ONESHOTS - Markicest, Darkstache, & More

Prologue | Flashwave - Darkstache

Hey, all! This is the prologue to my Darkstache fic "FLASHWAVE" that I decided to quit writing. The draft has been sitting in my Google Docs for months now, so I thought I'd share it. Hope you enjoy! <3

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Blood mixed in the water.

    "Let's try this again," slurred Wilford, pacing around the tank. He bent down and tore Abe's head out of the water, nails digging into his skin.

    Abe coughed and spluttered. Gasped for air. Water ran down his face, his body. Soaked his blood-wet clothes.

    "Who," hissed Wilford, "do you work for."

    Abe spat blood in Will's face. Eyes furious.

    "Like hell I'd tell you."

    Wilford bared his teeth. He shoved Abe's head back into the water, the cold plunging up his arm.

    Abe thrashed, knees slipping on the muddy concrete.

    "Jack," called Will as he wiped his face, watching as Abe struggled for his life. "Call Host over now."

    Jack broke from the crowd of gun-clad gangsters, rushing off to the other end of the warehouse.

    Wilford's muscles flexed as he bashed Abe's head into the bottom of the tank. Blood blossomed. Thickened the water. So red. Perfect.

    Will pulled Abe out. Beat his head into the edge of the tank. Abe cried out. Blood ran down his face.

    "I'm this close, Detective," spat Will.

    Abe lurched, throwing up water in the tank. His lips shook, spit hanging off his chin.

    "Beat me down all you want," he gargled. "I'll n—"

    Wilford shoved him into the water, giving a loud, dramatic sigh. It echoed through the darkness of the warehouse.

    "One of you—take over for me," he groaned. One of his men came forward and kept Abe's head down in the water. Wilford stood and scoffed as he brushed himself off, rolling up his soggy sleeves with distaste.

    "This is Armani silk," he complained, and he stomped on Abe's legs heel first. "Custom made."

    Abe screamed through the water.

    As Abe thrashed and struggled, a man parted through the crowd of gangsters. He held his chin up in high regard, everything about him bleeding Wilford's right-hand man. His trench coat hung off his body smoothly, and as he walked forward, he seemed to glide right up to Wilford.

    "You called?" said the Host, voice a monotonous and domineering drawl. His copper eye glinted, the other concealed behind a bloodied eyepatch. Behind them, the sounds of splashing water and struggling scuffs echoed through the building. Host's eye trailed over to the violent scene.

    "He'll give soon," said Wilford, and he turned around, his eyes glittering with a sadistic delight as Abe's body began to violently twitch.

One...

Two...

    "Let him up, kid," called Wilford, and the man pulled Abe out of the water. As Abe coughed and spluttered, Wilford beckoned for Host to follow. He pulled out his signature, golden gun as they approached, and Wilford kneeled beside Abe, grabbing his shirt and tugging him so the gun dug into his throat.