No Greater Love

July 12, 2018:

After the tragedies of Hell's Kitchen, Samael has been called back into action. And he has 3 messages to deliver.
WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence and Death

Random, just barely accessible office.


NPCs: James Wesley (Emitted by Wilson Fisk)

Mentions: Vaguely Wilson Fisk

Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

48 hours ago, he was carefully hand writing letters. Each one written in the elegant penmanship of someone who has had to write formal invitations to heads of state. He was taking the time to deliver or place the letters in appropriate locations. He was packing up pre-made meals. He was ironing sun dresses for his daughter and hanging up her outfits for the next few days.

24 hours ago, he was on his knees in a church, thumbing through his rosary until his thumb starts to go numb. Murmuring under his breath for clarity, forgiveness, guidance. The thrumming in his head, a drum beat of purpose and the tingling in his veins, the whispers of what he was born to do burning from the core of his being. Emery Papsworth only the skin he wears to cope with the world as it is today but it is a skin he has grown comfortable with.

From the moment he heard the name 'Wilson Fisk', he began his hunt. Picking up the phone to dial a number that he doesn't know how he knows and he just simply whispers over the line. "Hells Kitchen. 8,000 souls. Show me thy way." There is no answer, just a click and in that silence he knows he has his permission. Its been over 5 years since he's made a request like this. He walked away from it all to walk another path for the only family he had, his daughter. Now it is family that drives him back.

It takes time, too much time for him to gain access to information that he needs, the type of info you only get in certain circles. He's not looking for the head. He's looking for right hand. The help, and he gets a new name.

That is why now, he leans against the wall in a dark hall way. Black trenchcoat worn over a well pressed black button down, black tie tucked neatly into a black leather vest. Black gloves, and black slacks, black shoes…he carries a simple black leather case, not unlike a doctor's case and it rests near his feet at this time. As he waits for a man who is working like he does, far too late.
James Wesley is an endlessly devoted and driven man. Wilson Fisk's only true friend, some say, not his right hand just out of obligation or because he was bought off, but because of something deep and abiding between them. What it is, none can say, but it's been born out again and again.

He'd be handsome, James, if it weren't for the anger that seems to seethe within him. As if he, too, is really just wearing some sort of skin over something else again. He's just a man though, a man in a bespoke pinstriped suit, who comes out of his office, speaking into a smart Bluetooth headset as he locks up his office.

"Adjust the offer by 4.5 and try again," he says smoothly, to whomever is on the other end of the line. The hard work of reaping the rewards of the massacre has already begun.
When that door opens, the Irishman simply crosses himself and allows the being created by beatings, torture and unknown genetics to shimmer to the surface of his skin.

It plays in his head, the legends of the name he was given. The truth behind the burden he was given to bear. "This one," said Metatron, addressing Moses, "is Samael, who takes the soul away from man." "Whither goes he now?" asked Moses, and Metatron replied, "To fetch the soul of Job the pious." Thereupon Moses prayed to God in these words, "O may it be Thy will, my God and the God of my fathers, not to let me fall into the hands of this angel."

Samael moves quickly and efficiently, pushing off of the wall and out of the shadows to just stand, hands folded before him and head angled so he can see from beneath the brim of the wider brimmed fedora that he wears, his dark gaze shadowed and he just moves a gloved hand slowly to press a finger to his lips.

"Yes. I have another meeting. Goodbye."

James Wesley is made of sterner stuff than many men. When confronted by a mysterious and dark stranger putting his finger to his lips in the dark of a hallway, he does not react as much as many might. His features tighten into something just shy of a scowl, too professional to make it all the way to that particular expression. The fire in his eyes gets a little bit more intense.

He is ever the professional though, even though he shifts. It's enough of a shift to let Samael know he's carrying, that he's thinking of going for the gun.

"I'm afraid I've already taken my last appointment of the evening," he says.

Patience, is a virtue. And while not particularly virtuous, there's a respectful nod given to James Wesley as he ends his phone call. The shift is noted and Samael's own stance shifts, ever so slightly so that he can more easily go for his own weapon. And he speaks softly. "Good. That means we will not be interrupted. I have come here, tonight, to deliver 3 messages." There's no hint of Ireland in his tones, it is smooth and polished and somewhat british but regionally neutral.

He nods towards the office. "Are you James Wesley?"

