were fixed to his target while his beloved Glock stayed locked to the man's motherfucking head.

"P—please..."

"Shut the hell up," John commanded, forcing himself to sound a little bit gruffer to match his old man's voice. He might not have the exact confidence with the previous Revelator, but he now had the same impression that would turn even the fiercest man tremble.

John isn't going to waste that shit.

Time feels like it runs so damn slow when your head is under immense pressure, and it doesn't just apply to a person who's about to be sentenced to death. Right now, John can't help but to feel his heart beating so fast 'cause this is the fucking first time he did this. Most of the time, John stays in the back line. Helping the OG Revelator wiping out some ‘obstacles’ with his sniping skill instead of coming to the front line.

"Have mercy! I have a chi—"

"I say shut the fucking hell up!" John cuts his words before his target could say anything that might make him feel weaker than he already is. A crease started to form in his forehead as he continued his words.

"When they heard these things, they held their peace, and glorified God, saying, then hath God also to the Gentiles granted repentance unto life, but then they fucking come back to square one. As if the words and prayers and those fucking promises they said are nothing but a load of crap, wherefore you fucking better abhor thy fucking self, and repent in motherfucking dust and ashes."

The Revelator dragged the man again, letting his blood trail stain the floor. Every step he takes felt like it was set on fire, burning and leaving charred marks on his feet. But even when he feels the fire licking his skin and burning the fabric of his clothes, John couldn't care less.

The fiery mistress danced, leaped and twirled in his eyes. There's an uncanny feeling when he saw how everything turned into dust, when the piles of planks fell and set ablaze at her contact. His heart was beating so fast, John feels he's going to combust.

"You're a fucking freak! A monster! You hear me? You're going to hell for this!"

Scott Martin wailed and squirmed in his grip, but John still couldn't give a fuck about him. His eyes were mesmerized at the sight in front of him.

The world illuminated on his sight as the fire nestled in her wooden bed, hot ribbons of light sparkling and twinkling anywhere she liked. There are times when she leaped, willing to land wherever her heart's desire. The smoke rose into the ceiling as if struggling to pave its way towards heaven, the ash falling down to the ground like the first flakes of snow.

The Revelator's eyes glanced back at the man, beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead. The warm amber highlighting the anger and desperation coloring his brown irises.

There was something about doing this that he didn't know would feel this... good. As he strapped his target, ropes and tapes around his trembling body, the Revelator could feel the corner of his lips rose into a wide grin.

"Please! For God's sake, please!"

The anger had finally subdued, now replaced by tears and fear.

"You know the deal, sweetheart; the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God."

John took off his mask for the briefest second, revealing the smirk underneath it. "It's God's mercy if you managed to get outta here alive, but I doubt that," he whispered before planting a gentle kiss on the man's chapped lips. Grinning even wider as he saw the color across his target face drained even further.

"And let's just say that's the Devil's work if you can still manage to find prettier boys than me."

The Revelator walked away. Leaving the screaming and begging man alone on the second floor of the burning building. The museum had turned into a mortuary, or more likely, a cremation room.

And despite the sight of splattering blood and charred bodies, John didn't feel anything. Anything but satisfaction and excitement.

Until he reached the first floor again.

"Oh, God.”

He did it. He just left a man, probably sent him to the jaw of death by doing so. He did it. He killed dozens of innocent people and even threatened a mother for this plan.

John's guts twisted and suddenly, his breakfast had managed to escape from his throat. The breath coming out of his mouth feels heavy in his lungs. As he glanced to every corner of the building, his vision slowly turned blurry. The tight sensation in his chest is threatening to kill him on spot.

He just did that, holy fuck, he just fucking did that.

He's a murderer.

John pulled his mask back to cover his face. Struggling to protect himself from the ruins falling from the ceiling as he sprinted towards the front door despite the uneasiness in his stomach and the way his legs feel like it's about to give up on him.

When the blinding light finally hit his vision, John squinted his eyes. It didn't take a long time until he regained his sight and understood the situation around him.

"Lower your weapon!" A man shouted, So John swept his vision across the land.

There are at least 12 guns pointed at him. The frantic lady he gave the flash disk is helping two kids getting into the ambulance; her husband laying on top of the cot with a scarf in his legs, but that wasn't the main reason why his heart skipped a beat

There's the lanky boy again, and John could've sworn that their eyes locked for a second at that exact moment.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashtons have fortunately made it out of the main entrance to safety. They raised their hands when they saw the authorities with their guns, just to signify that they were no threat at all.

"Please—my husband's been shot." Madeleine began, though her pleads were cut short when she caught sight of the ambulance nearby. And the paramedics quickly rushed to their side.

They carefully put George on the stretcher and loaded him on the ambulance.

Madeleine and her kids didn't get in just yet, she was being asked questions whilst Ian and Jansen stayed behind her, listening in. Though they didn't hear much because their mother decided to converse with the officer in French.

"N-no. I didn't see his face. He—er... my friend, Scott Martin. I saw him get dragged away. If what they say is true... Oh God. Poor Scott, I don't really know what he's done to be targeted."

Of course, Madeleine still had the flash disk, but she wanted to see it for herself before handing it to the authorities. Just like everyone in the family, she has an insatiable curiosity.

(But more common sense than her sons do).

After a few more questions, the officer lets her go. She had just helped Jansen get in the ambulance and was about to help Ian as well.

But they all heard it.

"Lower your weapon!" Somebody shouted. Followed by the cocking of guns.

Ian and Madeleine whipped their heads to look back at the museum, and just as they thought, the attacker from before was there. Even with the mask, Ian could almost instantly recognize that that was the boy from before, the strange boy that he knocked down in the toilet.

Madeleine gasped and tried to hurry Ian into the ambulance, but the boy leapt out of his mother's reach and pointed an accusing finger at the masked figure. He made sure to stand

"YOU!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "YOU SHOT MY DAD!"

Hearing Ian scream those words, Jansen peeked his head out from the ambulance. Sure enough, he remembered the strange boy too—it was the hoodie that he remembered.

George tried his best to sit up in his stretcher, though he couldn't see much. Just some uniformed men and his wife trying to drag their stubborn son back into the ambulance, away from the chaos.

