he's going to burn it down one day

but first

a few bricks must be taken out of the wall

---

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of Injury

---

1,286 Words

---

Note: I will admit to referencing and being inspired by classic rock songs for this fic. There are two ones in particular. There is a line referencing Pink Floyds the Wall. The title is from U2's exit, which I've already written a fic that was inspired by it. This one is too, but in a much more literal way, with the idea of being a serial killer. I also tried to replicate the heaviness of the song. I do recommend listening to Exit while reading this.

---

The rain pounded his back, clouded his vision, made his hair stick to his face in wet strands, but it seemed to bother Dirtyhands not. His face was split wide into a cruel grin, his white teeth stained red from the blood that poured down the side of his face.

There was a man at his feet, just another brick in the wall to most, but to Dirtyhand's this man was today's target. Today's person who had wronged him, one of the last bricks he would have to pull down to finally, finally, end Pekka. He'd buried his son, and now he would bury Pekka, but first, this man had to be dealt with.

Pekka had hired the mercenary, one of the best in the world, to slowly unravel Dirtyhands from within before Dirtyhands could do the same to him. But when he sensed weakness, spotted Dirtyhands and his lover on the quay, bathed in moonlight, he'd struck, and struck too quickly. He was one of the best, but not the best, and his exuberance, his arrogance had shown that. Pekka would curse his money once more.

Dirtyhands had suspected something, but keen for a game, he'd led the mercenary and his eyes on a twisting road, their ignorance making it look straight and cure. They'd stalked the Wraith when she hunted the roofs of Ketterdam, unaware that you couldn't catch a spider in her own web. They'd followed blindly, like a well-trained dog. Oh, how Dirtyhands loved dogs.

So here the mercenary was, head cracked in two, many parts of him missing, his lifeblood slowly and painfully slipping away from him. They would find him tomorrow morning, with a crow carved into his chest, its wings unfurled and its beak open in screaming triumph. There would be no signature, but the Stadwatch were no fools. They would know who had spoken, hear the warning in every precise slash of the dull, rusty knife he'd used.

He felt the weight of his guns in their holsters at his side, loaded but not used. Dirtyhands carried, he was not fool enough not to, but when it came to warnings and killing, they remained pocketed, their heaviness grounding him in reality. They were the purest form of mercy you could get from Dirtyhand's gloved claws, and mercy was rare these days.

He crouched down to the mercenaries side, and he knew the man would be dead any minute now, so he kept his words short, his gloved hand clutching the other man's jaw to make him look at him.

"Fools like you never know what's good for them, it's such a shame. You could have been dangerous to me, had you not been so... excited . Shame, such a damn shame." He loosened his grip, throwing his hand away, the head going with it. The man gave a loud groan, and then he was dead. Dirtyhands straightened his gloves and retreated to the shadows.

He slept little that night, waking an hour before dawn. He forced himself to wash the blood away the next morning with cold water, which shocked him awake. His clothes were still drying by the fire that burned in his room, but luckily for him, he didn't have to worry about wearing the fine cuts of Dirtyhands today. Today was a holy day, a day to worship Ghezen, so when the body would be found outside the Church of the Barter, the holy worshipers would get their sign, one from the devil.

What had he said, all those years ago, talking about their shares? That he would build something new only to watch it burn? What had he thought in those wild, confusing moments after the sickness and healing in the Geldrenner bathroom, while he made his way to his final rite? That when he was done and gone, he wanted to leave damage in his wake? Yes, yes , that had been his thoughts. He could see the sparks of destruction now.

But he would come out on top. He hadn't built something new for himself, he'd built faux security for the others. He'd laid low, buying and selling, feeding information to every corner of the world. He'd dined with Merchants and Queens, he'd entered the Ice Court under tailoring and an assumed name, and talked to the King and Queen of Fjerda, sparing only a glance for their son's wife, who had grinned lightly in equal triumph.

He'd made the council easy, with little knife wounds from the Wraith to keep them on their toes. To make them focus on her, not him and his ever-growing dive into the unknown. In the dead of night, under a new moon, he'd spoken to Mila Jandersdat, who had fed him with intel on the Fjerdans, speaking two words as a goodbye. She had replied with two, touching her fingers briefly to where the crow and the cup once laid against her pale skin.

This was what he would burn down. And when the dust settled, and the smoke was blown away, he would be on top. And then...who knew? Maybe he'd burn his throne and laugh in the face of the flames, maybe he'd take the wheel and nosedive the world down. The world would listen, the boys of the harbour would be avenged.

He would be a king. He would have his queen.

He ran a hand over his face now, looking at himself in the mirror. There was a wildness in his eyes, even he could see, uncertainty in the circles beneath his dark eyes, the stolen drops of the sea at night. He couldn't see the boy through the sharpness like he once could, the boy was a mere echo, visible in the scars, the proof of his ability to bleed. His face was becoming red again, he realised.

He'd scrubbed so hard the wound the mercenary afflicted had reopened. Glancing back, he saw he'd bled onto his pillow the night before, and frowned. He didn't want to clean it.

Turning back to the mirror, he watched the blood trickle down his face, transfixed by the red against his pale skin. He could taste the copper as the first drop slid into his mouth, then more and more. He smiled, finding something peculiarly beautiful in the horrid torrent. Shaking his head, he forced himself away from the washbasin and mirror.

He looked at the one-way glass that was his window, watching the world run. He saw no people walking towards the church, but he could hear the toll of the bells. The sun would be up in a half-hour, and then they would see the poor man he'd butchered. Maybe they would even close the church. Now that would be a story.

Pulling on some non-descript clothes and putting his papers and a few changes of clothes into his bag, he left the Slat, clutching a non-descript cane in his hand. His crow headed one was attached to the strap of his bag, slung across his chest. He made it to his destination in the outer city just as the sun peeked over the horizon. The bells rang out loud, but he ignored them.

He entered the Dregs-owned stable silently, grabbing the bags he'd placed there the day before, and attaching them to the saddle that was waiting for him. Putting it on his horse, a fine mare the colour of chocolate, he hoisted himself up. Checking his guns were in easy reach, he attached both of his canes to the saddle and he and his horse sped out of the city, just as he heard the distant wail of a medik siren.

Kaz Brekker smiled.

Next stop was Pekka Rollings.