Bramwell stood by himself, as his crew began to clean up and investigate. He lit up a cigarette, and Executioner Mortimor walked up beside him.
Mortimor said, "Chief."
"He returned."
"I for sure cut his head off.."
"I witnessed it. I saw it. Gunn. The Plague Doctor. You, an Executioner, killed him. In brutal fashion. He was sent to the furnace, to get devoured, but killed everyone. How is he back? And with power? The lingering aura of rot stinks."
"It's odd sir."
"That brat. He's only around what, 19-20? His family was a group of cultists, weaving dark magic and poisons and rot and curses, all to kill the former Chief, a good friend of mine. And in the process..those bastards killed my oldest daughter and my wife. I couldn't handle it. It took me 4 days to track them down. How dare those demons try and celebrate a birthday out in the open? That little boy ran off, and he became Gunn. It's my fault this has happened."
"Sir, no—."
"No. Listen. You were about to go after him and kill him, but I said no. Why? I don't fucking know. Was it because he was just some brat? A kid? Did I have a soft spot for children? Did I see enough bloodshed, that was probably the reason. But now I'm facing the repercussions of allowing him to live."
"Sir, if I may..?"
"Speak."
"He'll be hunting us. You heard what he said before I killed him, he called us murderers, he remembers that we killed his family."
"Are you afraid? You're an executioner. You've killed hundreds. Taking the lives of many should empty your soul, replacing it with a void."
"I've never seen a situation like this. He's alive, and has power. He didn't have any abilities before."
"You will kill him again. At this rate, he will be hunting us. We will do everything it takes, everything it takes to avenge our fallen comrades." Bramwell began walking away.
Mortimor said, "Is this what we're doing? Getting revenge, because someone else wants revenge, due to a revenge we caused?"
Bramwell stopped, and he turned around slowly, his eyes glowing a dark red, "Excuse me?"
Everyone outside could sense Bramwell's bloodlust, sweating due to fear, their hearts pounding dramatically.
Mortimor said, "Apologies."
Bramwell grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him high in the air, saying, "If it wasn't for the fact that you're strong, I would've killed you a long time ago. This isn't just an act of revenge, it's deeper than that!" A tear she's from Bramwell's face, continuing, "I lost what I held dear to me! You wouldn't know, you don't have anyone! You don't have anyone but me and the Empire! You've taken so many lives that you yourself don't have one!"
"Sir.."
Bramwell let go of him, and then hugged him, saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Everything is spinning around us, the hurt I'm enduring right now. I've been trying so hard to forget that day..I just can't."
"It's okay, sir."
Bramwell hugged him tight, and immediately, Mortimors body exploded in a cloud of blood, blood raining near him. The group of constables gasped, staggering back.
Bramwell looked into the clouds as the blood rained upon his face. As another tear dropped, he reached his hand towards the sky, "Eleanor…Prenn…they took you from me, and when I want to set law and order…they make it seem as if I'm the villain.."
At that moment, a whirling wind began to surround Mortimor's body, and his body began to regenerate, and he was standing on his feet again.
Bramwell turned around to him, saying, "Welcome back, Executioner Mortimor. Have you come to your senses?"
Mortimor nodded, "Yes sir."
"Come here."
"…"
"Come here."
Mortimor walked towards Bramwell, and Bramwell hugged him again. Mortimor was hesitant, but hugged him back. They let go, and Bramwell nodded, "Please help them clean this up. I need to go home, and see my little girl. You can handle things from here?"
"Yes I can."
"Good. You never fail me."
In the somber aftermath of the chaos at the ruins, Chief Constable Bramwell, his visage still shadowed by the events that had transpired, made his way towards his stately mansion in the heart of Thornville. The city, a Victorian-era beacon of industrial prowess and architectural grandeur, felt steeped in a pervasive, cold silence as he approached. As he neared his home, situated impressively near the expansive and meticulously designed Empire base, Bramwell paused briefly at the grand front door.
Taking a moment, he composed himself, smoothing the edges of his uniform and meticulously adjusting the dark, heavy wool of his coat. With a deep breath, he donned a practiced smile that barely touched the sorrowful depths of his gaze, a mask for the world that awaited inside.
Upon entering, the warmth of the home tried to dispel the chill that had settled in his bones. The gentle clinks of porcelain and the subtle rustle of silk greeted him as he stepped further into the elegant foyer. There, his attention was lovingly captured by a heartwarming scene in the main drawing room.
His daughter, Eliza Bramwell, a cherubic child of eleven with golden curls and a determined sparkle in her blue eyes, was being attentive guided by their loyal maid, Miss Catherine. Eliza, though crippled from a young age, was learning to walk again with the aid of ornate crutches and the supportive hands of Miss Catherine, a kind-faced woman dressed in a pristine uniform of black and white, her hair neatly bundled under a modest cap.
Bramwell's expression softened genuinely as he approached, watching the pair with a mixture of pride and tenderness. Eliza, noticing her father, beamed, her cheeks rosy with effort and excitement.
"Papa!" she exclaimed, pausing in her steps, leaning slightly on her crutches.