"IAN! Get back inside right now!" His mother was now screaming, she was worried that Ian might get shot as well. So she grabbed him by the wrist and began to pull him away.

"WAIT! J-JUST WAIT!" Ian tried to free himself from his mother's grip. Alas, she had quite the iron grip and Ian's lanky arms were no match for it.

"But—but I saw his face, mom!"

"And what?! You're going to run over there and get yourself killed?!" Madeleine really didn't want to do it, but she had to get some sense back into her son. "You're a child, an unarmed 13 year old child! Now do as I say and get in the ambulance!"

At that he saw that his mother had an excellent point. So, Ian settled down and (reluctantly) climbed inside the ambulance where he saw his brother looking visibly frightened and upset. His father was mostly confused.

Ian took one last look out of the ambulance and to the masked figure. Trying to look him dead in the eye. The boy has never felt this much emotion for someone before, and he wasn't even sure what it was exactly. Rage? Hatred? Either way, it was negative.

Madeleine let out a deep sigh and gently pushed her husband back down on the stretcher, "I think you should lie down, dear."

One of the medics quickly got inside as well, and once the door shut, the ambulance sped off to the hospital.

For most of the trip, Ian had his eyes planted to the tip of his shoes.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, mom." He muttered softly.

Madeleine's lips formed a soft smile as she put an arm around her eldest son and pulled him closer. She was no longer angry at Ian.

"Shh... it's okay, sweetie. I know you didn't mean it."

"Are we going to talk to a detective, mom? I-I still remember his face, okay. I—I ran into him in the toilet. H-he—told Jansen and I to run but I didn't know why."

His voice was threatening to break, now that the adrenaline has worn off, but Ian still tried to keep himself steady.

Madeleine nodded with certainty and said, "I'm sure after what happened just then, they would want to talk to you."

"I-I should've—I should've done something! M-maybe dad wouldn't have gotten shot. What if I could've gotten a photo of him?"

Madeleine pulled him closer and ran a hand gently through the boy's hair, hushing him quietly. "Shh, there was nothing you could have done, sweetheart... All that matters now is that we're all safe. I'm sure dad will be okay."

Although he was also upset and shaken, Jansen decided to help the situation by giving a few gentle—albeit—awkward pats on his brother's back.

Ian made a promise to himself that he would do his best to get stronger, and smarter, so that in the future, he would be able to protect his family better.

ㅤㅤ

John

How does someone keep a straight face while being faced with shits like this? John couldn't even help but glance to the source of the commotion, the boy from before was frantically cursing and muttering inaudible accusations towards him that made some of the police turn their head.

Even as the woman from before practically tried to drag him in the same manner as dog owners trying to tame their barking dogs, the anger in his eyes was stark clear.

But perhaps it wasn't just anger. Perhaps it was also confusion, hatred... determination?

The Revelator flicked his eyes back to the incoming threats. There's no way he could take every one of them in a single hit. He's no super soldier nor a trained agent, he's just a teenager who thinks that following his father's steps is a good thing to do.

He should've just studied for the college entrance exam.

A scowl formed on John's forehead, but if someone dared take a peek beneath his mask, they will notice that it was purely caused by fear and frustration rather than anger and blood-thirsty resolution.

The only thing he could do to wipe out an entire troop is probably by throwing grenades all over them, which obviously going to result in a lot of casualties, but what's the point of doing everything if in the end he'll have to get tossed to jail?

John gritted his teeth. With a swift motion, he pulls the hem of his hoodie to reveal the strapped explosives across his chest. The cops scramble away, and as anticlimactic as it sounds, all he did was reach out to the M203PI launcher he had clutched to so dearly before. It sounded like a power play, it felt like he was playing god—but that was what his old man used to do.

Humans tend to make mistakes, they crash so easily and they slip and tumble by their own feet, and so did his old man.

That day when he watches as John Monsoon bleeds to death, Isaiah thought that it would be the last of him. Yet he runs, as cowardly as it sounds, he runs after the previous Revelator had aimed a gun to his head and told him to go.

Never did he think that he would end up doing the same path as him. The semi-stable kid who doesn't even know his own birth date, the one who used to look like he wouldn't dare to hurt a single fly, now he's launching grenades with his trembling hands. Cold gray eyes piercing without mercy as he burns everything in sight.

This isn't right, he knows that. He wanted to live this legacy with the same notable notion that would make people believe in him. He wanted to become the karma for those who weren't able to stand up.

But now that he thinks again, Isaiah realizes that all he tries to do was to fill the empty spot within his heart with hatred and revenge.

He made a promise that day. Whatever happens in the future, he would protect those he loves. Even if it means he had to fist fight with God himself.

And if he fails, he's going to burn the world down.

#prosit in vitam aeternam

0 notes

one-deranged-son · 4 years

Photo

Tell Your Girlfriend to Fall Back

this plot is taken after Tell Your Homeboy to Fall Back

“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him.”

Here’s the situation: it’s 9:00 p.m. and they’re on the rooftop of the station. It’s February and the air around them is biting in the ass. One of them is smoking, the other one is just staring at the city lights.

New York is a busy city, indeed.

“The forensic shows that 80% of his blood is DRUGS. He murdered some important dude from Russia and almost tipped this country into having another world war. His house is fucking loaded with illegal firearms, he’s literally on the FBI wanted list. And he made us skip Taco Night! Alan, for fuck’s sakes, we never miss Taco Night!”

Melvin Rickman huffs the smoke outta his lungs. He’s frustrated, dammit. He always smokes when he’s frustrated, and lately, he’s been smoking a lot. Like, a lot.

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Sorry? Oh my God, you have a serious problem with that Revelator dude. The hell you got in your hand anyway?”

Melvin also talks a lot when he’s frustrated. He talks about everything and he asks about everything.

Not that it mattered, though. That question actually makes Alan smile from ear to ear. He’s ecstatic, oh my god. He feels like he’s back to preschool and he feels giddy because his Dad just came home and brought a huge present because he’s being a good boy, oh my god. His heart is beating so fast, oh my god. He can’t believe this is happening.

Oh my god, this is really happening.

Alan looks up from the brown envelope and takes a deep breath. “But you have to promise me you won’t ever, EVER, tell anyone.”

