Scene 4 part 1 || God and My Right

[Donald Finn O'Neill-Kirkland]

Donald had been in colder weather, but never had he endured this sort of winter. London bridge at midnight could not look more menacing from ground level, with the encroaching fog surrounding this iconic structure like a grey-clad army. The fog had consumed half of the bridge, and beyond his view was something between hazy line and absolute nothingness. Right when it started to drizzle, Donald humored himself with the thought that it could not have been a more opportune moment for it to rain. The gusts were strong, and the scent of earthy petrichor brought along the prospect of storm. A rumble of thunder rolled from behind the grey clouds, war drums beating for what was to come.

The air bit at his flesh, pricking what life he had on his complexion, but all the same, he felt no pain. Donald knew this was it, and he stood alone on this bridge, one that would normally be so crowded and bustling was desolate. A thought about Seamus disposing everything within this area made Donald feel goosebumps, and it rode down the lifeline of his spine.

Do not mistake it for fear. Donald was bristling with anger and resolve. Vaughan was gone--the rookie disappeared, and God knew where he went. But what the Welsh did leave behind was a tip to go to the elevator. With no other choice, Donald made his lonely trek forward into the fog, toward a direction made clear by memory. A sharp ding caught his attention, and when he turned to face the elevator, there was Seamus behind closing doors. A wicked smile was on his face, those eyes a steel blue death. A millisecond was enough to capture the distinct insanity of his expression, and it was enough to ignite Donald's ire.

He bounded towards the elevator, but the doors shut by the time he got there. Donald gave it a strong fist out of frustration, and he seethed as he impatiently pressed the button simultaneously to go up. Damn that guy. Damn him to Hell.

Seconds turned to minutes, but it felt like hours as Donald wallowed in the miasma of his imagination. Aoife, Victoria, Westley, Vaughan... Why did he have to include them?

This was their fight, between two men of the same kind. Donald could not deign to comprehend exactly what was running through Seamus' mind. As Donald pressed his forehead against the cold, metal wall, he took the moment's respite to think, to recollect, and to reminisce.

Yes... Donald understood now. This was what he had done once to that family...

Tears glistened in his eyes. Retribution? Donald grunted as he wiped away the tears with his sleeve. There was no God in that, he affirmed, and there is no God in this either.

God won't have a hand on this either. This was entirely human, and like humans do, they will war, fight, and protect. This amped him up, and made him stand taller, his expression was calmer. The doors opened once more, and he stepped in before it started raining harder.

He pressed the button to go up, and waited in silence. Donald mumbled a prayer underneath his breath; God may not be here but at least he could acknowledge his piety. Give me strength, is all I need. The strength to save them as Jesus did to so many...

Another sound of the elevator, and Donald opened his eyes. The rain was pouring, and it tittered against the paved ground. When the doors opened, the wind sent in a sharp chill, but Donald made no flinch. He stepped out, his hand balled in fists.

[Deleted]

Séamus Ó Ceallaigh was an incredibly cautious man in many respects. Though he had no idea that his first plan would be a failure (of course, this was not the outcome he had been hoping for, but c’est la vie~), he had thought it best to have a back-up plan, just in case. Now, he was revelling in his attentiveness. This might just end up working out for the better, at this rate. It was bound to be much more dramatic and exciting. The rain certainly helped to set this atmosphere. Ah yes~ Séamus was going to enjoy this!

He had made sure that himself, his followers, and most importantly, his guests were at Tower Bridge a little bit earlier than Donald was scheduled to arrive. Of course, Séamus knew that good ol’ Donny boy wasn’t going to be late for this – there were far too many lives on the line at this point to risk putting in jeopardy by showing up after the arranged time. Thus, Séamus had made sure to time everything perfectly, for dramatic effect of course. The audience had been sent up in the lift earlier, and told to make themselves comfortable. Séamus on the other hand, had waited right until the last minute to head up himself. And my, wasn’t it worth it. The very sight of his ginger foe looking so very helpless was enough to bring a wickedly cruel sneer to his face.

Their eyes had locked for a moment, icy cold blue meeting ire-fuelled green, and already the tension had sky-rocketed. Oh, this would be glorious.

