Punishment Halls

“Don’t hesitate. Show no fear.” Apollo’s stern words echoed in Koral’s mind as she stalked forward, her steps silent and unassuming across the nocturnal pavement. Across the dimly lit street, Kyros’ face was etched with grim determination, his features taut —far tenser than her own.

Did she harbor no doubts, no hesitations? Far from it, yet the familiar thrill of peril pulsed through her veins, a call she found herself answering with relish. This precarious tightrope of danger felt more like home than the improvised classroom where the old man shoved book after book into their hands, their pages filled with knowledge she had no interest in retaining.

Math, history, literature —Apollo seemed hell-bent on cramming their skulls with every useless fact under the sun. Kyros may have lapped it up like the obedient mutt he was, but Koral refused to be as cooperative. What use did she have for reading or writing, when the only skill that mattered was murder?

“Remember what you’ve been taught. There’s no need for mercy.” The words, though hushed through a comm device in her ear, instilled in her a subtle undercurrent of excitement. This was it —their first real assignment, a chance to put all of her training and field exercises to the bloody test. Despite the nervous flutter in her chest, she couldn’t deny the electrifying and intoxicating sensation coursing through her either.

This night, the waxing moon hung heavy in the sky above, a pale harbinger of the death she would bring.

Up ahead, the blissfully unaware lives of their eight targets carried on, oblivious to the machinations the Cartel had set into motion. While Apollo had explained that they were a lesser gang, a violent cancer festering within the community whose eradication would serve as a favor to Punta Luzbel, he had also cautioned that not all future jobs would bear such a clear-cut design.

Not that justification mattered much to Koral. As members of the Hitmen division, and Apollo’s proteges, all they needed to be were perfect instruments of ruthless efficiency. He had instilled in them one unwavering doctrine above all —to never question the orders of those above.

Of course, barking orders from the security of opulent office rooms and luxurious mansions was easy. Out here, one misstep, one tremor of doubt, and everything they had been meticulously conditioned to accept could potentially unravel. The weight of the concealed gun inside her clothes felt heavy, inescapable as the internal struggle to fully embrace the cultivated killer they were molding her to become.

The plan was already in insidious motion, the pieces aligned with the cold precision born from Apollo’s meticulous calculations. A ninth member of their target group had already been strategically turned —bought by the Cartel and presented with a cruel ultimatum. To betray his lifelong friends or to vanish beneath the unforgiving soil. The promise of coin and self-preservation had proven enough to sever whatever fragile loyalty had once bound him.

With the already inebriated thugs stumbling down the streets, their raucous laughter carried on the night breeze as the traitor herded them like lambs, their destination being one of the many bars owned by la Medula.

It was all a perfectly orchestrated stage, the drinks set to flow freely above the intricately laid Aethyr traps waiting to deliver their coup de grâce.

Yet Koral’s eyes still narrowed tensely as she tracked their sluggish movements. Her task was merely to observe everything unfold neatly, but knowing the script did little to subdue the urge to act —to strike before the curtain rose. Her fingers twitched with pent-up anxiety that grew fiercer with every passing moment, not aided by Kyros’ disappearance into the opposing crowd, swelling within the bustling night corners of the city.

Muffled sounds of shouting reached her ears, making her strain even more. One of the drunken fools had shoved a passing pedestrian, the resulting scuffle escalating rapidly into a full-blown altercation. In a blur of movement, the rest of the gang rallied around their comrade like a pack of rabid dogs, fists flying as the originally isolated conflict threatened to spiral out of their control.

Koral’s breath caught in her throat as her finger caressed the cold steel of her weapon. She could almost taste adrenaline on her tongue, her heartbeat thrumming with a staccato rhythm that drowned her rational thoughts.

And then she saw it, a glint of metal under the streetlights as one of her targets unfolded a gun of his own. Like a rubber snapping, her restraints came undone, both eyes opening wide —including the one hidden beneath an eye patch.

She was the one to shoot first, a deafening crack that sliced through the thundering clamor like a scythe through wheat. Time seemed to still as her first bullet found its mark, puncturing through flesh with sickening ease. A strangled cry rent the air when one of the gang members crumpled, clutching his shoulders. In that suspended instant, every head swiveled towards the source of the gunfire.