Melvin frowns, but he nods.

“Officer Barrera made a copy of the Revelator case for me.”

“She WHAT?”

“I KNOW, isn’t she like, the coolest person ever exists?”

“Alan, no! You know it’s classified. It was the FBI shit and the only reason why we could process him was because our captain managed to pull some strings. If they see you with that, they’re going to put your head on the SPIKE.”

“Stop making Game of Thrones reference, you hated season 8.”

Melvin raises his hands in frustration and quickly takes a long drag of his cigarette. His cheeks are red, either it’s the cold or the fact that he’s angry right now, Alan doesn’t care.

“You know what I’m saying is true. You shouldn’t have that file,” Melvin sighs, and it almost sounds like he’s whining, but Alan isn’t going to surrender because of that.

“Dude, can’t you see? This is a chance for us to find where the Revelator is. We could even get a Medal of Valor to bring him to justice!”

“He’s been on the FBI wanted list since before you were born! This lunatic practically started doing all of this since… I don’t know, the 80s? He had outlived half of the population already and the fact that he was caught yesterday? We’re just lucky, man. He’s something else.”

“See! You admit that he’s cool.”

“That’s not the point, Alan!”

Melvin breathes hard until his fingers are trembling. His nostrils are flaring and he refuses to look at him, but he didn’t say anything else. He just breathes in until the red across his cheeks calmed down, then he takes yet another looong drag from his cigarette.

Alan sighs.

“Look, I know this is a wild—”

“And dumb.”

“—and dumb, yes, thank you for that, but you always wanted to be a detective. This is your chance to prove them that you have it inside you. The captain would totally recommend you.”

Melvin’s eyes haven’t quite met his, but Alan can see that there’s a spark of interest in it. He looks at him and to the file, then in one swift movement, he throws his cigarette to the ground and steps on the dying butt.

“Tell me what we have.”

Alan smiles.

“Alright, I’ve read this in the bathroom during break and I just know you will love it,” Alan says as he carefully opens the file for Melvin to see.

“Shoot.”

“So, apparently, the Revelator is actually... two different people.”

“You’re shitting me.”

They’re in Alan’s apartment room right now. Melvin has a beer in his hand and he’s sitting on Alan’s couch.

Now here’s the guide to conduct a super-secret-slash-illegal meeting, based on Alan. First, pull down the blinds. You don’t want a sniper to know where you’re standing.

Second, dim the lights. So with the covers pulled down and the lights barely giving you away, your neighbor would probably think that you’re having sex and that is way better than getting caught smuggling a super-secret-slash-illegal file.

Third, turn the TV on. You don’t have to put it on the highest volume, just make sure people on your side could hear you and whoever trying to butt in hears Berlin speaking “Tranquilo, tranquilo,” instead of whatever you’re talking about.

And that’s fucking dumb, Melvin thinks, but he doesn’t wanna argue with a riled-up Alan.

“The Revelator in the 80s is different from the Revelator we have now,” riled-up Alan says, to which Melvin just stares dumbly and say, “What the fuck.”

What the fuck, man.

Anyway, it’s been an hour since Melvin nearly woke up the whole New York City from screaming too loud. And it’s been 30 minutes since they flopped on Alan’s couch with Allan giddy giggles as he pulls out the papers from the enclosed brown file to shove it down Melvin’s throat.

And as Melvin’s face goes sour and sour and even sour as time passes, Alan’s face glows brighter.

“Why are you smiling?!” Melvin throws his hand.

“Because it’s our lead! For the last decade, people thought that he’s some kind of… I don’t know, Jesus? Messiah? Look at his face.” Alan throws a picture of a man to the coffee table. “Tell me that you would believe anyone who said that he could turn water into wine.”

Alright, maybe Alan has a point. Dude actually looks like some white Jesus or something without his mask on. Shaggy brown hair and surprisingly awesome beard, the only thing that makes him so different is he got blue eyes, and when Melvin sees the picture when half of his face is covered by a mask, those eyes pierce right through him to the point he has to look away.

“So, this man over here is named John. No surname, mind you, he just wanna be called John based on the interrogation tape. He’s known as the Revelator and it was a reference from a song titled ‘John the Revelator’.” Alan shows a mugshot of John. His cheeks are blotched with dry blood and there’s some cut at the corner of his lips. He was staring right at him with the same blue eyes, but it was... hollow. Completely different from the picture where he got all his tac gears on.

Although to be fair, his jawline is more structured than Melvin’s life.

“Now this is John Monsoon, also known as the Revelator, BUT this man was found dead at a shootout in 1998.”

Alan tosses another picture to the coffee table. Melvin couldn’t exactly look at his face because the only picture they got was the autopsy picture, but John Monsoon has similar shaggy hair and beard.

“So… what happened?” he asks.

“Apparently, a man from the FBI witnessed four people during the shootout whereas the 80s Revelator worked with only two people.”

Alan tosses two more pictures. Two mugshots with one black man with a box fade hair and ginger with sunken eyes.

“That’s Cole Hedlund and Paul MacCullagh, sentenced for a death penalty in the same year as the shootout. They didn’t tell us anything about the fourth shooter, refusing to talk a single word even in the courtroom. But! An FBI agent was so certain that there was another person there.”

Alan hands another picture. Now this time is a white man in an FBI windbreaker and in that picture, he was smiling.

“That’s Todd Russel. He led the Revelator investigation in 2002 before the case went cold and Russel was found dead at the beginning of 2003.”

The next picture was Todd Russel, still in his FBI windbreaker, but he wasn’t smiling this time. He’s looking at the camera, brown eyes devoid of any emotion and there was red in his shirt. Red in his pants, red in his windbreaker, red all over his hands.

There’s red all over him.

Melvin’s stomach twist.

“Autopsy shows that he was already dead before he was crucified in his own home. His wife and 5-year-old son were found harmless and I guess they’re still on the witness protection program.”

“Alan,” Melvin places the picture on the table and sighs. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Alan’s eyes bulge. “Wait! Why?”

“Can’t you see?” Melvin is scared, holy shit, who is he fooling? He’s terrified.

He sees what this dude has done to a shit ton of people for the past twenty years. He killed people for breakfast and crucifies them for brunch. He burns their motherfucking house down for lunch then drains their bank account for dinner.

