Tell your boyfriend if he says he's got beef That I'm a vegetarian and I ain't fucking scared of him

NONA THE NINTH

Many More To Die (Chapter 3)

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 3)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman is now king--and not in full control of his actions. Being kept alive by Logan's magic alone, he heads into the dungeons to see the necromancer for the first time in ten years.

Logan, a little out of control himself, uses his magic to bring the Green Man to his cell, not realizing he's compelling the new king of the Kingdoms. He discovers a strange, unknow power is still actively trying to kill him, uses his powers to try and regain some control over the situation...

And discovers something impossible.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. CW in this chapter for some disturbing, vaguely graphic imagery involving blood, fluids (nothing sexual, YET), and a stylized version of a panic attack as well as touch starvation. I experience some mild symptoms myself, but I will admit I haven't done much in the way of research for more extreme samples, but this chapter does feature someone that has literally never experienced human contact doing so for the first time. Ergo, their reaction is a little extreme. Just be safe, mindful, and know that I am eager to learn anything that can help me treat issues like this with the respect and accuracy they deserve.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

“Your Majesty! You have to stop!”

Roman remained silent as the guards trailing him called out, relentless as he stalked through the palace halls. Even as the words made him visibly flinch, cutting into him like a knife, he pressed onwards.

Your Majesty.

Because he was the king now. King Thomas Roman II—with his father (his body, he's just a body now) laying in his rooms to prepare for internment.

He could still see Remus's face...

“Remus—I can't--”

“Roman? Roman, look at me.”

“Father is...he's...”

“Dead. Our father is dead, big brother—and this is why the gods invented necromancers. Go.”

He hadn't trusted it, when his first impulse sent him bolting from the guards that dragged him away from his father's body and into the palace, everything in him screaming to find the dungeon, straining towards the necromancer. It probably wasn't his own thought, he still wasn't in control of his own body, lungs full of cool fog, mind thick and clear and so soft, so light. It seemed wrong to feel that way, heavy morning mist and the air above the clouds, atop the mountain, where not a single speck of dust or vapor could impede his vision.

He needed that, Remus to tell him, to hear someone else that wasn't in the Necromata's thrall having the same idea.

Remus pushed him further into the palace. Roman hardly needed the prompting.

“Stand aside.” he instructed as he reached the gate leading down into the dungeons. Two fully armed guards flanked the relatively small door, and neither of them moved at his command.

“With all due respect, Highness--”

“It's--” Roman's throat clogged around the words, unable to let them out despite the fact that his hands still shook from the chill of his father's skin.

“Let him pass.”

Roman glanced over his shoulder, startled by the sight of the man approaching them. He was dressed in a gentleman's bowler hat, and the black and gold cloak of an assassin, its gleaming clasp a perfect compliment to the scales that graced his otherwise handsome features.

“Lord Janus, you know--”

“How dearly I adore being flouted? Yes, of course, nothing makes me happier than having my subordinates disobey a direct order in front of the king.” Janus managed to purr through the sibilance of every word. Distractedly, Roman swore he could hear the crack of ice forming in the wake of the assassin's frigid demeanor.

The word 'king,' however, seemed to do the job. The moment it was spoken, both guards flinched, shared a look, and the one on the left moved to open the gate.

Roman descended the stairs, slowing down for the first time since he'd left the balcony. As a boy, he'd been in the cell nearest to the stairs, and in the dreams it was the same...

He was nearly to the bottom when he saw him.

He was standing in front of the bars, hands wrapped around them...and totally absent. Behind his glasses, the eyes that Roman remembered being glittering chips of ice had been swallowed up by a soft blue light that reminded him of every terrifying story he'd ever heard about the Animator with his sightless eyes, white as bone and crackling with the fury of lightning.

There was no crackle to this glow—more like the sinuous curl of flame at the edges, sweeping back against his temples, barely tinted blue and pale as moonlight.

Stopping dead, he was so consumed by the otherworldly beauty of the image he cut that he almost didn't notice the much younger man beside him—only just reaching the necromancer's shoulder with a mop of brown curls and an expression fraught with worry as he focused entirely on the...

...on Logan.

Roman forced himself to take those last few steps down, drawing the attention of the younger man. When he turned to Roman, he saw that his eyes were blue as well—but dark, vivid as the first crop of wild blueberries at the edges of the village that sat in the valley just beneath the palace.

He squinted into the shadows that blanketed the area around the stairs, the same one Roman had hidden in so long ago—and gasped, choking audibly on his own breath.

“Oh...oh, it's—it's you.”

Taken aback, Roman stilled again. “You...know me?”

“The Green Man—well, sure! Logan's told me all about you! But...what are you doing here, kiddo?”

Taking a deep breath—deep as he could manage with magic still forcing his chest to expand and contract, Roman stepped forward into the light. Almost immediately, the boy's eyes widened.

“...oh, ohhhhh, sweet baby, he didn't tell me you were the...the...”

The boy looked half ready to cry as he realized who he was speaking to, catching Roman just a little off guard with the display of empathy. A sudden, irrational urge to reach through the bars and hug the poor kid gripped him so powerfully it hurt—to hide his face in Roman's chest and protect him, to hide his face in those curls so no one could see Roman's tears in turn.

The boy's overly shining eyes hardened just as abruptly as they filled. Turning away from Roman, he laid a solid hand on Logan's shoulder.

“Logan.”

Roman opened his mouth to ask what was happening, what he was doing to Roman...

Then Logan's hand lifted, fingers unwrapping from around the bars, arm extending, and only then did Roman realize he'd closed the distance and walked straight up to the bars with no memory or awareness of even moving.

Everything in him was well past straining, was now screaming for him to take that offered hand, to plow straight through the bars and into something--

“Go on, kiddo.”

“Patton.”

“It's okay, Janny...it's okay, Your Majesty. He won't hurt you.”

The voices—Lord Janus, the boy, Patton—they sounded like they were coming from the end of a long hall, underwater.

The world was growing so quiet. Early morning dawn, cold mist, thick as soup and light as cotton.

Hold on.

He watched, from the heart of the fog bank, as his hand drifted up to mesh with Logan's—just like the dreams. That hand, those fingers, long and lean and surprisingly powerful...as familiar to him as his own name.