Bramwell quickened his pace and knelt to envelop her in a gentle hug, careful not to disturb her balance. "My darling, how goes your walking today?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion but gentle.
"It's going better, Papa! Miss Catherine says I'm getting stronger every day!" Eliza's words bubbled with enthusiasm, her eyes gleaming with achievement.
"And how was work, Papa?" she asked innocently, her gaze searching his.
Bramwell, caught in the juxtaposition of his harsh day and his daughter's innocent inquiry, managed to maintain his smile. "It's been good, my dear," he replied softly, masking the turmoil behind a veil of normalcy.
Their interaction, so full of love and simple joy, stood in stark contrast to the violence and command that had characterized his day. In the presence of his daughter, Bramwell found a moment of peace, a precious snippet of life untainted by his duties and the dark demands of his position. This tender scene, framed by the opulent confines of their home and the quiet, efficient presence of Miss Catherine, was a fleeting reminder of why he endured, why he fought so tirelesslyâ€"a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness of his professional world.
Bramwell ascended the grand staircase, his footsteps heavy with the weight of the day's emotional toll. As he entered his spacious bedroom, opulently designed with rich tapestries and dark wood furniture, he was greeted by the stark semblance of tranquility. It was a room befitting his status, yet filled with personal artifacts that told a deeper story.
The walls were adorned with framed photographs that captured moments of a happier past..pictures of his late wife and their daughter who had died tragically years ago. These images surrounded him with memories, each one a poignant reminder of what had been lost. The soft evening light filtering through the large windows cast long shadows, and as Bramwell sat on the edge of the plush velvet-covered bed, a heavy sigh escaped him.
His gaze fixed on those photographs, he was drawn into a quiet reverie, a solitary moment to mourn anew. It was here, lost in his thoughts, that he did not notice the door open softly.
Miss Catherine, normally composed, entered but paused abruptly, overcome by an inexplicable surge of raw emotion. Her breaths grew heavy, her hand clutching at her chest as an intense bloodlust flooded her senses. The room, with its luxuriant drapes and solemn ambience, seemed to close in around her. This feeling, powerful and frightening, seized her as she stood there, momentarily lost to the torrent within.
As Bramwell turned from the wall, his expression somber, he caught sight of Miss Catherine in her moment of turmoil. Her eyes, wide with unspoken fears, met his, and she managed a nervous, fearful smile. Sensing her distress, Bramwell stood and slowly approached, his own emotions raw and palpable.
"Are you alright, Catherine?" his voice low and filled with genuine concern.
"…I don't know what came over me. Forgive me, sir," she stammered, struggling to maintain her composure.
In that charged moment, something unspoken passed between them, a mutual recognition of their respective loneliness and the pain that each carried. Bramwell reached out, his hand brushing against hers, a gesture of comfort that spoke louder than words. She did not pull away but allowed her hand to linger in his, her eyes searching his face.
They stood together in the silent room, the distance of their usual roles blurred by shared human vulnerabilities. Gently, he drew her closer, encircling her waist with an arm, guiding her to a seat beside him on the bed. Neither spoke, but the connection held them. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing slowing as the earlier agitation washed away, replaced by a fragile peace.
Their closeness was solemn, a quiet communion rather than passion, filled with a complex tapestry of emotion, grief, comfort, understanding, and a stirring of something deeper, perhaps a nascent love. Bramwell looked down at Catherine, her face upturned, light from the setting sun casting her in a soft glow, and felt a surge of protectiveness.
The room around them, once a mausoleum of past happiness, now held a delicate moment of potential new beginnings. It was as if their shared solace had momentarily eased the burdens they each carried.
Their interaction, profound yet understated, was a silent pact of mutual consolationâ€"a moment suspended in the twilight of his opulent, haunted room. A scene devoid of passion's fervor but rich with the deeper intimacy of shared solitude and comfort.
…
Under the cloak of night, the abandoned factory in Thornville, harbors a solitary and enigmatic figure. The setting is grim, light scarcely penetrating the thick layers of history and decay. Within one of the rooms, the air hangs heavy, disturbed only by the flicker of an old lamp, its light casting eerie, dancing shadows around the confined space.
Gunn, unbeknownst to those who imagine him merely as a harbinger of darkness and death, sits silently amidst this isolation. Shirtless, his torso is a canvas of scars each line a story, each mark a violent verse in the odyssey that is his life. A soft thud reverberates as he sets a journal upon a rough, worn-out desk. The air seems to tighten around him, charged with a palpable intensity as he begins to draw.
With his hands, marred and stained, Gunn sketches resolutely. Upon the page emerge figures not of shadows and blood, but of light and love of a family. The strokes are delicate, tender even, betraying the iron facade he often wields. It's a stark contrast to his usual grim tableau, a moment of cherished memories that invoke a semblance of peace fleeting as it may be. Yet as blood trickles from his hands, it taints the paper, a macabre reminder of the reality Gunn lives with, its crimson hue coloring his idyllic scenes with the stark pigment of his vengeance and pain.