No sane person would want to mess around with that.

“He killed an FBI, shit, is ‘killed’ a right word? The man literally did the same thing as what the Romans did to Jesus. An FBI agent, Alan! And we’re just regular cops!”

“That’s why we should do it. The Revelator won’t even notice it because we aren’t on his radar! This is our chance, Melvin, seriously!”

Alan walks over to the couch and sits next to him, and for some time Melvin just stares at him with furrowed brows.

“Think about it, man. Think about it.”

The apartment room behind the police line is painted in gray; there are some cracks and holes in it. The floor is made of wood that creaks when they step on it, and there are some dishes in the sink and an empty bag of chips plus more empty ramen cups on the round dining table. Every single of them is covered in plastic.

Surprisingly, the place looks habitable and… mundane for a super-secret-plus-illegal vigilante hideout.

“You sure this is where the Revelator lives?”

Melvin closes the door slowly so as to not make a sound. He pauses for a moment when he sees how many combinations of locks are placed in it. Guess they were just lucky that the investigating team only uses a thin yellow tape to barricade it.

“I’m 100% sure. I read it in the files, this is where he plans… everything.”

Alan walks over to the broken window, the splinters of glass cracks beneath his feet. In that quiet minute, Melvin moves closer towards a hole in the floor and squats next to it. There are planks placed neatly right beside it and there’s nothing inside it when he aims his flashlight into it.

“The NYPD and FBI must’ve wiped this place clean. There’s probably no clue left behind,” he says, standing up from his position to look over Alan. The Revelator seems to stash all of his guns and drugs beneath the floor and, judging from all the mess, the investigating team must’ve checked the walls too.

From behind him, Melvin looks at Alan while he stares at the broken window like he’s trying to make a sense of it, and it doesn’t, really. The Revelator jumped from the second floor through a literal hard glass and landed without a single scratch. That doesn’t make sense at all.

The fact that they tried to look for clues also doesn’t make a single fucking sense as well.

“We should probably go,” Melvin says.

“There must’ve been something else here.”

Alan walks away from the window and starts to search from room to room, and Melvin just stares. It’s weird, it just doesn’t make sense. Alan doesn’t have any reason to get so fussed over the Revelator and he wasn’t even that crazy about the medal from the very beginning. The fact that he’s willing to go all through the process of searching a needle in a haystack is just fucking obtuse.

So he decides to walk over to the kitchen area. The sink is leaking droplets of water and everything else is just evidence covered in plastic. He wears his latex glove and opens the fridge door; nothing. He checks the trash can; nothing. He opens every single cabinet to check if the FBI left anything for them; nothing.

Every corner of the room is wiped from all possible evidence, and this is just dumb. Melvin should’ve just realized that they’re reaching a dead-end from the moment they even decide to do this. It’s a dumb idea, and to think that this shit will boost his career up is just the same. This isn’t even legal.

“Alan, let’s just go. The other tenants are going to suspect us,” he half-whispers as he walks over to the other rooms.

The first room he steps into is empty except for a mattress with newspapers below it. Alan isn’t there.

The second room is filled with more stuff than the other. There’s actually a bed with covers with it rather than a single sheet of fabric. It isn’t painted in gray like the other part of the apartment. The room got a personality on it.

And then there’s a desk but it’s empty from a single object. There isn’t any single dust in it like it was meant to be filled with something.

“Uh, Alan?”

Melvin steps out of the room and moves on to the next room. Alan is standing in the room next door, one that looks fairly the same, but with different paint, or, to put it simply, a different ‘personality’ than the previous room.

Melvin gulps.

“Do you think the Revelator lives with… someone else?”

Alan turns around slowly, a paper in his hand and a serious scowl across his face. He nods.

“He has kids.”

The ride is filled with silence. Though, to be fair, Melvin wasn’t sure if it was because of the horror, or the shock.

“I’m sure that there’s at least two of them, but all we have now is Elisa Miller. I’m going to look it up.”

Alan holds the piece of paper and hands it to Melvin. It’s a part of an exam paper with the name Elisa Miller and a school name. The rest of the page is ripped away, it’s like the owner was rushing or trying to hide things or… he doesn’t know. Both? Maybe.

‘Shit, they’re probably trained for things like this,’ Melvin wonders. It’s common sense! If the Revelator has kids, then they’re probably highly trained in combat or, if they don’t, they know what to do when this kind of situation arises. He doesn’t know. There’s just no way his kids are ‘normal’. There’s just no way that their family is a functional one just like the family you see on a cheesy, American TV commercial.

The worst case is that they’re abused. Shit, Melvin feels like he’s going to throw up at the thought. The Revelator wasn’t known for his kindness or his fatherly nature, right? Fuck. He’s an insatiable monster with a fucked-up moral compass.

How can he have kids?

“I still can’t believe that the FBI missed that clue,” Alan snickers as he looks over to the school ground with his binoculars. It’s the same school as the one written on the ripped paper. This is the only lead they have.

Melvin frowns. “This isn’t a joke. Shouldn’t we give this to the FBI?”

“Sssh… They can have it later when we are done busting his ass to the jail. Hey, check this out, I think that’s the one.”

Alan hands the binoculars to Melvin and points out towards the direction of a girl. She has medium-length hair with light tips and a permanent scowl, apparently, or maybe it’s just the sun. Melvin was just guessing.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, lemme check it again on the database.” Alan unlocks his phone and types on the screen. “Elisa Miller, adopted from a church in downtown New York by a man named… Jim? Wow, Jim Parker. Jesus, how many aliases does this man have?” Alan frowns as he scrolls through his phone.

Elisa Miller walks alone towards the school gate with earphones shoved in her ears when two boys, one Asian and the other is African-American, walks towards her, smiling and probably calling her name.

“Try checking out if Jim Parker adopts another kid.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Um… there’s another one named Brown. Peter Brown. He’s a Korean descent, raised at the same church.”

“So the Revelator does have kids…” Melvin mutters softly as his eyes tail Elisa Miller and Peter Brown. In some way, Melvin knows that the Revelator isn’t going to be there to pick them up as the three teens start to walk heading towards a nearby station.

“Any other info?” Melvin asks as he gives the binoculars to Alan, he takes Alan’s phone in exchange.

