From the remnants of the broken second-story window, Rokas watched impassively as Daggett plummeted. Wind harassed him, pushing him down faster. Earth compacted where he landed, harder, more solid. Creating more of an impact. For a few seconds, he lied very still, one of his legs bent at an odd angle. Then his eyes rolled around in their sockets again, and his mouth opened and closed like a choking fish’s. Not dead just yet, it seemed. Daggett was like some sort of cockroach; surprisingly hardy.
All the better. If falling down a few stories was all it took to kill him, it wouldn’t be worth the patience and planning he’d done in preparation. Perhaps it wouldn’t even be worth the effort of seeking revenge in the first place. What satisfaction was there to be found in killing a fragile being? If you had to be careful not to take things too far and accidentally snuff out his existence prematurely?
Fortunately, Daggett was a cockroach. He struggled with all his might, hoping against hope he’d survive. Pushing his broken and battered body up, mounting a desperate attempt at escape, fighting tooth and claw to cling to stay alive. Yes, it was far more fulfilling to crush the life out of someone when they struggled.
Which was exactly why Rokas had gone along with Milaq’s tedious plan, despite the risk that working with him entailed. A gamble, indeed, but one that’d paid out in full.
Rokas let a grin spread across his sand-covered features. In his mind he went over the long list of Daggett’s transgressions, counting them and making sure he hadn’t forgotten any. He’d make Daggett feel every single one. His death needn’t be quick. Having caught him unawares, Rokas had an abundance of time, after all.
Earth groaned behind him. A warning of shattered masonry and splinters of baked clay that cracked under a soft leather boot. Scraped over wood. Slow, steady. Prowling ever closer. A ways off still, but easily crossed with a couple long and rapid steps. Wind hissed past an exposed metal edge, still wet with a runny, but curdling liquid. It played with exhaled breaths, hot and eager, but silent and controlled.
Ah, of course. He’d expected nothing less.
Rokas did not look behind, did not take his eyes off Daggett. Instead he took a single step forward, onto the windowsill, between some stubborn yet wicked sharp shards of glass still clinging to the frame. He had to duck to fit through, had to punch away some glass to not get cut as he folded himself through. Head first, then shoulders and torso, then finally legs. Standing on top of the sill for a brief moment, feeling the wind rush past his face in excitement. A muffled curse came from behind, stone grit crunching quickly now. Rokas whispered a few soft words, and hopped off.
Then he fell. Like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside and into a ravine. Fast, heavy, stone-faced. Wind laughing past, tugging at his limbs, cradling him. Delivering him into earth’s care in a few fractions of a second. Both feet touched the ground, knees bending, hands reaching down for balance. Earth powdered, softening in an instant. Soft, loose soil, and softer still. Dust as fine and gentle as silk. Broke his fall, absorbed the impact, unwilling to hurt him.
Rokas rose slow, a wave of nausea rippling the ground as if it were the deck of a ship. It’d gotten worse, he didn’t have much left to give. He stepped out of his little crater, sand and dust streaming off his body. Daggett yelped, hastened his movement, crawling faster over the road with one working arm and one functioning leg. But the dirt refused to cooperate anymore, denied him any purchase. Left him flailing instead, helpless as packed earth turned to sand and slipped between his fingers.
“This is as far as you go, Daggett,” Rokas said. There was a hint of malice in his voice. A bit of gloating in anticipation of what would come next. “It’s the end of the line.”
Daggett flopped on his back, eyes wide, fixed on Rokas’s giant frame. His foot kicked uselessly in the too-soft dirt, hoping to find something to push off from.
“You’re making a mistake,” Daggett sputtered, “I’ve made powerful allies while you were gone. They won’t take kindly to my death! They take these things seriously. They won’t stand for it. It’s a matter of principle. They’ll make an example out of you. You’ll be hunted in turn! There’s no benefit in killing me--”
Rokas took a step forward. “The benefit is your death itself. My momentary satisfaction. Not having to deal with you anymore in the future.”
“No-no-no, wait, wait! I- I- I have money. I can pay you! How much do you want? Name your price, I’ll pay it in full! I’ll get out of your hair too! I promise! I swear on my mother’s soul! You’ll never see me again. I’ll not get involved with you ever again! Not directly or indirectly! W-what do you say? That’s what you want, right?”
Another step. His voice was chilly, his gaze frozen. “Ah, but it’s a matter of principle for me as well. You’ll need to be made an example out of, so the message comes across.”
