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twentydaysofdrabbles · 1 year ago

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The Concierge Delivers a Message (Part 15)

It’s deep into the early hours of the morning now. Too late for night owls, too early for early birds, leaving you alone in the empty lobby. You had dismissed the night receptionist who was meant to take your place - too keyed up from interrupting someone’s attempt to have a good night.

One dead. One whose fate rests in the Manager’s hands. Another who yet runs from you.

Thinking of it causes the corners of your eyes to tighten, the corners of your lips to dip. It was not just Sans who was attacked. No, if it was just Sans, you doubt you’d be so...so restless. Desirous to rip and tear, but in a different way.

It was that bellboy you had introduced to the Cartel Lieutenant not too long ago. Someone who was in service, who could be of assistance. He was young, oh so terribly young. Too young to be found with a bullet through his head, a boot mark on his chest, multiple bruises on his skin, stuffed into a corner in the utility room just behind the pool pumps. His key was taken - it could access the staff rooms, and from there the tunnels beneath the hotel.

One of the Continental’s. One of yours.

No doubt that the Manager would know what to do with the guest once they were found, but you would take your satisfaction from their sentence one way or another.

Once, you would have been the one with your nose to the ground. Tracking your prey, flitting from shadow to shadow, melding into the crowds. Hunting them down until you had them cornered. Taking their hearts and returning your trophy to your--

No.

It’s not like that any longer.

Now you sit and wait for someone else to report their whereabouts. You don’t deny that a part of you itches to be out there. To sink your teeth into a trail, to see them run from you, to...

Alas, that is not your place. Not anymore.

Now your place is to follow afterwards. A hunter trailing after a hound, firearm in hand. A text causes the screen on your phone to light up under the counter, casting a cool glow on your face as you open it to read its contents.

A name, a number, a location.

The muscles of your face strain at the appearance of a feral grin. Picking up the phone, you dial the number and dial back the savage expression on your face. Professional, you must be professional. “Good morning, sir. I apologise for calling you at this hour...”

Now, your place is by the Manager’s side, striding out the front doors of the hotel in the company of several guards. Outside, you had already arranged for a valet to come and take you to the Coliseum. A park located within the city, historical and green with a stunning amphitheatre, and most importantly, deserted at this time of the morning. You had made sure it would be.

The sky bleeds red as night gives way to the early hours of dawn. The wind is biting against the bared skin of your face, tossing your hair ever so slightly. Hidden as you are in the wings, clad in black and melded into the shadows, you can see everything. Including the stands and its many pathways and stairs, stairs which a limping man slowly traverses. As well as the sounds of cars pulling up beyond the entrance, of boots on gravel and asphalt.

Ah, of course. One would be foolish to come alone. But even more foolish to think additional company would be unexpected.

Wild hair, wild eyes. Ink crawling over his skin. A history, a life, written in black and grey on a tanned canvas. Black leather jacket, tactical pants, heavy boots.

Down the stairs, up to the stage. Stops, waits, his head on a swivel. Wary. He knows something is coming.

It doesn’t take long.

Dark figures break away from the shadows of the pillars, the stands, every little crevice, until the man is surrounded on all sides by men and women who bare their guns in their relaxed hands. He stops, tense, and hovers a hand over his belt.

“No,” he hisses in Spanish through gritted teeth.

The amphitheatre is built for performance. For sound. Its very shape, designed and built in ancient times, causes everything to sound so much louder than it should be. So much so, in fact, that the Manager need not raise her voice for the man to hear her.

“Dearest guest,” she purrs as she sashays over to him, her heels clicking on the stone. “As much as we have enjoyed your patronage, it is time we parted ways.” Coming close enough to him that he could conceivably lash out and strike her, she smiles coyly, her hands in her pockets. “By your own actions, you have broken the rules of the Continental. As such, your membership is now...revoked.”

The man snarls, a hand flying to the gun holstered in his belt, “Fuck you--!”

His swear is cut off by a hand settling on his, pinning it to the gun’s grip, keeping it holstered. He tries to spin around, tries to see what has snared him, and immediately crashes into a firm body.

Yours.

“Good morning, sir,” you intone with a polite smile, your dead eyes warming to life, like ink slowly bleeding upon parchment. Staring right into his own. “We hope you’ve had a pleasant stay.”

You can see the blood drain from his face.

“You,” he tries to choke out. His body moves, goes to break the hold you have on his hand.

