Episode: 5.16

--- Aiden ---

He idly noted Amelia dragging Ember up to the second floor, as he kept his eyes locked on the cultist whose power was making it harder and harder to focus on the man.

(Really lucky the Black trumps psionics…)

“You’ve Madness in your blood…” The cultist noted with a tilt of his head, the masked man's voice like static in the back of his mind, and honestly if not for the black malice he probably wouldn’t have understood a word out of the cultist’s mouth.

“At least for the next few hours.” Aiden admitted, rolling his shoulders.

(Have to keep him talking…)

“So, mind telling me why you decided to break into my home? I mean, if you wanted a beer all you had to do is ask.” He swiped the open bottle he’d put down when the cultist walked in and offered it, never putting down the gun in the same hand. “Don’t worry about backwash, I haven’t taken a sip.”

The cultist watched him for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m here for the girl.”

(Alright, Infiltrator-Bruiser, maybe with a level in Blaster if he can keep this wind garbage up…)

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer since the other man didn’t want it.

“It matters not to you…” The black mask cultist offered in way of non-explanation.

“Think it does since I’m in charge of the kid.” He decided to argue as he set the bottle down once more.

(The Black nulls his Infiltrator rating for the most part, but he’ll still take cheap shots just out of muscle memory. As for the Bruiser, I’m going to have to hit him hard and make sure he doesn’t hit me back. And the Blaster rating means I can’t be in front of his hands either…)

“So, you intend to keep me from the girl?” The cultist asked dubiously.

His answer was to pull the trigger on his gun, firing a round of mystical flames at the cultist's head.

The cultist swiped his hand through the air snuffing out the flame before it could even get close. “So be it.”

The cultist kicked off the ground shattering floorboards as he suddenly appeared in arms reach of Aiden, one hand already rushing towards his face.

(Shit!)

He dove back, already aiming his gun for the cultist’s head as his back hit the ground, only to roll to the side and into a crouch as the cultist stomped the ground his boot shattering (even more) floorboards as he did.

“Come on!” He whined reattaching his gun to the cane-barrel, since there wasn’t enough space to risk another incendiary round.

(Need to make some alternative spell shots after this…)

“Do you realize how much that’s going to cost to fix?” He asked, hoping to distract the cultist as he swung the hook of his cane to try and catch the cultist’s leg.

The cultist didn’t bother to respond, merely taking a step out of the cane’s reach before rushing forward and grabbing Aiden by the collar and picking him off the ground.

“You know you aren’t going to keep us from the girl…” The black masked cultist told him in an almost casual tone of static.

“Heh… we’ll see… about that…” He chuckled, before kneeing the cultist in the stomach, earning himself an early release. Taking advantage of his freedom he pulled his cane back for a swing at the cultist’s throat, unfortunately before his strike could hit, one of the black masked cultist’s fists managed to slam into his chest, sending him flying into the bar counter with enough force that he just knew something had to be broken.

“Hmm, almost felt that.” The cultist admitted rubbing his chest.

“Good…” He groaned slowly picking himself off the floor. (Because I definitely felt that.)

He shook his head, before glancing around in search of the cane he’d dropped, already knowing he was better off punching a brick wall with his bare hands than trying to hit the Bruiser in front of him without a weapon. As he did so, his eyes locked on to a nearby bottle of liquor.

(Huh… There’s an unpleasant idea.)

Somehow manageing to stand, he grabbed the bottle off the floor and stuck a hand into his vest as he put the cap in his mouth, before twisting it off, and spitting it at the cultist’s face.

“Petty…” The cultist commented catching the cap with ease.

“Eh, I’m a petty guy.” He confessed before downing three or four shots worth of alcohol from the bottle, hoping it would kick in fast enough to help numb his aching ribs.

The cultist shook his head. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He shrugged mutely before rushing forward and swinging as hard as he could, bottle in hand.

As expected, the cultist caught his wrist without much effort, leaving what liquor was left in the bottle to pour down the man’s arm.

“Did you really think that would work?”

He shook his head, before spitting the liquor in his mouth into the cultist’s face.

“Again petty…” The cultist told him, twisting his arm hard enough that he just knew he was going to have a fracture in the morning.

“Like I said, I’m a petty guy.” He grinned before flicking his lighter open with his free hand. “I’m also something of a pyro.”

He pressed the flame against the absinthe he’d doused the cultist in, igniting a blue flame across the cultist’s masked face, one that quickly spread to the cultist’s arm as he began trying to bat out the flames.

The same static voice that the cultist had been speaking in erupted all around him, loud enough to make his ears bleed if the Mal in his system wasn’t stitching him together as fast as the sound tore him apart.

“Oh, come on those are barely second-degree burns!” He told the burning cultist. “Don’t be a bitch about it.” He threw out, downing another shot of absinthe as he made his way back to the bar. (Why do people always lose their heads when they catch fire?)

The black masked cultist had just enough clarity of mind to glare at him before rushing forward. Aiden ducked around the cultists lunge before swinging and shattering the absinthe bottle on the back of the cultist’s head, sending him crashing into the bar counter.

He looked the cultist over, before pushing past his aching ribs and climbing over the bar counter. Once settled he looked at the few bottles of liquor that had yet to be shattered, picking each one up and looking over their various alcohol contents, being sure to keep an eye on the shaking cultist all the while.

(Alcohol really isn’t that good of an accelerant… wonder where my lighter fluid got to?)

Shaking his head, he took one of the bottles and turned back to the panting cultist, who’d begun to shiver and pant as he struggled to stand despite the few blue flames still licking at his skin.

(Oh, he does not look good… should probably deal with that.)

