Five minutes.
That was all he had to take down the mad and bloodthirsty cape in front of him, with the added disadvantage that he could not simply send a spear of bone through his heart at near super sonic speed.
He had to do this the hard way. His mind went through all that he knew of the previous Butchers. One and Three had some sort of Brute rating, while the Second Butcher had—
The mad brute let out a roar that sent bloody spittle flying from its lips before he lunged forward. Whatever grace that he had afforded Marquis seemed to be over. With a reflexive twitch of his hand, a wall of bone shot out from the ground in front of him. But the hulking brute was undeterred.
The Butcher slammed into the wall hard and fast enough that he broke through easily, but the wall had never truly been meant to stop the mad cape—just to slow him down enough that when the brute burst out of the other side of the wall, Marquis had already moved to the side, watching the brute sail past where he had been.
They watched each other in seeming slow motion, his bored brown eyes trailing the bloodshot red of the Butcher. Right before he swung his mace at the Butcher's head and expedited the brute's travel time. The Butcher went flying but he still tried to retaliate somewhat, though he shouldn't have bothered. A wide swing was let out, too close for Marquis' comfort but far enough that it did not cut him.
There was a loud crash as the Butcher slammed into one of the reinforced pillars that held the building up, giving Marquis enough time to think. The brute had almost hit him. It was no surprise that it had broken through his shield—it had been roughly created and possessed the density of brick instead of steel—but it had still managed to track him the moment it broke through immediately.
If he had not struck it in the head with his mace, the blade would've touched him.
"The Second Butcher was known to shoot people even if his line of sight was obstructed!" the diplomat called out from where he had scooted even closer to the door. The man was already earning his survival and perhaps a little promotion on top. After all, hard work should be rewarded.
There was a groan as the Butcher ripped himself out of the crack he had made in the wall, his red eyes rolling in their sockets before focusing on Marquis.
Brute strength rating two times over, accompanied by danger sense and an ability to see through obstructions, and that was just the abilities from the first three. The fourth ability was still unknown.
"Some people get all the luck, you know," Marquis started in a conversational tone as the Butcher began to walk toward him again. Its breath was rough and heavy, its footsteps shaky, and its eyes struggled to focus on Marquis. Good. That meant his plan of giving it brain damage had worked somewhat. Its inability to focus would take away its dexterity and speed—unless the bastard had some way to regenerate, which Marquis doubted.
It was a technique he used often against capes with Mover ratings. He could match skill with Brutes, Trumps, Shakers, etc., but at the end of the day, he was still human—still slow compared to the really powerful Brutes who could fake a Mover's ability through sheer strength.
He allowed his eyes to rove over the blood-soaked form. "Then again, considering what it turns you into, you can keep the luck."
Another mad roar and the Butcher lunged forward again—slower this time to compensate for the brain trauma Marquis had given it—so Marquis didn't bother to slow it down again. He simply willed it, and the bone shards and scrapings that had stuck to the Butcher's blood-soaked and matted form the first time it broke through the bone wall came to life, and they dug deep.
SInking into the Butcher's flesh, past muscle, into the nerves. The beast let out a scream—a hideous, tortured sound—as its limbs twitched uncontrollably. The pain slowed it even further, and Marquis watched, curiously , as the Butcher fought to stay upright, its body jerking with every step.
Beneath the spontaneous pain coursing through its body, the Butcher recognized the presence that stopped before it. Its instinct and power screamed at it, telling it something was coming, but the Butcher was in too much pain to do anything about it. There was a bored yet seemingly cruel look in the bone-masked man's eyes before the mace was swung again—this time on the other side of the Butcher's head, obliterating its jaw and cracking its skull once more, though somehow not managing to break it.
The Butcher let out a reflexive swing in response again, hoping to cut the man, feel his blood, and taste his pain, but it was for naught as Marquis easily stepped out of range.
"Don't worry about the head trauma," Marquis said, circling his prey like a predator toying with its meal. "I know precisely how much force the human skull can take before it shatters. Your Brute rating simply means I had to apply a little more pressure than usual. Hence the bumps on the mace," he added with a smile.
The Butcher had managed to find its feet once more, staring at Marquis with some level of animalistic cunning in its eyes. Marquis frowned as he recognized that look. It was the same look he had in the dark slums of Marseille as a child, when one of the older kids beat him up and stole his food, and he had been forced to react with a broken bottle to the other teen's back.
The brute swung again, but it was slower this time, less controlled. Marquis stepped back easily—until he noticed something was off. The swing wasn't meant to hit him. The Butcher had thrown its weapon.