Koral didn’t hesitate. Couldn’t hesitate at this point. The gun bucked painfully under her small fingers, recoil threatening to make her grasp slip as she spat lead with each practiced squeeze of the trigger. Apollo’s drills continued ringing in her mind, steadying her aim even when the lack of depth made much of her shots miss their objectives, unaided by the chaos erupting.

Yelling took over the streets, the infernal cacophony holding the center stage with every person caught in the crossfire bustling frantically. Soon enough, even their desperate cries were submerged beneath overwhelming numbness once the retaliatory strikes found their blank, the pain of being shot at not dwindling even though she had experienced it many times before.

One. Two. Three. Four bullets. That was as far as Koral could count before her body dropped to the floor like a broken marionette. Only the sensation of blood pooling beneath her, warm and sticky, continued to tether her in reality —the halo of her fading heartbeat that would soon reveal her as an undying monster.

At the edge of her dimming vision, she could faintly discern Kyros springing into action. His motions were a silent blur of lethality as wicked red blades erupted from his flesh like the claws of some nightmarish beast. They lanced out with unerring precision, pursuing those who attempted to flee or hide amidst the commotion and executing them with ruthless efficiency.

He was better at this than her… Was the thought that flickered through her mind as darkness began to encroach her.

But just as expected, death refused to take her. Hush materialized before her in a violent surge, shimmering into existence as the girl rose once more with wounds undone. Blue and white hair waved majestically as her blades shielded her from any further gunshot fired in her direction, Koral’s eye swirling with madness and instinctive bloodlust as their secondary ability was put into action.

For fractions of seconds, she saw in them the same apathetic faces with which Kirana was cruelly taken from them. They were all so eager to erase her… So it was only fair that she answered in kind.

Defying the course of time, all of the bullets that had previously entered in contact with her were rewound —those fired, received or deflected; all of them were swiftly returned to their original trajectories. The laws of physics warped under her influence, the entire street becoming a chaotic canvas of ricocheting lead.

Men who had stood triumphant moments ago now fell to their knees, their own ammunition tearing through them in the rampage, damage amplified as Hush reverted or repeated their trajectory in a mad dance.

It was one-sided and brutal. Limbs that had once directed weapons at Koral were now shredded by the very bullets they had expelled. Even Kyros, caught in the maelstrom, was forced to defend himself. His blades flashed in a desperate frenzy, slicing bullets out of the air and impaling the rapidly dwindling number of targets to serve him as a living cover.

Something that Koral was beyond caring about, her laughter ringing out as she watched the carnage unfold, clashing with the screams and the ensuing gunfire. This was her element, her grim purpose made manifest —to be an angel of death, painting the streets crimson. She felt powerful and undeniable, an instrument of savagery honed by meticulous tutelage.

When the last body fell and silence descended, the air grew thick in the stench of copper and gunpowder. Koral stood at the edge of the battlefield, her chest heaving with exhilaration as she surveyed her handiwork with detached satisfaction. Her gaze drifted to Kyros, the sole figure still standing amidst the sea of corpses.

He was panting heavily, his skin glistening with sweat and speckled with red droplets. As their eyes met, Koral saw an expression she couldn’t quite decipher —though he soon buckled against a wall to conceal it from her. What could it be that he was hiding from her?

No matter. The Cartel was indeed lucky to have her on their side, she mused within sharp intakes of air as the rush of adrenaline ebbed away to leave her trembling in its wake.

Her fingers, still trembling, traced the outline of her ruined eye beneath the patch. Did she truly want to keep hiding it? After all… Every damage she took, every death she endured, was a step towards mastering this twisted gift.

Those who thought they could wield her like a tool were merely sharpening the blade that would one day sever their own threads of power. A day would come, no matter how distant, when Hush would be aimed not at the throats of petty street thugs, but at the very architects behind Kirana’s death.

On that day, she vowed, the streets would run red with the blood of her so-called masters. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

“You jumped the gun, Koral. We had preparations in place to keep this clean.” The monotone sound of Apollo’s gruff voice crackled over the comm, interrupting her vengeful daydreams with their admonishes. “We had preparations in place to keep this clean. Furthermore, two of them were supposed to stay alive.”

