His day had been fine. After figuring whatever mess he had with his soon-to-be children's baby mommy, and figuring whatever else of a mess needed to be done, he had retired to the mansion once more. Frankly, when nothing was happening, it was quite a dull day to Bermondsey, and he almost preferred it that way. There had been way too many unforeseen circumstances, and if he wasn't a control freak, he wasn't the cat his mother named after a London borough.

Yet, the moment he heard that voice, despite not having heard it since they were practically trainees, he felt a shudder run down his spine, his paws immediately itching to flee from the source almost in the exact same way as he did when Eshek told him she was expecting. Did god truly exist? Surely he did, and there was only one thing he knew about that god of theirs.

It truly hated him. God was real and it wanted to shove a traffic cone up his...

"You asshole, son of a..." he swore, looking as if he was about to vomit, "you're alive? I thought you'd be roadkill by now. What do you mean not a single car has hit you? Gods, does no one know how to drive these days?" He did not get beat up as a kit, thank you very much. Yes, he was that loner kid everyone thought was weird because he was probably the kind of person who'd be found smoking outside the bins and then setting it on fire, but in the 'he carried a taser and the jocks surely wouldn't want to get tased' sort of way.

Out of all of them, Bermondsey had always felt a little out of place. Kensington had always been the larger, bulkier one, Harrow with that pretentious spoiled brat sort of attitude, and of course, the worst of the lot, Chelsea, acting as if she was the cool girl who only smoked rollies and got invited to all the house parties or something. They had all grown up in that same depraved way, depraved of contact with the outside world other than his immediate family, so why was it that he was the only one who constantly felt socially awkward around everything? Life just wasn't fair and god loved throwing him against the wall like a toy gecko, waiting for him to stick.

Gods, how did she know? He always knew she was more than a casual gossip, but this was just unfair; she had barely been back for a couple of days and she knew? The existence of his own kits was a bane upon his existence, but surely, she knew that all too well. They had made that stupid pact–partially as a joke too–about how they'd never have kids lest they end up like their stupid older brother who had just ruined all of the vibes in the first place.

As much as she could probably intimidate any other tom and have them crawling around her letting her use their back as a footrest or something, Bermondsey had known this pitch for most of his life, and his steely glare didn't change at all. It was easy enough for her to say. "Well you should've off'ed yourself too while you had the chance, why stop at just the kits?" he glanced down to the scar upon her skin, not admitting to even himself how the tiniest part of him felt almost envious of how cool that had seemed. Had it been anyone else, surely he would easily go for the kill, but Eshek...

"You'd be doing me a huge favour, sister dearest, if the next time you accidentally hit an artery or something. Why are you back here anyway? I thought you were going to run off to follow your stupid dreams to never return or something, the last time I heard. Dreams not good enough for you out there?"

Perhaps weeks ago, Bermondsey would've told her to go ahead. He'd have laughed, told himself how bloody ironic, that the trash took itself out. If everything had its reason then certainly Chelsea's reason for coming back was to rid himself of his little problem. He had suggested it himself, that Eshek should've just gotten rid of them before anything happened lest the curse took its place, but she had reacted with such a rage in her eyes that he had been left standing there for a little too long, allowed the thought of it all to dwell a little too long and now? Now he wasn't sure. He still hated the idea of becoming a father, he still felt the thick air of trepidation that filled his chest at the mere thought of being responsible for his demon spawn who had a 90% chance of wanting to murder him....

and yet why did he feel the way his chest just seized at the very thought of Chelsea clawing out their throats? His eyes narrowed at the implication, that the cat he once felt most familiar with despite their envy and rage and the fact that they spent every waking moment fighting each other and trying to push each other off the highest ledge possible...would now be a threat to him?

"Well you know what they say," he spoke almost delicately, running his tongue across a paw as if this was just casual conversation, "we are absolutely the best family exterminators in town, aren't we?" he mused, a brow quirked at the other she-cat, "I think we should get shirts. Or a logo or something. Alistair and Co. Irrigation, landscaping, pest control. Extremely good at ridding large family trees. Who knows, maybe one of my future spawn might be the one who murders you first. It wouldn't be right if not a single one of them ends up as batsheet insane as Daireanne was, don't you think?"

His lip twitched. "If you want to get started, you should neuter our dear sister Safiya the next time you see her," he replied dryly, "she's still popping out new ones these days, though you won't find any of them here other than Charlotte. She's still alive, what a surprise. Can't see how any of her kind survived. Then again, you did, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised the rest managed to crawl out of the garbage fire."

