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It was uncomfortable for everyone. To perhaps for the naive to witness something like this, and for the even more naive to listen to something so battered and broken repeating over and over to stop. For some it would just be a strange and terrible relief. It could have been them saying what Finn had voiced without realizing the repercussion. It wasn't them.

Finn's pleading continued for a while longer as the Death lead cleaned up the desk into a good semblance of organization again.

"Next, Lucky." It seemed Caelius had also followed the ongoing trend with the Life trainee's adopted name. The Death lead placed a form in front of him. "Sign the form and then take that <******** excuse of a trainee out of my goddamn sight." His pen snapped, his hand shook a little more, betraying how close Finn had come to really losing everything.

The Death lead took the signed paper-

- And then suddenly grabbed Lucky's hand, the marked hand. He gave the Life trainee a very unreadable look, and then slowly let go. "You are dismissed and take that goddamned eyesore with you or enjoy him dying and staining this ******** hardwood floor." Yes that would be a terrible waste of flooring.

"Next. Jack." Caelius flipped over another two papers. "Stormy. Abigale. Sign and you may leave on the conditions of a Hunter."

The death lead grabbed his hand, and Lucky felt his heart finally stop. He'd been so careful to stay under the radar. To go unnoticed. Especially by the likes of the death lead. His expression wasn't nearly as unreadable in return, too close for comfort - there was an obvious fear behind his eyes. Under Caelius's gaze he felt like a bug under a microscope.

And all the while, a single thought to make his blood run cold: Caelius knew.

But the killing blow never came; gradually the iron grip eased off. Lucky bowed his head a little in Caelius's direction and made a weak noise that was as close to a thanks as he could manage, still at a loss for words.

Lucky sank to the floor beside the twitching body, braving the metallic stench of blood and the acrid one of burnt flesh. He avoided looking at his face. There was blood everywhere. From down here he had the vantage to see the others, stunned, silent, waiting.

"This is going to hurt," he mumbled quietly to Finn, unsure if he could even hear him. Lucky's clothes were already shredded and bloody - it wasn't as if he couldn't afford any worse at this point. It felt like a sorry sort of penance to help him, a drop in the bucket of karma he had lost in one fell swoop. As carefully as he could manage, he pulled the body over one shoulder and shuffled toward the exit.

Waiting for judgement, in any capacity, was an interesting experience that always seemed more drawn out and less climactic than expected. The wait at her desk for her name to be called seemed an eternity, but it quickly stopped being a concern when Finn approached and did not do as bid. Of course he wouldn't, Abbi couldn't help but find herself thinking, not when there was a possibility to push and push and see just how far he could test the limits of authority.
The pause the Death lead took before replying to Finn's second question was insane to behold for time seemed suddenly stretched thin and disjointed; one moment the room was quiet enough to hear the others left behind breathing and the second ringing with the reverberation of a shot.
She couldn't have helped it, even if she'd tried, for Abbi let out a tiny, shrill note to hear the gun go off.

Both hands slammed against her mouth and she jumped in her seat hard enough to bang her knees against the underside of her desk, the noise not even noticeable to the man who continued to lecture and pull the trigger. It would have been bad if it had been just anyone, but things were always worse when one knew the person at the end of the barrel. Three shots punctuated his lecture, three literal bullet points he'd made and rounded off with words.
But that was ok, they weren't shots to vital organs, Finn could heal! The teen let trembling hands lower from her mouth as she tried to breath in, the air in the room too thin as she tried to codify what she was seeing, what was being said. Just a demonstration of power, like animals. Rough up a lower ranking one and the others fell into line, she knew that's all it was. But no voice in her head was there to remind her of the dangers of naivety and the screams of anguish went beyond mild shows of aggression.
The howls in a strained voice of friendly familiarity shattered what small hope had remained effectively enough to make the girl begin to cry. Black flesh and singed sinew stared at her while her knees knocked against themselves in fearful reminder of a very similar pain. Whatever coldness Abbi had always found in her friend's eye was now truly black and it is that thought in particular that rouses her from startled desensitization to full knowledge of what is happening before her.
This is not a show of who runs things, this is not a warning, this is not fair and its not what she signed up for. It is simply a possibility because the man can.