Do not let go.

I never have. I never will.

Roman looked from their joined hands to stare into Logan's face—no longer that of a frightened boy in pain, but lean and angular and marked by his imprisonment. Skin just too pale, cheekbones just too prominent, eyes just too shadowed.

Roman decided, with the last of his free will, that it was the most beautiful face he'd ever seen.

He breathed in, clear and deep, a breath of his own volition.

This time, the world only went dark when he closed his eyes and let go his final breath.

**********

Logan was in agony, and he didn't understand why.

It happened suddenly as the Green Man approached, followed the compulsion he'd been pushing since the moment his power had taken over. Logan had only been able to regain his senses once he'd found it and grabbed on, caught the thread of power buried deep in the Green Man's blood and marrow and replaced it with his own magic.

He'd never done this before, not really—but his magic seemed to know the way, seemed to know that this one, this death, belonged to Logan alone.

There wasn't time to wonder before everything began to burn and scream within him, demanding that he turn and run for safety.

Logan didn't listen. He pushed through it, pushed towards the sound of Patton's voice, towards the Green Man, and leaned forward just in time to draw his last gasp deep into his own lungs.

Immediately, it burned. The power in there was foreign, alien and other, too hot and too bright. It was straining towards its target, terrified of its new prison within Logan's body. He could taste lightning on the back of his tongue, lightning and knives and thick, sweet-savory blood.

...and underneath, honey mead. Fresh grass and sweet roses, sunlight and the clash of swords. Loamy earth and the clean grit of damp stone. The Green Man.

He was in so much pain, he barely felt it as he bit the inside of his own cheek and sucked, replacing the savory-sweet of the alien magic with old pennies and sour larvae. Rolling the flavor of those three across his tongue, Logan breathed through his nose...and opened his mouth.

The blue-white light spilled from his lips and slithered past the Green Man's, returning his final breath to him with a fresh thread of power to combat the one that was trying to leech away his very essence. With an icy knot in his chest to clash against the fire ravaging his nerves, he blinked his vision clear, banishing the last of the spirit-blindness from his eyes and begged the gods for aid.

The Green Man stood, eyes shut, still as the grave—then tensed and came alive, greedily sucking air into his lungs.

Something inside Logan's chest relaxed...but everything, everything still hurt like hell.

Only then, dimly, did it register that the Green Man stood before him in the red, white, and gold of the royal family's military dress.

The Green Man...oh, Shadow's Balls, the Green Man was the king's son.

“Logan? Say something, please Logan...” Patton's voice, thin and vaguely panicked.

“Easy.”

The prince—the new king—gasping and coughing, those green eyes riveted to Logan's face.

“Berry.”

Janus—that was definitely Janus, somewhere beyond Logan's vision, which was starting to narrow. It hurt, it hurt, why did it hurt? He was in pain, he was dying...he was on fire. He was being consumed and crushed--

“Logan, stop pulling.”

Blinking, Logan's vision blurred and cleared. Tears? He was...

Was he weeping? He had to be, he was struggling to breathe.

Looking around, Logan realized Patton was crying (his fault, his fault he knew somehow it was his fault) and, standing beside the new king, Janus had a hand on each of their wrists.

The prince still held Logan's hand. Janus's fingers around Logan's wrist were a barely there buzzing awareness, not even that ghost of pressure because Logan couldn't feel anything beyond the fire consuming him, concentrated...

The prince tried to take his hand back. Logan's fingers convulsed around it.

“Don't let go.”

It took Logan a full minute to realize the broken sounding whine had come from his own throat.

“Logan!”

“Patton, easy. It's fine...Your Majesty, are you all right?”

“I...yes. I am unharmed, I'm...I'm back in control.”

“Back in control?”

“Whatever killed my f—whatever killed the king, it nearly killed me, too. I have reason to believe this man saved my life.”

“This man is Necromata, and he's clearly found a way to use magic on you.”

“Which, I repeat, he used to save my life, and if we're very lucky, may yet be able to use to save F...the rightful king. Logan.”

“Don't let go...please.” Logan's breath was coming in short, shallow gasps now. He was trying to take back his hand and begging to be restrained...

Logan was dying. Logan was electrified.

“Young man—Patton--what's wrong with him?”

“I don't know, Your Majesty...Logan? Can you take a breath for me, kiddo?”

Breath. Breathing. Logan could breathe. He shut his eyes...

...two...three...four...

...hold...

...three...five...six...

Logan drew in a breath.

Held it.

Let it out.

Again.

Logan drew in a breath. At some point, he stopped fighting the grip on his hand, drifted somewhere between the present and elsewhere, the core of his power...

Breath. Berry. Breath, br...other. Berry.

He opened his eyes when it started to hurt again. The Green Man was right there, both of his hands wrapped around Logan's one. He felt boneless, but when he looked to the side, he saw Patton pressed against him, one arm around his waist, the other holding Logan's arm across his shoulders so he could support his weight.

“Hey, kiddo. You back?”

Logan could only nod, turning back to stare at the hands engulfing his. Hesitantly, he tried to plant his feet, take his arm back from Patton, and reached out to touch one of the prince's hands.

His fingertips barely grazed his knuckle, and the pain intensified.

“Lo?”

Logan drew a shaky breath.

“Your Majesty...your hands are callused.”

The Green Man blinked, visibly confused. “I...thank...you?...”

“Your hands...are callused.”

“I don't understand...” The Green Man trailed off, then after a moment his eyes widened.

“Wait. You...”

Logan felt his hands tighten around his. It hurt worse, and somehow it was all that was stopping him from shattering into a million glittering pieces.

“Your hands are callused.” Logan repeated. “I can feel them...I can feel it. Your touch...I can feel it.”

Gundham. And Kokichi. And ferrets. This isn't a shipping ask, but a scene with them seems interesting.

(Hey Anon so sorry for the long wait! I hope that you enjoy this! I haven’t played SDR2 in a while so it took me a bit to see if i could get Gundham’s character down. I hope I did alright! Please enjoy this story, as I had so much fun writing it!)

Little Thief 

Rated: G Summary: Kokichi finds a ferret and believes he knows exactly who it belongs to.

