So this is more of just short one shots in no particular order between characters (maybe later when I have more written I'll order them or something). I started writing this thing on Tumblr and I sort of want to bring it over here so more people can enjoy it. If you guys want to help out or want to see something written, feel free to shoot me a theme or suggestion or maybe even just a pairing between the five. I can get on board the ships between all of them so it doesn't matter much to me which pairing you suggest if you do. My tumblr is: .com.
The slow tap of water around the edges of the door was broken by the crack of gunfire. Ice, frozen, cold, why was the water tapping?
Tick, tick, tick, tick, like the ticking hand of a grandfather clock. Deep in the bottom of the ocean, there was ice. Poseidon Plaza had frozen over. The door had been sealed solid to keep those out and to keep him in. Martin Finnegan raised his head from his latest sculpture, the sound of moving water, not frozen, not ice, but dripping, caught his attention. There was nothing but ice in this freezer. He dropped the lifeless hand of the corpse he held and craned his head toward the entrance. Poseidon had become Boreas. But winter seemed to be breaking. The door had broke, the outside was coming in.
More gunfire, screaming, people where crying out in terror and pain. He could tell the difference between the two. The deaths of the others with him in this frozen hell taught him such.
His feet were surprisingly steady on the ice covered floor, the twinge of purple on his lips and the blue on his cheeks had come to be a perpetual condition about him. The plasmid encrusted his fingers to the bone as though frostbite had set in yet had never killed off his extremities. There was water, the light of the outside world came through a split along the side of the holding door and something came up within him like a punch to his throat. Hate. Ice. Cold. Hate.
He was free.
He was coming, Sander, baby.
He could have almost laughed to himself if it didn't hurt to do so.
With a push of his shoulder, he was able to break free from his icy prison. Almost instantly, it was far too hot for him and the sweat broke out across his forehead. The first time in a very long while that had happened and it only made the grating hate within him worse. Step by step, his footprints left a crystallized trail. There was fire and caved in ceiling rafters and cracked floor tiles. The bullet holes pockmarked the walls. Whoever was firing guns inside Fort Frolic was of no concerned to him. Or rather… it seemed groups of people were fighting. How fucking odd. He had heard plenty of people pulling bullets on each other as of lately, but none of this magnitude. Finnegan couldn't be bothered despite giving it more thought than he would have liked. If he were to take a bullet between his teeth, so be it, but he would be taking someone down with him first.
His feet picked up their pace as the strides of ice grew longer. Anyone he passed, he froze with a flick of his fingertips, not caring who they were or if they were armed or not. He had one thing on his mind: revenge.
Sander! He finally called breaking into a run.
The doors to the stage were open and he burst through them like the storm itself.
Sander. Where are you? He thundered, his voice echoing around the empty stage and house. Sander, you old fruit. Show yourself.
He didn't know why he was yelling. Perhaps he just knew that the man he wanted dead would be in here. Perhaps he felt the need to scream after being in a box for so long.
Ah, my Martin came a soothing voice. There he sat, the first row, his fingers folded like he was observing a performance, taking notes, criticizing, sounding like the sudden appearance of martin Finnegan on his stage did not surprise him. Do come in and stay a spell.
Sander fucking… Cohen. Finnegan spat out the last name as though it were poison on his tongue.
The other man cocked his head and nodded, the twisted smile crossed his face, punctuated with running eyeliner and cracked makeup. The stray hair that fell in his eyes, the way the lipstick on his mouth rippled at the corner of his mouth, Finnegan hated it.
Have you come to exact some sort of… sordid revenge on me, dear Martin?
How'd you fucking guess?
Ah, perhaps call it a hunch or perhaps call it intuition. In fact, call it anything that you like. Nothing matters anymore; my Martin He put his hands up and stretched his arms wide without rising from the seat Everything has fallen down around here and I am taking this opportunity to build it back up into something more… wonderful, something more beautiful and exquisite.
As though on cue, a crack echoed around the stage, followed by a slow rumble, akin to distant thunder. He had not heard that sound in years, he had not heard that sound in so long that he had almost forgotten it.
What's going on out there?
Cohen laughed, his head dropped back as though talking to a child. Dear Martin, you are so very behind on the times. Outside, there is a war. Atlas has played his turn like you yourself have.
Finnegan's eyes narrowed And his band of bone-heads are in here? You helpin' him?
Of course not, everyone in here is simply… afraid. You know, dear Martin, if you put too many rats in a room they will grow suspicious. And then they will grow frantic and soon they will be painting with each others blood. Atlas is out there, but oooohhh, the true art of revolution is in here.
You would know a lot 'bout keeping packs of rats in tight spaces. The red rush of color came to his pale cheeks. He had enough with idle talk. It was deep within his mind that he could simply corner his former boss, his former partner, his former… lover and simply kill him. He would freeze him, or he would throttle him or he would drive his fist through the other man's neck, but he would kill him. Corner. Freeze him to death, just like he had tried to do to him. Kill. He grit his teeth and aimed the ice from his fingers, right between Cohen's eyes.
The frozen blast hit nothing but a flurry of rose petals and the velvet of the theatre chair. Sander, you bastard.
Keep trying, Martin, perhaps you could hit something for a change.