The Irishman had hardly been able to contain his laughter as he waited patiently for the lift to reach its final destination. It was only when finally, he stepped out of the elevator, that the man doubled over and let out a manic cackle, which filled the air around them like the threatening call of thunder. This was already so perfect; he still had yet to even directly address Mr. O’Neill-Kirkland, yet already the other man looked as though he wanted to kill him, as though he knew that Séamus was going to die.

Séamus couldn’t wait to see the look when Donald would realise he was the one who was going to die tonight.

Finally, the man composed himself, letting his laughter simmer down into a mirthful sigh. The four men from the syndicate Séamus had decided to bring along with him were probably looking at their leader as though he was insane (which he probably was), but the Irishman himself didn’t seem to care in the slightest. He simply straightened upright, adjusted his tie, and then allowed his eyesight to fall upon the four other Kirklands who were to be attending the show tonight.

Westley Walters-Kirkland, Victoria Anderson-Kirkland, Vaughan Rees-Kirkland, and finally, Aoife O’Neill.

“You know, your cousin,” he began confidently, then he allowed himself to pause and glanced at the redhead of the group, before adding, “Or brother, in some cases, is as tenacious as a cockroach. I’m looking forward to crushing him under my shoe tonight.”

A devilish smirk was playing at his lips as he observed the four of them, all seated in identical wooden chairs with their wrists tied to the armrests and their ankles bound together with thick rope, just to prevent anyone running off at such a crucial scene. Westley and Victoria had both been blindfolded in order to prevent them from identifying Séamus or his comrades, especially as two were the most likely to survive tonight. Vaughan and Aoife on the other hand – they had all met before, so really, what was the point in worrying about them recognising his face? Besides… those two might end up dead anyway.

Speaking of the Welshman in the group, Séamus found it amusing to see his head bowed in… was that shame? Awh, the poor baby. Séamus would have shed a tear for him, had he actually felt any remorse. No, his pathetic, pitiful state was far too amusing to take in a regretful way.

“Don’t feel so depressed, Vaughan,” Séamus’ thick Irish accent cooed at the other man condescendingly, his smirk only growing wider. “Your family probably would have ended up in this situation without your input either way, sooner or later.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ó Ceallaigh!”

An eyebrow was quirked in amusement, and Séamus span on his heels to face the woman who had made the exclamation. Aoife O’Neill was glaring at him furiously, something which only added to his own enjoyment out of the entire situation. After all, she had been in his care the longest out of any of the Kirkland family – a full week. Yet, her spunk and fiery temperament had yet to die down; if anything it had grown. It would certainly be interesting to see that be smothered out by the end of the night.

Making a soft “tsk” noise, the man wagged a finger at her, as though he was scolding a small child. “Now, now, Miss O’Neill. What did I tell you about keeping your temper~?”

Without giving her a chance to reply, Séamus turned once more so his back was facing his prisoners, yet he was staring intently at the elevator, just waiting for Donald to step out. “You can remove their blindfolds now. I’m sure they’re just dying to see the show~” he called out over his shoulder to the thugs standing behind the captives, who obediently removed the material which had once been covering Westley and Victoria’s eyes.

Then, right on cue, the doors of the elevator slid open, and out stepped the star of the show himself: Donald Finn O’Neill-Kirkland.

Séamus’ grin increased a thousand fold, his eyes frozen and full of maliciousness. “So, you finally made it, Donny boy.” The words were dripping with venom, pure bitterness laced with a toxic poison which clearly showed the disgust the Irishman felt towards the other. “Welcome. We’re all so very glad that you decided to join us all tonight.” With those words said, he gestured behind him to the four Kirklands, his eyes never once leaving Donald’s.

Now the show was about to begin.

[Deleted]

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LIVING ON FALSE HOPE

[attr="class","next"]Traitor. Weak. Dependent. Selfish. Cowardly. Hopeless. Worthless. Heartless. Senseless. Inhumane. Murderer. Criminal. Liar. Two-faced. A defanged snake with no bite, letting the venom rot inside it's head and poison its thoughts, thus slurring its actions into some mindless attempt to just find someplace to die in peace without disturbance... and yet its very presence is the greatest disturbance of all, drawing those around it in and potentially infecting them with the disease brought on by touching a rotting animal.