Kokichi was walking by one of the alleyways when he heard a loud CLANG and froze on the spot, carefully pedaling backwards to see what was going on. Sometimes he found people dumpster diving for the hell of it, and sometimes he found people that he could use in his secret organization (how do you think he got to 12,000 people already? He could almost hear Saihara sigh wistfully like a maiden who was exhausted by society’s shortcomings and tell him that was a lie). He could hear whoever it was rummaging furiously through the rolling garbage bin as though they were scrambling for something. Maybe it was a racoon? Weren’t they nocturnal though? Unable to keep his curiosity in check, Kokichi walked further into the alleyway to the garbage bin, watching amused as papers were flying out. He got down on his hands and knees and blinked when he saw a furry slinky.

“Aren’t you supposed to be like, domesticated or something?” Kokichi asked as he reached in and tried to pull the thing out. God he never thought that he’d feel such soft fur, and this thing needed a bath. Ugh the smell was unbelievable and it didn’t help that they were through a garbage bin of all things. The ferret kept slipping out of his grip like a wet soap bar in the middle of the shower. He wondered if this was how Shuichi felt when he was trying to grapple with his anxiety. (Maybe that metaphor went a little too far). 

Kokichi struggled with maintaining the grip and coaxing the ferret out, getting just as dirty and smelly as the animal that he was trying to fight. “How did you even get in there?” He grumbled. “Wait, I wonder if you’re one of Tanaka-chan’s.” He brought the ferret up closer and yipped when it started to try to weasel itself out of his hands. “Oh no you don’t you furry ribbon boneless creature.” He tightened his hold and struggled to get back to his feet. 

The ferret was indeed long and skinny in length. The fur was a striped snow white and stormy grey with a white beak and a sakura colored nose. The beady eyes were trying to look innocently up at Kokichi, but the D.I.C.E supreme leader knew better than to fall for that trap. Nothing was innocent about dragging a tiny school boy into a garbage bin. (OKay he knew that he did that all on his own, but it was fun to think about).

Now came the hard part. If Tanaka was missing a ferret there’d be school signs right? Tanaka was more or less pretty uptight about where his animals were and he was always vigilant about letting the whole school know when one of them was missing. Kokichi racked his brains trying to come up with a memory of Tanaka posting up flyers recently, but couldn’t think of anything.

Still...Kokichi looked at the struggling creature that was clearly wanting to get back in the garbage bin. (Maybe it wants to slither up against Kokichi’s neck. He could be the new mascot of D.I.C.E! No, better not get too attached to that idea anytime soon). He tucked the creature closer against his body. The only way to know was to go bother the Supreme Overlord of Ice. 

It was just a good thing that the 77 class’s dorms weren’t too far away from here. “Okay little long mouse, let’s go find your daddy and then I can take a shower.” Kokichi lectured the furry creature as he made his way across the school yard. Unlike his own class, 77 didn’t really care about his pranks or about his tall tales. They let him have his fun, but they were fast to pick up on the fact that he was lying, telling the truth, or was just goading them on. Tsumiki was his favorite to prank sometimes, but so was Saijoni when she got an attitude. 

He didn’t mean anyone on his way to the dorms and whether that was a blessing or a curse, Kokichi didn’t know. He made his way down the 77’s class hall and found Tanaka’s dorm room. “Okay this is where we part.” He told the ferret. “I’m going to give you back, and we’re all gucci.”

He knocked a couple of times on the door. “Tanaka-chaaannnnn!!!! I need help!!!!! I found a fur baby and I think it’s yours!!! Tanaka-chaaaannnn-”

The door swung open swiftly. “You did not need to call me in such an annoying tone, clown prince of lies. I heard you when you kno-” The heterochromatic stood in front of the doorway as imposing as Kokichi wished he could be. (Curse his short stature). His long red scarf tailed behind Gundham’s back along with the purple overcoat that he wore. His left arm was still heavily bandaged and he only wore the one earring. Sonia said that it got lost at the beach but Gundham was for certain that it had disappeared into the abyssal realm as a sacrifice. 

(Kokichi still had it somewhere...he thought).

“What is that infernal beast doing in your hold?” Tanaka spoke slowly.

Kokcihi pouted, “What?! Do you think we couldn’t be friends?! That’s so mean of you, Tanaka-chan, I just might cry! I found this little poor baby in a garbage bin. Have a bit of mercy!”

“I would not be surprised if the Thieves of Hell decided you to be their infernal partner.” Tanaka blinked slowly. “Alas, as good of a creature as that is, they do not belong to me. They must have sought you out specifically. Come! You have done well to come to me for aid! I will teach you how to tame the beast! I will not break such a strong bond so easily!”

“Eh?” Kokichi felt like he just got whiplashed and it wasn’t easy for him to feel like that. Then again, Tanaka was probably the only one in this school that could give him something like that. “Wait hold on! This isn’t yours? They aren’t yours?”

“No. I do not tame many thieves of hell as I would like. My Four Devas are handful enough. Are you going to come in or not?” Tanaka demanded and Kokichi felt compelled to at least hear him out. He closed the door behind him, not really knowing what he was getting himself into.

“Do you know much about ferrets?” Kokichi asked as Tanka found a two-tiered cage in his closet (honestly that man was prepared to find any animal wasn’t he? It was already prepared for an animal’s welcome too. Specifically a rodent’s). 

“I must know plenty of the different beats of hell if I am to remain as I am as a tamer.” Tanka replied easily. “You will find, clown prince of lies, that they are similar to you in spirit as they are similar to you in personality. I have no reason to suspect any harm will come to them as long as they are in your care. Though be warned! They are picky as they are clever. They can get out of any imprisonment they so chose to. Food must be to their liking. I will provide you as such so that you have something for now.”

Kokichi blinked, “What makes you think I’m gonna take it home with me? Tanaka-chan is being awfully assumptious. I was just trying to give the fur baby back to you! I’m too young to be a daddy!”

“What makes you think I would break your bond? If having such an infernal creature is too much for you I can break the seal and contract.” Tanaka offered. “Perhaps that may be for the best?”

