Latent Troubles: Torturous Vow

A/N: Warning, character-centric. Warning, slow build up. Warning, messy and sporadic writing. Warning, amateur.

Just writing to waste time irl.

(WIP)

Wynston strode across a dance floor. He kept his eyes down a little to avoid the blinding neon lights panning from left to right. The nightclub was overcrowded, particularly the dance floor he was caged in- no wonder why it was hard for him to do something simple such as wiping off the sweat from his face. His dark red sweater looked fresh off from laundry, veiling his kind-of-searing collared shirt underneath. Nevertheless, the infernal heat of the crowd and sweat clinging to his skin and scales barely dented his focused gaze.

''They ought to do something about their air conditioning units. Or is it just me?''

He realized, noting that he's more accustomed to the frigid climate of Benilde City. The king cobra faunus muttered "excuse me" to a group of teenagers, who were screaming and giggling altogether and not batting an eye to the light-peached haired man right in front of them. Wynston merely turned his head from left to right, and spotted a narrow space between them he can pass through. After that, as if blessed by lady luck, he broke out of the hellish crowd. He halted in his tracks in an instant, taking his time to straighten up his wrinkled clothes, ensured that his black half mask's still hanging on his neck, then glanced at the brown leather briefcase he's been carrying around.

Now, where's his favorite spot again?

It's time to hunt for the rodent.

===

Wynston settled down on the glass counter and put down the briefcase on it, heaving a sigh of relief after what he had been through earlier.

''He's in plain sight but there are so many people in here. I can't just kill him upfront. What's more, the deadline's tonight. Wouldn't it be safer to wait for him outside the club? Or any secluded area?''

Twelve midnight, exactly three and a half hours remaining. As for the case of his target's behavioral patterns, he don't leave the nightclub before that time. His distant cousin and "manager", Brunhilde, told him this assignment is urgent, which leaves no room for negotiation over petty details such as place and deadline. Yes, there's even a preferred place to kill the target: in the nightclub itself.

He shifted on his stool, now facing the counter with transparent display of diverse bottles of alcohol laying under. After swallowing his saliva, he called the attention of an old man in bartender uniform. The old man appeared to be in his late 70s, having shades of white and gray strands of hair weaving along the sides of his pale-colored scalp as the top part remained bald. Upon placing his order, Wynston propped up his left elbow on the counter and leaned lazily on the hand, exposing his gold striped serpentine black scales covering his forearms.

''The client's sure demanding. But why here specifically....''

As he racked his brain for reason behind this assignment, his forest green eyes caught sight of a group of men in black suit. They were situated near the corner of the area, sitting on crescent red sofa encircling a metal-colored table. Each have scantily clad women servicing them. He averted his eyes, as if saying 'I didn't see anything'. 

“Here you go, enjoy your drink, sir.” The moment he glanced to his front to properly thank the old man, the latter had already walked away, serving drinks to the other side of the counter. He gazed at the rock glass filled with copper liquid, smiling as he clasped it with his black-gloved right hand and brought it close to his nose. Then he closed his eyes, sniffing the tantalizing scent of whiskey from the rock glass. Among all the alcoholic beverages he'd tasted, whiskey is his favorite just like how his older brother and father loves it. Their love for such alcohol probably runs in the family. Without wasting any more moment, the king cobra faunus chugged down the alcohol, letting out a satisfied sigh afterwards. He cracked open his one eye and spotted the bartender grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the glass shelf.

“Benildean whiskey,” he grinned at the old man who's just about to refill his glass, “Nothing tastes like home.”

“Lucky for you, good sir, that’s one of our last stocks here. Business’ sluggish these days because of Grimm and whatever.” the old man grunted.

Wynston reduced his grin to a strained one and nodded in sympathy. “I couldn’t agree more. The attack to the kingdom also affected mine. I can't contact all of my clients."

"But I don’t think the staff share our sentiments.” he followed up as he used the refilled rock glass to point to his right, prompting the old man to look at the same direction. The nightclub, like the rest of other business establishments in the entertainment and red-light district, is bustling with high-spirited patrons and stereotypical entities lurking in the corners. Wynston noticed something: bulk of people weren’t drinking alcohol like in any typical clubs (low supply = soaring prices of alcohol, maybe) but instead invests on something more…… risky and addictive exploits under appreciated by "upright" people of society. Well, this nightclub is also a strip club after all.