He picked up a sturdy looking bottle and tossed it up and down a bit, checking to make sure it had enough heft, before grabbing it by the neck and smashing it into the back of the cultist’s head, once, twice, thrice, and fourth time just to be sure the (tenacious fucker) wouldn’t get back up.

(If I'm lucky he’ll actually stay down for a few minutes now…)

He uncapped the bloody bottle as he stared at the (hopefully) dead cultist, waiting a whole minute to make sure the guy really wasn’t breathing rather than just playing opossum, before downing the bottle and having a shootout with the pain in his ribs.

(Going to have to clean this mess up before Ember sees it.)

He had a fair idea of how seeing a bloody corpse in your house could fuck a kid up. (Just look at Jericho.)

He shook his head with a half chuckle, before setting the bottle down as he picked up the sound of a struggle upstairs, before something heavy hit the ground outside of the bar windows.

(Great, there’s another one…)

Sighing to himself, he made his way around the counter and over towards the bar window to try and get an idea of what he was up against this time around.

And so, he peeked through the blinds and- “Oh shit!” immediately rushed to dive over the bar counter as bullets began tearing through the bar.

“Damn it!” He cursed, clutching his arms as he hit the ground behind the bar.

A quick glance was enough to see that the bullet that got him had gone straight through the side of his calf, and while he’d definitely need his cane for the next few days, (it’s not anything Amelia can’t stitch after everything settles down.)

Just to be sure though, he grabbed a half-shattered bottle of vodka and dumped it over the wound in case something had gotten into it.

(And there’s the burn!)

He went ahead and downed a shot's worth of the stuff, since the Black Malice in his system had already begun to burn out everything he’d taken earlier.

(You know, I'm suddenly very glad I let Amelia talk me into getting the armor plating for the bar counter.)

It was an expensive purchase, but as bullets continued to litter the air less than a foot above him, one that had more than paid for itself. (Even if it still clashes with the floorboards.)

After a moment the bullets began to stop, and while he didn’t risk getting out from cover just yet, he did manage to find where his cane had flown off to in his little scrap with the still burning, and now bullet-ridden, black masked member of the Cheshire cult.

(That’s two kinds of friendly fire right there…)

He shook his head at the bad joke, before using his cane and the bar counter to pull himself to his feet, figuring that three minutes without gunfire was enough to assume that the gunfire was over. Though that didn’t stop him from wincing as he put weight on the leg that’d been shot.

(Don’t be a bitch about it, you’ve had worse…)

It took a few more steps before he finally got used to actually using his cane to walk, rather than to hide a firearm or beat people unconscious.

He contemplated trying to walk outside to shoot the bastards who shot up his bar, but given how the gunshots had stopped and he could just make out the sound of tires screeching as they tore off, figured it’d be better to go and make sure the girls were alright instead.

Shaking his head once more, he made his way to the stairs and forced himself past the protesting pain in his leg with every step he took.

Once he was up the stairs, he gently opened the door to Amelia and Pet’s room, that way he'd still have a chance at a surprise shot in case there was anyone up there that shouldn’t be. He only really let himself relax once he saw Pet still hugging Amelia, who was in turn wrapped around and fussing with Ember, each with their backs to the shattered window, and all (thankfully) uninjured.

“You girls, okay?” He asked, leaning against the door frame to take pressure off of his bad leg as he pulled a cigarette from his vest pocket.

“Yeah, they weren’t really aiming for the second floor.” Amelia told him as Pet finally released her and Ember.

“Figured they were trying to kill me.” He admitted lighting his cigarette. “Given what I’ve done to them over the years they probably view me as the biggest threat in the house.”

Pet made several indignant gestures that roughly translated to, (“But I’m the one who’s a living weapon!”)

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting about that thing with the Trickster a few years ago.” He reminded her, trying hard not to think too much about that shit show.

“Y-you’re shot!” Ember finally called out pointing to his bleeding leg.

“So, I am.” He nodded with a glance towards his leg. “Don’t worry, it went straight through, so I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Think we should move?” Amelia asked as calmly as someone who regularly spent time with their hands elbow deep in the organs of their loved ones could manage.

“Nah, they didn’t bother sending anyone to make sure I was dead or alive, so the firing squad was probably just to send a message.”

“A-a message?” Ember stuttered out as if this was her first…

(Shit.)

Pushing through the pain in his leg, he forced himself to kneel down to her level and looked her in her tearing eyes. “Ember look, everything is going to be alright. No, everything is alright. Those assholes tried to attack us, and they lost a guy, the guns were just them trying to save face by giving us a final ‘fuck you.’ So, unless we actively try to piss them off, they’ll walk away and lick their wounds because the members of the cult with powers are too valuable to just throw away, over some temper tantrum from some mid-tier guy."

He thought about it for a moment, when Ember looked less than reassured by his words.

"Look, the guy who ordered this will probably be demoted or kicked out over this mess all things considered.” He added, making sure to both keep his voice as calm and reassuring as possible and make absolutely sure she didn’t know the cult was after her.

“R-really?” Ember asked nervously.

“Yeah, really.” He nodded wiping away some of her tears. “My family may have a target on our backs when it comes to the cult, but there is a reason none of them are stupid enough to try and take a shot.”

“W-why?”

“Okay, they sent two Deviants here, right?” He asked gesturing to the broken window. “And they both got their asses kicked within five, ten minutes, and that was without bringing the rest of my friends and family into this mess. Trust me, the higher-ups in the cult know better than to let this drag out to that point.”

Ember looked him in the eye and after a moment, managed to find something that somehow reassured her of the situation. (No idea what that is though…)

Nodding to her once, he forced himself to stand back up, despite his leg’s protest, before finally managing to catch the sound of sirens growing closer.

(Just once I’d like them to be on time.)