A sudden fear gripped on to Kokichi. He just wanted to give the ferret back and go on his merry way. But...if it wasn’t Gundham’s and no one was going to claim it...then maybe the creature could be useful after all! (Kokichi still remembers finding Shuffle against the garbage bin when she was just getting started in middle school. He remembers having to scavenge to eat. He remembers…) “Nishishishi~ if you’re so busy with your hamsters, I can watch a ferret for a while. It’s not a big deal.” It was a huge deal. 

“It is quite rude for us to assume gender, but I believe if I’m looking correctly you have a female. You may wish to be careful with her.” Tanaka mused thoughtfully as he took the creature from Kokichi and allowed it to climb up his arms. “They will get up to any places you may find hard to reach and if you train them well they can be a valuable asset to you.” The ferret suddenly wrapped itself around Tanaka’s neck, but it was an easy tug and pull to put the creature into the cage. “I unfortunately do not have much in ways of entertainment for the poor creature. So you may have to go out and get some. Partners like this do not come to you easily. Bonding and being a part of their fleeting lives is a sacred promise and one you should uphold to your best.”

“You sure know a lot about animals.” Kokichi casually crossed his arms behind his head. “I just wonder how it got on to school property if it’s not one of yours.”

“Infernal beasts have an instinct that I do not fully understand myself. Perhaps she knew that she was destined to be with someone at the school and came to it’s siren’s call. You were lead by fate and now you have met.” Tanaka said simply as he double checked the cage and then held it out towards Kokichi. “You should come to me for more aid should you have need. My door is open.”

“Your cellphone number would be better.”

“The last time I gave it to you, clown prince of lies, you gave me nothing but images of things you call “memes”. I believe I had the right to revoke such a right.” Tanaka deadpanned.

“Awww.” Kokichi pouted. “We were so close too. Alright, I guess I’ll...figure out a way to smuggle this into my dorm room. Ciao sunflower seed!” 

                                                        X

Unbeknown to either of them, Shuichi had a flyer in his hands looking for a grey and white striped ferret that had gotten out of someone’s apartment complex. The name Tinkerbell was scrawled in a hasty flourish. “Now where could you have gone…” 

CHAPTER 03

It was obvious I wasn’t getting anywhere with the kid nor the creep, so I decided I’d try my luck with the woman at the root of it all; Ms. Fawcett herself. In only moments, I was knocking on her cottage door. I was soon greeted by the smiling face of what appeared to be a kindly old woman. But I knew better than to let my guard down for a second.

“Oh, hello, dear!” The old woman readjusted her spectacles and got a better look at me. If her frown was any indication, she wasn’t pleased with what she saw. “You’re not Little Red ...”

“How astute of you, ma’am. I’m known around these parts as the Big Bad Wolf, and I’ve got a few choice questions I’d like to--”

“Oh my, wolf? Wolf!”

I’m not sure which hurt worse in that moment: my feelings, or my snout when she slammed the door in my face. Alright, fine. It was quickly becoming clear to me that a direct approach wasn’t going to work here. On to plan B.

The B stands for boring, and boy was it. A good stakeout takes patience, vigilance, and dedication to the craft. I just so happen to possess all three in spades, but even I was beginning to nod off in the tree I’d perched myself in by the time I spotted movement along the adjacent treeline. 

It was Larry Lemonade! Just this fact alone was enough to jolt my senses-- as well as nearly caused me to topple from my roost. Grabbing onto the sturdy branch of the tree, I shielded my eyes with a free hand. 

All the better to see him with, you know.

Larry was the perfect vision of a sneaking snike-- mostly because that was what he was doing. He slithered out from behind the trees, tip-toeing through shrubbery as he made it to the door of Fawcett’s cottage. I watched, ever vigilant, as the depraved delinquent turned himself side to side-- no doubt on the lookout for my familiar face.  

Ha! For someone who took such pride in his intelligence, apparently looking UP was above him! 

After a few minutes the wolf seemed satisfied enough, straightening his crooked frame as he knocked on the door. It was only as an afterthought that Larry bent over to pluck a handful of posies from the window box, holding them as a makeshift bouquet.

It was the moment the old woman had opened the door to her home that I had realized my mistake: I was too far away to hear anything! Cursing that my brilliance had been my downfall, I strained my eyes to get a better view. I happen to be an amatuer lip reader, so it was at that moment my skill was put to the test.

Ah, Fawcett was surprised. Larry handed the flowers over, something about ‘for you, my dear’. My head was beginning to ache from the agony of my peepers peeping beyond their limits, but I could see that scoundrel kissing her hand, and Fawcett feigning a demure attitude. My frustration was building, and it was building fast. 

I didn’t need to see Larry getting himself a sugar granny, after all!

Thankfully some higher power was on my side, as the flirting came to an end. Either  Maybelle was suddenly offering an avocado, or she had just asked the wolf to come in.

“The plot thickens!” I cried out triumphantly, troubling my temporary twittering neighbors. But who cared about THEM, anyway. No birds were going to keep me from my case!

The robins apparently disagreed, as their sudden swooping caused me to tumble out of the tree. But no matter! The vines and underbrush I now found myself entangled in provided the perfect cover I needed. I’ve gotten so adept at camouflage, I don’t even need to try anymore.

I heard her long before I saw her. I'd know that chipper humming anywhere. And wouldn’t you know it, a moment later there she was, skipping into the clearing, her basket in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in her other. The final piece of the puzzle had arrived, and I waited, I watched, held in place just as much by my keen sense of intuition, as by the shrubbery.

Red shifted the flowers to her other hand, and she knocked on the door. The door opened, but it wasn’t the old woman standing there.

“Hiya, Granny! Hey wait,,,”

The girl was snatched up so quickly I barely saw it, her optimistic cry of “Whee!” cut off abruptly as she was pulled inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I was beginning to think maybe the girl was in danger, after all.

It wasn’t the time to think of suspects, it was time to save lives! The make it or break it moment where heroes were born!

Thus, quite naturally, my birth of valor was through breaking the cottage window.

Glass shattering was merely a cymbal in the sea of sounds coming from the home-- heavy thuds and muffled screams being the key notes. I might not have known the full story of what was going on, but I knew trouble when I heard it on the soundtrack of life! So, I used this opportunity to stretch my paw inside-- fiddling with the lock on the other side. The noise continued, and I was beginning to grow-- dare I say it-- worried.