“From what I read, no. Jim Parker only adopts two kids and they came from the same Catholic orphanage. I look it up, there’s a database for a man named Robert Brown that we could interrogat—I mean, talk with, later.” Alan takes his eyes off the teenagers and looks at Melvin.

Elisa Miller and Peter Brown, along with the unknown teen, talks about something from afar. They’re moving away, but not at an alarming pace. They don’t look like they notice their presence, but even from here, Melvin knows that they’re being alert, judging by the amount of time they look over their shoulders.

“Where do you think they’re going?” Melvin looks at Alan, he has his eyes firmly locked to them.

“To where they are staying right now,” Alan answers, then nods firmly at him. Now there’s the sign he knows too well. Melvin starts the engine and tails them slowly; keeping an appropriate amount of distance so nobody will notice them. At some point, he nearly thought that they would get caught. They don’t know anything about the teens besides their name and probably some legal information recorded by the States, but what he does know is that they’re the ‘same’. The Revelator and his kids, they both have the same, piercing eyes, and that expression fades away when they talk to each other or stop being so damn alarmed. Maybe they don’t even realize what they’re doing, and that brings him to even more questions.

How much do these kids know about the Revelator? Do they help him? Holy, is the Revelator making another team just like what the 80s Revelator did?

“Melvin, hey, get it together buddy. They’re taking the subway.” Alan snaps his fingers in front of Melvin’s face. “Come on.”

Alan goes out of the car first, then Melvin follows him without skipping a beat. The subway is crowded and it’s just the perfect place to blend in. Elisa Miller and Peter Brown part way with the other teen and hop into one of the cars, Melvin and Alan, on the other hand, take the one right next to it.

The ride is slow and nobody speaks a word. It’s still crowded inside. Elisa Miller sits and Peter Brown stands in front of her. They didn’t talk at all.

“Do you think he’ll be there?” Alan asks, eyeing the teens through the glass window, and Melvin just shrugs. He doesn’t know what to expect, really. His goddamn heart is currently beating sooo damn fast. He’s excited and scared, like, how could he not? He doesn’t know what he will do if they really meet the Revelator. Fight? That’s really not a good thing to do when you’re facing an international vigilante even if there are two of them. Malvin saw what the Revelator did towards a group of cops. He remembers it all too well how they got him cornered in an abandoned church and how long the shootout lasted. One person, obviously injured and not in their best state of mind, versus a whole squad, and that one person nearly managed to run away.

And what if they run? That’s worse. Oh, man. The Revelator would track them. He just can’t think of a good ending for this.

Melvin feels the sweat running down his spine. He doesn’t know what the Revelator will do when he meets them, that’s even worse.

“They stop here. Let’s go.”

His heartbeat is spiking up, goddamn. They’re going back in the same direction of the Revelator’s super-secret-plus-illegal hideout, but this time, that dumb nickname doesn’t bring any smile to his face. He’s fucking tense, and so is Alan. He notices that his partner has been biting his fingernails on their way and he only does that whenever he’s nervous. And now they’re reaching another dead end when the teens get into their apartment complex. Melvin knows damn well that they couldn’t get inside because the other tenants will notice them and ruin their entire stealth mission, but they’re so close. So fucking close.

“Alan, we can’t.”

Melvin grabs Alan's wrist. They can’t take another step, they’d be found. Alan frowns at him like he’s losing his mind, but he doesn’t argue. He stays quiet and bites his fingers. From the look on his face, Melvin realizes that he’s thinking hard. Alan’s eyes roam over the surroundings. Damn right, Melvin knows he isn’t gonna give up and as much as he appreciates his partner’s spirit, sometimes he wishes that Alan would stand back.

“We are so close,” Alan whispers, and Melvin agrees.

Alan points over to a building. It’s abandoned and there’s a sign that shows that they’re going to tear it down. He doesn’t tell Melvin when he jumps over the low metal gate and into the building. With quick precision, he turns his flashlight, and Melvin follows.

“Where are we heading?”

“Third floor. We might be able to see them from here.”

And Alan was right. They can see the Revelator’s room exactly from their spot. With his binoculars, Alan gets the first exclusive look at the broken window of the Revelator’s apartment from where he lays on his stomach. Melvin gets the first shift of the watchman. With his guns loaded, he stays near the only exit they have.

“Did you see anything?”

“Negative,” Alan answers. His voice nearly echoing around the hollow concrete room. The place is a total mess, really. It’s not empty of furniture, but it does feel like the developer doesn’t even bother to finish the construction. There’s probably some homeless dude staying here judging from the interior. Gray wall, gray floor, all of it made of concrete. There are gaping holes in the walls where the windows are supposed to be placed, and there’s a worn-out mattress at the corner of the room with the springs coming all over the soft cushion placed on top of outdated newspapers, just like the Revelator’s room.

Melvin’s hearts drop to his stomach.

“Alan,” he whispers, palms sweating and trembling.

“Ssh, shut up!”

“Alan,” he whispers again, this time nearly yelling. He looks around the room to find another exit. There’s none. The only place where they could exit the building is through the creaking stairs or from the window, which is entirely impossible because they are not the Revelator who could jump through three stories building and still be able to run like he doesn’t feel a single, fucking, pain.

“I think I saw a movement. Holy shit, we might just be right all along!”

“ALAN!”

“Dude, what the—”

“I think this is the Revelator’s hideout.”

They freeze.

It’s quiet.

“Damn right it is.”

Alan screams.

ㅤㅤㅤEverything turns to black.

ㅤㅤ

“Oh my God, oh my fucking God. Stay out of him you sick fuck oh my God, MELVIN!”

‘Alan, you forgot to give me blankets.’

That was Melvin’s first thought.

It’s cold, it’s fucking cold out here and he’s uncomfortable. His head hurt like there’s someone trying to drill a hole into it, and his entire body is sore, all his muscles trying to stretch and move and just, basically, trying to ease the pain.

It’s fucking cold here.

“Melvin.”

The whisper is the first thing that he registers. It’s small, it’s out of breath… it sounds… pained?

Alan.

“Alan,” Melvin word’s slurs.

