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cannedcrow · 11 months

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Arbitrary Darkness (Hermitcraft monster hunter AU) : Part IV

Part III

A/N: enjoy some angst and grit! I’m pleased with this chapter.

TW for blood and violence

~ please rb if you enjoy! ….〆(･ω･。) ~

Grian went still, his thoughts charging wildly as he processed the situation. His gun was pressed against the small of his back, but in this crowd it’d do about as much good as a peashooter. He decided it was best to employ the time-honoured tactic of weaselling.

“What?” He tried for casual amusement, but Scar leant towards him with an air of conspiracy.

“I can hear your heart beating, A~drien,” he said in a sing-songy tone, his friendly temperament not shifting a beat. This, Grian reflected with horror, was probably true - to make up for their poor sense of smell, phantoms had superb hearing and sight. His right arm still rested on the bar, and he began ever so slowly to slide it back towards his gun.

His movement did not go unnoticed. With barely a moment to spare, Doc slammed a heavy hand on Grian’s wrist and pinned it to the bar. Occupants were starting to take notice now, the thud drawing curious gazes to them. As Grian surveyed the onlookers warily, a horribly familiar face slid through the tables and Tango approached. He wasn’t wearing his glasses or gloves, and his eyes - that deep, hateful red - were still a shock to Grian. His shoulder was bandaged, judging by gauze that just peeked out of his shirt collar. His hands were blackened at his fingertips, ending in short, thornlike claws, and like Grian, he had a tail, long, dark and thin, with a tuft of fur at the end that twitched with interest.

“Hi, Tango!” Scar greeted him brightly, “A friend of yours dropped by to say hello.”

This new blow pushed Grian’s shock over the edge. He struggled to wrench free his right hand to no avail, and instead grabbed for his gun with his left - But it wasn’t there. A noise made him crane his head to see Etho absently spinning his gun on the bar and giving him an apologetic look, as though he were merely informing Grian that a hotel was full.

“Now now, play nice,” Scar scolded, anchoring Grian’s other wrist.

Tango cackled, a raucous sound like a cracking fire, an expression of wicked delight on his face.

“Hi buddy! Aw, you don’t seem pleased to see me. Maybe you were expecting -“ he raised his voice to a comical, posh falsetto, “Miss Tabitha Crawley, who’s so terribly worried about those monsters in the alley!”

He laughed again as a new wave of fury washed over Grian, burning in his cheeks.

“Lookit you, all dressed up!” He approached Grian, pulling the glove off the hand still being crushed by Doc to reveal the birdlike appendage beneath.

“Now that’s commitment,” Tango remarked with the same oily snideness. But as he examined Grian’s hand, he frowned just slightly, his derisive attitude faltering for the first time. Without warning, he dug his claws in hard, and Grian cried out in surprise.

“No way!” Tango exclaimed with genuine shock.

“No way what?” Grian spat, wanting nothing more than to kill Tango and get it done with.

“The term ‘race-traitor’ seems appropriate here,” Etho submitted mildly.

“Man, I can’t decide which of us should be more embarrassed. It never crossed my mind you were a nonhuman!”

Doc, who it seemed barely needed to exert any force to keep Grian pinned and was calmly sipping his drink, added, “and here we were thinking you were undercover. What an upset.”

Grian gritted his teeth. “What the hell is this?” He demanded with the frightened anger of one falsely accused, “whatever it is, you’ve got the wrong person. I haven’t done anything!”

He let his gaze flit pleadingly about the room and noticed some onlookers exchanging unsure glances.

“Uh, you sure you’re not manhandling a guest, Doc?”

The speaker was a stocky man a little shorter than Doc, whose dark brown hair was tied loosely back, almost hiding his pricked canine ears. He was dressed somewhat casually, his shirt half unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to to expose bluntly clawed hands covered in wiry dark fur that faded up his forearms. He had a sparse, neat beard surrounding a roguish, fanged grin that was oddly charming.