With a small metallic click I was allowed entrance.  AHA! It was with a cry of success that I threw up the panel, and climbed inside-- only just missing having the window slam back down on my back. I clambered to my back paws, dusting my coat and gave a look about.

The place was an absolute wreck-- and I didn’t just mean from the taste of tacky furniture! Tables were flipped, picture frames were thrown to the floor. Chairs were… Actually, they were fine--BUT EVERYTHING ELSE! Oooh, this had the markings of a genuine struggle!

My deducing would have to wait, as it was the sound of the little girl screaming that sprung me into action.

“I gotcha Red!”

 I scurried to the foyer, followed by stumbling up the steps. I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top floor. Another cry! All that stood between me and saving the child was a simple door.

I charged with everything I had.

I collapsed, along with the wooden door. Boy, they sure don’t build houses like they used to anymore… Where were the Walrus and the Carpenter when you needed them?

Oh, right. Prison.

I shook my head, visions of singing oysters leaving me as I took in the room I had so desperately demanded entrance to. Blinking with heavy eyes, I was shocked by what I saw!

The room was absolutely deserted.

The open window told me everything I needed to know … granny and the girl had been nabbed. But where had Larry taken them, and for what purpose? I asked myself these very questions as I descended the stairs, my deep contemplative concentration broken by a loud clatter that could have only been the front door crashing open.

Even more guests? The last thing I needed. Or perhaps the very thing I needed … perhaps whoever it was had seen something, had some information vital to this new questionable quandary I suddenly found myself with. I continued my way down the stairs, and prepared to confront the guest.

Or the intruder.

What I didn’t expect, however, was to see a modern day Adonis. If you asked a barkeep for a tall glass of water, this guy would be the equivalent of getting the whole barrel. Seemingly kind eyes were tinged with worry, as the large lumbering man stumbled through the door. He picked it up afterwards, leaning it back into its frame in some sort of manner of bashful etiquette. Hand on his ax-- Woodsman, then-- he called into the destroyed home.

“Mrs. Fawcett? Ma’am? You home? I brought you this week’s supply!” Boots crushed a picture frame, the lad stopping in his tracks as he bent over to pluck it from under his heel. “Oh my, bingo must have been intense. Shame I missed it!”

This was said with enough cheer that it caused me to facepalm from my spot on the stairs. Oh no, the kid was a nimrod in every sense of the word! I continued to watch: while I was sure he wasn’t the brains of the operation, I wasn’t yet sure where the Woodsman fell on the morality scale. (For all I knew he was a goon of Larry’s!) After I witnessed a cleanup of the crime scene, the Woodsman stopped himself to frown at the rest of the mess.

I could practically hear the squeaks of unused wheels, as the lad was attempting to make a thought.

“I… am beginning to suspect this wasn’t from bingo.”

“Nooo, you THINK?”

My outburst came as a surprise to us both-- my only weakness being the fact I couldn’t stand the simpleminded. Unfortunately for me, I wouldn’t be standing for long: for the moment the Woodsman spotted my fury complexion… Well, let’s just say profiling caused the oaf to have an ax to grind with little old me. 

I have no shame in admitting I yelped, falling down the stairs as I dodged the swing of the blade.

“H-hey, pal, let’s be reasonable!”

Another swing of the ax told me that logic and reason may not have been this guy’s strong suit. The way said ax sliced through an overturned table, barely missing me as I scrambled out of the way, told me he may have been wearing his strong suit,

“Halt, foul beast!” This man had a voice like a tuba. “What have you done with poor Ms. Fawcett? I don’t see her anywhere!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you! If you’d just put the ax away, and give me a chance to explain myself...”

My wit is quicker than my legs, I’m afraid, and I failed to escape the hand the size of my head. I was snatched up off the ground like an unfortunate rabbit in the talons of a hungry hawk. The brute of a man looked me up and down as I dangled there. 

Not my most prideful moment.

“Hmmm. You didn’t eat her, did you?”

“EAT HER?!”

Now, let me tell you a thing or two about wolves: we get a bad rap. Sometimes it felt like wolves were getting the short end of the stick on everything.  Treating all the world's problems on wolves like me. You know what it’s like to get stink eyes everywhere you go? Can’t even fish for a bargain on salmon without people grabbing their kids and running for the hills!

So let’s just say I am a smiggen sensitive when it comes to the subject.

“I’ll show YOU ‘eat her’!” I growled, rage blinding me as I attempted to do the same to the bigot-- claws swiping at nothing. “I walked IN on this, you loony lout! Now put me DOWN before I-”

If the Woodsman considered my threat, even for a fraction of a second, it didn’t show. Head starting to feel like a cheap stress toy, the barbarian secured his grip as he began stomping towards the kitchen.

At this, I protested.

“Hey! Where are you taking me? You can’t do this! I’m a detective: I have RIGHTS!”

I was starting to think the sore throat I was getting from yelling was all for nothing-- especially as the guy ignored me. In some ways that was WORSE than being accused of sentience cannibalism. However, I quickly deduced what the plan was, as I saw the Woodsman reaching for the phone hanging on the wall. 

My suspicions were confirmed when I heard the seven words every detective loathed to hear:

“I’d like to speak to the police.”

What Will They Reboot Next?

(Saw this on Facebook, couldn’t resist...)

One of these days, Crowley would learn to think before acting. That day, unfortunately, wasn’t yesterday, when he’d finally talked Aziraphale into getting himself a phone that wasn’t a Bakelite antique attached to a landline.

He’d just wanted a convenient way to text the angel (though he dreaded the conversation about emojis he was certain loomed in his future like the Second Apocalypse). He hadn’t expected this sort of chaos -- whatever this was.

“Explain this! Right this instant!” Aziraphale demanded, brandishing his new iPhone[1] with such vigour, not even Crowley’s demonically sharp eyes could see what was actually on the bloody screen.

It wasn’t an error message. There was an actual picture there; that much, Crowley could see. But a picture of what?

“Explain what?”

“This!” was Aziraphale’s unhelpful response, accompanied by a wave reminiscent of the angel brandishing his old flaming sword, which set off all sorts of post-apocalypse stress reactions in Crowley.