It’s cold, it’s hella cold, and his vision is blurry. The air smells tangy and sour, but the room is bright. It’s oddly bright, why? Harsh white light flashing his eyes, blinding his already blurry eyes. He tries to focus, tries to control his breathing. It’s cold, holy fuck. Why is it so cold?

“Took you a while.”

Melvin raises his head, struggling to find where the voice was coming from. It’s no use, everything is blurry. The light isn’t doing anything good to his eyes.

“Get the fuck away from him!” that’s Alan again, shit, he sounds in pain. Melvin tries to shake the blur away, he wants to see Alan. He wants to see him—no. He needs to see him.

There’s a low chuckle. “Ya might wanna keep it down a bit, sweetheart. Yer going to need all those air for later,” the voice says, and he feels a soft touch under his chin, “ain’t that right, Melvin?”

His vision is still blurry when a rough hand caresses his skin, but he can already feel his senses getting back to him. First, it was his skin: once he couldn’t feel his legs, now he could feel the cold floor even better. Second, it was his ears: once the sound was muffled, now it is crystal clear. He knows that voice, he heard it all over and over and over again in Alan’s apartment room. When the blinds were pulled down and the lights were dimmed, when the TV was playing the Masters Tournament in Fox Sports, he heard that voice before. “No, no, Melvin. Rewind. Rewind it again. Look at his face, what is he doing?” Alan had said back then, and Melvin thought that the idea was dumb, but now it’s just pure terror.

He can’t even try to pull away.

“Shit, kid. Did I hit ya too hard?” the voice says again, and Melvin has to bite his inner cheek and holds his breath for a moment. Third, it was his eyes: once everything is blurry, now his nightmare is manifesting in front of him.

He wishes that it would stay blurry.

Because now he’s looking at the same blue eyes just like the one he saw three days ago. When the blinds were pulled down and the lights were dimmed, when the TV was playing a documentary of lion cubs on NatGeo Wild, he’d seen those eyes before. He’s looking at the same piercing gaze like the one given by the teens. He’s looking at the same monster as he did back then.

“Melvin, eh? Heard a lot about ya, ’m sorry for hitting your head too hard.”

Alan sneers. “G—get the f—”

　　One click.

　　He hears the load of a gun.

“Stay.”

Melvin snaps his eyes wide and searches frantically towards Alan’s voice. He’s still in shock, but he can see his partner in the corner of the room—a closed space with white walls and shelves with boxes in it. It’s cramped and it’s cold. The floor, the wall, the air. Everything’s cold.

Alan’s hands are free. Alan’s legs are free.

Alan’s stomach is bleeding.

“Alan—”

Melvin scrambles his way towards him, but he’s stopped right on track. Shit. His head hurts so bad and he’s stuck in his place. He could feel his muscles tensing behind him, his wrist securely tied to a metal shelf by a rope. The metal is cold, and it hurts. It hurts and it’s cold, it’s cold and it hurts. Holy fucking shit, Alan.

“Ssh…” The gentle hands return to his cheek. It’s cold, cold like the rest of the room, cold like the pale blue eyes that looked more like it has always been gray this whole time.

“Your partner is bleeding to death, you can’t panic,” the voice says again. His tone is flat and his voice is low, but then he hears a chuckle. There’s blood at the corner of his lips, there are cuts and bruises across his face. There’s terror coming from those eyes, the manic gleam glinting under the harsh, white lamp.

“N–no—”

“Melvin, darling, I’m joking. He‘s fine, I stitch him up.” The cold hand tilts his head. “Come on Alan, tell him.”

Alan looks at Melvin and to the source of the voice. There’s a bob in his adam’s apple, but when he looks back at Melvin, Alan nods like he means it.

“Good boy,” the voice says again. The cold hands disappear, and when the voice’s owner steps back, Melvin has to hold his breath.

Standing in all black is the Revelator himself. He doesn’t wear his mask, his entire face, from those sharp jaws and hooded eyes, all the bruises and cuts standing in front of him. There’s a Glock in his hand, but Melvin knows the man enough to realize that it isn’t the only weapon he has. There’s gonna be an extra gun tucked somewhere in his pants, some combat knife under his tactical vest. There’s always something he hides.

It’s the Revelator.

“Thought you wanna meet me, Melvin Rickman.” The Revelator smirks. “Or do you prefer, ‘Melvin Russell’?”

Melvin’s guts twist like it has never been before. He hears Alan muttering something from afar, but he couldn’t tell. His heartbeat is racing like shit, and he couldn’t breathe.

The Revelator looks at Alan and smiles wider. “You didn’t know, did ya?”

Melvin knows that Alan is looking at him, but Melvin couldn’t look back.

“You didn’t really think that your partner is willing to go all out for some stupid medal, did you?” the Revelator says again. He sounds calm, too calm for his own good. Too calm for someone like him. Is this thing a normal routine for him? Just another Saturday of blackmailing people! What a fun activity.

The Revelator snickers and looks back at Melvin. “You ain’t fooling anyone, sweetheart.”

Melvin chokes.

“How did you—”

The Revelator shush him before he could even continue his words. He’s so gentle, it’s making him sick. He doesn’t even know which one is better, believing that the Revelator is a fucked-up sadist who skins his victim alive or realizing that he’s actually a gentle fucker who uses too many endearments.

He wants to puke.

“Now, I hear that you guys are looking for me.” The Revelator drags a chair and sits on it. With his legs crossed on top of a knee, he pulls out a combat knife from one of his boots and starts juggling with it between his fingers. ‘Every move is calculated, but not necessarily planned.’ The letters from the file resounding inside his head. Back then, it didn’t make any sense, but now it does. It’s coming together now. Every time Melvin thinks that the knife is going to slip, he just picks it back and continues with the same, steady pace. The knife play isn’t a show of control, no, it isn’t. The Revelator isn’t trying to prove his capability, Melvin knows that he’s just bored. He knows that the Revelator thinks he’s way above that already to prove himself.

‘Every move is calculated, but not necessarily planned,’ he thinks again.

So does the Revelator know that this would happen? Did he calculate this? Did he know that there’s a chance for two young cops with barely one year worth of experience will try to snoop around? Have they been in the equation? If yes, since when?

Did the Revelator already know that this would happen the moment he nails Todd Russel in front of him?

