Descole gritted his teeth as he glared at the army that stood before him, clenching his hands into fists. Raymond stood in front of him, tense.
"Do we go quietly?" Raymond glanced back at him. Descole shook his head.
"These cowards are not in charge here." Descole trembled in anger, vision going red when he addressed the group that had ruined his life. "You are not recognized as any type of authority!" He clenched his fists tighter, nails digging into his palms and sending small shockwaves of pain up his arms. "And you disgust me with your demented worldview. I will not let you steal that which I have earned!" He let out a snarl, vision going red when he finally moved forward. He barely registered Raymond reaching out to him out of the corner of his vision when he leaped from the top of the chamber. A shockwave of pain moved up his legs when he landed hard on his feet, rolling to keep his momentum going when he started in a sprint towards the army before him.
The men stepped forward, aiming machine guns and firing at him without any prompting from their leader. They must have expected this, to a degree. That fleeting thought flashed through Descole's mind as he wove through the bullets, ripping his cape and grazing him slightly before he leapt at the closest man to him. The agent gasped and cried out when Descole landed a kick on his face, then lunged off of him to go to their leader. Bronev. His father. Was his father.
His anger was getting the best of him; he didn't notice Bronev's grin, or the way he tensed up. He only focused on bringing him down, making sure Bronev knew that this discovery, the Azran ruins, was his, and his alone.
He threw a punch at Bronev's face; the older man dodged easily, then a hard knee to the stomach sucked the air out of him. Descole gasped, struggling to catch his breath, as Bronev held him up by the feather boa around his neck. His own eyes glared back at him from under the sunglasses. Descole raised his hands to Bronev's, clawing slightly at the pale, wrinkled hand before he was thrown to the side, where he tumbled and rolled before stopping on the sandy ground. He grunted and struggled when multiple Targent men surrounded him, pinning him to the ground. He bucked and jerked his body, struggling to get free, when Bronev approached him.
"Descole, oh, Descole." Bronev was grinning, voice condescending. Descole froze when Bronev kneeled down, hands reaching for his mask. He jerked his head away.
"You cannot do this! You have no right!" He shrunk away, gritting his teeth out of fear this time as Bronev hooked his fingers under the mask.
"Au contraire, my boy. Actually, I have every right. Now let's just have a look."
White smoke covered them, then. Descole kicked off the startled men, feeling the mask slip the rest of the way off. He shot up to his feet, feeling somebody grab his hand. He jerked his arm away.
"Master, are you alright?" Descole relaxed, then. That was just Raymond.
"Yes." Raymond pushed him along. Bronev's voice carried over the confused shouts of the other agents.
"Fire! Don't let them get away!" They both started sprinting as the smoke began to clear. Descole felt a couple of bullets hit him, but his adrenaline was keeping him from feeling much pain. He finally gave a sharp cry when one bullet in particular struck his leg, making him collapse to the ground. Raymond turned back to him, kneeling down and pulling Descole back to his feet. He managed to take another step before his leg buckled, and he fell to the ground again. He hissed, the pain finally starting to catch up to him. Raymond kneeled next to him, hands ghosting bullet wounds before he tried, again, to pull Descole along.
"Come on, Master!" Raymond's voice was frantic. "We need to go, now --" Raymond's eyes shot open wide. Descole struggled to get to his feet again when Raymond slumped forward, falling against Des's shoulder. He hissed again, a hand reaching to push Raymond off of his shoulder, where he was sure another bullet wound was.
"Raymond?" He asked. The butler didn't respond, breathing rattling, shallow, and pained. "Raymond --?" He was pulled away, bullet wounds stretching and wounded leg dragged against the ground. "Let me go, you cowards --!" He shouted again when an agent kicked him. He struggled, breaking free for a moment and starting to crawl back to Raymond, where a small pool of red was beginning to form. A foot pressed against his wounded shoulder. His breath hitched before he let out a pained scream, the foot pressing in harder. His stomach rolled with the pain. Unwanted tears streamed down his face and into the sand.
"Please --" He said in a shaky voice. "Please, get off of me. I --" He bit his tongue when he was nudged onto his back, the foot pressing into his chest and making it hard to breathe. Bronev glared down at him, a wide grin stretching over his face once he recognized who exactly he had underneath him.
"Hello, Professor Sycamore." Descole opened his mouth to retaliate, and Bronev dug his foot even deeper into his chest. Descole gasped, feeling the bones beginning to bend. "So much destruction from you. You've been the cause of so much trouble for me and my agents. I suppose you get that from me, don't you?" Des grit his teeth before spitting at his father.
"You… can go to hell," Descole wheezed. "You were the one who argued the most with them, Bronev. What happened to that?" Bronev frowned.
"You, of all people, should know why I'm doing this." The leader of Targent leaned closer. "Her death will not be in vain. Your brother seems to be happy."
"He doesn't remember, asshole." Descole's voice was a hiss, and he wheezed when Bronev gave a heavy stomp on his chest, finally feeling a rib break. Bronev lifted his foot before kicking Descole in the head. He screamed, his vision exploded in stars, he couldn't pass out -- his vision darkened, faded, and he faintly felt himself being dragged away. The last thing he heard was the muffled voice of the leader of Targent.
"You're going to regret remembering when I'm done with you."