gregoryhale-sna:

Clockwork was well and good when you were dealing with machines, but unfortunately, humans were much less predictable. In some regards, at any rate. He held onto the gun with a firm grip and simply stared down the barrel at Gabriel—and felt his feet skid back with a squeak of protest, before he rammed against the telekinesis trying to force him into the wall. It was like a bull headlining a freight train. The bull being the telekinesis as the gravitational retort Greg produced was thrown back at Gabriel instead in reply. He was a neutralizer, baby. Anything Gabe did, the opposite would happen. And the more he tried, the harder it’d become.

In another world, another time, another place, it probably would’ve sounded kinky.

Lips creased in a near-canine snarl, Greg leveled the gun once more, blood dripping from his nose from the force he’d had to put into blocking that powerful blow. The storm victims were by default difficult for him to deal with—having to use his own abilities when confronted with them was even worse. He couldn’t falter. If Gabriel lashed out, it was attacking an officer and he would fire. He’d have to fire.

But he couldn’t let himself be provoked in the meantime. 

His blue eyes widened slightly at the mention of family, then narrowed and hardened once more. Remaining silent, the officer—chief—in question stood rock-solid on the living room floor, gun leveled and trained at Gabriel’s chest, blood slowly leaking over his upper lip and snaking its way towards his chin. The coppery taste was foul, but Gabriel’s personality was so much worse. “Son of a bitch,” Greg whispered with disgust, eyes barely visible under a pronounced, furrowed brow and the weathered creases of premature age. “Son of a fucking bitch.”

Greg didn’t want to escape, now. He had no desire to escape. He trained the gun at Gabriel, following him as the hammerhead circled. The threat rang in his ears and the gun slowly turned to face the swiveling head, watching the diseased; rabid killer pace his cage. His grave-to-be. 

Gun now aimed at Gabriel’s chest, Greg slowly arched an eyebrow and stared at the killer. The threat was obvious, jail was too good for him—the moral was there, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow it. Or could he? Should he lose his job? Say he was attacked? It didn’t matter, did it? The smirking features taunted him. The gargoyle crouched and laughed, its daemonic features twisted into a snarl of pleasure. Jenkins enjoyed this, didn’t he? He liked reveling in this sense of triumph. Preemptive and foolish as it was. 

And then he threatened Maggie.

His little girl.

His little Ariel, the princess who liked to blow bubbles, sing songs, write them, make daisy chains. His redheaded, independent feminist, his happy-go-lucky harpist. His multitalented girl with so much life to give. Like Kian had. Like Allie had. Like Peter deserved.

“God…”

The gun went off with the force of a cannon as Greg thrust the extra gravity that defied Gabriel’s telekinesis into the shot, into the chest, into whatever cavernous abyss the man possessed in place of a pumping, loving organ.

And he didn’t even blink to do it, though his eyes were full of hate, regret, and tears.

He had expected him to move - to fly back as people always did when he willed them to so, swatted them away like flies hovering around him. Surprised to find one so gifted he increased his pressure, the force of his will and resolve solid and clear.

He would fall.

He would die.

And yet he did not.

Curious.

He twitched, turning his head with a predatorial slink forward. He felt unfamiliar emotions; frustrations and anger budding within his chest. With a sneer he pressed him - he knew he would die but he would make it a painful experience for both - a double edged sword.

He would not go to jail. He would die and he would make the man remember him. He would remember his face - he would remember how he threatened his family and he would regret his temper. 

He stood there, his threat given and made the man fall.

He took the bait and shot, the bullet puncturing his chest with a sudden sharp intake of breath.

He did not feel his body slow and crumple. Or hit the floor. He merely felt victory as his eyes widened, pupils dilating.

He hated him.

It was the perfect gift to take to the grave.

He hoped the emotion would only hold and strengthen.

And that was his last.

Eyeing the smile with growing derision, Greg didn’t bother holstering the gun. Instead, his hand tightened on the handle and his finger silently undid the safety. He took no chances with psychopaths. And really, he should’ve called for backup, but chances were, the situation would’ve turned hostile with even more casualties than he’d already produced; this man. This…thing. This monster. The mention of the little girl sent a fiery spark of menace through Greg’s mind. Could’ve been his daughter. Could’ve been anybody’s daughter.

That sadistic fucking psychopath.

His finger tightened slowly on the trigger and his upper lip curled with displeasure. At the mention of Kian—that little delinquent, the miscreant with the funny accent and the big green eyes, the boy who was…he could’ve been somebody. God is gracious…God…God didn’t choose this. Gabriel was no agent of God. He might’ve worn the face of an angel but he had a black and twisted heart; impaled on Satan’s pitchfork. Greg’s hand quivered, then straightened out, and the weight of it all came crashing down on him.

Allison. Kian. His other victims. Peter’s frightened face.

…They were all just kids, somebody’s kids, how could he do this, how could anyone…

“My name is Gregory Hale,” Greg spat, voice thick with  malice and hatred. He slowly brought gravity down on Gabriel with each step he took towards him, gun aimed at the other man’s face. “And you, Gabriel Jenkins, have the fucking goddamn right to remain silent, and that’s the only fucking right I’m reading you, you disgusting, freakish son of a BITCH!”

Hearing the click set off the silent ticking in the back of his mind, like clockwork really his eyes began to search for unseen weapons. Gregory very much had the upper hand - and he undid the safety, smart man. The body had many sensitive spots, if he could jar him long enough. He had tried to call on his abilities, to send the man back into the wall as he did most of his victims, to let them feel the rush of helplessness as their weapons flew out of their hands and into his.

Depending on his mood he could be a servant of God or Satan. He had enough devilishly dark, straight cut looks to suggest his name was the only indication of Light. He was not a follower or a Holy man but he did believe that he would rewrite His word, surpass Himself even. Some would call it madness and heretical - but science and exploration was just that - madness - and how he liked to experiment. 

He was a family man. The way his expression changed at the mention of the young lady intrigued him. “Do you have children Gregory? I bet you do.” he asked, prying. “Do you love them properly? Because speaking as an expert - I’ve spoken to many a distraught young soul - the parents really do shape them. It’s amazing how just one tiny misstep can lead them to life of uncertainty. I see that in all my victims. Alison, Kian….” he laughed suddenly, “Peter.” He leaned forward, tempting the cop to push him back, eyes alight with mirth at his discomfort and agitation. “So easy to mislead, so easy to break. So unfulfilling to kill but with the emergence of these abilities even I will stoop back to such a level.” 

Leaning back he circled him, closing the door and leaned against it, his means of escape gone. “Of course I have the right. I’ve always had rightness Mr. Hale. And you are in my home now so I have whatever right I wish to have.” He cracked his neck, twisting his head to the side. “Even the right to kill you.”

His outburst was comical really. It reminded him of his own father and the way he used to turn purple after one to many beers and his mother decided to change the game to one of her shows. The violence that followed had been exhilarating. However to proceed with Greg though? The gun in his face he wrapped a hand around it, lowering it to point at his chest, taking a step forward. “You only get one shot Greg,” he threatened with teasing, “you should do all the children of this world a favor. Because jail?” His face twisted into an expression of utter glee, “is too good for me. And you should know the first child on my list if I ever - oooooo - escaped?” He leaned forward against the barrel of the gun, the cool metal making him tingle through the fabric of his shirt, “would be your son or daughter.”