“I got the message! Loud and clear! I’ll—I’ll spread the word not to mess with you! I’ll use every connection I have! No-one will come for you. No-one! So, please--”
Another step, the distance between Rokas and Daggett almost nonexistent now. “A little bit late now, don’t you think? You should have thought of that before concocting your little plan.” His voice rose, monotone melting away as he grew more heated. Emotions etched with harsh lines into his face. Words gradually loudening. Speaking faster, with more fury seeping through. “Before dumping me in the Southwood! Before trying to turn the elements against me! Before severing my connection with them! Before hiding me from their sight and having them kill me!”
Daggett cowered, good arm raised protectively over his face, eyes pinched shut. His functioning leg drawn up to his chest, attempting to become as small as possible and escape notice. Rokas took a deep breath, regained his composure.
“We spent a long time pondering on how to go about this. How do we want to kill you? Crush you with rocks? Blast you into the sky and let you splatter on the ground? Burn you until you’re nothing but blackened bones and scattered ashes? Or perhaps I should just beat you into a bloody paste? Wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze until you turn purple and your eyes burst from your sockets?” He tilted his head as if considering once again. “They’re all good options. But there’s only one death that fits you; the one you planned for me. I thought long and hard about it, I hope you appreciate the irony.”
Ignoring Daggett’s further burbling pleas, Rokas focused on the voices of the elements, tuned his ears to one in particular. One of the four had been scorned just the same as Rokas, held a grudge as strong as his. He called to it, beckoned it into existence. The nausea worsened, balance unstable, world rolling up and down. More so than usual, causing his stomach to lurch and threaten to vomit. The whole of his skull was subject to immense pressure, shattering at the temples.
But he didn’t need much. Just a little would do.
Fire roared behind him, its heat shattering windows. Flames burst forth from the holes, licked sooth all over the outside. For all the delicious fabric in the tailor shop, it’d held back quite admirably, all things considered. Rokas pushed its voice away, relegated it to background noise along with the sweeping whispers of the wind.
Water materialized, fine droplets floating in mind-air, coalescing into a bubble bigger than Daggett’s head. Its surface rippled and jiggled, a translucent pearl of water so pure it’d barely be visible broad daylight. In the dark of night it would have been almost impossible to spot, if not for the flickering orange of the fire outlining its edges. It hung there for only a moment, then it lost its shape and flowed toward Daggett.
The man whimpered, kicking and flailing to get away, and actually finding purchase now. Rokas was too close to his limit to focus on directing two elements at once. Water demanded his full attention, and he gifted it gladly.
It engulfed Daggett’s head, covering his face, reforming into a sphere. Air bubbles leapt out his nostrils and mouth as he yelped in surprise. He regretted it instantly, expression already growing desperate. His one good arm swung up, hand clawing at the water, unable to hold it. He slapped at it then, but the water’s surface barely splashed at all. He began scooping instead, throwing the small volume that didn’t slip through his fingers onto the ground. Rokas let him. The effort was futile. By the time Daggett had diminished the sphere significantly, he’d already have drowned.
Daggett’s movements grew more and more frantic, more rushed. He thrashed and writhed, flailing as if trying to swim. He belched out a stream of bubbles as his breath ran out and his lungs burned, begged for air. Face twisted in a silent scream, distorted by the water. Still his convulsions quickened, body now aware it sat on the brink of death, but unable to change anything about it.
Fire snapped, wind hissed. Teeth clenched and brow frowning, Rokas shushed them. Earth crunched, insistent, warning. Feet slapped the dirt ground, the smell of scorched clothes and hair approached. Rokas looked over his right shoulder, saw nothing. Pain flashed above his left hip then as something slick pierced skin and flesh.
His focus shattered, the water bubble rained down and splashed formless on the ground. Daggett spat out liquid and gasped, drawing in deep lungfuls in between coughs. Rokas glanced to his left, attention now on the scorpion whose stinger still sat embedded in his flesh.
“Abysmal timing as always, Milaq the Shanker!” he growled through clenched teeth. He wrapped one hand around his wrist as Milaq tried to pull his knife out –likely to stab a second time.
“Perfectly on time, “ the Shanker hissed back, “Daggett's mine!” He stopped pulling and pushed his blade deeper again, then twisted, causing Rokas to groan and loosen his grip. Milaq quickly jerked his arm and knife free, and stepped back. “But first I’ll kill you! Y’didn’t think I’d have let it go, right?”
“I never expect a scorpion to be anything else than a scorpion. To not sting is to go against its nature. The question never was ‘if’, it was ‘when’. I should have guessed it’d be when it’d hurt the most.”
“Know me so well, do you? No matter, it won’t help you now. You’re exhausted an' bleeding, I’m not. You’re done for.” Milaq attacked without hesitation, knife glittering in fire’s blaze. Rokas swiped at him with a large fist, which the smaller man easily ducked underneath. Like a viper’s bite, Milaq’s knife pierced the flesh of Rokas’s thigh –the wound was shallow, but the pain was not. He threw a haymaker in retaliation, but it went wide too as Milaq took a quick step backward. His footwork resembled a dancer’s steps.