One doesn't need to study psychology to understand why humans and faunus engage in such behaviors. Simple logic of taking the rational mind out of the picture would make these reasonable creatures no different from animals in wild. The thing is, wouldn't it be a fitting reward to allow the subdued baser instincts (id) of civilized and hardworking men to run wild even for a moment? Within acceptable constraints, of course.

"Oh, certainly, they'd better do their jobs, aye? No work, no money." the old man leaned on the counter as he surveyed "his girls" servicing the customers. The king cobra faunus glimpsed at the mirror behind the bartender, showing the very same group of men he'd observed earlier. "So, anyone caught your fancy yet?”

“Pardon me?” Wynston responded with befuddled expression, his hand holding the glass rock stopped midway towards his lips.

“Heh, saw you lookin' around earlier. Like a wolf stalking his prey." his dry, wrinkled lips curved into a smirk, studying the man's expression as he dried a wine glass.

''I'm sure I did my best not to look like "I'm looking around". Is he suspicious-''

"C'mon, don't be shy. Who's the girl?"

''Oh. Right.'' "Fancy", "girl", how could he forgot the former?

Wynston laughed nervously in response. He wondered if the old man could read him or is just nudging him to get a girl (and profit). A typical nightclub has more than one source of revenue. He's just guessing.

"Uh-yes? Yes, that's right. The woman with blue hair over there." To his right, Wynston pointed at a woman with revealing tuxedo bunny suit. She was the only female left in the group Wynston kept looking at. At the same time, a bald potbellied man, whom the woman was about leave, rudely pulled her to his lap and spoke inaudibly, drowned by loud disco music played by the DJ. His intimate snuffing of her hair made the woman stifle a bitter expression.

“Looks like she needs help.”

While he's not a fan of anything carnal, the light peach-haired man is well aware of the fundamental rules of establishments like this. One of them is that customers aren't allowed to touch the staff. The other way around is obviously allowed.

“Naida?” the old man then narrowed his eyes at the potbellied man. He suddenly let out a frustrated sigh before shaking his head. "Can't do. That don really likes her. You shouldn't make a wrong impression or you'll get yourself hanged in no time."

Wynston tilted his head slightly at the sudden change of tone.

"..... Did you?" he asked in low tone, still staring at the perverted man as the woman finally managed to break free from him and quickly set off to the kitchen area. The man let out a thunderous laugh as well as his subordinates.

"Just a minute." the old man looked to his right and adopted a commanding tone. "Hey, Whitney! Get Corben, now! I'm gonna take a break!"

"Okay, dad!" the woman on the other side of the U-shaped counter responded. Wynston glanced at her, observing that her bartender uniform is at least within acceptable standards of "normal and conservative". No matter how many times he'd been to nightclubs in Atlas and Mistral, he couldn't get used to how people dress up here.

All of a sudden, his eyes unfocused. Perhaps for a brief moment, Wynston was distracted, but for the man who suddenly remembered the sweet, gentle smile of that beautiful woman, this nostalgic memory running in cycle in his head seemed to stretch out to the point that he couldn't snap out of it.

Lena has always dressed conservatively, he thought melancholically.

"Okay, where were we? Ah, yes, that snobbish don and I and wrong impression.” Wynston blinked upon hearing the old man's voice. His right foot began tapping the floor softly, wrestling with his consciousness to focus in reality. Daydreaming is good but not all the time, especially when you're having a conversation.

“Alright, I guess it's safe to talk with you. Well, you're new here anyways. Just don't rat me out, capisce?”

“Yeah, just between us gentlemen.” Wynston nodded, cuing the old man to start talking.

“So, first off, there are rules. Everything has rules even in this sh*thole. Big sharks (mafia, gangster, etc.) honors that. And these assh*les aren't giving a damn like they own everything here.”

Perhaps they're a new gang?, Wynston kept the question to himself, not wanting to interrupt the old man.

