I recently posted a oneshot called darling, the stars don't fall for you that I think is pretty damn fucking good. It's written in the same style as ultraviolence but deals with all the ugliness that is bachana.
edited 30/11/2017
~Lyrics are from Five Degrees by Lil Peep (prod. Haardtek)~
/
worry about yourself, baby, i'll be good
i just wanna die in peace tonight
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THE MOON HAS ONLY JUST RISEN WHEN THE GUNSHOTS BEGIN.
Gray scowls and rips the bloody coat from his body, moving quickly to duck behind a parked van. The rest of Avatar are scattered throughout the small street — he briefly spots Buraiya and Jerome firing shots from the alley Mary originally planned for them to enter through.
He surveys the area again, searching for any more rogue thugs. Goumon ploughs through a group to his right with D-6, and Gray can faintly hear Abel's manic laugh above him — damn jester and his crazy kill from above tactics.
"Any word from Arlock?" he shouts over the cacophony, only half expecting a reply.
"None so far! Jose says we have ten more minutes to eliminate the target otherwise he'll send Element Four in," Mary yells back, and he curses.
"Who the fuck even agreed to this shit?"
Jerome executes a beefy man with a shotgun before replying. "I believe that was me. Do you have an issue with that, Fullbuster?"
"How the hell did you think we could take on a whole gang and kill the leader, within a fucking hour?" Gray scowls and quickly unsheathes the spare gun in his shoulder holster.
"Just get in there and do your job, Fullbuster. You have ten minutes."
"Make it count!" Buraiya adds with a twisted grin.
With an uttered curse he takes in a breath and runs through the fray, finger resting on the trigger of his gun. The street is dark and covered in bullet shells and soaked with blood— a sight he is more than used to seeing. An open second story window grants him access to the gang base and he slips through, dropping to a crouch on the grimy floor.
The halls are littered with old newspaper clippings and dust, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling like decorative garlands. Gray opens the first door and sweeps the room with his gun, mouth set in a disgusted grimace. The room smells of rot and alcohol, the sheets covering the two twin beds stained with a questionable substance. He doesn't risk closing the door and turns to the next, footsteps light and quick.
This room contains two ruffians playing a game of cards, and like a summer storm, he sweeps in and silently dispatches them. The two bodies fall to the ground with a dull thump but he is already opening the last door. A narrow staircase leads down to the murky depths of what he can only assume to be the first floor.
His feet barely skim the stairs as he makes his way down the steel steps, sidestepping beer bottles and dried pools of blood. The first floor seems less like a common area and more like a jail cell; the walls have been stripped of all shelves and plasterboard, leaving the dull brick naked. The floor is made of large grates that creak with the ache of rusted iron, each of his steps causing the metal to groan beneath his weight.
Gray grasps his gun tighter and pulls a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf, ears tuned carefully to his surroundings. Crossing the gun over his knife-arm, he creeps through the large room. A stereo is playing the local radio station from the corner, a game of poker laying untouched on one of the square tables.
The target sits obliviously at the largest table, counting hundred-dollar bills with his jewelled fingers. Gray wastes no time in aiming his gun at the back of the man's head, finger moving to squeeze the trigger.
"I wouldn't if I were you," a gravelly voice says. The man at the table stands and meets Gray's eyes, whose finger on the trigger stills.
"You know why I'm here," Gray states in reply, glaring at his target.
"Gray Fullbuster, son of the deceased Silver Fullbuster," the man is unconcerned by the gun pointed at him, and he begins to pace. "He was a good man, that Silver. Best agent I ever came across."
"Is there a point to what you're saying? I'm going to kill you either way," Gray rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and clucks his tongue impatiently.
The target meets his glare with an amused chuckle. "Sorry son, but I can't afford to die today."
And suddenly, Gray is sent tumbling to the metal floor with a gun pressed to his neck. Acting instinctively, Gray pounds his leg into his attacker's side and swats the gun away from him. The weapon bounces across the grates and becomes wedged between the brick wall and a missing floor panel. Gray wrestles with the thug pinning him down, fists flying and knee pounding into ribs.
Gray briefly catches a glimpse of blue hair, but he is already plunging his knife into the man's neck. Warm, thick blood trickles down his arm and he scowls at the stain.
"As expected of Avatar. It's a shame; I quite liked that boy."
"That wasn't necessary," Gray all but growls at the older man, who simply waves a sparkling hand.
"Now, where were we?" the man asks, grinning wide.
Gray aims his gun at the man again, finger wrapped securely around the trigger. "Somewhere around here."
He shoots.
. . . . .
"The next time you want Avatar to take on something like that, you do it by your fucking self, Arlock."
The frail man chuckles a deep laugh, pointing his cane at Gray. "You handled it well, young man. I'm sure the pay will appease any further complaints you may have."
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, muscles tensing under the needle digging into the skin of his back.
"Hold still," Mary chides, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder.
Arlock clicks his tongue in distaste, eyes scanning over the buzzing machine in Mary's hand. "I don't know why you even bother with that ghastly tattoo."
Gray ignores the old man, lost in the darkness behind his closed lids. He isn't given the luxury of sleep, for the marble doors of the Avatar manor slam open not a second later.
"You had me worried there, Avatar," an all-too-familiar voice drawls, and he resists the urge to groan.
"I can assure you, Jose, that we had everything under control. You needn't worry yourself over us," Jerome drawls pompously, and Gray wants to shoot the fucker— they are hitmen, for fuck's sake; not princes twirling bejewelled guns from their gloved fingertips.
Jose chuckles and walks towards Arlock, exchanging a few brief words. Gray watches carefully, waiting for their boss to leave them the hell alone — and to his utter disbelief, Jose walks towards the table he is seated at.
"Just the person I've been looking for," Jose chuckles and stands over him, regarding him with a look that makes his skin crawl.
"Jose," he nods a welcome, eyes downcast.
The Phantom Lord leader smiles a wide smile that appears more reminiscent of a grimace. "Tell me, how's my little rain woman these days?"
Gray stills, bated breath hitching only slightly. His little pale lady crosses his mind for what is possibly the hundredth time—
(and just that one realisation is enough to shock him still).
He doesn't know what it is that keeps him drawn to her — he'd like to say it is the way her eyes haze over and her mouth gapes when he touches her because just that one gesture is enough to make him want to consume her. She is the woman who managed to sneak past all his wards and nestle in with the ghosts of his past. No longer is she a mere plaything but an addiction, one that will surely give him trouble he doesn't need.
Jose watches him with an expectant smirk, one that hints to dark schemes and hidden plans. It is there that Gray makes his choice — he will not share Juvia with anyone. For however long as possible, he will keep her as his little secret. After all, he is just like her and her strange weather.
"I've got no idea what you're talking about, sir."
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you can see it in my face so i wear my hood
feeling like it's five degrees tonight