Chapter Number: Two
Rating: T
Date/Takes Place: Two days after Chapter One
Anything Else: N/A
Author's Note: I offer my apologies for a late update (Translation: I super, super sorry I took so long. ~). However, I am pleased to say I have my first follower for this story, Gryphon44! So shout out to him/her! My hopes are several more will follow (thought I suppose that's obvious!). Also, if anyone can correctly guess "Ugly"'s name from the end of this chapter I will also give a shout out to you, and head over to your profile to check it out a bit. So, good luck with that. And now, before I'm screamed at to stop yapping, Chapter Two.

Tumultuous.

It hit him like a dull rush of a satisfying realization — the word he had been looking for was tumultuous. As in displeased, upset, or angry.

And if Jinx was anything in that moment, she was incredibly, unarguably, angry.

Any sense of this satisfaction fled from his system within seconds, however, as another glance towards his leader's physically manifesting ire quickly diminished the lingering, unrelated thoughts.

Another day, another heist, another Titan-related failure.

The job itself hadn't been particularly difficult — disable the cameras, destroy the locks, and grab everything of value within thirty minutes. But one of the members must have tripped over an alarm or broken something, because three full minutes' time passed before an ill-thought-out pun interrupted Mammoth's elate statement of gratification. In an attempt to reserve their hardly in-tact dignity, Jinx had insisted they fight until it became painfully obvious they stood no chance. She then resentfully ordered a hasty retreat from the mall and Elliot just managed to transport them back to their HQ, where Jinx immediately fumed, jaw set.

Now the Hive sat around the thin glass table, all but for the frustrated Hex witch Jinx, whose hair seemed to be flaming itself. Elliot forced himself to focus his attention to one of the several marks etched into the glass's surface, eyes cast downwards in a feigned sort of indignity.

Gizmo did nothing but exacerbate the situation.

His arms were folded over his chest quite childishly, his form comparably small in the large chair. Jinx and he had been bickering between themselves for several minutes, though of course the "winner" was clear-cut. Their squabble always ended in the same way; Jinx broke something, released a string of words from a very colorful vocabulary, and that was the end of that.

Today, however, a strange sort of feeling found itself stirring in Elliot's gut. Almost apprehension. He wondered momentarily if perhaps he had imagined it — but a sudden clanging bell exploding throughout the room did nothing to drive away his suspicions.

It took a moment for the ringing to register with him. Jinx immediately whipped her head towards the glossy main screen, where the familiar shape of a skull flashed every few seconds. The noise faltered only when Jinx punched the button to answer the call.

A video feed of Madame Rogue crackled to life.

She peered down at them with a permanent scowl, frown creased. "You 'vill state your name."

"Hive Five." Jinx responded almost too quickly, chin lifted. She hadn't forgotten about their last meeting.

Though a call from the Brotherhood wasn't particularly rare, it still struck him as strange. Unexpected. Rogue's eyes flashed with something Elliot was unable to catch, almost recognition. She pushed something out of the camera's view, and then again she was speaking.

"Very v'ell. See this as only a reminder of your loyalty to the Brotherhood and your priorities." Every word was bathed in the thick accent, at times hard to understand. A quick glance to Elliot's right revealed See-More was thinking the same, as his features were scrunched in confusion.

But then the image of her face was flickering off; and before Jinx could respond with even a nod, the conversation was over.

It was late.

Monsieur Mallah was sure of that much.

Despite the gloomy lack of windows and unforgiving eternal darkness — despite the fact sleep was never a necessity — Monsieur Mallah was fully aware of the sky's darkening view. He'd worked far too many hours for it to be anything but.

He stood within a humid cell void of any light, where a smell of something foul seemed to be eagerly attacking his senses. Another man — Short. Fat. Ugly. The Monsieur didn't care for names. — had fallen to his knees, both hands clasped around a horribly broken noise. He shook violently, muffled sobs emitting from the form every so often.

Mallah stared him down with zero compassion; nothing but a stoic look of disgust enraging his features. He lifted a brow as if preparing to snarl again, but before the words fall from his mouth, the other was crying for mercy.

"Stop! Stop, please!" the man screeched, a stifling, coppery aroma drifting into the air. Monsieur Mallah was quickly growing tired of the nasally voice, and with a sharp kick to Ugly's chest, the wailing ceased with a sickening crack.

"Give me ze pictures!" Mallah bellowed deeply, pronouncing each syllable as clear as possible. Traces of his accent, however, still clouded into strings of speech. He'd repeated the single phrase for over three hours, had surely broken several ribs and various other bones, but still, the Monsieur had made very little progress — and he certainly hadn't obtained what he'd come for.

Ugly watched the gorilla with a purely terrified gaze, and his voice involuntarily shook as much as his body. "I don't have them! I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I . . ." his continuous screams echoed against the stone walls, spit flying from his mouth with each word. Something Mallah couldn't quite place in the man's tone made him pause, for the first time momentarily considering the words he'd heard several times already.

"You lie." Mallah stated finally, wondering how much truth was hidden behind his own words.

"No!" Ugly crawled near to Mallah's legs. "No, please! Listen! I — I gave them away! I don't have them!"

Rage enlightened his features, and again a foot connected with the man's chest, sending him sprawling. "T'ay were givahn away?!" the Monsieur shrieked, lurching forward to wrap a fist around the man's stubby neck. He lifted him into the air with the slightest of ease, fingers tightening every passing second. "Who has t'em now?"

"S-someone —" Ugly choked out between gasps for air, hands instinctively reaching towards the hand clenched around his windpipe. He looked somewhat like a carp taken from water; something Mallah found particularly amusing. "— some guy with a white mask. He called himself Red . . . something. Red X."

As if that letter was a cue, the man was immediately released from Mallah's grip, and he fell to a crumbled ball on the floor. The Monsieur was already turning, stomping towards the metal door determined to continue his task, regardless of the hour.

"W-wait!" Ugly suddenly cried out, causing Mallah to hardly bat an eye. "I thought — you promised!"

Finally, Monsieur Mallah did fully stop, though he didn't turn to look at the man. In a rough, deep voice, he spoke two quiet words before walking forward again, the cell door swinging shut with a click behind him.

"I lied."