Wesley arches an eyebrow. "I am," he says. He takes a step back from the man, smooth, not frightened, but wary enough. He knows exactly what business he is close to, right away, and while few have ever thought to come hunting him directly he is ever-aware of the possibility. And yet he speaks as if getting a lunch invitation, or as if he's about to sign off on some piece of registered mail. His entire response is careful. Measured. As calculating as a snake's, and about as warm.

"Great men, Mister Wesley, know not what they do. Not because they are ignorant and not because they are blind. No, because they can only see that which it is that will quench a hunger for greatness that is often beyond their reach. At their commands, great cities rise from the ashes and bones and blood of those who must be sacrificed to bring forth their vision." Samael moves a few steps forward, hands clasped behind his back. "But there is always someone or some force behind them, who know. Who understand the reality and the weight of what must be done. Therefore to him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin." He looks Wesley over slowly, just a long assesing look. "How much, Master Wesley, are you willing to pay for the sins that you have commited?"

It's somewhere in the poetry and the bible verses that James Wesley decides he has had enough.

Or maybe it's just that final question.

He withdraws a slim silver Beretta, pointing the barrel of the gun right at Samael. "I think you should leave, friend," he says, in that same 'yes, send it over by Tuesday' voice.

No justifications, no denials, just his very strong and urgently expressed opinion that Samael needs to leave now. Of course, the reaction is there is in his eyes. He knows exactly what Samael is talking about and he knows Samael knows. It's a subtle shift, accompanied by an array of micro-expressions, but the knowledge is there, as surely as the knowledge of good and evil is writ into nature herself.

If this was a routine hit, there would be less concern about muss and fuss and evidence. There would be a team prepared to handle clean up and disposal and a cover story already prepped but this is not a routine hit. So Samael is cautious. When the gun is leveled at him, his head just cocks to the side as he moves just a bit faster than a normal human at peak conditioning could move. Closing the distance between them, step-pivoting out of the line of sight and using the momentum grab the man's wrist and twisting viciously.

"Three messages, I've delivered only one."

James Wesley lets out a hiss of pain as Samael moves. He struggles a bit against the twist, even as nerveless fingers drop the gun. The safety was still on; he was just offering a warning at that point, so the gun does not go off. When it becomes clear to him that struggling mostly just sets his arm aflame he stops.

"Have you ever considered hiring a really good courier service?" The salt remains, even if some of the dignity is gone; the words are said in a now-strained voice with the edge of habitual menace somewhat cracked, burning away.

"I mean they're everywhere. Kids on bikes."

A foot idly kicks the gun away when he falls and Samael maintains that grip on the arm, inhaling deeply and lips parting as if he can scent that pain on the other man and he just tightens his grip, jaw setting. "8,000 lives, and only 206 bones in your mortal coil." The hand holding the wrist tightens even more before throws his weight behind a twist designed to wrench the arm from his socket. The quip about the couriers gets a shrug."This is not…their burden."

"I am sure this was quite the success and you shielded he whom you serve from the significance of that sacrifice by remaining focussed on the task and handling the unpleasantries involved in keeping his involvement untraceable. Another step towards a victory. However, when the wicked spring as the grass, and when all the workers of iniquity do flourish; it is that they shall be destroyed for ever…" He leans in closer. "Have you ever pondered eternity, my child?"
Wrenching his arm free of his socket most certainly produces a cry. He grinds it back beneath gritted teeth, but it comes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he hisses. The eternal cry of men who know exactly what the person assaulting them is talking about. The quips, at least, have dried up. A bead of sweat appears on his temple, the intimidation factor is starting to have its impact inspite of his best efforts. As are the repeated mentions of the bombing.

And Wesley's own role in it.

"I don't know what you think you know," he adds, "but you're making a mistake."

The arm is dropped and the denial does elicit a soft hiss and tut of dissapointment, as the man in black raises a foot to slam a push-kick into the man's knee.

Samael just tsks softly, lowering his voice and whispering. "All liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death." There is a pause. "You can confess your sins right here, Master Wesley. Perhaps spare yourself the certainty of that second death and ease the manner in which you will experience your first."

His jaw sets as his head tilts to the side and he waits for the reply.
Wesley hits the floor and bares his teeth at Samael.

"Really? This is your move? You're going to preach at me and threaten to kill me?"

Not a spiritual fellow, James Wesley. "Granted, that may be the most eloquent way I've ever been told to go to Hell."

His eyes track the darkness, searching in futility for his gun, then raise back up to the stranger who is beating him slowly and offering him a redemption he's blind to. A grim cast comes over his face.

