ITS ALREADY OVER | {OPEN, VISITOR?}

[beck.]

    He was a filthy hypocrite. Loathing Killua's coworkers and spitting at their self-entitled feet because they prided themselves to be so much better than sloppy murderers. Maybe they were and he was wrong; at the end of the day, a life would still be stolen away and with only one person responsible. Or in Beck's vindictive memory, multiple. Multiple bowstrings had been the ones to let loose arrows even if only one met its mark, multiple boots had been kicked into his ribcage and a face shielded with bloodied palms, multiple hands had bruised and pinned his thrashing form beneath the rivers surface, and multiple faces sneered in his fading vision at their success. He was the victim, yet that didn't excuse the multiple throats torn and multiple families either slaughtered or traumatized in the name of his forgotten justice. Even before the street urchin was executed, he could have been labelled as a killer too, despite it lacking a foreign name. His first kill was an accident, or he desperately wanted to believe it was. Beck couldn't remember the instigating factor -- but he could remember staring up at a dead-end alley with overheated panting fluttering in his shallow chest. The clink of metal armor was close on his heels, and he almost scaled the wall cornering him right next to his assumed untimely demise. If it weren't for a gloved hand yanking the boy off the wall by his tunic's collar and flinging him to the dirt path. Distorted memories told him that he was swift to recover despite the ugly bruises that would darken afterwards, stumbling backwards and away from a looming figure until his back was pinned against the brick wall. A blade was drawn from its sheath, glinting in the plain sunlight of day, and adrenaline forced him to not accept an end to his lowly existence just yet. He lashed out right as the sword swung at his head, kicking at the guard's shin with shuddering force that knocked him off balance and saved his head. The sword's tip grazed his ear and cheek, but he could hardly sense the stinging pain and sticky warm blood gushing down the left side of his face. No, all he could focus on was survival. Kill or be killed, right? His bandaged-wrapped hand found its way to a nearby brick separate from its brothers on the wall, or perhaps it was a heavy stone. Before the guard could push himself off the ground, the scrawny street rat was on him, kneeling on his chest as the brick was raised above his head. Unfortunately, no amount of time could erase from his mind what happened next. He wasn't quite sure which was worse: the sickening crunch of metal and flesh and eventually bone against the brick's surface or the bloody pulp the man's face was beaten into. Unrecognizable and a crimson mess of shredded tissue with shards of bones and teeth poking out from odd places. Beck could still see a filmy eye staring up at him, almost pleadingly, before a few more blunt impacts deformed the face from an actual skull into a lumpy puddle. The man was long-dead by the time Beck's frenzy ebbed off into a twitchy numbness. He sat back staring beyond the corpse for a while, hugging scraped knees to his redstained chest and rocking hypnotically. There was silence for a while until the birds began to chirp again, and bloodthirsty flies buzzed around them both. Swatting away the insects from the dying scarlet ooze painting his entire front, the only fresh blood now was trickling from a clean cut through his ear's cartilage and a thin laceration marring his freckle cheek. He finally moved after an eternity, not an ounce of guilt or disgust twisting his guts into guilty knots. Instead, he merely patted down the body looking for supplies, rifling through pockets and turning up nothing helpful but an untouched dagger. Slicing it from its sheath with the guard's own sword, Beck admired the weapon for a heartbeat before wrenching the guard's belt off and tying it around his comically smaller waist. Tucking the dagger into a new sheath, the boy didn't look back at the man as he resumed his escape.

    Getting away with manslaughter was a difficult task, as he quickly found at. While evading capture, he failed to keep the sin a secret for long, and bounties were placed on his young head. The last few years of his life were not spent only struggling to steal enough for himself to survive, but now people of all backgrounds wanted him for themselves. He bet they would fight nail and tooth just to turn him over to the authorities, pulling at his arms and legs in a greedy tug-o-war. While he could handle citizens making the brave move to grab at him and the occasional guard get-away, there were others: bounty hunters and assassins. The most memorable encounter went over smoothly, with Beck in an impromptu armlock hoisting him off his feet and leaving him wriggling like a fish on a hook. A tightening grip was locked around his wrist, and after his kicking and shrill yelling didn't work, the boy twisted his wrist in a single jerk, with a snap of joint bones sending a wave of pain up his entire arm. The desperate motion had enough force behind it to wrench himself from their clutches, and he managed to escape once more with only a broken wrist bent at an askew angle. Fun memories of fun times. Killua would be able to hear incorrectly-healed bones click together from the exact same wrist as the poltergeist shifted his weight on the branch, glowering down at the brat as he spoke through a mouthful of chocolate. He had enough close encounters to know how assassins functioned -- they assumed attack and were trained to avoid them. Even as Beck studied the albino serval from above with a burning glare, he sharply snorted back, "You're no fun yourself, ya know. Who wants to just sit and chat? An old lady knitting club. Betcha use those fancy-shmancy claws of yours to knit." So what if he wasn't technically within territory? He was still communicating with his members and Beck had a right to protect them from outside threats. "Why ya hidin' your scent then? If you were just here to 'chat', ya wouldn't have to hide yourself. I have every damn right to be suspicious of a stranger, clearly hiding their identity matter-o'-fact, with weapons for hands tryna poison my members with stupid-ass chocolate!" Beck's grating voice rose broke into a shrill hiss, yet he didn't make a move on Killua. That would be expected. Killua was expecting an attack, obvious by the way he was listening for Beck's movements, and Beck wouldn't give him the satisfaction of egging him onto a fight. Licking away chemical drool from his disfigured lips, the boy mumbled in response to the last insult, "Maybe I will if ya get off your high horse." His thoughts were preoccupied with worming around the predictable barrier of action at this point, glancing down at Belladonna and the travelling leopard with a concerned glance.

    The worse type of lightbulb went off in his deranged brain; the only thing that Killua wouldn't be prepared to defend himself from would be an act of love or romance, like he had seen in the movies. A kiss. Yuck, God no. Yet he couldn't brainstorm any better option that wouldn't end with the bystanders being hurt or Beck actively starting a fight. Well, it wasn't like it would be his first kiss. Besides, he had done stranger things to get out of difficult situations -- including murder. This option was far better than spilling blood on his border that he would have to clean up later. Instead of tackling Killua out of the tree like originally planned, Beck wobbled forward and dropped down in front of him, scarred features twisted with an unreadable grimace. Before Killua could question anything, Beck lurched forward and aimed to plant clammy, bloodless lips right smack dab on top of the serval's, wrapping his claws around the other's head to prevent him from escaping. It tasted like chocolate. Gross, gross, gross. He was going to chug cleaning chemicals again now. After agonizing seconds, seconds way longer than necessary, the boy recoiled with a gag and a smirk at the same time. He watched for any reaction, preferably for the serval to turn tail and retreat in disgust, but at least he had proved a point. The point that Beck was outright insane enough to kiss a hostile stranger just to chase him away.

/ fight me sorrel (ง'̀-'́)ง i had to go into past flashback to compete with you hAH

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