Marcus fell silent as she requested, staring at the stain with increased worry. Yes he was a god who really shouldn’t be around mortals, but he had a mortal brain right now. It was bound to make some attachments or feel some emotions. Completely his mortal body’s fault. Of course… that was it.
When she began to speak with the men, Marcus fell silent, unmoving as he did his bet to mask his face with a small charm. It was just enough to make his features unrecognizable as their prisoner.
The two men shared a look, and obviously a braincell, as the other one spoke in a gruff voice. "Makes sense. What's with this guy? Your boyfriend get his tongue cut out for insubordination or something? He looks like the type." How they hadn't thought of something as simple as the fact that they had never seen Saros and Marcus around was beyond the thief, but she wasn't complaining.
"Close enough. Acid down the throat, for exactly the same reason." She said, rolling her eyes as though that was more stupid to her than worrying. "That's why you just have to shut up until you're out of range. Honestly."
Marcus nodded his head, letting his expression grow saddened and dark. He tapped Saros’ shoulder and nodded towards the hallway’s end.
Hopefully he could convince the two idiots that they had to go so something important. He lifted his hand and gestured to a door again, pushing against her with his other hand.
"He in a hurry to get somewhere?" One of the men asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked between Saros and Marcus, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Obviously. Do you not hear the sirens?" Saros raised an eyebrow back, letting Marcus push her a few steps before stopping both of them. "Somebody's down here who shouldn't be, and for all we know, they're finding and doing things they shouldn't either."
"Fuck. Right. Hey, wait a second. Who sent you guys down here? We had to get one of the higher ups to unlock the door to the stairwell. And the only one here is Reisling, and he's been with us…" The man frowned, looking to his partner before studying the two intruders. "You don't work for us. We don't hire women for grunt work. not after last time." Reaching to his side, he drew his sword, his partner following.
"Oh, well. At least we know you have braincells." Saros chirped cheerfully, her sharp and wicked grin not matching the friendliness in her tone. "Lighter, mind taking the smaller one? I'm in the mood for a good ol' Goliath dynamic."
When the two finally came to the realization Marcus groaned. “Now you take the fun outta it. But I’ll give you your satisfaction. The little guy will do.” He sighed, looking to her with an air of boredom.
“You know, it’s not fair I get the unloaded gun.” He teased, grinning.
"Should've grabbed a knife." Saros said with a cheeky wink, moving suddenly and quickly. Striking fast as a snake, she was moving towards the larger man before he could even finish drawing his sword, a dagger in hand and lashing out at him. Just the chest, a minor laceration. She was toying with him, that much was obvious. Like a cat playing with a mouse, confident as hell despite any of her own short comings.
Marcus let the smaller male attack him first. He wanted to at least let the man think he had an advantage over a skinny, dirty teen instead of fighting against a god. The smaller male was quickly put into his place, however, as after a few dodges Marcus struck suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He didn't even need a knife to cut, a soft crimson glow to the markings that curved like eyeliner from his eyes to the edges of the bridge of his nose. He kept them well hidden, not wanting a human to realize those were the markings of a god on a body he had created for himself. A near identical body at that. His mortal capsule, a puppet to transfer himself into every now and then to have some fun. And his real, immortal body resting in a run-down temple atop the mountain a little ways away.
His mind returned to the fight when he felt a sudden heat sear across his abdomen. He gasped in anger, realizing he had just been slashed. He growled in annoyance, eyeing the guard angrily. "You ruined my shirt." He growled. He made sure Saros wasn't looking before he put the man down where he belonged on the power scale, only knocking him clean out. He didn't kill. He made that a large rule on his behalf. Killing was cruel to him.
Saros loved fighting. That was her addiction, the one high she'd found that soothed the constant restlessness itching in her limbs and mind, the itch to move and do something big satisfied by the feeling of engaging an opponent. It didn't matter to her whether she won or lost. She never lost, not anymore, after she'd realized her life was more often than not on the line, but there was a part of her that didn't mind. If she lost, at least she went down fighting, a blade in hand and the rush of adrenaline and an evil sort of glee in her veins.