It's a man who knows he's super screwed.
There's a soft rasp of steel against leather as the silver of a knife appears, slipping into Samael's free hand as he traces it up the arm that was previously dislocated just a few inches up above the elbow, a familiar location. Its just a split second before he jams the knife in where the brachial artery would be. A seemingly harmless stab, except the artery that's targetted is one that causes optimal blood loss.

That gun, the beretta is retreived by Samael who kneels down to Wesley's level and he reaches for his hand to forcibly guide it to grip the butt of the gun, carefully guiding the fingers to where they are supposed to be, forcing them if need be the curl around the trigger while the safety is still on. "Three messages. I've delivered only 2."

There is a pause. "I do not have to threaten to kill you. The soul, that sinneth. It, shall, die." He takes a deep breath. "But you determines how swift that death comes. The sins you've commited are great, but you've taken them on willingly in place of the one you serve. You have fought a good fight, are you prepared to finish your course?"
A stab is a stab, pretty painful, and Wesley lets out another scream. When Samael forces him to take the gun he struggles for the safety, fury in his eyes, but of course he can barely work his fingers at the moment.

And then he looks up into Samael's eyes. "I don't serve him," he hisses. "I love him. He is my brother."

There is no way they are genetic brothers, not by any tale of any part of Samael's network, but then, Samael would know a thing or two, about family chosen, about dedication and devotion freely gifted regardless of bonds of blood. The words carry the ring of purest truth. His eyes burn with it, his jaw firms with it. He's growing weaker, and his hands are shaking, and sweat is coursing down his entire face now.

It's not a fleeting thing, this philia.

There's a pause, its a fleeing pause as Samael just meets Wesley's gaze with his own. Its an understanding look, deep and with a flicker of pain from memories past but he just bows his head and nods slowly. "And this I will take as your confession." He then shifts slightly, so he can lean over Wesley, leaning close enough to almost seem like he's going to kiss him but he just moves a hand to the mans throat and starts to squeeze hard."Here is my confession…"

His lips part ever so slightly as he reaches out with the gift he's been given to feel for the soul that needs to be snatched before its time, to use his body as a conduit to release it into the next life. There's a faint glow in his eyes as he tugs and then whispers softly. "The messages were not for you." Before the faint blue light that signals his attempts to reap the soul come next.

But in his own way, he's given him the choice, even as he lays here bleeding and being choked, just for the briefest of moments there is no pain as it is /Emery/ who chooses to take it on. The gun lies in the man's hand, even as the Reaper sets to his task.
He starts to feel his soul peeling from his mortal coil. He understands Samael would not have given him this gun if he could do a damn thing about Samael with it. And thus, he understands the choice he is being given.

Emery's hand, squeezing his throat, but he feels no pain at all. And he understands this too. He doesn't know Emery feels it, but he's being spared it, and this is enough.

And so he lifts his chin once.

Because maybe, just maybe, love balanced against 8000 lives is an awfully hard love to bear.

Or maybe he's just the kind of man who has brought everything into his life by his own hand, good, bad, or ugly, and he will make his death his own the same way he reached out to make the suit he's wearing his own.

In the end it hardly matters, because the end result is the same.

The butt of a gun, held to a temple.

The ringing sound of the shot.

The splatter of blood and brain matter against the wall, right over Samael's shoulder.
Connected and Plugged into this man in more than one way, its an intimacy that even the most intense session of copulation cannot compete with and under the yolk of Empathy, both emotional and physical, Emery's resolve almost buckles but what would be considered as cowardice is quickly reinforced by Samael's dedication to his mission. It was risky, something he knows he would be scolded for back in the day but he understands this kind of love. Its the kind of love that drove him here in the first place.

And this time, the death he feels isn't a body devoid of soul collapsing in his arms or at his feet. The pain of bleeding out, being choked, suffering from broken bones all swirl together into a crescendo that ends at the peak of Forte…a BANG.

There's a sharp gasp as the conduits open for pain and life are suddenly snapped shut and the life ends and he /feels/ this death. Body shuddering and lips parted by harsh pants, the glow fades from his eyes and he stares down at the body now slumped there. Lifeless.

He makes the sign of the cross over the body, bowing his head in a soft prayer in latin. "Incline, Domine, aurem tuam ad preces nostras, quibus misericordiam tuam supplices deprecamur…" And so on, praying for a soul tainted by blood because of Love.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License