She always had something to one-up him about; she wouldn't be Chelsea if she didn't after all. The tom's lips twisted into a scowl at her little motion, the same mockery she used to do as kits, whenever they got into the tiniest fights, she'd just do things like that to annoy him, like stand too close to him until he called for their mother about how Chelsea was touching him even though she insisted that she was not. The reason why their parents like the first litter better was probably because of how incessantly they whined when they were younger.

"Yeah, who would've thought," he snorted, "I always thought she'd be the first to die, guess we were all wrong huh?" His lips tightened at the comparison to cockroaches; surely they were more elegant than that, he thought to himself. Even with all the disdain he held for his family name, he didn't deny that there was a part of him that had once felt pride for it, a part of him that in contrast to Chelsea's flippant attitude, truly did care for the rest of their cursed kin, as if the trauma of having gone through it all had bonded him somehow to them, to those who would remember what they went through together.

"Yeah?" he mused at her other comment, a snort leaving his mouth as he stood, already heading through the large mahogany doors that led the way out of his quarters, "well if you see their mother and decide to brawl it out, let me know. I'll make some snacks. It'll be fun, I'm sure." He found himself sauntering through the halls to the other side, to another tower. "I suppose things have changed since you've gone. What do you want first, a house tour, the most recent gossip, or to fight your niece?"

He knew her implied words. The flick of his ear said enough. It had been years since they had last seen each other. You've changed was the silent verdict like they were both in some sort of bad friendship teen movie where change was the make or break of a character's personality. It was strange really. To be back here with someone who, years ago, he could say was the closest of his family, or perhaps the closest thing he called a friend. They had grown up together, littermates, but perhaps more than that. They had suffered through the tragedy that laid unspoken between them. Even before then, he had always been closer to Chelsea than he was to Kensington or Harrow. She was a brat and she never stopped picking on him, but she was the sister he relied on most, the sister he had made that pledge with.

It was no surprise she was upset. Still, he found himself walking alongside her, so close and yet feeling the distance between them despite how it felt as if nothing had changed. His lips twitched into a brief smirk at her couldn't-care-less attitude. "Glib as always," he sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed, "but I guess that hasn't changed at all about you."

His eyes narrowed at her as she spoke of his 'friend.' There was nothing Chelsea wouldn't find out even if he didn't say so. "So who's the gossip who relayed the news?" he spoke, the iciness just below the surface in his voice, "I bet you'd like her. She's almost just as insane as you'd be. Really fits right into the family, if you ask me."

He snorted. Of course she wasn't going to share, but that didn't mean he wouldn't find out. He always knew everything in this space; they didn't call him a control freak for nothing. He frowned at her as they continued forward; it was like a battle between wills whenever he met his siblings once more. It was a good thing all of their older ones were gone by now, but he had to admit, there was a dangerous edge to Chelsea that even he was wary of. She wasn't on the edge of insanity in the same way Eshek was, and perhaps that was more dangerous too, that she knew exactly who she was and had no desire to pretend otherwise.

"I'm technically older than you, you know," he scoffed with a flick of his ear, already on the move as they ascended the spiral staircase, "but her name's Eshek."

Perhaps any other cat would be wary enough to leave their name out of it lest Chelsea's whims took her on a blood hunt, but Bermondsey knew her well enough to know that she'd wait and see first. Or perhaps, he trusted Eshek enough to be on her merry way when the devil came to reap what she was owed, but for reasons unknown, there was only truthfulness right now.

"Do you plan on killing her in her sleep?" he mused, "or waiting for her to fall into a trap? Or are you going to wait until she gives birth and kill the kits in front of me?"

He knew Chelsea well enough to know that she'd do anything to gain a reaction from him. Of course, being the kind of cat he was, he'd do nothing to give her the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him. His face remained as impassive as ever as the climbed the stairs, his eyes narrowing only slightly when she mentioned their mother's death.

He could remember Daireanne's face, the satisfied smirk when Safiya had taken their mother's life. He didn't exactly understand that their memories of the event, clouded by their young age and the trauma of it all, were completely different. Still, he was unaware of all of this, but the mention of his dearest brother and the atrocities that followed the first horseman of the apocalypse, registered as clear as day.

"I am not our father," he growled, "I won't go insane just because someone gets killed. He was many things, yes, but strong of will and mind? Not quite, I'm afraid. I won't make the same arrogant mistakes he did."

That, he was certain of. Alistair had never doubted his mind, but Bermondsey knew that overconfidence was a surefire way to fall victim of a tragic hero's fate.