He lashed out, not to harm[2] the angel, but to catch him by one perfectly starched cuff. The wardrobe-based assault froze Aziraphale in mid-brandish, letting Crowley’s eyes[3] finally focus on the screen.

“Oh,” Crowley said, jerking his hand back, though the screen remained rock-steady and regrettably in-focus. He doubted Aziraphale had any idea who was in the photo on the left[4], but the right...

“‘Oh,’” Aziraphale quoted, the word punctuated with the faint rustle of unseen wings.

Crowley couldn’t hide his guilty flinch. “It’s not my fault!”

“Not your fault! Crowley --”

“Look, it was when you were doing inventory, all right?” Crowley protested. “Three weeks, it took you. What was I supposed to do?”

Aziraphale huffed. “You said you were going to celebrate averting the apocalypse!”

“I was!” Crowley shrugged, giving his best innocent[5] smile. “I went to Los Angeles. There’s this --”

“How does your going to Hollywood end with this?”

Crowley shrugged again, saying, “Look, you’re the one who started it all, with the whole Hamlet thing. I took a couple of acting classes[6], and next thing you know, a director got me mixed up with this ‘David Tennant’ fellow. Poor chap can’t act his way out of a paper bag, if you ask me, but he somehow made it into weekend seminars at the Royal Scottish Academy --”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and waved the mobile, making Crowley flinch again. “That’s not what I’m talking about -- although we will discuss that later,” he added ominously, bringing the whole flaming sword thing to mind again.[7]

After six thousand years of lying to Hell and, more recently, helping to avert the Apocalypse through sheer incompetence, Crowley knew when to shut up, and that moment was now. So he did.

“I’m talking about” -- Aziraphale scoffed, nose crinkling up in a positively adorable show of distaste -- “reboots.”

That nose-crinkle tore right through Crowley’s demonic defences. Despite six thousand years of vaguely-unswerving dedication to evil, he felt his mouth curl up in a sappy, slightly serpentine smile. “Reboots?”

“It says so right here.” The mobile screen flashed again, not that Crowley bothered looking. “They’re rebooting Batman.”

“Yeah?” Most of Crowley’s thoughts had melted into a puddle of goo, thanks to that nose-crinkle. The tiny corner of his infernal brain that was still working had just enough processing power to be impressed that Aziraphale hadn’t pronounced it in two words: bat man.

With a sigh of pure exasperation, Aziraphael crossed his arms, something he never did[8]. “You’re responsible for the concept of rebooting franchises every other year.”

“I wouldn’t! That’s all humans.”

Aziraphale lifted a brow sceptically. “You happen to go to Hollywood, and coincidentally there’s a Batman reboot, starring you?”

“Sure, if you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Crowley admitted, “but it’s not like they haven’t rebooted that particular franchise a hundred times already --”

“Five,” Aziraphale corrected primly.

Crowley blinked.

Aziraphale shrugged, glancing away. “I researched it.”

Crowley gave an unprecedented second blink. “You researched it?”

“I -- I have a whole back room full of comics,” Aziraphale said, still avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Pristine first editions, all of them. I couldn’t not look into them. Have you any idea how much those things can be worth?”

“So what you’re saying is, you can afford to pay for an around-the-world cruise?” Crowley hinted, hoping to escape further discussion of reboots.

Aziraphale sniffed. “As if I’d sell any of them. I don’t even leave the door unlocked for browsing without appointment.[9] Just think of all the people getting their grubby fingerprints on the covers, dog-earing the pages...”

Crowley grinned, safely back on familiar ground. “Yes, wouldn’t want to imagine that sort of thing happening in a used bookshop.”

Refusing to be diverted, Aziraphael said, “Reboots, Crowley. Specifically Batman reboots. I sense your demonic hand at work.”

“My demonic hands were nowhere near this reboot,” Crowley said, heroically resisting the temptation to suggest anything about any of his parts, demonic or otherwise. “I was trying to tell you, I was in Los Angeles for a nightclub, that’s all.”

“A nightclub.” Aziraphale scoffed. “My dear Crowley, we’re in Soho. What could Los Angeles possibly offer that you can’t find right here?”

“Oh, angel...” Crowley smiled, plucking the mobile from Aziraphale’s fingers so he could slither up close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

Aziraphale did that full-body wiggle he always did when Crowley got too close, as if he were making a show of being too polite to back away.[10] “Of course not. It always seemed a bit... trite. And full of Californians.”

“Well, yes. It being in California and all,” Crowley pointed out, pretending to dust some lint off Aziraphale’s lapels.

The casual touch got the angel to finally uncross his arms. His hands landed unerringly on Crowley’s hips, fitting perfectly in place like a key made for a lock. The touch was every bit as warm and inviting as the shelter of his wings had been the day of that very first storm.

And the bolt of lightning that shot through Crowley as their eyes met made that first storm seem like nothing more than a drizzle.

“What’s so special about Los Angeles?”

It took Crowley a moment to remember how to speak and even longer to remember what they’d been talking about. He definitely couldn’t remember when he’d wound his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. That sort of thing was happening more and more these days, not that they’d actually discussed it.

They probably should have done, but they were, after all, hereditary enemies. They just happened to be hereditary enemies who were on their own side now, not anybody else’s.

“This nightclub you found?” Aziraphale prompted.

“In Los Angeles. Right.”

Crowley nodded, wrenching his brain back from its dazed meandering. He was a demon, which meant he specialised in doing the wrong thing, but he’d once been an angel, and he’d recently done the right thing, with excellent results. Bracing himself, he decided to give the right thing another shot and, as humans put it, use his words.

After all, if you thought about it, they’d been on their own side for a lot longer than anyone realised. Six thousand years longer.

“Maybe... we could go together?” Crowley suggested, shifting from the casual accidental hug to deliberately running one hand up over Aziraphale’s nape.

The angel’s blue eyes went as wide as the infinite skies over the Garden of Eden.

A shiver passed through Crowley’s wings. He threaded his fingers into Aziraphale’s curls.

The sound Aziraphale made wasn’t one humans would have heard, if there had been any in the bookshop to witness this moment.[11]

A couple centuries’ of drama study had taught Crowley that this was, in fact, The Moment. He had to play it cool. Six thousand years of studying humanity meant he’d seen The Moment played out countless times. He had a whole repertoire of possible reactions and responses to choose from, even if this was the first time he himself had ever done any Seizing of The Moment.

