Unused gun barrels are ice cold in winter. Heylel had never thought he'd learn that with one pressed to his forehead.
The white-masked dog faunus holding the trigger wasn't even paying attention. His eyes were on his two buddies, busy stripping the shelves of anything that looked expensive. Heylel counted each item they took.
Annoying.
He dragged his gaze back to the gun. Semi-auto rifle. Five-round magazine seated cleanly. Two looters. One holding the cashier. Plus the one in front of him.
Four targets. Five rounds.
Enough.
Still, he waited. The moment was coming.
Police sirens wailed outside. The dog turned his head.
Black eyes closed.
A storm stirred.
His aura flared.
Crimson eyes opened.
He lunged—one arm snapping under the barrel, throwing it skyward, the other wrenching the grip free. A kick sent the faunus crashing aside.
The one holding the cashier spun. His gun came up.
Before his finger could tighten, a bullet took him between the eyes.
His body folded backward, dead before it hit the floor.
Heylel didn't pause. One shot—the nearest looter dropped. Another round went into the faunus he'd kicked, centered cleanly between the eyes. The last mut fell with a single shot.
Silence.
Heylel flicked the safety on as blood spread across the marble tile.
Then he smelled urine. The cashier had wet himself. Heylel shook his head and tossed the rifle onto the floor.
"This is Vale PD!" a voice boomed through a megaphone.
He closed his eyes, letting the red die. With it went the storm.
Heylel raised his hands and slowly walked out of the store.
———————————————————
Reports, paramedics, and police officers. That was the order of bad, who-gives-a-fuck, and useful that Heylel had decided on for the occasion.
An interesting thing about Vale was that it inverted the usual hierarchy of power.
An officer—Vars—flipped open a datapad, lips moving as he read. "Heylel Task," he said, then stopped. His eyes flicked up.
"Task?"
"Task."
A pause. Vars glanced past him, up at the billboard mounted over the storefront.
TASK & TREATIES
Contracts. Arbitration. Enforcement.
The officer exhaled through his nose.
"I'm the second son," Heylel said.
The sigh came immediately, as if practiced.
Vars's posture shifted—shoulders straightening, voice smoothing out. "Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. You'll have to come down to the station with us. We'll need a statement."
Heylel inclined his head a fraction. "Of course."
The agreement came easy. Too easy.
Behind him, medics zipped the last body bag shut.
Vars looked away. "We'll get that report done, sir. Then I'll be out of your way."
Heylel shrugged.
That, more than anything, struck Vars.
"Come with me, sir," he said, opening the cruiser door.
Heylel followed without comment.
The ride to the station passed in silence. Neither of them tried to fill it.
The next time Heylel spoke, he was seated in an interrogation room—one with no cameras.
"Two hours, Heylel."
The words washed over him like oil.
Then the oil ignited.
"And four," his father continued. "Four dead faunus."
Heylel shifted in the steel chair, its legs scraping softly against the cold floor. He wanted a moment to think. He already had a justification—he just needed to shape it.
"It was self-defense, Father."
"Not the issue," his father said, cutting him off.
A brief pause. Not anger.
"Listen to me," he continued. "When you kill a boy, you don't just end him. You push his father. His brothers. Anyone who shared a table with him and decides blood demands blood."
The line went quiet for a heartbeat.
"Either cut down the whole tree," his father said at last, voice even, "or don't bother the branches."
Silence.
Then, "The cleanup is underway."
The line went dead.
———————————————————
Heylel leaned back in his chair. From a night out to four kills. Not the windfall he'd expected.
The storm stirred again. Quieter now.
Contained. At its center burned a cold fire. His semblance did not rage.
Four stars hung above it.
Each one detonated—light collapsing inward instead of out—feeding the storm below. The fire grew. Not much.
But measurably.
Enough.
Vale wasn't built in a day.
And neither would he be.
The door buzzed.
A red light flicked green.
"Sir," Vars said, entering, hand still on the handle. "You're free to go."
Heylel opened his eyes.
The room looked exactly as it had an hour ago—bare table, two chairs, white-tiled concrete walls. A quiet paradise.
He stood, sliding his jacket back on.
Vars walked him down the stairs. Officers worked around them, none sparing Heylel more than a glance.
At the front desk, a clerk slid a datapad from behind the bulletproof glass.
Heylel signed.
"You are clear, sir," she said, sounding almost relieved.
Outside, the night had cooled. Streetlights painted the pavement in pale gold. Across the road, a janitorial drone scrubbed at a stain that refused to fully disappear.
Vars walked him to the steps.
"Sir," he began, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "Mr. Task."
He struggled for words. "For what it's worth… you did what anyone would've done." Vars didn't know if he believed his own words.