“Ren,” Doc greeted warmly, as if welcoming a guest to tea.

Paying no mind to the exchange, Tango’s eyes narrowed. “Save yourself some embarrassment and don’t try that bullshit with me, Grian,” he hissed, his breath hot on Grian’s face, “We had a perfectly civil thing going, but you were too much of a sanctimonious, nosy fuck to let a good thing be.”

“Civil?” Grian snarled, “You call yourself civil? You’re a murderous, conniving demon. If I had any sense I’d’ve rid the world of you the moment we met, monster or not.”

Anger rippled through the room at this. Grian realised he’d given up any pretence of ignorance, but that plan had long since withered. Anyway, it felt good to express his fury, however unwise his compromising position might make it.

“An imp, actually,” Doc corrected coolly, “no horns.”

Ren cocked his head, a gesture so doglike that if it weren’t for the gravity of the current situation, Grian would’ve laughed. “Hate to interrupt … but aren’t harpies carnivores?”

“Yeah Grian, aren’t they?” Scar pressed with mock-curiosity, clearly enjoying himself.

“I don’t kill people,” he gritted tersely.

Doc snorted. “So that’s why you are so … small. I thought you were a bird of prey, only I’d never seen one with such little wings.”

Grian flushed, irritated at the jab. He was sick of this, humiliated at being toyed with publicly and furious - at Scar, at Doc, at Tango and at his own naïveté.

“Whatever the hell it is you want, get it over with.” He had no intention of pleading, even if he’d thought it’d do any good.

Tango regarded him appraisingly, and it was clear from his utterly apathetic gaze that he hadn’t a shred of a reservation for Grian. There’d never been real friendship between them, and the polite mutual respect that existed had been shredded the moment Grian had drawn his gun in that alley.

“You think you’re different, do you?” Tango’s voice was venomous and twisted with derision. “You think you’re a hero? You’re just like the rest of us and you always will be. If you think you’re like them, then go - take off your cloak and gloves and wait for their gratitude. Go see how you like the people you think you’re saving; see how different they think you are.”

Tango took Grian’s hand again, holding it like a palm-reader would. Then he pressed the pad of his thumb hard into one of Grian’s talons, drawing a bright bead of blood that trickled down his hand, followed eagerly by another. He held his bleeding hand near Grian’s face as if letting a dog get acquainted with his scent.

“Come on, birdie,” he coaxed mockingly, a glint of gleeful cruelty in his eyes.

The scent of humanoid blood stirred the same deeply suppressed instinct in Grian as it always did. He felt his heartbeat rise just slightly and knew already his pupils would be dilating. He ran his tongue over his sharp canines.

I’ll kill you, he thought savagely as he unflinchingly returned Tango’s malevolent, ruby stare, I’ll rip you limb from fucking limb, you evil bastard.

Tango smiled even more widely and wiped his blood down Grian’s lips and chin, a horribly lascivious gesture that made him shudder involuntarily.

But Grian wasn’t the only one who’s interest had been captured by the fresh blood. Scar’s grip had slackened just slightly, his eyes fixed hungrily on the interaction before him. Now or never.

In a moment, he violently twisted his wrist free, grabbed the knife stowed in his waistband and used the arm anchored by Doc as leverage to plunge it into him - he didn’t know where, for in that split second, pain had exploded in his forearm, powerful jaws dragging him upwards before releasing him. He toppled backwards, falling hard with a spray of broken glass as his head cracked a shelf. His head spun wildly as he tried desperately to reorient himself, and when he looked up it was to meet the harlequin gaze of a massive, pale snow leopard, teeth freshly blooded and bared in a snarl.

The room had descended into chaos. He heard Doc shouting for order above the cacophony of inhuman anger and distress. His shoulder was badly wrenched and while the pain was distant, he felt blood pulsing from the deep wounds in his forearm, hot and angry and demanding that he take action. He scrabbled frantically in the broken glass around him, hoping for any sort of weapon, aid, anything. Etho padded closer, and among the bar’s detritus, his fist closed blessedly on what felt like a shrivelled, apricot-sized ball.