“A week ago, I told off one of Don Carson's men not to touch my staff. Imagine when these stuck-up assh*les started harassing more of 'em.” the old man recounted with irritation. “Of course, I ain't gonna let 'em off because they're not the only gang here. Pride is everything here. So I talked to Don Carson to keep his men down or there'll be a gang war. Then he asked me 'who the hell are you to tell me what to do?' and guess what happened next: his goons just f*cked up the groups with big guns. Idiot savages from Mistral. Now there'll be trouble here sooner or later.”

As the old man poured himself a drink, Wynston, in deep thought, clasped his hands and propped up his elbows on the glass counter. The words 'my staff' were stuck in his head, implying that this old man is not only a bartender but also the owner of the nightclub. A manager, perhaps?

“This must be really hard for you.” Wynston said solemnly.

The old man waved his hand nonchalantly. “Nonsense. Already dealt worse than them. People like them don't get to live longer anyway so, yeah, business insurance's ready just in case.”

"You're sure confident, Mr......"

"Jax. Just call me Jax. No need to be formal." the old man called 'Jax' said in a friendly tone.

"Jax." the king cobra faunus repeated and smiled at him. "I can't even imagine myself surviving here like you do, Jax. Still, I'm worried what would happen to the bystanders if a gang war erupted all of a sudden. Wouldn't that also get you in deep trouble?"

"Well, that's why we have a lot of emergency exit and fire extinguishers here. Just look around the corner."

Wynston did as what the old man advised and spotted at least three extinguishers. There's really no need for him to do it though. He'd already scanned the blueprint of the establishment before coming here. Indeed, the old man is telling the truth.

He must be quite experie-

Without warning, his clasped hands tensed. Wynston felt his chest tighten a little. Although it felt more like a drilled hole in his chest opened after being patched up. It didn't feel uncomfortable yet he didn't like this sensation of emptiness clouding his heart. He could feel an invisible force tearing apart the threads connecting his heart and mind, as if telling that these two are not meant to work together. His inner workings has become disjointed. Again. And skewered to the point that he doesn't want to utter another word and entertain the old man.

However, outside, separated from his inner struggles, the faunus merely gave an apologetic smile after he looked around.

“Hey, Jax. Sorry to cut short our conversation but I really need to go to the restroom. Uh, can you tell me where is it?” he managed to ask while he opened his wallet and put down Liens on the counter.

"Ah, don't worry. It feels great to talking to a good lad like yerself. Anyway, it's right over there behind that wall." Jax pointed at the '2nd' wall concealing the restrooms behind Wynston. The old man said something about "long lines", which the king cobra faunus barely paid attention. His mind had tuned out the noise around him but he managed to thank Jax before leaving, carrying the briefcase with him.

''Everyone! Ladies and gentlemen! A toast to our newly engaged couple!''

''Congratulations to you two. Dio, dearest brother, I'm gonna be your best man, right? Hey, you promised me when we're kids!''

''Bad news Lena. Dio forgot. He's getting old like papa. ''

Little by little, memories from the bal masque two years ago came flooding back. All three of them were laughing and kidding around and celebrating after the duo, Incendio and Lena, got engaged. He clenched the briefcase's tighter as he walked past Don Carson's group.

"Carson, I'll just take some sh*t. You go ahead and open that bottle." a man with sideburns said causally to Don Carson as he wiped clumsily his oily mouth.

As soon as those words left the man's mouth, Wynston slowed down his pace, waiting for him to appear in his peripheral view.

Earlier

“Wynston?” a feminine voice called from behind just as he was about open the glass door.

“Yes, Hilda?” the faunus turned, facing the woman sitting behind a polished wooden table. She was rested back in her computer chair, legs crossed and arms resting comfortably on the armchairs. With darkened skies and twinkling stars on the background, Brunhilde's porcelain white skin glowed gently, a sharp contrast to her only eye that seemed to pierce his very being. She was staring blankly though but that was what he felt she was doing. He was prepared to listen to whatever she’ll say anyway, just like a reliable family member. They had a pleasant conversation after he took the assignment earlier, and it wouldn’t be bad to talk more.

However, his expectation was shattered by silence that stretched out for more than a minute. He didn’t raise this petty issue. A certain tattooist warned him beforehand about her tendency to be quiet all of a sudden.

“Tell me,” she spoke finally, her smile perfectly concealing her intention, which made her question feel cryptic to him.

“Would you make a promise, knowing that it will burden you for eternity?”