Heylel turned just enough to look at him.
"Yes," he said—the reply he was supposed to give. "At least, I think I did."
Vars's sigh fogged in the cold.
"If you need anything. A copy of the report, or—"
"I won't."
Vars nodded anyway. Ritual mattered. "Good night, sir."
Heylel descended the steps.
A car waited at the curb. A limousine. A sharply dressed man stood by the door and bowed as Heylel approached.
"Young master."
Heylel didn't respond. He got in.
Today had been a long day.
Not that it was about to end.
When Heylel finally got home, someone was waiting.
Not his father—he had more important matters to attend to. Not his mother—she had been dead for years.
His elder brother looked up from the couch. "Heard you've had a long day."
"Good evening to you too, Andrew," Heylel said, toeing off his shoes.
"Yeah, yeah." Andrew stood and shifted aside, giving him space. Not one to disobey, Heylel took it.
He grabbed the remote and killed the television. He didn't want the noise. "What's up?"
Andrew moved to the kitchen counter. Not angry. Never that. Just a frown, and a trace of worry.
"Four," he said at last. Not a question. "That's what the reports say."
Heylel loosened his collar as he followed, rolling his shoulders once—like shrugging off a coat rather than a night. "Four."
The kitchen lights caught Andrew's hair—black like Heylel's, but worn differently. Andrew carried himself with an ease Heylel had always admired.
"You wanted quiet," Andrew said. "That was the point of sending you to Vale."
"I didn't go looking for it," Heylel replied, pouring himself a glass of water. He let it fill. Let it spill a fraction. Then set it down.
Andrew snorted softly. "You never do."
They stood in silence for a moment, Andrew's shadow falling across Heylel.
"You talk to Father?" Andrew asked.
"Briefly."
"And?"
"Consequences." Like everything else in their lives.
Andrew nodded once. That tracked.
"Cleanup?"
"Underway."
Another nod. Slower this time.
Andrew pushed off the counter and crossed the room, stopping just short of Heylel's space. He smelled faintly of dust and metal—training hall residue. He hadn't been home long either.
"You understand what this does," Andrew said quietly. "Four faunus. Armed or not, it ripples. Vale pretends it's civilized. It counts bodies."
"Bodies always count," Heylel said.
A smile tugged at Andrew's lips. Amused? Maybe. Heylel could never quite tell.
"Careful," Andrew said. "That almost sounded like philosophy."
"I killed men who were about to kill me. It isn't that philosophical."
"I know," Andrew said immediately. "Father knows. The police know. That's not the part I'm worried about."
"I know."
He turned toward the dark window.
"You've been gone a year," he continued. "Which means your vacation's over."
Heylel groaned. Andrew laughed.
"You did this to yourself," Andrew said. "Blew it wide open."
That was the point—two birds with one stone. He just seized the opportunity.
Heylel set the glass down. "Is that why you're here?"
"Partly."
"And the rest?"
Andrew hesitated—just a fraction. The only tell he'd ever had.
"The rest," he said, "is that Father wants you doing something useful with this."
"Useful how?"
Andrew smiled. Not sharp. Not amused. Thought-through.
"Useful," he repeated, almost as if tasting the word.
"That doesn't narrow it down."
"It does," Andrew said, grabbing a glass and filling it without asking. "Because if Father were angry, I wouldn't be here. And if he were disappointed, you'd still be sitting in that interrogation room."
Heylel glanced at him. "That tracks."
"You didn't need to kill them," Andrew said carefully. "But adrenaline makes decisions messy. You didn't commit a crime."
"It's always a crime," Heylel replied. "Just depends who's judging."
Andrew smiled again, softer. "That's my little brother."
"What does 'useful' look like?"
Andrew's expression shifted, almost professional.
"Vale noticed tonight," he said. "Not officially. But people talk."
Heylel nodded. He hadn't planned for it so soon but it didn't hurt to announce that Task the third was back in town.
Andrew shot him a look. "Careful."
"I am," Heylel said calmly. "As you taught me."
A beat.
"Yeah," Andrew smiled again. "That tracks."
He stepped past Heylel and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Get some rest," Andrew said. "Tomorrow, I'll explain what Father wants. And what I think you should do instead."
"Not the same thing?"
"They rarely are," Andrew said easily. "That's why you've got me."
Heylel nodded. "Good night, Andrew."
Andrew paused at the doorway. "Heylel?"
"Yes?"
"Don't ever die on me."
Then he left.
Heylel stood alone in the kitchen. The house was silent.
So was the storm.
With Andrew, it always was.
"Love you too, brother."
With that Heylel left.
———————————————————
[A/N: Thoughts?]