>> “One had already joined the Cartel. The other was to be handed to the Affairs division to make an example of.”

Koral wanted to argue that she hadn’t forgotten the plan, but that she simply had no choice. Apollo’s reprimands were still faster.

“You also got civilians involved and hurt.” The words felt like bullets themselves, or perhaps even more damaging than them, since she couldn’t heal quite heal them. “This is just too large a mess…”

>> “We’ll have to rely on those guys to clean after you.”

Frustrated and defensive, Koral spat on the blood-splattered pavement, seeking for any way to deflect the suffocating blame creeping within.

“Simple to call the shots while using me as an arrowhead, why don’t you? Especially since I’m the one who can be spared to get shot.” She snarled, her gaze falling on the ground. More than Apollo’s words, it was shame that burned her chest the most. “Well, excuse me if I’m still not used to it.”

>> “Maybe I should kill myself more often so I don’t react to it anymore, huh?”

Her bitter retort was met with a sudden and unexpected gentleness. The old man’s now familiar hand ruffled her hair as he passed by, the gesture momentarily disarming her defenses. It was the same hypocritical hand that taught her how to steady her aim as she wielded death —now offering an empty comfort that she loathed to admit she was still weak to.

Still, Apollo’s attention swiftly shifted to Kyros, the boy’s frame rigid on whatever he stubbornly tried to retain hidden.

“Was it also part of your goal to get this dumb brat injured?” Apollo’s voice softened as he knelt beside the boy, golden eyes scanning his body with a discerning gaze that seemed more paternal than professional.

She realized not soon after that all the blood stains in his clothes were not from their targets’ alone. One of her stray bullets had grazed Kyros’ thigh, leaving a jagged laceration that bled crimson down his leg. Another hole was embedded in his shoulder, flesh swelling as Apollo uncompromisingly exposed it for examination.

The wounds looked raw and angry, and Koral knew just how much bullet wounds hurt —she had received enough of them herself. Yet Kyros still remained stoic, his jaw clenched tightly as his injuries were probed, eyes screwed shut to prevent himself from reaction, even when it was done gently.

Apollo’s tenderness, so at odds with his career as one of la Medula’s Henchmen, made Koral’s skin crawl. He had no business being this soft, not when he was the one turning them into instruments of death. It was a contradiction that never failed to set her teeth on edge.

Or was it simply guilt? She wished she could heal him, to undo the damage her recklessness had caused… But sadly, Hush’s ability to undo damage worked solely on her own flesh.

“Don’t get so angry. It was a good job, you both won.” Apollo continued, his voice carrying a low rumble as he minded his phone, possibly to arrange Kyros’ medical treatment. Words meant to soothe that only stoked her self-loathe. “But that recklessness of yours can’t stay unchecked.”

>> “Negligence has consequences. See that you never forget that again, Koral.” She wanted to scoff. To remind him that it was their doing that made her this way. Wasn’t this what they wanted?

The blonde girl opened her mouth to argue, to tell him exactly where he could shove his lessons, but the words died on her lips as she heard Kyros wince for a change. It was a small, pained sound that escaped as Apollo bolstered his smaller frame in his arm —yet it still echoed in Koral’s ears like a gunshot.

Her victory, her moment of power, suddenly felt hollow. The blood on the streets, once a mark of her victory… Now felt accusing instead. She had reveled in murder, in the feeling of being unstoppable…

… But what price was she paying for it?

“And that goes to you as well, you silent idiot.” Apollo similarly admonished Kyros, though Koral could only think of the scars her impulsiveness would leave behind. “What were you even thinking? To hide her mistakes from her? Do you think that would’ve made her happy?”

>> “In this line of work, those who see their own safety as an afterthought die very quickly.” The words were harsh, but his towering frame carried Kyros seamlessly as if holding a child was second nature to him. “Is that what you’re after?”

So… It wasn’t out of fear or disappointment that Kyros had turned away from her eye? Was it true that despite his odd mannerisms and resounding idiocies… His loyalty remained that unwavering?

