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One look at him and you’d consider him to be a humble gentleman. A man with a broad smile, easy and welcome in his stance when you meet him. Newcomers tend to misinterpret and think that he is an easy man to faze, but many others know better.
They knew.
They knew of the way he gutted his victims. They know of the way, a cold face spreads over his features when he’s on a mission. They know that he’s unblinking on the job – ruthless in his killings and cleaning up his tracks. He’s a man of colours, they say.
And he never fails to deliver.
When he was first initially assigned to the hunters, he’d thought them as nothing more than rabid animals – relying only on silly things such as instincts. That had no such play in the real world, he’d thought with a sneer pulling at the corner of his lips. He reached for the gun sheath hoisted ‘round his waist, unclipping its cover and wrapping the cold metal in his grasp.
He easily pulls the .44 magnum from its leather body, gently casting his eyes down the barrel and admiring the gun to its very minor details. He caresses it softly before his eyes flitter upwards in thought, thinking about the very first time he’d picked up a gun – the steel cold and unforgiving beneath his tender fingertips.
He was 19.
Fresh college graduate, with a roll of paper in his hand and a cap in the other. His graduating gown rested easily on his shoulders as he stood out in the front of the school yard, surrounded by his classmates whose faces showed equal images of happiness and glee. He smiled mournfully at them, yearning quietly for their freedom behind a mask of happy youth.
He knew that the situation back home wasn’t one suited for a man as young as him, but he wasn’t about to let himself fall weak to the world around him. It was all a mirage, and a runaway for him to seek to when he has nothing left to keep him stable.
He blinks.
A surge of anger rose in him at the thought. His father would surely hate him for letting himself slip like that. He gently excused himself from his peers – those around him oblivious to the onslaught his mind was going through. As soon as he was away from prying eyes, he found himself walking briskly to the washroom. His footsteps were hurried – and as soon as the gentlemen’s door was in sight, he shoved it open and barely had time to catch himself against one of the porcelain sinks.
He could feel his breathing leave him in stuttered breaths, his arms trembling as they struggled to keep him stable. He gives himself a moment, and blinks the blurriness out of his eyes before turning the tap on and ducking his head under the rush of water. The cold easily pulls him out of his thoughts, but he keeps himself there until the need for air becomes too much.
He manages to pull himself up despite the urge to remain underwater forever. He gasps for air – taking in big gulps of air once he’s resurfaced. He stares at the man in the mirror, and glares silently at the reflection he meets.
The man he sees is short of anything he wants to see in himself. He sees a lone boy, one lost in the world of unknown. He sees the despair hiding in his eyes and does his best to shy away and hide them behind the bangs in his eyes. He’s barely spared by the sound of chattering in the walkway to clean himself up before people come in – talking among themselves before catching him in his state of disarray.
One of them peers at him curiously, a careful hand rested on his bicep in concern as he asks – “Arthy, hey – you okay?” Ketch merely offers him a disoriented nod, running a hand through his hair briefly before once again – allowing the mask slide into place. “Just peachy.”
The sudden sting across his thigh has him jolting awake – eyes wide as he scrambled to sit up in his bed and pull the comforter back over himself. He barely has time to register what’s happening before a hand’s in his hair and pulling him to his feet. He cries out in pain, reaching up to wrestle the hand out of his hair but with little to no available.
“Damn boy, bringing nothing but trouble every ‘effin day,” he hears a drunken voice growl low. A sharp zing of terror runs through him as he understands the dire of the situation. He feels himself start to hyperventilate as he feels the cane come back down, this time striking him in his side. He hisses sharply as the thin wood cuts into his skin, slicing it bare and open and urging blood to rise to the surface.
He could only gape like a fish out of water as more strikes comes raining down, tearing through his skin and bring wave after wave of pain through him. The onslaught pauses and he hears the cane being tossed away.
Here it comes.
Sure enough as he suspected, he feels a fist connect with his jaw and he stumbles backwards with the force of the hit. He cradles the part of his face that had grown numb with pain from where he’d felt the impact strike most. He lifts his wet eyes just barely to see the figure of a man – whom once stood a father – stood a monster.