She strung her opponent along like a kite on a string, dodging hits like she was smoke, intangible. She took plenty too, small scrapes and nicks, but most went without meeting her flesh. And without a single tell. Almost like swapping fighting styles and patterns every few moves, just as they started to get recognizable.
Then the handle of her blade was jutting out of the man's chest. Saros stood, watching him crumble to the ground with his eyes wide, gasping for breath. And now she didn't look gleeful, but still wicked as ever. "Jonathin Reeves, March eleventh, Urasaka Capitol." She whispered as she crouched, retrieving her dagger. She knew this group more than she let on, apparently, though her words wouldn't make much sense to anyone but the man, who looked confused, before recognition flickered across his features as he took his last breath.
Marcus scowled down at the dying man, crouching down once he had let out that rattling breath that marked the end of a life. He closed the dead man's eyes and stood straight again, looking down at his ripped shirt and gritting his teeth. He was pretty ticked about that. He turned to her, letting the crimson color fade from around his eyes. It was hardly recognizable now, he had made sure she wouldn't recognize his godly markings. They weren't the only ones upon his body, but those were more intimately hidden across his hip bones and thighs. The main marking spiraled down his back, looking like an intricate tattoo. The red never faded from that one. That was where he had marked the body as his own, using the thick, golden blood he shed from his own immortal wrist. Flashes of the pain of that night still rang in the core of his very being.
He shivered and stepped closer, suddenly lifting her arm to study the wood in her side. "Please, let me help you with this." He grunted, his emerald eyes begging her to let him aid. "Once we're out you can stay at my hideout. I have bandages and pain medication there. You won't be touched."
Saros's eyes flickered up as Marcus approached, the gold coloring somehow looking more like a predator's now than ever. It took her a moment to realize he was speaking, and as she blinked, the strange look that had overcome her faded. "You're really not gonna let this little splinter go, are you?" That was like calling a wolf a lapdog, but she didn't care. "I want you to tell me up front what I'm going to owe you, so I know whether being in debt is worth it. I don't usually do debt." She stood, wiping the blood off her dagger onto her tank top before it disappeared somewhere into the folds of her clothing. Wherever she was keeping this many things.
He frowned and shook his head. "I'm not going to let it go." He huffed, glancing up at her face when she mentioned a debt. "What the hell are you talking about? You won't owe me anything. I don't want anything from you." He spat, his eyes narrowing. They softened quickly, a look of regret passing through his eyes. "I can do a kind deed and not expect anything in return. But if you refuse that, then I ask that when you leave, you don't tell anyone about me. Not a single soul. I don't care if someone asks what you did while inside this place. Do not mention anything about me."
"Everyone wants something." She said, her own eyes narrowing at him and staying that way suspiciously. "Kind deeds are a myth, fictional on the streets. People are a means to an end, is what an old acquaintance of mine used to say, and he was right about that." Tucking her hands into her pockets, she carefully avoided upsetting her wound. "That's intriguing though. Fine, I'll tag along at the very least. Maybe I'll learn something about you to take with me when I'm supposed to forget you exist."
He shot her a look and grumbled to himself for a moment. "People can be kind to be kind." He stated simply, ending the matter there. If she tried to push it further, he'd refuse to respond. He shot her yet another look at her next choice in words, tugging her with him as he glanced around for an exit. "You don't have to forget I exist, you just have to make sure you tel no one else I exist. I'm trying to keep a low profile here."
She let him tug her along until they got to a hallway with multiple stairwells, taking a certain one that led up. "People can be kind to be kind. Wishful thinking." Shaking her head, she tugged her arm from his grasp, checking one of the cuts she'd received. "A low profile, huh? And why ever would you want that, when you could be known?"
He growled but did as he had led on to; remained silent about the matter. The gang member shoved his hands in his pockets when she took her arm back, looking around at the stairwell. “Being known leads to problems. I’d rather hole myself up in a temple and be lesser known than dawdled over and followed wherever I go. And I don’t want to be feared either. I don’t want to be some known criminal. I just want to do my thing and cause some mischief.”