Like the Shanker said, exhaustion had soaked into Rokas’s bones. It went beyond the simple tiring of body and muscles. Even beyond his energy escaping through the hole Milaq had made in his side. This was the toll of asking many things of the elements in quick succession. Things they’d agreed to do without needing to be convinced, but a price had to be paid nonetheless.
Milaq darted back in, dodging the sloppy, uncontrolled swings with which Rokas tried to keep him at bay. Once again the blade flashed, carved a bloody line into Rokas’s torso. Avoided another punch, created another wound. Stabbing the leg again, closer to the hip this time. Pain shot up through the limb, almost made the giant buckle. He remained upright, albeit barely, but it gave Milaq the opportunity to slash yet again, then dance away.
Rokas’s breath quickly turned to ragged gasps as the battle continued, dragged out by the Shanker. None of the wounds he inflicted were fatal, or all that threatening. Every cut shallow, every stab aimed to debilitate, not kill. They hurt like hell though, and their number just kept increasing. Milaq added more wherever he could. Slipping through Rokas’s near strengthless hooks and swipes. Slicing through soil and skin, and retreating with a grin. He was playing around, toying with him. Relishing every moment. Waiting to see just how long it would take for Rokas to be worn down. Eroded like sandstone rocks in never-ending winds.
He didn’t have to wait overly long.
With a grunt and a wince, Rokas fell on his knees. Brace with his arms, placing a hand on the dirt to preserve balance and stop himself from falling on his face. Milaq’s grin widened, he switched his knife from one hand to the other and back, and his whole body tensed. Poised for just a moment, a spring compressed as far as it would go. Then his hind foot dug in the dirt, one big stride, different from all the others. Its feel was different. The intent behind it wasn’t the same. Milaq’s eyes glittered. His knife shot forward like lightning—
Milaq stumbled. The dirt underneath his feet no longer offering any purchase. His boots sank into it instead, scooping it up and spraying it in a high arc. Robbed his charge of the driving force behind it. The knife didn’t reach.
Rokas clamped a hand around Milaq’s wrist, tight as a vice, and twisted the blade aside. Yanked him closer, chest to chest. He wrapped his free arm around Milaq, embraced the smaller man in much the same way a bear did, crushing him with all the force he could muster. Pinning his arms, making sure he couldn’t escape. Milaq writhed and pushed, legs kicking the ground. Rokas didn’t fight to remain upright, didn’t bother to fight gravity too. He made it his ally instead, simply falling forwards, on top of Milaq.
Trusting his huge weight to keep the smaller man down, Rokas released his hold slowly and carefully, pushing himself halfway upright. Brought a hand to Milaq’s throat. The Shanker bit him, teeth sinking deep enough to draw blood. Expression vicious as he chomped down as hard as he could, not letting go. Rokas smashed Milaq’s nose into his skull with his other hand, then wrapped both around his throat.
He squeezed.
Harder and harder. Knuckles white, tendons taut, forearms burning. Teeth bared in a snarl.
Until Milaq’s struggling stopped. Until his head grew red, then purple. Until the light in his eyes faded to nothingness, staring wide but unseeing. Until no breaths came anymore. And a good while after still, just to be sure.
Until many footsteps and rattling metal rushed towards him. Still a ways off, but close. Too close. It was too soon, Rokas should have more time. Maybe some of the thugs he’d let leave had called—no, the timing didn’t match. They’d need longer to respond. A nearby patrol perhaps? But this was Gaenell’s turf; he paid good money to for them to stay away.
Rokas rose, languid and groaning, but unable to make haste. Stumbling like a puppet without strings. Mind going white for a moment, then flooding with dark rage. That Immortals damned cockroach! Daggett was gone. Crawled away into a nearby alley during Rokas’s scuffle with Milaq? Curse that scorpion!
He took a step towards the nearest alley, dragging marks in the dirt leading that way. Daggett couldn’t have gotten far. Rokas could chase him down.
“By the authority of the High Marshall, stop right there!”
Behind him a full patrol of Blackguard stared him down, weapons ready. They all assumed combat stances, and were slowly encircling him, cutting off his path into the alleyway. Too many of them to fight by himself, especially in his current state. Earth, wind and fire growled threats, but their voices were distant. They couldn’t aid him either.
A woman bearing the insignia of an officer gestured to the other Blackguard, then addressed Rokas directly. “You are under arrest. Do not resist.”
Rokas’s eyes flicked to the alleyway, where Daggett had to be staggering away one limping step at a time. A little further with every passing moment. He could not fight all these Blackjacks, but he could perhaps break through.
He charged.
