jab with the right; Sebastian oneshot

[charade]

s e b a s t i a n .


"Spirit of a lion describes my soul
Give it up to Zion then my fire grows
Wishing of a riot inside my lobe
And my trippin is the highest when I fight my foes"

Sebastian stared at the gun in his hand and wondered how his life had taken this turn. He supposed he’d always known it was going to end this way. Panem was built on violence, inundated by it. District nine’s local history were a few pints of blood in the crimson ocean that was his country.

What were a couple more drops?

He rose from the edge of the bed he was sitting on, and walked slowly over to the mirror, tucking the pistol into his belt as he did so. The face staring back at him was rueful, though for what reason, he could not say. He’d accepted it. His time was now over. He couldn’t keep up with the large crime families, and every year he could feel his reaction time slipping. Being a gangbanger was a young man’s game, and he had not achieved the clout to turn his gang into a mafia.

It was time at last for an ending.

Just over thirty-two, and he’d never moved on from Zanita. Never stopped kicking himself for not volunteering and dying by her side. Oh sure, there’d been other women since then. But none he’d done more than sleep with. He couldn’t give any of them his heart when it had died when her canon sounded. He rubbed his hands together, feeling the calluses and the scars, medals from a hundred fistfights; here was a line on his palm from where he’d gripped a shard of broken glass, using it as a blade to shank someone who’d mouthed off to him on a bad day. Over there was a dime-sized circle of a bullet wound.

His body was a patchwork tapestry that told the tale of a life committed to the pursuit of glory, and the violent road he’d walked since he was a child. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling for every bump, every raised line of skin. Blades, bullets, a screwdriver by his ribs. A dozen bones that had been fractured and healed and fractured again. And yet, he knew there were scars that people couldn’t see. Sebastian had never put much stock in psychiatry, but he knew himself well enough to hazard a few guesses.

There were scars he had that no one could see. A short, bloody life will do that to a person. He’d killed his first man when he was nineteen, and after more than a decade of a criminal lifestyle, he’d lost count. There were always people disappearing in the district, and he’d been responsible for his fair share. But a piece of him had died every time. Beneath the cold and brutal exterior, the world saw when they looked at him, was a man searching for something better. He’d never found it. It couldn’t be found in the money he’d been paid to slit throats or the money he’d stolen lifting wallets.

It couldn’t be found in the status he’d spent so long chasing, the women and the alcohol; He couldn’t find meaning in the past, and he realized there was nothing in the future either. Nothing, except leaving the mark he’d always desired. Sebastian pulled out a comb and began to straighten the tangled mess that was his mane. He’d thought about wearing his best suit, but he’d admitted to himself that that wasn’t him. A simple sleeveless shirt and faded denim jeans would suffice. A good pair of boots. He kept a knife tucked into the one on the right. The pistol on his belt wasn’t enough firepower though.

It was why he’d strapped the shotgun to his back. Why there was a second pistol on his other side. A bandolier of ammo. It had taken him years to figure it out, but he knew who the real enemy was now. Those who truly deserved his ire. District nine was full of people who would never get out of the rut they were in. And it wasn’t because of the rival gangs, it wasn’t because of the lack of food and clothing and money that everyone fought over. It was because of the Capitol. Leaving them in this state for so long. Keeping him from achieving his goal of glory. Taking Zanita from him. Cutting Slate down in her prime. He would never be one of them, the rich, the elite. He could never have the status that they were born with. He was a nobody, another face on the street to be pitied and feared by those who had never known hunger or want.

They would know fear before the day over.

He took one last look at himself in the mirror, studying the scar over his eye intently. It was his first scar. The one his father had given him during a drunken bender. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. Those with the power to make others afraid held the real power in the world. It was why he’d dedicated his life to being physically imposing, to exude an aura of menace. A pity it had taken him this long to realize he’d been scaring the wrong people.

But there was one thing that was difficult to figure out, and that was determining what had been the final straw for him. It had been building for the last nine years. Ever since the Capitol had revealed they had the technology to cheat death. Four years ago, they had condemned a batch of tributes to a second death, and something in Sebastian had snapped. Perhaps it was knowing they could have done the same for Zanita. Perhaps it was realizing that the government had long since reached a level of power he could only dream of.

Or perhaps it was the thought that with such technology, the people at the top could remain there indefinitely, never dying, never creating an opening for someone like him to get a piece of the pie. He wasn’t sure what he hated more, the thought that they could be immortal, or knowing that immortality was denied him.

Well, there was more than one way to be remembered by history.