A thump came from behind him as Grian shoved the chorus fruit into his mouth, even as a huge paw attempted to swat it away.

Scar had evidently vaulted the bar, and without hesitation he sunk vicious fangs deep into Grian’s shoulder as though with enough force he could keep him there. Pain shot through him, acidic and hot. Etho leapt forward, teeth meeting in his wing, the weight of his forepaws crushing Grian’s torso as he extended his claws. He cried out, swiped blindly with his own talons and felt them find purchase in Etho’s furred cheek—

But Grian had already spat the chorus fruit pulp from his mouth, and he seemed to run through the teeth like water as space turned momentarily liquid.

The next thing he knew was the cool tile pressed against his cheek, shocking in competition with the sweat and blood like lava on his skin. Get up. Go! He’d been lucky to end up in the lobby, but he knew he still didn’t have enough time. He scrambled to his feet unsteadily, even as he heard Impulse’s concerned inquiry and accompanying hoofbeats. He fled through the corridor, slammed his aching shoulder against the concealed doorway, and stumbled through the maze of rusting slaughterhouse equipment, leaving smears of his own blood on metal that hadn’t tasted it for a long time.

Then he was in the alley again. The sky was an inky mass far above him, darker than usual thanks to the oppressive clouds. In his absence, the rain had returned in earnest, chilling him violently. There wasn’t any time to conceal his wings and tail, and Grian prayed the darkness and late hour would be enough to ensure silent streets.

Terror ran rampant throughout him as he dashed homeward, pain and rainfall distorting his sense of direction. More than the monsters he’d angered though, he was terrified of the bite on his shoulder. Phantoms had powerful paralytic venom developed to fell their prey without them having to latch onto them long. He had no idea how long he had before the venom started it’s work - depending on what percentage phantom blood was in Scar, it could be as little as 20 minutes. In his panic he fancied he could already feel venom creeping through his veins, turning them iron-wrought.

Thankfully, the streets were empty - no one sensible ventured into the rain on a night like this, not when any manner of crooks or monsters could be skulking in the shadows. He knew he was followed by an irregular trail of blood and hoped it would be enough to wash it away.

Seville Square was far behind him now, but as he navigated his way through the labyrinthine alleys of New Hermiton, his adrenaline took a backseat and his energy waned. He panted raggedly even as he shivered, soaked through with nothing but his undershirt on.

After what felt like hours, Grian recognised the stonework of the uniform apartments he knew as home. Undue relief washed over him like rain. It was as he made for the side door that he misstepped, slipping on the slick steps and tumbling helplessly to the base of the stairs a few feet below the street. As he curled tightly into himself, pain jolting through him, exhaustion saw it’s chance and swept in on heavy wings.

He couldn’t move anymore, too much of the adrenaline-wary pain and fear was pouring into him. The pavement was wet and slimy with moss, but at least it was partially sheltered by an overhang. He banged a fist weakly against the door, but either Mumbo wasn’t there, or simply couldn’t hear him.

He couldn’t bring himself even to stand. Pain lashing through his injured wing, he wrapped his wings tightly around himself, thankful for the camouflage of his dark plumage. He found himself sobbing, the kind that wracks one’s body entirely - though perhaps that was partially to the credit of his trembling. He wasn’t quite sure why he was crying - Anger, stress, fear, and pain were all valid contenders. His injuries ached dully, softly weeping blood onto the pavement. Scar’s bite burned with acidic fury, pain pulsing from it in steady waves. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

The nights events replayed in his head over and over, snippets of conversation blurring together. ‘can’t drink on the job?’ … ‘..see how you like the people you think you’re saving…’ ‘I can hear your heart beating ….’

On a lullaby of disjointed memory, Grian was dragged beneath the black waves of fitful sleep.

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