His heart raced in fear, eyes widening further as the figure advanced once more – beating him down to nothing short of a bloody pulp. As he lay on the floor, expecting himself to cough up his last dying breath – his eyes wandered beneath his bed. That was when he found the weapon he’d wrestled from his father the other night.
When he’d almost killed him.
With a shaky hand, he reached for it. His breath leaving him in strained puffs of air. His muscles ached with pain, and his broken rib protested as it was forced to move. He could feel him approaching.
Just a little while more.
So close.
He could feel it..
There.
With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he swung onto his back and aimed the pistol for his father’s chest. They both froze, breaths quickly entering and leaving both their lungs. The figure on the other end of the room lifted an arm in surrender – a look of horror crawling onto his features.
“Son,” he said, stepping forward cautiously with a shake of his head. “You don’t have to do this.” Ketch eyes him in disbelief, before narrowing his eyes in betrayal – his every emotion leaving his body as he spoke. “Why won’t I? Not when the opportunity is right here. Right when I could snatch it right up and kill you right here. Like you would have when you saw the window of opportunity many times now?”
“But I didn’t, did I?” His father spoke low, pure evil in his voice as he let himself advance closer. The gun in Ketch’s grasp straightened further as he warned, “One step closer, and I’ll put a bullet in you.” And the man froze under his command.
With the other under the control of the gun, Ketch allowed himself to rise to his feet, bracing an arm over his throbbing, bruised rib. He gulped deeply, eyeing the other man with cat-like eyes as he moved towards the door.
Under the illusion of safety from his gun, he’d let his eyes turn to the door. And in that moment – his father made the mistake to step forward.
And the hammer on the gun released.
Ketch watched in horror as the gaping hole in his father’s chest started to form a pool of blood in his shirt. The other man touched the wound, as if unable to comprehend what was happening, before collapsing to the floor in a dead heap.
The loud thud drug Ketch away from his thoughts. Immediately, bells began ringing in his head, urging him to run and to hide. Run before the police comes. Hide any evidence so he doesn’t get caught. Find a way to cover it up. Anything.
Before he could manage the time to figure out a plan – someone was ringing the doorbell. He knew. He knew they were going to check if there was something wrong. And if he didn’t find a solution soon – he’d be dead meat.
He gazed around the room quickly, surveying it for any options of escape. And as his eyes landed on the mattress of his bed – he knew the answer. And when he went to open the door, he met his neighbour’s eyes with his own kind pair. Beneath them hid lies. Deception.
And he learned to build on it.
And that was when he came across – the British Men of Letters.
Ketch had been staring off with a frown on his features while being caught in thought when Mick walked in, unconcerned by the unusual expression set onto his comrade’s face.
“What’s got you all rattled up, Mr Ketch?” he inquires, pouring himself a cup of tea as he throws a smile over his shoulder at his fellow Men of Letters. Ketch’s head immediately rises at the sound of his voice, startled by his sudden presence. Despite the obvious surprise on his face, he brushed it off with a quiet sigh.
“It seems the Winchesters are really getting to me,” he mulls, eyes darting up to meet Mick’s. He allows the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards in an offer of interest. The other man simply brings the cup to his lips, allowing himself a sip. His brows raise in surprise when it meets his tastes – allowing himself to indulge in the dull sweetness of sugar beneath the brew of earl grey.
It takes him a moment, but he eventually gets his feet under him when he sees eyes looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for a reply. “Sorry, it’s just -..” he lifts the cup in the direction of his partner, his head tipping sideways slightly in apology. Ketch rolls his eyes, but allows himself to continue.
“The tall one, what’s his name?” he asks. A short pause. “Wha- Excuse me?” Mick asks, swallowing down his tea quickly for fear of spilling it. “You heard me,” Ketch says, rising from his seat by the window to approach the banquet table – picking up a plate and holding it gently but firmly in his hands, aware of how easily he could break the porcelain if he wanted to. “The tall Winchester. What’s his name?”