Eventually the scene wraps up, the lead takes his seat without any additional dramatics and her name is called. Hearing her own name has the girl fiddling suddenly, hands rubbing quick against wet cheeks in hopes to present a brave face when she knows it'll be an epic farce. Shaking all over she stumbles to her feet, knocking the chair back with a noise and then catching one foot on a desk leg as she makes her way down the aisle. It means having to loudly catch herself on another desk, but she's up in a flash and shivering her war between rows toward the front that still has splotches of blood (blood she is friends with but never needed to see) on the floor.
Jack moves first and she watches him look at Stormy, notices that he's trying in vain to catch the girl's eye and Abbi, as almost always, feels like an interloper. But the teen hides behind them both for a long moment, head down and trying to catch her breath. The words Stormy say filter through little by little, but when Abbi hears her name again, she can no longer help herself.

"NOOOOOO nononononononononoooooo--" Pale hands wave frantically from side to side as the teen pushes between the pair to stand at the desk, separated from the man on the other side only by a bit of wood and a particularly scarlet puddle of blood.
"I-its fine! I mean l-like y-yeah sure we were totally definitely lied to but like i-its fine! We'll just ya-yanno! Sign our names! Stormy w-will totally sign her name LOOK! I'll sign h-her name because Jack a-already signed his own and i-its fine!" To say an attempt at a smile had been made would have meant the attempt even resembled a smile and not just the trembling, frantic grasping of a young girl who had never even gone to detention, let alone seen someone she called a friend shot point blank. But that would have been a lie and Abbi was very poor at those.
She did bare her teeth slightly in a hope of friendly compliance before she scrawled her name (the full monty, too frightened to skimp on details so that Abigail Lutece Killian took up an ungodly amount of room for just one shaking, little girl) before she hastily wrote out Stormy Probably-Something-Cute Ortega beneath it.
When she set the pen down, the hard plastic clattering louder than she intended, Abbi realized what she'd put Stormy's middle name as and squeaked. Before she thought wiser of it, she whirled around, grabbed the older girl's hand and headed toward the door.

There seemed to be quite the assembly going on outside; the Death lead's eye twitched at the rather tearful reunions all happening in the hallway, walked over, gave everyone outside an expression that probably meant 'no fun allowed, ever' and slammed the door shut.

He sat back against the desk. There were only two occupants in the room left. "Peyton. Roland. Sign and you may leave, unless you have some clearly <******** insightful bullshit to share as well." His tone rose a volume and suggested very much that insightful bullshit was probably best shared later and with someone of the not Caelius variety. Two sheets of paper and a box of pens waited for them on the desk.

Peyton had been rigid with anxiety upon finding herself in a desk opposite the Death lead Knuckles white, and breath coming in small, quick pants. It was terrifying being requested to stay, but nothing compared to the all consuming fear that had taken over the second Finn had spoke up in opposition. Dread did not cover it, nausea didn't even come close. The first shot had blood rushing from tanned features to leave dark freckles standing out in stark contrast against colorless cheeks. The scene that unfolded before them was horrific, almost surreal, if not for the sharp smell of iron that filled the room, iron and something corrosive, acidic. It turned the stomach, and fear alone kept the Petite Sun from retching. She did not want Caelius' attention on her, so she held her breath, swallowing back the urge to vomit.

Lucky had been next, and pale eyes had followed the Lifer up, fearful of him after the emphasis Caelius had placed on his name. But beyond grabbing his hand, nothing happened, and She watched on as her friend picked Finn off the floor and shuffled off to the infirmary.

More names, more people walking up to sign. Stormy speaking up, defending Abbi, and Peyton cringed, waiting for that psychotic rage to narrow down on the other girl, and taking immense relief when Abbi stepped in and both girls left without a scratch. That was good, no one else needed to get hurt. It was almost over. Almost.

Her name. It made her stomach drop, and there was every chance her nails had left little crescent indents in the desk with how hard she'd been gripping it. A quick, fleeting glance was exchanged with Ro, then the girl was moving towards the front of the class. It seemed so close when she'd been sitting, now it felt like a mile away, and all she wanted to do was turn tail and run out the door, but she needed that key. She needed Warrick back, the silence was overwhelming.

When she reached the table she avoided the Death lead's eyes, her own turning down to the paper, skimming over it as a shaking hand extended out to blindly claim a pen. She read the words, over and over, but they didn't seem to sink in, and she could feel cold eyes boring into her skull.

Her signature was quick, jerky. The pen was laid on top of it. Then she turned and walked away, eyes wide, towards the door.

It took everything she had to keep from running.