As the drawing shapes into more defined figures, the images of his family, who were mercilessly taken by the Empire, solidify on the page. His face, often an unyielding mask of stoicism or wrath, contorts with a rising tide of grief and anger. Memories, like tormenting spirits, rise from the depths of his mind, gnawing at his fragile peace. The very act of reminiscing, once healing, now fans the flames of his fury.
With each line, his hand trembles more, not from the physical exertion but from the overwhelming surge of emotions. The intensity of the moment grows palpable, pressing as Gunn battles with the dual forces of remembrance and vengeance. Finally, unable to contain the burgeoning storm within, he lets out a guttural roar of anguish and slams his fist through the desk. The impact sends shards flying, the noise a harsh echo in the otherwise silent factory. The journal, now partially destroyed, lies amidst the wreckage, a poignant ruin of splintered wood and spilled ink.
The remnants of his explosive emotion linger in the air, thick and oppressive. Gunn stands amidst the debris, his chest heaving, fists clenched, as rage simmers in his eyes. The tranquil artist replaced once more by the tempestuous warrior, reminded of his losses, fueled by the injustices that have scarred his very soul. As the quivering light from the lamp continues to fade in and out, Gunn's figure shadows merge indiscernibly with the darkness of the room, encapsulating the torment and solitude that define him.
He sat on the floor, thinking, 'A time limit. Ha..a fucking time limit. A time limit to kill everyone and destroy the Empire. But every time I use my abilities, it takes years off of me. Will I even succeed? I don't see a timer, but it feels like I don't have a lot of time. I feel as if it's already ticking downward. Mom…dad..I'm alone.'
A tear shed his right eye, as he held himself close, hugging himself. The quote from Arebeld earlier, when he said: "No one loved you."
He usually doesn't linger on what his enemies say, but this time, it was true. After the Empire had slaughtered his family, he was alone, he was determined to avenge his family, he didn't have time to make friends or acquaintances. He spent more of his child years killing, and killing, but always yearned to feel what it was like to live like the other kids. His mission clouded his mind. He created toxins and poisons, and happily polluted highly populated areas with them, areas where constables of the Empire were around. Hundreds upon hundreds he's killed, and didn't feel not one inch of regret, until he got caught one day, and thus led to his public execution.
Gunn hugged himself even more, this was the warmest embrace he's ever had since he was a child.
[FLASHBACK]
The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, showering the land with its benevolent warmth. In this tranquil scene nested within the embrace of rolling meadows and the distant murmur of a playful brook, a young Gunn, no more than ten summers old, stood with an air of eager anticipation.
His mother, a woman of stern beauty and sharp wit, adjusted the small, rugged gun in his little hands. Beside her stood Gunn's father, a tall man with kind eyes and a laugh that seemed to echo the depth of the woods around them. His grandmother, an aged matron with steel gray hair and a gaze as piercing as the falcons overhead, supervised with a critical eye.
"Now, Gunn," his father began, his voice gentle, "hold it steady. Like this." He guided Gunn's hands with a patience born of love. "Remember, it's not just about aiming, but also about understanding the rhythm of your own heartbeat."
Gunn gazed intently down the barrel, his boyish features screwed up in concentration. The target, a makeshift bullseye tacked onto a faraway tree, seemed a world away.
"You can do it, darling," his mother coaxed, her voice soft but confident. "Just breathe. In and out, like the waves."
Encouraged, Gunn took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs, and at the end of his slow exhale, he squeezed the trigger. The crack of the gun split the serene air, but it was followed by the triumphant shouts of his family as the bullet struck close to the bullseye.
"Well done!" exclaimed his grandmother, her usual stern expression melting into a rare smile.
Flushed with success, Gunn grinned and embraced the praise. As the afternoon stretched lazily before them, Gunn's thoughts drifted from the mechanical to the primal joy of the wild around him. Slipping the gun into his father's hands, he scampered off towards the bubbling brook, laughter trailing behind him like a kite.
His parents watched fondly as Gunn waded into the shallow water, his small hands deftly disrupting the surface, trying to catch the slippery fish that darted about. "Look, Ma, Pa! I almost had one!" he shouted, splashing around playfully.
"Nature's got its own way of teaching us, son," his father called out, the wind carrying his words. "Every missed catch, every fallâ€"it's all part of growing up."
Gunn paused, water up to his knees, and looked around him. The wind tousled his hair, the sun embraced his young skin, and the green of the trees vibrated with an intensity that filled his heart with an unspoken joy.
"It's all so big, isn't it?" Gunn murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his arms stretching out as if to embrace the landscape.
"It is, my dear," his grandmother's voice came from behind, softer now, infused with a wisdom born from many years under the same sun. "And you are part of it. Every tree, every breeze, every water ripple shares its story with you."
As the day faded into the cool hues of evening, Gunn, soaked but exhilarated, returned to his family's side. They gathered their belongings, a sense of contentment in their simple camaraderie, the land whispering its timeless lullabies as they slowly made their way home.
[FLASHBACK END]
This memory, vibrant and vivacious, remained etched in Gunn's mind, a stark contrast to the shadows that later clouded his path. Yet within that recollection lay the unyielding roots of resilience and connection, his early lessons of life's delicate balance between joy and precision, freedom and focus.