For a moment, Wynston didn't blink, confusion written all over his face. A subtle feeling of uneasiness wormed in for unknown reason. He couldn't guess what kind of question is it nor know how to respond to it other than-

"What.... do you mean?"

Brunhilde heaved a theatrical sigh, as though she was disappointed of his answer. Or amused. Perhaps. Her tone, her movements, they were all too ambiguous to him to decipher. As a man whose primary job involves direct interaction with clients and understanding their inclinations, he's doing a rather terrible job.

"Don't mind it. I've always wanted to ask that." she chuckled, waving her hand dismissively at Wynston.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” the faunus asked, obviously worried of the vagueness feeling the Engelnacht heiress was giving off. There is certainly something in her question that she didn’t want to elaborate. And he didn’t feel like leaving this aside until it’s understood. However, Brunhilde wasn’t keen on replying yes or no. Instead, she answered by throwing another question of her own that completely caught him off guard.

“How about this then: Would you offer your soul to the woman you love, knowing that she wouldn’t offer hers in return?”

Her smile turned cold.

Cold water splashed his moist face. He looked in the mirror in front of him, watching the water droplets gleamed against the light. Sighing, he dried his soaked face with a white handkerchief.

After having flashbacks from two years ago, Wynston remembered his conversation with his distant cousin. She asked a question that felt like swallowing a bitter pill. A relative, 7 years younger than him, had made him bulge under pressure from within. It was comparable to a big brother getting beaten up by a little sister in a game. Only that he didn't like the game at all.

Perhaps this is why Casper and Aricia aren't fond of the Engelnacht heiress.

One of the stalls slammed open behind him. He glanced at it through the mirror, narrowing his eyes slightly at the man with sideburns (from earlier) heading for the sink.

The king cobra faunus strode past the man and stopped right in front of an empty stall, stealing a glance behind as subtly as possible. Strangely, despite the immeasurable number of people in the nightclub, the restroom wasn't as full as he initially expected.

A great opportunity to be done with his job without hassle.

 Target's name: Maurice "Moneyman" Adler 

 Occupation: Loan shark, benefactor of Don Carson faction 

 Bounty: 2,000,000 Lien 

 Time: 0:00 

 Place: Crystal Nightclub 

He put down the leather briefcase on the floor with a soft thud, pretending to tighten the straps of his self-winding watch.

 Client: Don Carson 

'' Reason: Suspected of betrayal. Suspected of allying with Jax Laskaris, owner of Crystal Nightclub and Crystal Lending Company. ''

 Bonus: Kill Jax Laskaris for additional 1,500,000 Lien 

“Hey, that's a nice jacket you have there, man. Where'd you get it?”

When Maurice was about to turn the knob of the faucet, he raised an eyebrow at the sudden compliment but didn't raise a question "who the are you?".

“Oh, this?” he asked, flaunting his red striped jacket wide open. “Took it from a bastard who can't pay his de-”

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Wynston didn't allow him because he unleashed a cold living hell upon his prey. The room's temperature dropped drastically. Blood-eyed and made of ice likened to the icebergs of the North, a humongous king cobra emerged from Wynston's shining stretched out hand. His eyes stared impassively at the rodent- his prey-his target.

Get his head, CC (Cold Cobra)

The construct's frozen blood-like smudges flickered into life. And then, in a blink of an eye, as fast as a viper, it struck, grabbing and chomping down Maurice's head. It barred the man's scream from escaping its horrid maw, squeezing his head slowly and cruelly as if savoring his demise. His pitiful Aura reserves dwindled sharply, allowing its frigid red fangs to pierce deeper into the upper portion of his neck, threatening to pull it out of the man's body.

Wynston gave an order to his construct.

Bring him to here, fast

The king cobra turned around, dragging around the poor man squirming in its jaw. Tiles cracked and screeched underneath its uneven skin. The ethereal chains bounding the summoner and the summoned rattled gently as the summoned slithered to the king cobra faunus.

As soon as they stepped into the stall, Wynston stomped the man in the stomach, forcing him to sit helplessly on top of the toilet lid. He closed the door behind him and locked it up.

''Wrap around his body continuously in counter clockwise. Move fast''. He exhaled, slowly and quietly, giving out psychic commands like a programmer encoding series of letters and numbers to create a sequence of actions to realize the desired output.