“That’s Todd Russel. He led the Revelator investigation in 2002 before the case went cold and Russel was found dead at the beginning of 2003.”

Yeah, he knew that long ago. He knows.

Melvin is there the whole time.

He wants to puke. So bad.

“You find another side that you don’t know, good for you,” the Revelator says, “and I respect that. Not a lot of people could find some good lead easily.”

The Revelator drags his chair closer to Melvin, then he leans back. It’s the same pose all over again. His head is tilted to a side, just like what he did during the previous interrogation with Detective Nashton, but this time he’s flipping a kali knife in one hand and he has one foot crossed over a knee. Melvin wonders if he’s going to sit like this if not because of the cuffs back then.

“So, imma give ya punks a special time to interview me. Oh no, don’t get excited too easily. I only accept three questions,” he continues. The Revelator tilts his head to the other side and smiles at Alan. And it’s so sweet, sweet and gentle just like everything he does. Sweet and gentle like the way he touches his cheeks a moment ago, sweet and gentle, just, so different from the way he dresses. So different from what the file told them.

“W-who are you working for?” Alan tries to make his voice as menacing from the corner of the room, but he’s breathing heavily, puffs of white smoke coming from his lips. His face is pale from any colors, be it from the blood loss or the cold, Melvin just wanna run at him and hold him close.

The Revelator stops his knife flipping and covers his mouth. “You can’t be serious,” he says, holding his laughter back, and Alan just stares at him wide-eyed, completely baffled at the response.

“It’s in the file, isn’t it? I saw it in your room. You should’ve kept it in a better place besides the bottom of your drawer, kid.” The Revelator smiles at Alan, then he glances at Melvin for a brief moment and wink. What the fuck.

It shouldn’t be surprising anymore, but Melvin couldn’t help the violent contraction inside his stomach. He stifles a groan, it hurts so bad and he’s fucking stressed. The Revelator already knows his real name, his real identity, then what else does he know? How many things does he know about them? He finds Alan’s place, and he might’ve already had Melvin’s address in his intel from a long time ago.

How many things does he know about them?

“You…” Melvin breathes in harshly, struggling to control his heartbeat. The Revelator eyes him with his sharp gaze. The gray irises—Melvin is completely sure that it was gray by now—swallowing his pupil until it left only a speck of black.

“Did your kids… know?”

The Revelator stays quiet, the curve of his lips turned flat, and there isn’t any sharpness inside his eyes anymore. There’s nothing there, nothing to indicate any sense of distress or anything else. No hostility, no emotion. Nothing.

It’s like staring into the void and hoping that it will give you something, but no. No matter how long you look at it, there’s just nothing there.

Does it mean he hit the right spot?

“Well,” the Revelator looks away, and when his gaze returned, the same sharpness returned. There goes back the confident look on his face, the same gentle smile that doesn’t suit the bloodlust coming from his eyes.

“There are… a lot of things a parent hides from their children,” he begins, “maybe you’ll understand better when you’re older. There are sacrifices you gotta make, you know, some dirty things you have to do for love. Honestly, I thought you, of all people, would understand it better.”

Melvin looks away. “How can I? You killed Todd Russel.”

“Yes, Melvin, sorry,” the Revelator rubs the bridge of his nose, “but your Daddy broke his promise to me.”

Melvin bites his tongue. They’re playing a mind game, he finally realizes. The Revelator doesn’t want to answer anything, at least, not in a way. With every question they ask, there’s a truth, then there’s also a threat ready to just jump back and tackle them. It’s a sick thought and Melvin hates it. He hates that the Revelator has the upper hand no matter what he does. He runs away from the police, survived a chase, and the fact that the room is fucking cold doesn’t help a thing. Now Alan is coughing and it’s cold and oh my fucking God, how long have they been here?

“One more question,” the Revelator says, and he smiles again. It’s sickening. It’s sickening how even fate picks his favorite.

Melvin looks at Alan. He’s so pale.

“What promise did Todd Rus—that, Dad, broke?” Melvin half-whispers, and the Revelator chuckles.

“The same promise I’m making with ya.”

There’s a loud sound of metal hitting a tile. The blade glinting under the harsh white light.

“I’m gonna let you kids live your life a bit longer, just enough so you guys could cut off the sexual tension and start dating each other and have some glorious sex. I’m letting y’all do it, I even booked two plane tickets to the Bahamas for you. I’m letting y’all do it, as long as you let me live my goddamn life. You ain’t coming anywhere near me, near my kids, near my fucking apartment or my fucking boss or my fucking friends, ‘cause if you fucking do,” the Revelator stands up and walks to him, “then I’ll fucking come at you, kid. I will fucking send swarms of flies upon thee and upon thy goddamn servants, and upon thy people, and into thy houses. And yer houses shall be loaded shit of flies and also the ground whereon they are but maybe I ain’t talking ‘bout some weak-ass flies. Listen to me, sweetheart, maybe I’m talking about something else. Something’ exploding that you won’t ever forget, something that you will always, always pop out in your goddamn head whenever you close your eyes. Something, something similar like the one I give to yer Daddy.”

The Revelator stands tall and steps on the knife he throws. In one single movement, he slides it in Alan’s direction and starts walking away towards the exit. It’s a metal door and the only thing holding it from closing completely is a single, dumb red brick.

“You know me, Russel. You don’t wanna mess with me.”

The Revelator walks away and shuts the door tight.

It’s quiet for a moment. He feels his heart sinks to the floor.

“Melvin—”

Melvin turns his gaze away from the metal door. Alan is still there, his face is still pale, and there’s still some smoke coming from his mouth.

“Shit, Alan!”

Melvin struggles to slip away from the knots, but it’s no use. The ropes are tight around his hands. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“Well,” Alan’s eyes are hazy and he looks so fucking tired, but he flashes a smile. “He shot me in the leg and stabbed my abdomen, but I’m good.” Alan laughs like he is reminiscing a cute memory from his childhood days.

“You sick fucker, how can you still—alright, shut up, I’m going to find a way to get out of this… wh-what are you doing?”

Alan drags himself towards Melvin’s direction with the knife in his hand. He realizes it’s the combat knife, the same knife that the Revelator juggles, and the same knife that was thrown into his feet a while ago.