She wiped at the drying blood, ignoring his growl. She couldn’t quite figure out why he was so insistent on convincing her that people could be good without strings attached, especially because that was an inconceivable thing to her. Only one person she’d ever met had been good and kind for no reason. And she was dead now. “We live to be remembered. To leave any legacy behind that we can. You’re knocking being a famous criminal to a semi-famous criminal.” She stretched her arms up over her head despite the searing pain in her side. “Though I can get the mischief bit.”
“I live to forget. To escape from someone who doesn’t understand me and yet tries to control me.” He grumbled, his mind flashing to his fatherly figure, a god of good fortune that did not take kindly to the idea that Marcus was a god of mischief. “But we all know how fate works. Anyways, I’d prefer that no one knows exactly where and who I am. Makes life easier for me.”
(Quick question, is the way the gods work like there are multiple gods of mischief or just like one known one?)
((There would be one god of each Thing, like mischief, but often times the god’s sort of areas of expertise overlap, leading either friendship or rivalries. Like our god of Thieves would know Marcus for sure, because their Things go hand in hand))
“An easy life sounds boring.” The way she talked, one might almost think she chose the life she did. That was only half true. She was fairly certain she’d been born on the streets, but couldn’t remember much before the age of nine, when her timeline seemed to start in the hold of a slave ship destined for a capital. She had, though, chosen to be what she was. Thievery was her solace, something she was good at and knew well. “Left up here, and then there’s an elevator or more stairs.”
(Ah thought so, thank you!)
“Maybe for you.” He murmured, rubbing at his damaged arms. He had self harmed one too many times. “How far until we’re out?” He asked gently, eyeing her wound. “I want to make sure you’re alright.”
“Few more floors. Three to be exact. And then getting to one of the exits on the main floor.” Saros said, waving the arm she’d been inspecting. “Not far, though you really oughta not worry about me. I’m just a thief. Not anyone to really worry about. Here, elevator or stairs?”
He nodded gently, yawning softly. "Good lord that's a way. Is there a faster way?" He asked her, narrowing his eyes. He gave her one look over, studying her side. Truth be told he was worried about what Thievery would say to him if they found out he had let one of their protected, precious humans walk away harmed. Marcus would never hear the end of it.
"Mhm. Just a thief…" He replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Elevator. That might end badly for us but stairs are a no go. takes too long."
“Sure there are faster ways. Ways swarming with men.” Saros said, closing her eyes briefly as a flash of pain flickered through her. “Can’t skip leg day. Elevator can be stopped. And you repeated my words with enough sarcasm to get you shot by a cop. You keep doing that.” She shot a look at him, looking half curious and half unamused, the pain visible in her eyes and nowhere else on her features.
"Men… Men can be taken care of." He murmured, concern flashing across his face. He was definitely screwed after this. Thievery and Mischief worked in a pair at times. Except now Marcus was 'mortal' and had long forgotten his divine, true name. "You won't make it up those stairs." He stated blatantly, his eyes cold and calculating. "Sarcasm is my love language, honey. I use it like a French person would speak French." He crooned, a small amount of his confidence peeking through.
“One.” Saros held up a finger, her own eyes glinting like the metal their color matched. Cold and harsh, almost. “Don’t you ever underestimate me. I’ve made it up worse stairs on a shattered foot with a sword imbedded in my gut. This splinter is nothing if I say it’s nothing. And two.” She held up a second finger, that same weird flicker passing over her face. “Don’t call me honey. Now come on.” And with that, she stepped into the stairwell, starting up a few steps.
Marcus remained cold and somewhat distant as she spoke to him. He was afraid. After all, she probably couldn't hold her ground against a god anyways, probably would take one hell of a fight, but he wouldn't mind that. The god's eyes glimmered unhappily as they always did as he took a step up the stairs after her, silent as always. "Mm, what about hun?" He asked out of spite, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and sighing deeply. He glanced down the stairs, his mind whirling. "Do you think if I hurled myself down these I'd die?" He asked out of reflex. Marcus always made suicide jokes when around the gang members. They usually brushed him off for them and so he continued to tell them, only about 87% serious.