“Stop when he's beheaded.”

Spine cracks, muscle snaps. That's how these instruments sounded. They're known to work so well that no matter which one makes a sound first, the other would always follow the lead unfailingly. They alternated by the number, sometimes overlapping, as their blood-curdling pivot shredded the blood vessels, nerves, and cells gently into pieces with a silent cry complimenting their music. Although their moment was short-lived, the conductor was already satisfied of their performance.

It was time to pull out the man's head. Twisting it further would risk repainting the stall and the floor big time. Wynston could only cringe at the thought of scaring off an innocent individual who just entered the neighboring stall.

''Disregard last order. Pull the head'', he said.

In an instant, the carotid artery and every fiber of the neck was ripped apart, blood splattered like fireworks, staining Wynston's face and upper clothing. The stall was sprayed too but safe enough that no blood will spread to other stalls. Upon dismissing his construct, he caught Maurice's head with one head and placed it gently on the lap of the headless body, as if it was alive.

At least, this isn't messy as I thought it would be.

“Hello?” a man from the other stall beside. Wynston heard him shuffle, watching cautiously the human-shaped shadow sitting on the toilet bowl. He rummaged the corpse's clothes as fast as he can, rewarding him with a Scroll, rectangular wallet, sachets of marijuana, switch blade, few bullets of .357 Magnum, and a 6-inch Smith & Wesson Model 686.

"Nice gun", he muttered, a glint of child-like excitement flashed in his eyes, as the bullets and the fine revolver were stashed into his briefcase along with Maurice's Scroll. With one last look and picture of the lifeless corpse, Wynston rolled to the other stall and began stripping down his stained clothes.

"Is anybody there?"

= ==

(/"dialogue"/ - modified voice or over the phone/radio)

"Ground floor, status?"

/"Clear."/

"Dance floor?"

/"Nothing suspicious, sir."/

"Kitchen area, status report."

/"Kitchen area to control room. All clear."/

"Play room. How's it going there?"

/"All good. No sign of Ichor."/

"This is f*cking scary, man. Like, hell, who wants boss' head?" A black man said to his colleague sitting beside him, drying his sweaty hands using his jeans. They just finished their routine status check with the nightclub's bodyguards stationed on every corner of the 2-story high establishment, not including the basement.

His colleague shrugged, keeping his eyes glued at the screens in front of them. "I dunno. Well, we don't even know if this is real or whatnot. Some nobody tipped him off. Y'know how paranoid Jax is."

"Yea, but Ichor? Heard that he only feeds off in Mistral and Atlas but never in Vale and Vacuo."

"C'mon, leave that to the brass. That's their problem. And I'm tired. Don't make me think. I want to go in to the Play Room." he groaned, giving a longing gaze at a screen revealing the Play room.

"Jax's gonna whoop your ass if he heard 'ya."

"Yeah, yeah. No work, no money. Gotta earn my pay. Whatever."

The black man shook his head to the side before taking a sip of his black coffee. He looked around the small control room they're in, scarce of any other living things other than them.

"Guess I should call in-"

/"Control room?! Holy sh*t. Control room!"/

"We can here you, man. Who's this?"

/"Corben! I'm a bartender he-!"/ the duo heard a slap, followed by a sound of what seems to be a suppressed urge to vomit.

/"M-Maurice! Mr. Maurice is dead. I-In the restroom!"/

"What?!"

/"He's-"/ the man on the other line gave in, vomiting disgustingly over the radio. /"Oh god, his head. His f*cking hea- For f*ck's sake, just get someone down here now!"/

"I'm gonna call boss."

"Alright, alright! Give us a second. Uh, who's near....... Dance floor. There. Dance floor? Anyone? We have an emergency here, man!" the other man radioed.

/"....."/

"Dance floor, this is control room. Please respond, goddamit!" the man repeated with frustration.

/"..... I-"/

"What? I can't hear you. We have an emerge-"

/"I......chor."/

Suddenly, everything went black.

===

Collection of gasps and whispers rumbled throughout the establishment. Some squealed, while others started inquiring about the situation. The building lost power, causing this pitch black surrounding that stirred uneasiness amongst the people. Emergency lights turned on in an instant, revealing expression of uncertainty of many individuals.