A Brute's strength behind a thrown weapon made it a deadly projectile, and it was on him in a second. Instinctively, Marquis reshaped his mask into a smooth helmet, ducking just in time for the blade to glance off it. The impact still rang through his skull, leaving him momentarily dazed, just as a massive fist collided with the side of his head, sending him flying across the room. He skidded through the blood-soaked floor, his clothes slicked with gore, but he felt no fear.
He lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling as the ringing in his ears subsided. "How much time?" he called out, his voice echoing in the chamber.
"Three minutes, boss!" came the hasty reply.
Marquis slowly rose to his feet, brushing blood from his clothes in a futile act. He watched as the Butcher stared at its own rigid arm, the same arm it had used to punch him. "W-what have you done to me?" it groaned, its voice slurred and warped.
"W-what have you done?" the Butcher groaned out, its voice shifting and changing in octaves as it cradled its rigid arm. The words were a surprise. Marquis had assumed all it had in its vocabulary were groans, grunts, and roars.
"I'm glad you asked," he replied, allowing his mask to morph back into its original form and smoothing over the crack the blow had caused. He ran a blood-slicked hand through his hair, slicking it back. "The moment you hit me, I sent a lance of bone through your knuckles. It snaked up your arm, severing the radius and ulna, and then drilled through your humerus.
The Butcher stared at him in confusion, and Marquis laughed in response. "Simply put to an uneducated wild animal like yourself. Your right arm is fucked."
The Butcher let out another roar of anger and pain, and Marquis began to wonder just how much the mad bastard had in him that it just kept on coming.
With it's right hand out of commission, the brute picked up its cleaver from the ground with its left and moved to strike him, but it was slower, weaker, and more tired. All the injuries and fatigue were finally catching up.
Yet the Butcher kept coming, wild swings followed by erratic lunges. Marquis dodged them effortlessly, stepping aside with practiced grace, his movements calm in contrast to the brute's frenzy. It was like sparring with a mad, drunken man-child. For every reckless swing the Butcher threw, Marquis retaliated with a well-calculated blow, each strike finding a joint or tendon to shatter.
In less than a minute, the Butcher was down to one leg, his right kneecap shattered beyond repair, leaving the hulking beast stumbling on the ground. But even then, the brute swung wildly, still trying to fight despite his mangled state. That's when Marquis noticed something different, a subtle shift in the madman's expression—an emotion he hadn't expected: confusion.
Marquis grinned as the mace in his hand shifted into a staff. He twirled the weapon before lashing out at a low angle. With only one leg for support, the Butcher crashed to the floor face first, brute strength or not, physics could not be easily discarded.
The Butcher raised its head to look at Marquis, and through its destroyed jaw, it managed to stutter out a question. "H-How?"
Marquis didn't answer immediately. He took a moment to admire his handiwork, noting the shards of bone still embedded in the Butcher's flesh, the way his body trembled under the weight of accumulated injuries. Then, turning to where the diplomat stood frozen in place, Marquis raised a brow.
"We have one minute and thirty seconds left," the diplomat replied, checking his watch.
Plenty of time for answers, then.
"You're not as clever as you think," Marquis began, his tone light, almost conversational. "Brute strength and animal cunning can only take you so far. A good strategy, my dear Butcher, that's what you lack." He finished, but the confusion in the Butcher's eyes remained, so he elaborated, creating a throne of bones to sit upon.
He rested on it with familiarity, his figure and posture were picturesquely languid and bored with a leg crossed over the other.
"Your plan was clear from the beginning. I'm sure you cursed your danger sense for helping you survive my first attack, the same attack that killed your subordinates. Since then, your attacks have been wild, reckless, aiming to cause as much damage, not necessarily to me, but to yourself."
Marquis smiled as he saw a flicker in the Butcher's eyes. The man was not as mad as he had seemed at first, and it had taken the second exchange for Marquis to realize it.
He leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "You wanted to die. You were hoping each of my attacks would end it, but when I didn't grant you that mercy, you became more and more frantic. You thought the more you bled, the quicker you'd find release."
The surprise in the Butcher's eyes was evident now, but Marquis wasn't finished.
"Now you're wondering why you're still alive despite all that damage. Simple. For every bone I shattered, every piece of your body I broke, I made sure to avoid anything that could kill you. The bone spikes in your nerves? They sealed your wounds. The spur in your arm? It's holding everything in place. You should be dead, Butcher, but I've cursed you to live."