Fingers fiddled numbly with the rope cutting off circulation at his wrists, tightening themselves with each movement. He wasn't sure if he was actually putting in as much effort as he may have claimed to get free, or if he was seeking that grip on his hands as though it would stop him from doing anything else to harm those around him. He couldn't even lift his head, feeling an unseen weight on his shoulders that bore down on his entire body in a crushing manner that made it difficult to breath. He caught himself holding his breath, listening for the sound of breathing around him. He kept thinking to himself about what he would do if one of them stopped... Westley wasn't in great shape. He'd been pushing it by drugging the child. What if his heart reacted badly? What if he'd had an allergic reaction? He felt like an idiot, but he wanted Wes to have the least amount of knowledge. Maybe then he wouldn't be as effected as everyone else.

Everyone else... Like Victoria who he'd pulled a gun on. She hadn't gained as much information as she'd probably hoped while interrogating him in the car. It was just like his lawyer sibling to not let up even in stressful situations. At least she and Aoife had that much.

Vaughan, on the other hand, flinched at the mere mention of his name. The words that oozed out of that man's mouth made him feel sick. How did that saying go? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar? That fit this man fairly well. There was a certain charm to his words, but at the same time it left a bad taste in your mouth... And surely enough you would come to regret ever getting a taste of it, later.

Biting down on his lower lip when Aoife snapped at Seamus, Vaughan seemed to curl up further into his chair. He couldn't say anything. Couldn't even defend himself.

He felt his blood run cold when the command to remove their blindfolds reached his ears. Now he looked up, wide-eyed and panicked. He opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it... Perhaps because he didn't want to listen to his own disgusting voice. He'd hoped that Victoria and Westley wouldn't have to see anything. He wanted them to never see anything, and then when it was all over he'd take them away from here and remove their blindfolds.

The ding of the elevator caught his attention and he glanced over. The moment he spotted the redhead, however, he returned to looking down at the ground.

He wanted to say sorry, but his mouth felt far too dry to speak.

He wanted to disappear, but physics prevented it.

He wanted to redo everything and warn everyone, but it was far too late.

It sucks being you, doesn't it? Failure of the century... A man who can't escape the past, possibly because there's no apparent future for him.

"I'm so sorry..." He mouthed the words, but still not a single sound escaped him. "Donny, please don't die."

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[Westley Walters-Kirkland]

He felt like he was splitting in two.

Each breath that had the unfortunate fate to force it's way through his chest pained him, a discomfort he hadn't experienced in a long while. His lungs felt stiff, as if they were carved from marble, and so brittle that they would shatter at the slightest touch. Then again, it felt like no matter how deep the breath he just couldn't get enough air to satisfy him. He knew he was far too anxious for his own good, it was even worse knowing there was nothing he could do about it but count his breaths as they came.

One...two...

Just like he was taught.

Breathe in, hold, release and relax himself for a moment before taking another.

One. Two. Staccato. Pull the bow back sharply, pause, than the shift in direction. A steady hand gave a clear unfaltering note, hesitation having no place in such a confident style of sound. For a moment he was a child again, sitting in the music room with a cello double his size pressed up against him. Rosin dust coated his slacks and stickied his fingers, the boy soothed by the quaint piney scent that hugged him close. He wanted to be back there, not chilled to the bone sitting on a bridge in the heart of Pommyland.

Honestly, where was Seamus's shame? The poor Kiwi was shivering, a bad taste in his mouth and nausea from whatever had knocked him out, and of course absolutely terrified. He wanted to cry, desperately wanted someone to come save him and hold him tight so he'd feel safe. Tears were hardly a solution in this situation, they brought shame not sympathy. He was helpless to do anything but focus on keeping his breathing steady, and even that he was rapidly loosing control of.

It was far easier to focus on little things like his numb fingers and chaffed wrists rather than the situation at hand. He didn't want to think about Vaughan, the one who seemed to be behind his whole involvement in this predicament. Honestly, he wasn't even able to find anything to be angry about. It just was...painful to be betrayed if that was what this had been in the first place. The Welshman had been so gentle, pulling him up into hugs and fussing over him to be sure that he was always feeling well. There was no way he could understand what had led him to do something like this to him, it was something he found himself unable to comprehend and far worse it was painful to even try.