But Aziraphale Seized first, moving his hands from Crowley’s hips to the small of his back, and suddenly there was no measurable distance between their corporeal forms at all.[12]

“Ngh,” was Crowley’s very un-cool response to his angel’s first real embrace.

Unruffled[13], Aziraphale said, “This nightclub you visited...”

What’s a nightclub? Crowley thought for a few eternal seconds before remembering. (Aziraphale’s hair was very soft. Had it always been that soft?) It took even longer for him to shuffle through his memories of every nightclub he’d ever visited[14] before he finally remembered the latest one.

It had all the usual features -- low lighting, dancing on tables, lines of humans desperate to make it past the bouncer -- but also enough alcohol to get even a couple of eternal beings plastered and a gorgeously tuned grand piano.

Besides, the only one allowed to play said grand piano could also be trusted not to snitch to either side if a certain angel and demon ended up in a dark corner booth. Together.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry,” Crowley said, tightening his arms before Aziraphale could think something had gone horribly wrong and pull away.

Smiling like an angel[15], Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s eyes and asked, “What’s this nightclub called?”

Bargaining like a demon[16], Crowley countered, “Do you believe I’m not lying about the whole reboots thing?”

“My dear Crowley...” Aziraphale tipped his head into Crowley’s palm and sighed. “Yes. I believe you.”

Warmed all the way through, Crowley said, “It’s called Lux. Want to go?”

Eyes sparkling with delight, Aziraphale said, “I’d love to. Just let me fetch a nicer tie.”

Thoughts of a wardrobe full of tartan and taupe filled Crowley’s thoughts, but he didn’t protest. It wasn’t as if the bouncers would get in their way, and once they were inside... well, he’d burn that bridge when he came to it. “You do that, angel,” he said, reluctantly stepping out of Aziraphale’s arms.

And as Aziraphale bustled off to find a new bow tie (leaving his mobile behind[17]), Crowley got out his own mobile and hastily composed an email to his agent. If all went well, he anticipated some scheduling conflicts in his future. That around-the-world cruise was waiting for them, after all.

...

[1] Aziraphale pronounced it “eye phone,” with a distinct pause, but Crowley was taking baby steps in introducing the angel to technology.

[2] Never to harm.

[3] He’d never quite got the hang of limiting his vision to only the mortal spectrum, which was the real reason he kept wearing his sunglasses. These days, no one would look twice at his eyes, except to compliment him on his contacts.

[4] Crowley had never suggested anything as absurd as sparkling vampires, though he was happy to take credit. He did, however, write a disclaimer -- in all caps -- that he was NOT responsible for Fifty Shades of anything. Hell’s response had been “That came from the Other Side,” though Crowley had never figured out precisely which angel to blame.

[5] Despite six thousand years of practice, he wasn’t very good at it.

[6] “A couple” meaning a couple hundred, but eventually he got the hang of it.

[7] There’s a reason the Almighty had posted Aziraphale to guard the Eastern Gate, and it wasn’t for his snazzy fashion sense. Under the mild-mannered bookseller was the sort of badass angel who made Crowley’s toes curl, though Crowley would never admit it.

[8] Aziraphale’s usually-upright posture had nothing to do with his angelic nature and everything to do with not straining the seams of his favourite jacket.

[9] The “Employees Only” sign on the door meant no one knew about the collection, which saved Aziraphale the trouble of scheduling any appointments.

[10]  The fact that Aziraphale always ended up even closer to Crowley was a coincidence absolutely no one believed, especially not God.

 [11] Only one entity witnessed it, and Her only reaction was to sigh and say, “Finally,” in a Voice that made no fewer than seven prophets across the world faint, overcome with Divine Vision.

[12] Other than their clothing, a thought that occurred to both corporeal entities and their incorporeal observer, with varying levels of frustration.

[13] Metaphorically and literally. Aziraphale had, in fact, taken a few hours to meticulously groom his wings after he’d finished inventory. He was just waiting for the right moment to show off to Crowley.

[14] His favourite would always be an underground club in Night Vale, with its singing crystal walls and eldritch DJ playing the screams of those lost in the Void, but he didn’t think Aziraphale would like it there.

[15] Actually, angelic smiles tended to be cold, shallow, and feral. Aziraphale was smiling like a human, which made all the difference in the world.

[16] Demons are terrible at bargaining by design. Humanity is perfectly capable of tempting itself without any outside help.

[17] A habit he’d already developed, despite having the mobile for less than a week.

Sketchy

Request: I saw this tweet and I thought it would be great with Leonard Mccoy "I wasn't firting." "I wish you had been" Thanks love!! Your stuff is great!!

One of the guards’ grip on your arm tightened as they escorted you down the corridor. The other snatched a small blade from your hands.

“I was under the impression that was a gift,” you joked, blood darkening your shirt and matting your hair to your face, your feet barely keeping up with the rest of you.

The three of you came to a halt beside a long row of bars, while a key was stuck in a lock. Now that your were at a stand still for the first time in almost an hour, you felt like you were deflating. Your knees didn’t seem to want to hold you up anymore and without the support of the guards your spine started to curled in on itself.

“Is there a room service menu I can look take a look at?” you continued talking, without expecting a response. They never responded. To be quite honest you weren’t sure they could understand you or speak. “You know what, I’ll just have the soup of the day.” You were forced into the cell. “Do you people even eat soup? If you don’t, you should look into. It might you a little less crotchety,” you raised your voice as you were locked in and they set off the way they had come.

The second they had gone back up the stairs, you let your body relax. Without your constant attention, your face contorted with pain. You closed your eyes and counted your injuries. Counted your days.

“Are you alright?” a man on one of the poor excuses for a bed behind you asked.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Then why’d you ask?” You rubbed the back of your wrist under your nose, wiping the blood away, and dropped to the floor with a sigh that expressed both pain and relief.

He shrugged, “It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Manners aren’t going to get you far in here.” You grunted as your tried to adjust into a more comfortable position.  

He looked you up and down. “Don’t think I want to.”

“Not much of a fighter?” you asked. Your eyes wouldn’t fully focus on anything. If you kept them open too long, your vision would become overpowered by black splotches.