As the two began to move away from the scene, Koral hurriedly joined them, the boy’s gaze meeting hers for a fleeting moment. It was a fleeting exchange, in which the girl found neither the accusation nor resentment she had braced herself for. There was something quieter instead, more profound.

It was a vote of allegiance that Koral didn’t want to accept, an unspoken absolution of her sins that left her conflicted. Anger, resentment, even hatred —those she could handle. But forgiveness? That was a currency she had no idea how to repay him with.

Was he trying to manipulate her, she wondered, to make her think they were one merry family? That she needed to learn and to grow, ensuring that no such collateral damage could happen again?

“Don’t make me laugh…” She muttered resentfully, averting her gaze from the boy who dared to stand by her side despite the wounds she had inflicted.

What a selfish thing to do, she ultimately decided. Selfish of Kyros to forgive her mistakes unprompted, to shackle her with a debt of gratitude she had no intention of acknowledging. And yet, try as she might to dismiss it, the thought gnawed at her —a persistent itch, an annoyance that refused to leave.

The arrival of their ride provided a welcomed distraction, the sleek form of a black car gliding silently into the momentarily deserted street. The peace of the aftermath was short-lived, as numerous Cartel members began to gradually emerge. Koral could recognize them from their purposeful strides and unfettered expressions, completely unbothered by the bloody visage.

“So no one bothers calling the police in Punta Luzbel?” Koral observed dryly, though it wasn’t like she needed much confirmation. She already knew that this city belonged to la Medula far beyond the reach of any badge or uniform.

Opening the backseat door for Apollo to rest Kyros inside, her restless gaze wandered freely over the neatly moving figures. She needed something, anything, to pull her thoughts away from the guilt. These guys would do just fine.

“The so-called Cleaning Division, am I right?” Koral said aloud, a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “They seem to have been more than prepared for us to screw up.”

This was her first real encounter with other branches of the Cartel, a glimpse into the intricate machinery that kept the criminal empire running. She knew that each of the six arms of la Medula had as its head at least one Accursed —the term she was taught to refer for those with a Punisher; but how dangerous they were, or how many exactly filled their ranks were details that remained unknown to Koral.

Her curiosity was piqued enough to try and fish for more information.

“So, which one of them has a Punisher?” Before the old man could give any semblance of a response, her aquamarine eye was already sweeping over the assembly, searching for anyone picturesque enough.

According to what she had been taught, all Accursed were a cocktail of insanity and trauma, traits that should be easy to spot if one knew how to look.

And sure enough, she found one that fitted the bill quite easily.

Walking amidst the sea of indolent faces, one figure stood out like a sore thumb. A lanky guy, probably still a couple of years away from adulthood, moved with an erratic energy that betrayed any semblance of normalcy. He was dressed in quite a ragged attire, though it appeared intentional —a fashion statement more than the impoverishment she knew well.

Rough gray hair cascaded in messy waves over his sharp features, different than Apollo’s thin, almost glowing platinum strands. The teenager’s appeared dirty instead, with thick black roots that showed quite a lackluster dye job. Nestled beneath it were his dark eyes, sunken and ringed by shadows that spoke of extreme stress, or maybe sleep deprivation.

For as try hard that his appearance could be described as… Koral couldn’t help but think that it was eye-catching as well. It stirred within her the desire to maybe emulate such unapologetic expression herself, to find a way to wear her scars on the outside for all to see.

Perhaps there was also power in confronting the world with the brutal honesty of one's pain, rather than hiding it beneath layers of polished deceit —a defiance that could be screamed without sound.

Whoever this ‘Cleaner’ was, he wasn’t alone. Right by his side loomed a much older man who walked with unsettling, jerky steps over battered old shoes. Though he carried himself with an undoubted undercurrent of menace, Koral could tell by glance alone that Apollo still dwarfed him —not something to be ashamed of, considering the sheer size of her mentor.

Still, the stark contrast in their ages mirrored the dynamics of her group. Was it a common practice for the Cartel to routinely distribute younger Accursed among their more seasoned members? An attempt to keep a balanced distribution of power, perhaps?