Westley was still trapped in darkness, the colorful cast of voices that he had awoken to not ones that he could recall hearing prior. If there was anything he could say about himself that was proving useful in the situation it was his quick wit. The one with the thick accent was the mastermind behind it, or if not the brains he was the face. Some Irish bloke by the sound of it, he wouldn't have figured it out if the angered woman hadn't shouted out the identifying name. Secondly, Vaughan was there...somewhere...and whatever this event was he was to witness it was about to begin.

For a moment a warm breath brushed his neck as he felt his blindfold fiddled with and then fall away, revealing the stage he had been brought to watch. It was almost like a movie set, with the dramatic high of adrenaline and bloodshed soon to come. The antagonist was seeming to enjoy his part, the stance he took facing the elevators just annoying him. He was so sure of himself, everything Westley was not, this was a moment he seemed to want to savor and he had to ruin the memory no matter what would happen after.

He might have a runny nose, a spinning head, and happen to barely be able to hold himself up, but he was still as petty and vengeful as ever. Westley had to be like Kyle, if there was anyone who could grin fearlessly and piss everyone off their rockers it was that stupid Aussie. If he could muster up a little bit of that courage...maybe...it could accomplish at least something more than anything he could.

The Kiwi forced himself to sit up, continuing to count his breaths evenly as he gripped the armrests to hide the tremble in his numb fingertips. This was staccato too, words without any hesitation, a clear and steady tone.

"God...he looks bent from behind doesn't he?" the boy announced clearly, his lips curving up into a soft smile as he slipped behind a calm and collected mask. "Swish those hips at any nice rams lately Sheepshagged? Sure you whinged the first few goes, but a few good bonks in you were lining up with the rest of the ewes. Weren't ewe now?"

He took a deep breath to make sure he was still alright and wanted to keep going, to put it all out there the utter trash he was spewing made him quite a bit better. "I mean...it's probably not your fault to be honest Cuz, everyone on these blasted islands seem to have FITH Syndrome. Thick as pig shitte, the lot of you. Though even the Poms didn't want the Cat-lick Paddies it seems."

The grip on the armrests tightened as he dropped farther down the rabbit hole, hopefully the barb at the Irish hit home and broke his composure. It would be awkward if he was actually a Scottie or something and agreed with him. All he wanted was to break the man's composure, momentarily take the control away and leave him to flounder. Anything to put him on edge and take away an inkling of rational thinking to make his plan shatter to pieces.

He continued to smile, a fake composure the only thing that he had to use as leverage. A bluff, and a horrible one at that, but at least Kyle would be proud of how foul his mouth had gotten.

The kid didn't know anything about what was happening, nor why. The tension had been foreign to him and an ugly uneasy feeling seemed to have been coagulating in his gut like that time his mum had failed making Christmas pudding, so he just sliced it with a chainsaw. For a few moments he had been strong and sure of himself, yet now the tune had shifted and he fought to keep upright rather than slumped back. Spiccato overtook him, his heartbeat matching the unsteady notes that sounded in his head.

Now to breathe...

One. Two.

One. Two.

The smile stayed stiff on his face as he closed his eyes, preferring that sight to the dreary scene that was sure to grow ugly. All he had to do was remember to keep breathing and fight the nausea that returned with his weakness. The marmite and cheese sandwich Kyle had made for lunch was sure to come up, he could feel it rising up without a way for him to quell it. There wasn't a blessed thing he could do to stop the half digested mass from splattering over his lap, shattering the last bit of composure he had been clinging to for security.

His breath quickened, watery green gems widening in fear as it hitched for a moment and he gagged, bile dripping down his chin. The acrid taste seared into his tongue went unnoticed, the boy's shoulders twitching as his breathing spiraled far out of his control. His heart was so painful that it felt as if it was swelling up to burst like an overfilled balloon, joints aching, throat feeling so tight. At least he wouldn't cry, no matter what he wouldn't fall that far.

[Deleted]

VICTORIA ANDERSON-KIRKLAND (I AM THE BEST)

Being blindfolded and having her hands bound by rope wasn't something Victoria particularly enjoyed, unless in the bedroom.

This, however, was far from a bedroom. There was a distinct lack of comfort, and a few other variety of obvious reasons she could go on and on to list, but this was not the time nor place to do it. She needed to remain focused here; she couldn't afford anything less.