A dark figure kept walking in the darkness, evading every lights he encountered as if they're disease. His body is that of a male's. The only prominent in the figure was a fedora on his head that he pulled down a little with his right hand. His gloved-left hand, on the other hand, brandished a butterfly knife that showed signs of fresh blood.

/“We'll be sending reinforcements over there. Don't let anyone leave the premises.”/

The figure stood still behind a bricked pillar, a dash of green gleamed on his face. A few meters away from him was a man in black suit talking over the radio.

“Alright, roger that. I'll keep my eye out.”

The radio went into his pouch. The dark figure grabbed his collar from behind and whirled him against the wall, hard, for momentary dizziness. No one can see them. They were behind the wall, well hidden from unsuspecting people even the faunus. A perfect place to kill stealthily.

The blood-stained butterfly knife thrusted his Aura from behind, right above the kidney. The knife pressed on firmly, hand clouted his mouth to stifle his voice. He tried to elbow his attacker. The other swatted it to the side and battered the back of his head, further shrinking his meager Aura when his forehead hit the wall in sequence. With one last forceful thrust, the blade drove straight to the kidney, rewarding the figure with a gush of blood dripping down on the floor.

The man trashed his arms behind, pain clouding his consciousness. He tried to scream louder, louder enough to get help, as every cells in his body screamed him to run, fight, get help, anything that sums up to “stay alive”.

/“This won't take long.”/ the figure spoke in synthetic voice, consoling the man in pain before slicing open his throat.

In that instance, the body went limped.

/“Any sign of Jax there?”/

Wynston- Ichor- let the body drop on the floor. Blood seeped through the tiny gaps of his jacket's sleeves, leaving damp and sticky sensation over his serpentine scales. With his night vision, the king cobra faunus could see volume of red liquid spewing out of the carotid arteries.

/“None, sir. He hasn't come out yet.”/ a male voice responded. /“He's probably in the basement. I saw a lot of bodyguards went down there.”/

/“If I may be blunt, this is rather inefficient, sir. You could've gone straight to him earlier.”/

/“Lesley, there are people here. Just as I said before, we can't afford any collateral damage.”/ He didn't like stray bullets hitting people. For him, it would be negligence on his part justifying irresponsible shooting of people here and there. It's like blaming people for something you're in control in the first place.

Ichor blended back to the crowd, moving along with them as he searched for the door that leads to his destination.

He heard the tattooist's defeated sigh over the radio. /“I understand. Besides, this course of action is also practical.”/

/“Practical?”/

/“Ah, my apologies, sir. I was talking to myself just now.”/ he said. Although he apologized, Lesley didn't sound he gave much thought about it, Ichor thought. He let it slide anyway, finding no reason to point it out.

Finally, after navigating around the crowd for more than a minute, Ichor found a wooden door with a sign 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY'.

Better than using the front door (entrance to the basement)

/“Alright, I’m going in. Lesley, keep me updated.”/ he said while switching his butterfly knife with the Smith & Wesson Model 686 he looted from his main target earlier.

/“Yes sir. Watch your back.”/

Slowly, Ichor creaked open the door. Behind it is a darker interior of the establishment, an unlit hallway. He scanned the place with his night vision. No hostiles, he confirmed as he rose up the revolver in front.

He began his advance, strode faster, reaching the end of the hallway in mere seconds.

Just as soon as he did reach it, an enemy appeared in front of him, armed with a high-caliber pistol and night vision goggles.

“Who the-”

A man, a white fedora, a half-scaled wicked mask, a three-piece white suit, and a gun, all seen by the eyes of the enemy in a split second before the last listed object struck his windpipe and temple in succession. A second later, the enemy fell motionless on the floor.

Ichor moved his right foot forward, only to meet face-to-face a blade that slashed the tip of his fedora. He dodged it by leaning backwards, narrowly escaping the danger that was just right to his side. Or rather, present and worsening danger by every second.

"He's here!"

"Over there!"

Just as he expected, sparks of bullets flew to his direction. The wall covered him but the guns' onslaught hampered him from retaliating or even gauging how many people were after him. Shooting blindly would waste his bullets while going for the other route would increase his chances of getting killed.

(WIP)