“Oh, shut up. He gave us this,” Alan cuts the rope with the knife, his breath panting heavily as he struggles to keep his hand steady. Melvin’s heart aches. “For... this.”

The ropes around him break loose and Melvin sighs heavily when he feels the tension leaving his shoulder. Alan slumps back to the nearest wall and shuts his eyes.

“God, Alan, what the fuck—”

“He stitched me up.”

“What?”

“The Revelator.” Alan pulls his shirt up to show a bandage. There is dried blood on his stomach and bruises covering the rest of him, but the dressing looks… neat. “He stitched it. My legs too, he takes the bullet out by himself,” Alan says, his eyes don’t quite meeting Melvin’s.

Melvin stares wide-eyed. “B-but why?”

“I don’t know, Melvin. I really don’t know.”

Alan sighs and tries to sit upright. He can’t, he slumps back again with a moan. “When he hit you on the head, I was so mad and I… I just came at him with empty hands. Then he stabbed me and shot me in the leg, and I was... dying. I thought I was gonna die and you’re going to see me covered with my own blood and I started to beg.” Alan is now completely avoiding his eyes. “He stares at me like he doesn’t care, then he hits me in the face, and when I wake up, my wounds are clean.”

“Alan that’s…”

“It’s weird. I know. He… he doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Melvin stares at him for a moment until Alan finally looks at him. In some way, he doesn’t know what to say. The thought of not having Alan in his life anymore sounds bleak. It looks bleak. It feels bleak. He doesn’t want that.

Melvin holds Alan’s wrist. “We’re taking you to the hospital,” he says. Then he quickly stands up even when he feels like tumbling down again, even when his head starts screaming “sit the FUCK down” and his legs feel like jelly. He limps his way towards the door and tries to open it by the safety release handle. It doesn't budge. He rings the safety bell, there’s no answer.

Melvin pants. He’s doing everything too fast to the point he forgets that they’re stuck in a closed space with a temperature of -10° F and low oxygen level. Fuck, his heart is beating too fast and he’s about to hyperventilate. “We’re stuck,” he whispers, but Alan doesn’t look like he gives a fuck. He rolls his eyes and looks at Melvin, deadpan. “Yea, genius. Just get back here now and warm me up.”

Melvin shakes his head. “No, no. We can’t give up. There must be, there must be something we could do.”

“No, Melvin. There isn’t. The only thing we can do now is wait until someone found us and that’s the hard part because it’s cold, Melvin. Don’t you feel cold?”

Melvin nods.

“It’s a walk-in freezer, Rickman, and if we don’t,” Alan coughs, “if we don’t keep ourselves warm, there’s no telling how we could survive that wait.”

Melvin stares at Alan again. Once again, the fear found him. It makes his brain go numb and his legs all jittery. There’s this urge to just scream and throw himself on the door, but he knows better than to do that.

He looks from shelves to shelves to find something—anything. Anything that could keep them warm for some unknown time. Anything that could cover both of them for the night. There’s nothing, and he’s scared. He’s fucking scared. He’s so scared that he might start to cry right now.

“It’s really cold, don’t you think?” Alan jokes, but Melvin doesn’t crack a single laugh. Melvin stops looking and sits next to his partner instead. “We’re gonna get out of here,” Melvin says, his hands founding its way around Alan’s cold body. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

They stay like that for what seems to be eternity. Alan’s body grows colder and his breathing gets heavier, and so does Melvin’s. He doesn’t know how many hours have passed since the Revelator left the room. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours. And he just wants to cry, fuck, he wanna cry so bad because it hurts. Melvin looks so pale and out of it, and he’s scared. He’s scared. He’s out-gunned. They’ve stuck together for so long and they always won. They’ve been together from the beginning and they will always be until the end. Alan has saved Melvin over and over and over again, but right now, when Alan needed him the most, he couldn’t do anything about it.

“When we get out of here,” Alan smiles at him, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes, “wanna have some dinner together?”

Melvin hugs him tighter and nods. Yes, that sounds great. They’re going to get dinner when they’re out of here. They’re not going to miss any Taco Nights and they’re going to watch the Yankees together. They’re going to do a lot of things when they get out.

If only. If only they get o—

“NYPD GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

The metal door opens forcefully and a swarm of people in tac gears rushes into the room. Melvin tenses in his place and hugs Alan even tighter. It’s Sergeant Jones.

“Huh, Collins and Rickman. I should’ve… what the fuck, we need a medic!”

The tac teams look around the room as Sergeant Jones walks towards them with heavy steps. “H-how did you…?”

“There’s an anonymous call to the precinct saying there’s a hostage situation. We tracked the phone and it comes to this address. The FBI is waiting outside,” he continues as he kneels in front of them. The tac teams leave the freezer to make a room for the medic. Two men quickly come to lift Alan’s limp body to the stretcher, and another one quickly wraps a blanket around Melvin’s own freezing self.

“Why is the FBI here?” Melvin asks as Sergeant Jones hoists him up. The older sergeant and the other medic help him walk outside the room.

“You know who called, Rickman?” The Sergeant’s eyes are sharp at him. Melvin shakes his head.

“It’s the Revelator.”

“Is he gonna be alright?” Melvin asks as he looks at Melvin. He’s sleeping right now, the blinds are pulled down and the lights are dimmed, but the TV isn’t playing any random show and there isn’t anything to hide now. Not anymore.

“Doctor said that he’s lucky,” Sergeant Jones says with his thick Brooklyn drawl. “He lost a lot of blood, but his sutures are neat. I can’t believe the fucking Revelator actually did that. What the hell happened, Rickman? You know what, don’t tell me. Save the answer for the Captain later.”

Melvin doesn’t reply, he’s still looking at Alan. “Don’t be so bummed, kid. Nobody is going to lose their job.”

He smiles. “I’m thinking of quitting, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Jones’ eyes go wide.

“Alright, I know that was crazy, but take your time to think about it.”

Melvin looks at him for a moment, but that’s all he does. He says nothing and just stares at Alan’s peaceful form.

“What are you gonna do after this, kid?”

He looks at the Sergeant.

“Dinner, I guess.”

#prosit in vitam aeternam #tw: language #tw: violence #tw: death

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