A non-consensual loss of vision was a very frustrating thing, indeed, and Victoria had to do everything in her power to remain quiet. Her urge to make snarky comments to the grunts who had dragged them up the Tower Bridge was no good, and wouldn't serve to do anything except perhaps an outcome of physical violence -- something that she wasn't very keen on finding out for once in her life.

No, it would be best to keep her mouth shut for now. There may be chances later, especially to find out information on what was happening specifically.

But seeing as there were grunts involved, this must be someone with power from an organization of sorts. A mafia? A syndicate? An underground ring? It could be any and all of the aforementioned, but Victoria was set on narrowing down who exactly her brother had been involved with.

After being settled down as comfortably possible in such hard chairs, Victoria could hear the familiar ding of the elevator they had come up in. Clearly, someone else had arrived -- the ring leader?

The sound of ugly laughter -- most certainly masculine -- filled the top of the Tower, and Victoria scowled. What a horrible racket.

Footsteps echoed as the mysterious man approached, and squeaked to a stop as he halted in front of them. “You know, your cousin,” Irish. There was no doubt, it was an incredibly distinct accent. The Tiger? Victoria suppressed a groan. A terrorist. Of course this was the type of person Vaughan had gotten himself tangled with. There was a short pause as the Tiger gloated. “Or brother, in some cases, is as tenacious as a cockroach. I’m looking forward to crushing him under my shoe tonight.”

Was he serious? She had previously thought these sort of villainous monologues only occurred in fictional universes. Good lord.

But what on Earth kind of connections did Vaughan -- and apparently Donald -- share with this man? A terrorist. At the very least, she now knew why she and the others were here -- she could deduce Aoife was here as well, she was the only Kirkland of the main family who would be caught up in this situation and specifically addressed about a brother; bait for her cousin, Donald O'Neill-Kirkland. He was the only one who fit the profile with the people present -- and he did have a lawless background. This is what he had been doing all the way back then?

Damn. This was one of the many problems with having such an extensive family.

“Don’t feel so depressed, Vaughan,” Victoria stiffened at the informality and goddamn condescending tone addressing her brother. The desire to protect her younger sibling came back at full force, roaring in her chest. Furious, she would pounce at the bastard himself if she was free. Talking to Vaughan in such a manner was not acceptable. “Your family probably would have ended up in this situation without your input either way, sooner or later.”

Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut the fuck up--

“Shut the fuck up, Ó Ceallaigh!”

Victoria couldn't help but quirk a small smile at Aoife's words despite the grim situation; she had always been the one who have an angry outburst in even a situation like this. They appeared to be sharing the same sentiments, saying what she had wanted to say.

“Now, now, Miss O’Neill. What did I tell you about keeping your temper~?” She curled her fists tightly around the chair's arms, gripping them. How dare he act so patronizing to her family? “You can remove their blindfolds now. I’m sure they’re just dying to see the show~”

Now that was a surprise. Was the mighty Tiger really so cocky he'd remove the blindfolds from his captives? Interesting. Well, having eyesight would most certainly be advantageous in comparison to -- literally -- being left in the dark.

The blindfolds were gruffly removed by the grunts, and Victoria blinked rapidly at being granted sight once again. Slightly disorientated after having the blindfold on for some time, she squinted -- it was a good thing she had worn contacts today. She had never been more grateful for them, she highly doubted she would be given her glasses back if she had been wearing them during this scenario.

The outline of the Tiger's back was visible to her. His face still wasn't able to be seen, unfortunately. She looked past to see what he was so intently staring at to see the elevator. The numbers at the top indicated it was approaching the top floor.

"God... he looks bent from behind doesn't he? Swish those hips at any nice rams lately Sheepshagged? Sure you whinged the first few goes, but a few good bonks in you were lining up with the rest of the ewes. Weren't ewe now? I mean...it's probably not your fault to be honest Cuz, everyone on these blasted islands seem to have FITH Syndrome. Thick as pig shitte, the lot of you. Though even the Poms didn't want the Cat-lick Paddies it seems."

Oh God, Westley. Victoria both simultaneously praised the boy for his courage to insult the Tiger in this manner and wanted to shake him to keep quiet, as she glanced over at him next to her. The terrorist wasn't a man you wanted to mess with, especially if you were as young as Westley was.

