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Sep 29, 2011 09:35

CHARACTERS: All of the Horsemen and Samael (andaclatter)
DATE/TIME: Tuesday night
LOCATION: Samael and Azazel's place
RATING: R
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: An eye for an eye, a wrist for a wrist.


Samael was, dare he admit it, enjoying an evening of quiet time. Between weather disturbances and spiritual awakenings, he had acted out by acting like, well, Samael. A few days of drinking, stalking and deflowering innocents, and of making it up to his relatives (Blackwells, not angels) and he was beginning to feel more like himself. This evening, his bare toes curling into the carpet in Azazel's living room (his own living room too, he supposed), he cradled a glass of fine whiskey (two ice cubes) in his hand and contemplated what he'd do next. Now that he was restored, the idea of bounty-hunting appealed once more. At least he could be effective and not stricken with the ethics of the whole fucking thing.

He texted his sister to let her know that he'd be spending the night here and then he walked over to the window to look out over the twinkling lights of Manhattan at night. All in all, Samael felt pretty fucking good.

*

The apartment hadn't been difficult to find, as Famine had been there before and knew the way. He was oddly quiet, in a way that was silently anticipating rather than distant. There was no need for unnecessary chatter when they were about to take out an archangel. Quiet was safer, as they already had the plan worked out.

He was more than happy to rid of the throng of homeless people who'd drifted after him like excited kittens waiting for a meal, and more than once the Black Horseman had considered throwing bread pieces at them to see what they'd do. It hadn't happened, fortunately. Suffice today, it was a good evening for him as well.

Padding up the corridor to Samael's place, Famine trailed his fingertips along the wall, his blood humming with excitement.

*

Pestilence followed alongside his brother, silent save for the soft patter of his cane hitting the floor. It was glorious to be free of the plague of feelings. Especially tonight. He wasn't about to tear up over some fucking archangel. Especially not one who had broken Famine's wrist. No. He would be smiling when they claimed their retribution, not guilt-ridden.

They had been waiting too long to do this.

*

War lingered behind Pestilence and in front of Death- shifting from one foot to the other with ease. She was restless- eager to start some conflict. That was when War was most at home, in any sort of battlefield. The pair of faded jeans and red t-shirt were no armor, but War hadn't come here to fight. Not exactly.

They were all here to settle the fact they were wronged.

The uncomfortable sensation in her throat remained (damn those flowers), at least she could take out several of her frustrations in one go.

War didn't focus on the other horsemen, she wasn't listening to their steps or heartbeats; the only sound that remained were those familiar drums.

*

What was it going to be like to be Samael in the next couple of hours? Death had to wonder about that as she had arrived with her siblings to deal with the archangel. He'd most certainly be in pain, likely displeased about it all. How much would he tell his non-fallen siblings? What would he tell his family? War with the archangels wasn't too likely as they weren't about to end Samael but his family...

Well. That may not be something they could avoid.

And seeing no reason to stall the inevitable, Death tapped on the door and waited for a reply to it.

*

Samael was surprised at the knock and wondered who the hell it could be. He half-suspected it might be someone from the residents' committee. Yesterday, Samael had arrived with two teenaged blondes in tow, scantily clad before they'd even left the elevator. Apparently, that brought down the tone of the place but he wasn't about to fucking judge on that score. He knew full well how much corruption and how many infidelities went on under this roof.

Whistling softly, he sauntered over to the door and opened it. He blinked at the sight in front of him and tilted his head to the side. His distaste was evident in the curl of his lips and his gaze immediately sought Famine's eyes. "You're fucking kidding me."

*

That tilt of the head was mirrored by the Black Horseman, who didn't so much as offer a smile or 'hello' in greeting. The manic glint in his eyes and the tranquilizer gun, originally tucked near his spine and whipped out from the waistband of his jeans, were greeting enough for the angel.

His arm shot out fast, fingers tight around the gun as he pulled the trigger, launching a dart that flew and lodged itself in Samael's exposed neck. Not the best aim, but it was manageable.

"No, I'm not fucking kidding," he assured the blonde man in a murmur.

*

Pestilence couldn't keep from smiling as he watched Samael's lights go out. The archangel didn't just fall. He dashed the side of his head against the table hugging the side of the hall, and then he fell.

With clinical disinterest, the horseman stepped inside and nudged Samael's head to one side with his cane. The wound was bleeding, and it would definitely require stitches and a strong pain-killer prescription.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked over at his siblings as if to say, Now what?

*

"I like your cane." She informed Pestilence, and she did- it had been present in the back of her mind for a while, but now was a good time to really comment on it. Maybe she should start carrying a cane around too.

War who had been rather solemn up until now took Pestilence look as an invitation. Grinning madly she sauntered over, and began kicking Samael's limp form with pure, childish glee. The only shame was that she couldn't hear the sounds of pain or really do severe damage. If it were up to her, she'd have tied him up and- well, it would've been like Christmas for War.

*

Death watched her siblings with a tranquil smile, their pleasure easily her own and allowed the door to click softly shut behind them. Any nosy neighbours needed to remain out of this.

"No need to rush too quickly but let's not waste any time," she pointed out as she removed a handkerchief from her pocket. That would be used to wipe the door knob as well as to remove the dart from Samael's neck. No need to leave behind too much.

*

It was Famine who first took a step toward Samael's arm, which had been awkwardly positioned in his crumpled form. Nudging the left one so his wrist was in line with the floor, the freckled Horseman dropped his heel against that exposed wrist.

"He's left-handed, so this hand goes. Who wants to do the honors?" No concern was directed at Samael's poor bleeding head, but he did have the presence of mind to move from that wrist to knock the angel's head to the other side so the blood wouldn't drip onto the carpet.

"Keep in mind he's got a roommate," he added, choosing not to elaborate on the fact that they would have to be extra mindful of what they touched and how they cleaned up.

*

War had stopped her kicking after two or three times and then moved back to give her other siblings room around the unconscious Samael. The pain was all well and good, but she would've preferred a fight- knocking down Samael back before ripping out his teeth one by one- that was what War longed for. However, she was not going to turn down the opportunity to break something - especially the wrist. It was fair payment.

"I'll do it."

Tilting her head War took a moment or two to just contemplate the wrist, she toed it a little (if only he were awake- if only, if only) before drawing her foot up and bringing it down at just the right angle to create that beautiful snapping sound.

*

And that snapping sound sent a warm feeling through Death. Oh, he should have been awake, should have been alert for the pain but this was enough. It had to be to keep the balance. Too much and things would spiral out of control.

Since War was no longer kicking, she went on over and crouched down near the unconscious archangel and carefully removed the tranquilizer from his neck. "I'll wipe down whatever was touched before we go."

*

Like music to Famine's ears, the kicking and that snap. It sounded so final. Less crunchy than a neck snap, which tended to sound more like breaking celery in half, but final all the same. Their job here was done -- almost. Feeling there needed to be more bruises, he sent a harsh kick at the shoulder of that left arm. One more bruise just for him.

Soon, they would all be feeling the same: as though justice had been served, and Samael had gotten what he deserved.

Revenge was fucking sweet.

pestilence, samael, war, death, famine

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