At least I could hit and didn't go off before taking aim. His eyes frantically scanned the area for the rush of red. When he heard the sound, his head snapped upwards to the cat walks. There he was, the nancing son of a bitch. He wound up his arm again and took another shot at the man he hated, only to miss once more. The laughing that greeted him drove him deeper into anger. STOP RUNNING AWAY!
I am not running, dear Martin, I am simply… observing.
Observing? What? He couldn't catch him. He couldn't kill him. No matter how fast the ice flew from his fingers, he was never fast enough and it made him snort like an angry bull.
There was a laugh that issued form Cohen's lips that seemed to fill the theatre. Like the grimly happy Cheshire cat. This Cheshire cat had blood on his hands and blood on his brain as he grinned through a plastered on grin. Why, don't you know your Shakespeare„ Martin?
I don't fucking follow…
You are Macbeth, come from your victories to take over mine by … killing me. Cohen chuckled again, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and no where inside the theatre, But… unfortunately for this production, the woods have come too quickly to our door step, you haven't had a chance to kill the king yet, dear Martin. Hurry now, Macbeth, dooooo hurry. Macduff approaches.
The rush and sound landed Cohen right in the aisle of the house. Right where Finnegan would have a clear shot at him, right where he could drive the icy blast right into the other man's chest and freeze the very blood inside his veins. He would get him, Cohen couldn't teleport forever. He bared his crooked teeth and wound his arm, preparing to shoot quickly when he suddenly felt the rough grab of his shoulder form behind him and the fire across his chest. Pain, hurt, there was suddenly blood on his shirt, running, seeping through to his vest. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. The tip of the knife that found itself seated within his chest, reaching through his back towards his lungs. Finnegan's eyes widened and he let out a gasp.
He twisted his head as the blade twisted deeper into him and caused his muscles to lock. Kid… He grunted, the terrified green eyes of Fitzpatrick stared into his, the young boy held onto the weapon buried inside him.
Cohen was in front of Finnegan in a flash, his dirty hands, clammy fingers snatched Finnegan's chin into them. How dare you, Martin Finnegan, how dare you think you could come in here, in to my stage and… ahha, Kill me! How uncouth of you.
He slapped Finnegan as hard as he could, sending the man's already tilting world spinning sharply. Cohen then began to pace, his hands touching his right cheek as though he were observing a work of art, the excitement evident in his body. The flush sat on his cheeks as his mouth quivered with his waxed mustache. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Give us another thrust, Macduff.
Before Finnegan could react, there was another stab. Lower, at his side, catching his hip bone as Fitzpatrick held him.
Cohen almost giggled with glee before his face suddenly became deathly serious, fire at his eyes. You don't have an ally in the world, dear Martin. Not a soul to give a damned about you. You have nothing, Martin, and yet… perhaps you came here thinking that you could kill me and perhaps that would give you something? But alas, you don't even have that either. What a pity.
Finnegan felt the hands holding him up let him go and he fell to his knees. He couldn't breathe, the dark dampened his eyes and somehow he was on the ground on his side. Breathe. Try to breathe, inhale. He couldn't fucking inhale.
Wh-what have I done?
You have done right, young Fitzpatrick.
But… have I… killed him?
What shall I do with him is the more pressing question, young Fitzpatrick, I cannot have him like this, it… displeases me and makes an unusable, cluttered mess center stage. No one would be able to stage anything around him.
Move him. Freeze him. Leave him to rot where he came from. Seal him in his tomb.
Finnegan couldn't feel it. He didn't remember it. He just felt the slow throb of his frozen heart and the ooze of blood between his fingers on his chest. He felt himself will the slow drop of his temperature. His heart couldn't beat, he would bleed out and he knew it if it did. He didn't want to die, he had too much anger within him. He couldn't die. Then the black.
He wouldn't remember most of it. He wouldn't remember the tug and pull as he was dragged back into the cold. He wouldn't remember the frantic hands and the shaking voice that apologized to him, apologized profusely for doing what he did. When there was no more Cohen around, he wouldn't remember the shaking hands sticking the raw ADAM into his veins in hopes of it doing something. He wouldn't member the sealing of his grave.
The passage of time didn't occur to him when he felt his eyes open. There was only silence and a metal ceiling above him that was covered in ice.
The sacred rush of breath came into his chest like the sting of a knife between his ribs. He shook, violently, the hypothermia set in his bones. Even for someone so cold as him, he shook like he did the first few hours he stared at these walls. He was on the floor inside of his freezer. The ice had frozen to his shirt and kept him down on the ground. Moving his hand, he felt his side. The blood had frozen, but the wounds were closed, the ADAM sealed them like a tattered envelope. The cold had saved him, but he still pressed his fingers into the indentations on his pale skin where the blood had come form that he was certain would kill him. Taped back together thanks to ADAM. Healed and alive. Yet he didn't feel healed. He felt… death. The need to kill. The need… for more. More ice. More cold. More ADAM. Despite the violent shaking that wracked his body, it didn't disturb the sudden clearness of his mind. He would kill, and he would succeed next time.
He would… win. The anger came back into his head.
Once he was free, Sander Cohen would be dead. He had ice in his heart for now.