"Shh," she hissed at him quietly, drawing in a quick breath, "don't aggravate him."

The now unfortunately familiar ding of the elevator sounded, hopefully quieting Westley and announced the arrival of the last "guest" at this party.

“So, you finally made it, Donny boy.” Thank God that he was ignoring Westley's words and focusing on his main victim instead. But regardless if it was Donald or Westley, both were bad to be concentrated on by this man. The poison in his accented words confirmed Victoria's suspicions that they had a personal connection. “Welcome. We’re all so very glad that you decided to join us all tonight.”

The Tiger gestured to his bound captives, seemingly captivated with Donald's arrival. She could see Donald's fists balled tightly, knuckles turning white in the dim lighting. This was not good.

But there was still no benefit in speaking at the moment, save to possibly get herself gagged. She would have to choose wisely -- for now, she would wait, completely helpless.

Victoria glared spitefully at the man who had made her brother and family suffer so much. She had never felt such intense hatred for another human being as she did in that very moment. She wanted the lightning of the raging storm just outside to strike him dead -- she hadn't prayed in a long time -- having lost any faith she may have held for a deity above when she had still only been a child -- Donald had always been the most religious out of the entire family; but she found herself doing so now.

Please, dear God, help us. I beg of you, give us the strength to survive this. In the name of Christ, Amen.

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Donald Finn O'Neill-Kirkland]

“So, you finally made it, Donny boy.”

Seamus’ voice resonated over the storm, and the rain hushed to that flash of his wicked smirk. Donald kept his expression still, his lips taught and stretched. He gazed at his family, and though they were around 10 meters away, they felt to be situated at a planet’s length.

Victoria, Westley, Vaughan, Aoife… He might have turned blind for a moment; either that, or he was tricked by the eyes and saw them all as children. The smell of peppermint and clove, the faint laughter, red ruddy cheeks, the warmth of a hug. Donald remembered them. God, they were his family. God, why did you have to do this?

None of them deserved to be entangled in this. It made him feel weak. The devil himself had his tail around Donald’s throat. His eyes became somber and tired, which further contoured the shadows of his countenance. The rain tried to soothe him with their kisses, yet it felt as if it was slicing down his cheeks from his eyes.

I’m so sorry.

Would it be if he could say that and be forgiven. Donald focused his attention to Seamus, and the chill of guilt evaporated. A bloody grudge of eight years birthed to madness, one that had once been his friend and brother. He steeled with the devil’s hatred. A new stitch of courage on his skin. When he sucked in air through his throat, he felt the knives down his chest, but the pain was only an eyelash brush to his senses.

“Welcome. We’re all so very glad that you decided to join us all tonight.”

“Enough with yer damn quips,” Donald replied, unnerved by Seamus’ pleasure in this. “Let them go. I’m the one ye want.”

There was no warmth tonight, no mercy. Like a man willing to go to his death row, Donald walked toward Seamus and stopped by some unexplainable whim. He didn’t want to get any closer; the years that had passed between them permitted nothing more. Yet this void between them made him want to burst. He wanted to, so badly, break this barrier and get him, to seize him and twist the madness out of him. Break him. Fix him. Give me back Sean. Give me back my brother.

Donald seethed and ridded of those thoughts. No, this man doesn’t deserve mercy. No. No. Seamus deserved to be ki----. Blank.

“So whad’ye want te do with me? Kill me?” Somehow, that didn’t sound like a bad idea. “As if that’s going te get rid of yer fuckin’ problems. Tell your hounds to get them home and we can settle this between just the two of us.”

The clank of beer mugs. There had been the smell of smoke, accompanied with the hoot of laughter. It was a cold night. A heavily coated man patted the back of the other man, and they grinned at each other. Their eyes were crinkled with their smiles. Just the two of us.

He remembered the times he watched Seamus hold up the gun. It used to be just the two of them. The family was huddled, not yet accepting their fate. Donald had wanted to move the gun. He had wanted to flick it away, to tackle him down, to tell him to stop. This scene became etched in his reoccurring nightmares. Sweat oozed like blood in his palms. A scream would thunder, like the crack of a gunshot.

Not this time, Seamus. This time, I will have to stop you.