Seeing the look of understanding, Marquis smoothly rose to his feet as the throne collapsed into a pile of bones.
"If your curiosity has been satisfied, then perhaps it is time we draw this charade to a close. Your gang is dead. Your men are crushed and gone. Your territories are ours now. Your wealth is ours, as are your weapons and connections while you are beaten and broken."
Marquis twirled the staff in his hands once more, coming to a stop beside the Butcher's head. The white staff of bone in his hand shifted shape into a golf club. He lined up the swing casually, as if it were a mere game.
"The Teeth is dead, Butcher. Long live the Marche."
With a swift swing, he struck the Butcher's skull, sending the broken man into unconsciousness.
He stood over the motionless form, the club dissolving back into bone fragments. Marquis watched him for a moment, deep in thought. The Butcher was beaten and unconscious now, but the fact that Marquis couldn't kill him meant the Butcher would continue to be a threat—to him, to this city, and more importantly, to his little Amelia.
His daughter's safety was all that mattered in this decrepit city. That was why he was here, cleaning out the worst of the trash of the Bay first. That was why he had taken this chance despite the risks that came with it. His little flower would not grow up in the Brockton Bay he had known. No, he was going to upturn this city and drag it into sanity for one simple reason—because Amelia lived in it, and for that, the Butcher had to go. But he didn't necessarily need to kill him, did he?
Then Marquis squatted down for a better view of the butcher's back. If he wanted to manipulate someone's bones, he needed to see them clearly. He formed a thin scalpel made of bone in his right hand and made a thin incision along the Butcher's back—enough to give him a clear view of the bone that differentiated invertebrates from vertebrates: the spine.
His blood-stained fingers trailed from the top five cervical vertebrae down to the final five lumbar vertebrae, and without a second thought, Marquis began to manipulate them with expert precision. He dismantled and reconstructed the vertebral column, fusing and separating bones in a way that ensured permanent paralysis. The Butcher jolted awake for a brief moment, his body wracked with pain, but quickly succumbed once more.
Standing up, Marquis wiped his bloodied hands on a handkerchief, turning to the diplomat, whose face had gone pale. "How much time?"
"Five minutes, sir. Exactly."
"Good." Marquis began to walk toward the exit, his coat draped over his shoulders as the diplomat rushed to place it on him. "Secure the Butcher. I'm still undecided on whether to hand him over to the incompetent people at the PRT so make sure to move him to a safehouse and call the doctor to hook him up. Oh, and make sure to take his eyes. I don't want him knowing where he's going."
Marquis waved them off as he moved toward the car, and they moved to comply with his wishes. Another suit-clad enforcer stopped in front of him, and it took Marquis a second to recognize him as the partner he had sent alongside the diplomat to summon the Old Man.
"He is back, sir," the enforcer finally managed as he came to a stop, gulping for breath. The man seemed to have run all the way there.
Marquis nodded, tapping the man's shoulder. Another one in need of a promotion, He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile to play on his lips. The second step of his plan was falling into place.
Marquis's voice was cool as he asked, "I assume you were there and watched him arrive?"
The enforcer nodded quickly, nervous energy rolling off him. "Yes, I was."
"Hmm. And how was he?"
The enforcer hesitated, his eyes darting for a moment before he finally muttered, "Unruffled."
Marquis turned to fully face the man. "Unruffled?" He repeated the word with cold incredulity, inviting a better explanation.
"Yes," the enforcer affirmed hastily. "Not even his white overcoat was stained. It looked like he'd just taken a stroll, not come back from an Endbringer battle."
A low hum escaped Marquis as he stepped toward his waiting car. He gestured for the enforcer to leave, waving him off as the driver opened the door. As he slid into the seat, Marquis let the words linger, sinking into his thoughts.
Marquis had never bothered to partake in an Endbringers battle. It seemed a waste of his talents, considering he was well suited to finesse over the brute force needed to fight off an Endbringer. If one ever found its way to his town he would obviously join in the effort to fight them off but it was not a fight he sought in particular.
Still, the aftermath of such battles told a clear story, one he'd heard enough times to know there were no exceptions. No one walked away from that kind of carnage without some sign of it. No one.
Till now.
Perhaps he hadn't fought. Maybe he'd simply observed, content to avoid the violence. Questions, ones that would need answers when they finally met. But not today.
As the car turned into his estate, Marquis let the thought slide into the background, setting aside the brief satisfaction of his latest work. There was something else that commanded his attention, something that mattered more. He could see her waving at the car from her window.
His daughter. Amelia. It wouldn't do for her to see him soaked in blood.