His hair done, Sebastian set the comb down and headed for the front door. There would be no note. His motive would remain a mystery, something for people to ponder in the years to come. Sebastian Rothul would be a household name. That, he was certain of. Before he left, he grabbed a satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

He stepped out into the sun, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before making a beeline for the Justice Building. He’d been planning this for weeks; he had the rotation down. At the lunch hour, there were few people milling about, and he’d make it to the front door just as the peacekeeper shift had changed. There would be no one else in the area. The few members of the Pride that were left were causing a distraction several blocks over, and he’d called in a bomb threat several minutes ago. Only one last thing to attend to.

Sebastian pulled a syringe out of his pocket and injected a dose of pcp he’d gotten on the black market a week ago. It was breaking his own rule in his gang about not using drugs, but he didn’t care anymore. Rules didn’t matter. Rules were for people that cared about participating in society.

He slipped the shotgun off his back as he approached the front door. If he’d timed it right, the peacekeeper that would be guarding it would be exiting the interior to take up their post right about—

The door opened and a man wearing white walked out, chewing a mouthful of something, his helmet held in the crook of one arm and a sandwich with a few bites taken out of it in his other hand. Sebastian could see the man’s eyes widening but in those scant seconds, Sebastian had already fired. Crimson blossomed in the officer’s chest as he was blown backwards through the door. Sebastian stepped over his body and fired to his right, where he knew there’d be another man sitting. The wall behind the second man was painted with blood and bits of bone and brain matter.

Sebastian tossed the shotgun aside. Peacekeepers would be coming down the stairs to first floor now, and with their weapons drawn, being cautious after hearing the gunfire. He would not have time to reload, so he took the pistols out and dove behind a desk.

“Come out with your hands up!” someone shouted from the stairwell. Sebastian darted up and fired, heedless of the danger. He could afford to be reckless. He did not intend on living past the next five minutes. Someone on the second floor would have called it in already, triggered the silent alarm. The Justice Building would be surrounded. A pity for them that it would also be on fire. He opened the satchel, pulling out a Molotov and hurling it in the direction of the staircase.

He didn’t expect it to kill, but it would trap the rest of them up there. It ignited upon exploding, and he tossed another towards the back of the lobby.

It was then that he got shot in the shoulder by a peacekeeper who jumped the blaze forming at the foot of the stairs. Sebastian howled in pain and fired back, but got charged. They were on the floor, a tangle of bodies, punching, clawing, kicking, screaming. He felt a sharp pain and realized he’s just been stabbed, and with his own knife. A sudden fury gripped him and his hands found the peacekeepers neck. He tightened his grip as the man climbed atop him, snarling at his reflection in the peacekeeper’s darkened helmet and pushing with all his might. To the officer’s credit, Sebastian got stabbed again before he could snap the man’s neck.

The body collapsed onto him and Sebastian heaved it off, struggling back to his feet. A bullet hit him in the chest as another peacekeeper fired from the stairwell, trying to get past the fire. Sebastian’s aim found its mark twice, coloring another white jacket with red. But he was finding it hard to breathe, and not just because of the smoke filling the room. He’d always known it would end this way, but his thoughts were slipping away from him. He saw her face as his vision swam, tasted copper on his tongue.

He felt cold, despite the rising heat.

That was right. That was honest, that was true. He’d always been cold. Cold in demeanor. He’d spent many a cold night on the streets before he’d pulled himself out of the gutter, remade the street urchin he was into a man to be feared, fought and sweat and bled for everything he owned, for everything he’d achieved, only to realize it was worthless. But not him. He still had his pride. He would fade into the dark like so many others. For once, for once one of societies castaways would have a turn in the spotlight.

And without the need for a silly children’s game.

This was not violence as it was marketed to the masses, with statistics, drama, commentary and souvenirs; this was rage and pain in its simplest and purist form. The violence of the streets. Sebastian pulled his knife out of his stomach and cast it to the ground.

He staggered out of the building, his organs failing, blood gushing from his wounds and a grin plastered on his face as the pcp flooding his veins refused to let his body acknowledge the damage. He knew he was dying; there was likely less than thirty seconds before it was over. There were at least a dozen peacekeepers in front of him, several feet away, all with their weapons raised. Whatever they were yelling he could no longer hear. But with the last erg of his strength he raised the pistols in his hands to fire as a bloody roar escaped his lips.

He had always been a lion. 

A hail of gunfire tore into him.

Sebastian Rothul was dead before he hit the ground.

elegant