“It’s them.” She raised her voice to call on Apollo’s attention, pointing her finger unabashedly. “No doubt about it.”

Before the geezer could answer, her gaze was already drifting upwards, seeking to etch the older man’s features in her memory. His oily, unkempt hair, and pair of pitch-black sunglasses from where—

Her vision was abruptly plunged into darkness as Apollo’s hand clamped over her eye, his grip firm, freezing and unyielding.

“H-Hey! What’s that for!?” Koral protested, instinctively reaching up to pry his fingers away. If he had a reason, he better began spitting out before she bit his damn hand off.

“That’s as far as you go.” Apollo’s voice was tense with an urgency he tried to downplay, a nervousness she had never heard before from him. They were subtle, but Koral could still perceive a tremor in his hand and a layer of sweat coming from his cold fingers. Her natural rebelliousness faltered, momentarily suppressed by the uncharacteristic display of fear. “Whatever you idiots may ever do…”

>> “Never look at that man directly.”

Koral’s muscles coiled involuntarily, more from Apollo’s unease than the warning itself. It was an emotion that she had never expected to witness in the old man, so to dispel her escalating dread, she fell back on her only reliable shield —irreverence.

“D… Didn’t take you for a coward, you old coot.” She forced a chuckle, the sound brittle and unconvincing even to her own ears as Apollo guided her into the car beside Kyros, fingers still firmly positioned over her eye. “What? Is he really that ugly?”

Her joke fell flat, met with a silence so heavy it seemed to take the oxygen away from her lungs. Even the injured Kyros had gotten all stiff, though she couldn’t tell for sure without her vision.

“He’s the one who took it.” Though finally retreating, Apollo’s voice remained barely a whisper, each word echoing in the confines of the car. “My right arm.”

Such confession hit Koral like a blast of frigid air. It took her a moment to fully grasp the implications, to connect the dots between the empty sleeve that swayed with Apollo’s every movement and the man she had nearly beheld.

During their drills, even in the dead of night when Sunshine Recorder’s was at its weakest, Apollo’s command over his Punisher had made their combined efforts look like children playing. His strength and skill were eons away from hers, a testament to years of enduring duress as a Medula Henchman.

And here was a man that even he feared.

Such realization made Koral feel infinitesimally small, a speck of dust caught between gears of a vast and horrible machine. In her arrogance, she had believed herself to be at the pinnacle of terror, an invincible force cloaked in the guise of a girl —yet now she felt like little more than a candle in the face of inferno.

As she found herself struggling with this bitter truth, the car was kept stationary even after Apollo took his position in the front passenger seat. The driver waited under his instruction until the Cleaners fully faded from view before the vehicle was put into motion, though silence stretched on well after that.

The city corners that blurred past the windows no longer seemed like a canvas for her vengeance, but a labyrinth of hidden threats and unseen monsters instead. Leaving behind the bloodstained streets and the enigmas now haunting it, Koral leaned back into the cushioned seat, her eye drifting aimlessly through the tempered glass.

Beneath her patch, her damaged eye throbbed in a tangible reminder of her own fragility, and so her hand unconsciously drifted towards it. She remembered vividly the exhilaration of mere moments ago, the intoxicating sense of power as she mowed down her targets. Was she that conceited? Was it all so hollow?

With a snarl of frustration, Koral tore off the patch and flung it out the briefly opened window. The black fabric tumbled away, swallowed by the rush they moved past as they accelerated. She didn’t want it, didn’t need it.

Yet as a result, as she raised the tinted glass once more, her gaze was caught by her reflection on the other side. Her ruined eye, once a soft aquamarine, now stared back at her as a darkened shade of green, milky and sightless.

For a moment she could see it… Not just the mirror image of the sister she had lost, but also the ghostly visage of Hush superimposed over her features —and she hated it.

Why would she be given the ability to cheat death, she wondered, if the path before her was more treacherous than she could ever imagine? Why was she allowed to carry on as a fractured half, forced to carry out the motions of a cruel fate from which she could never quite grasp meaning?

Perhaps now… Koral thought she could understand a bit more of Apollo’s contradictions.

Since she was full of them just the same.