Ah, but you are faster. Though it has been a long time since you have seen active combat, this much, your body remembers. Coiling the muscles in your body. Pushing off a foot, gathering the strength from your legs to your hips to your chest, your shoulders. Chambering your arm for a close-range punch to the chest.

The fingers of your free hand curl inwards, touching the hidden mechanism near the heel of your palm. And with the lightest of deliberate touches, a blade comes flashing out. Darkened steel, sparks of white flashing through it like stars in the darkness, spearing out from under the cuff of your suit, your shirt, affixed to the device hidden around your wrist.

Striking like a bolt of lightning, forceful and in the blink of an eye.

The feeling of metal sinking into soft flesh, then firm muscle. The strength it takes to press on, to scrape past bone and sinew and then--

Ah, the softness that parts around the sharp tip. A wetness leaking forth, faster and faster with every beat of that frantic heart. Dripping and staining your gloves. Your freshly changed gloves. But ah, for this, you won’t mind the chore of cleaning them later.

The man chokes, gripping at your hand with the one not pinned to his gun. He struggles with a hoarse wheeze, snarling into your face with bared teeth, “La devoradora...”

Your eyes, formerly so empty as to reflect the endless abyss of the sea, twinkles - a burst of bioluminescence in the darkness - and you murmur, “Hola.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond.

One move to rip the blade out of his chest. One to break the grip on your wrist to seize it in your grip. Another to rip the gun out from under his hand, to thumb the safety and fit your finger around the trigger in one smooth motion. And then one more to fit it under his chin.

There is only one heartbeat to savour the look on his face, the fear in his eyes, the recognition of who presses the gun to his throat.

Your hand is stiff, flexing it is like moving through clayish mud. Your repaired ligaments, your scarred muscles feel like stone entombing the grip of the gun and its trigger. For a brief moment, you don’t think you can command your finger to pull it. But then--

And then it is gone with the sharp pop of a gunshot, initiated by a gentle pull of the trigger that sends a shock through your aching hand, your strong forearm.

You relish it all, even the slight ringing in your ears from the gunfire. But perhaps most of all, you revel in the liquid warmth on your face that quickly cools as the cold wind rushes past you. Yes, yes! In that heartbeat, you feel like your old self again. Younger, faster, stronger, perfect. Unscarred. Alive.

Alas...

The corpse, now missing the top of his head, topples over as you push it down and away from you.

The heavy thud echoes in the amphitheatre, like thunder cracking through the sky, and that is signal enough for three more figures to come trudging down the steps.

All of this, you register somewhere deep in your mind. That and the gunfire and yelling coming from beyond the stands. Of it dying down and the dragging of bodies.

But you are so preoccupied with the feeling of cool wetness dripping down your face, your hand. The cold grip of the gun that feels so right in your palm. So familiar. Crimson drips off your blade, bared still as it spears out from your sleeve. Plopping like thick drops of rain escaping from fat, heavy clouds. A sign of what’s to come.

You cannot see it, but you are sure your face is far from its normal neutral expression. Your eyes must be afire with warmth. Your heart thunders, adrenaline rushing through your veins. Yes, this is--!

“My Heart,” comes the soft voice of the Manager. A hand drops on your shoulder; firm but gentle.

The clipping of your leash back onto your collar.

The woman turns you around and winks with a smile, “You’ve not lost your touch.” She nods to the gun in your hand, the bared blade affixed to the other.

You blink. Ah. The gun is made safe and given to the Collector’s man, who reaches out for it to toss it unto the body being cleared away. “One must adapt,” you murmur with a small smile, a true smile, pressing the mechanism in your glove to retract the blade into its sheath.

The Manager only laughs, her hand still on your shoulder to start leading you away from the scene. Black clad guards disperse into the shadows, some to your side. “They said you had been declawed,” she gestures to the corpse as she says that. The Cartel. Then she looks into your eyes, eyes that now reflect back at her with nothing but a flat emptiness.

This was a warning. A message. The Continental has made an example of one who has broken the rules.

Shown that its owner and her weapon would not hesitate to bite.

Your lip quirks in a flat smirk as you reach for a pristine white handkerchief to dab at the blood on your face. “They were wrong.”

Very, very wrong.

#undertale fics #mafiafell sans #mafiafell sans x reader #sans x reader #reader insert #the concierge #no actual sans in this one #but you avenge him #drabble #ficlet #brief depictions of violence #tw: blood

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