“At best, I’m an angry pacifist,” he told you.

“How did you even end up in fight ring.” You glanced up at him. “You look like a school teacher.”

“I’m a doctor.”

You snorted.

“On a starship.”

You looked at him with a more scrutinizing gaze. It took more energy than it should have. “Starfleet?”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly.

“Bet that’s a lot of fun.” Every now and then your words would stumble on their way out or take a little longer than they normally would, like they were having some trouble finding their exit.

“Oh, yeah, I am living the life.”

You let out a half laugh, resting your head against the metal wall as your vision went splotchy. Closing your eyes, you focused on your breathing. Each breath felt like another attack. When you opened your eyes again, they focused on the doctor.

“Look…”

“Leonard.”

“Look, Leonard, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get you out of here, if you help me with this.” You lifted the hem of your shirt with a shaky hand to reveal the large collection of cuts and bruises that covered your abdomen.

“Oh, good god. You’re a walking corpse.”

“I really don’t think this is the time for flirting,” you joked and let your shirt fall back down. “Do we have a deal?”

“Well, I can’t just let you let you bleed to death on the floor of a prison.” He stood and crossed the cell.

“What a gentleman,” you muttered as he knelt to help you up.

He wrapped an arm around your back to support you and lead you to the bed. Leaning back against the wall, you let your eyes slip close again.

“Some of these are old,” Leonard stated, holding your shirt up.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

“And infected.”

You peaked your eyes open. “In this place? Shocking.”

“Your ribs are broken. At least three.”

“So’s my ankle.”

“Anything else I should know.” He sat up a little straighter and held up his right hand. “Follow my finger with you eyes.”

“I’ve been craving chocolate ice cream for three days. Don’t think I really want it. Just the idea of it.” You weren’t entirely sure how many words were making it all the way out of your mouth.

“Injury wise.”

“That depends.” He lowered his finger and stared at you expectantly. “What does a dislocated shoulder feel like?”

Leonard sighed.  

“Also I coughed up blood a couple times, I haven’t eaten in awhile, I broke my nose and probably a few fingers, and you’re like super blurry.” You took a breath. “Can I sleep while your fix me?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

“I can’t fix you here anyways.” You felt his figure tips gently prodding your shoulder.

“You’re lettin’ me down, Leonard.”

“I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.”

Your head lulled to the side. “Huh, you’re general impression lead me to believe otherwise.”

He moved his hands from your collarbone. “Your shoulders separated not dislocated.”

“Cool,” you forced the word out between gritted teeth.

He grunted in response, placing one hand at the base of your skull and the other on your upper arm.

“I’m going to lay you down now, okay?” Distantly you heard yourself make some sort of noise in way of a response. “I need you to stay conscious. Tell me this great plan of yours.”

“Mm right. Plan.” You let him guide your head down to the flimsy pillow. “You got a…” You searched your brain for that word. It was a simple word. It started with a C. What was it? Giving up, you substituted, “talking… thing?”

“A communicator?” he guessed.

You hummed an affirmative note that ended in a harsh gasp as Leonard put weight against the wounds on your stomach. Tears sprung to your eyes and your face twisted even more with the pain.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise,” his voice grew softer. “I do have a communicator, but it’s not working.”

You attempted a nod but it ended up being a short jerking movement. “There’s a jammer. Behind.” You opted to guestering loosely at the wall next to you instead of finishing the sentence.

“Is that why that panel is loose?” Your slight smirk was all the answer he needed. “My knowledge of jammers is limited to the all night study sessions, hitting your toe, and on toast variety.”

Opening your eyes, you attempted to prop yourself up on your elbows. An attempt that was thwarted by Leonard gently forcing you back down.

“It’s simple. There’s a sketchy looking black box hooked to the system main.”

“How does a box look sketchy?”

“You’ll understand when you see it.” You took a sharp breath in through your nose and tried to ignore the pain and desire to sleep. “Disconnect it. Red… red wire. Then…” your voice faded off.

“Stay focused,” his words were still gentle, but they were demanding. “Then what?”

“Camera,” you said simply, trying to get your thoughts back on track. “You have to turn it off. There’s a glowy button. We’ll have ten minutes.”

“Okay, okay. Let me see if I’ve got this right. I climb into the wall like a rat and-”

“Right.” You moved your hand in a somewhat flailing motion to show that it was a direction not an affirmation.

He stared at you for a moment. “Then I go right?”

You gave him a thumbs up.

“Then I disconnect a red wire and press a glowy button?”

You held your thumb up again.

“I think I can handle that.” He placed a hand on the side of your face to get you to focus on him again. “I need you to put pressure on this.” Wrapping his fingers loosely around your hand, he guided it to your stomach. You pressed your palm into to the blood stain on your shirt. His hand left your wrist and a moment later you heard the sound of the wall panel moving and hitting the floor.

“Wow that is sketchy,” his muffled voice sounded from behind the wall.

A lazy smile pulled at your lips as your eyes slipped closed.

-

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you opened your eyes again you were staring at a bright, white ceiling and harsh lights.

Opening and closing your mouth to try to bring some moisture back, you looked around. The room was incredibly clean and smelled of disinfectant. You definitely weren’t on the fight ring ship anymore. You sat up and discovered that your body no longer ached, no longer felt like it was falling apart, which only made you more suspicious.

You threw your legs over the side of the bed you were on and dropped to the floor. It was cold against your bare feet. You wiggled your toes before walking to the opposite wall. You stayed close to it as you moved through the room. A door swished opened and your panic sent you into what you assumed was a closet.

“You should be in bed.”

Not a closet.

You turned to see the doctor working at his desk.

“I should be dead.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” He looked up at you. “God. You still look like crap.”

“Don’t flirt with me while I’m trying to thank you.”

He snorted.

“I know I wouldn’t have made it much longer, if you hadn’t gotten me out of there. And if you hadn’t, ya know,” you gestured at your abdomen. “So thanks.”

“Let me get you a coffee,” he offered, getting up.

“You just don’t give up, do you?” you smiled, sitting down at a chair on the other side of his desk.

“I wasn’t flirting.”

You hummed and rested your head on your hand. “Wish you had been.”

“Why don’t I get you that coffee,” he smiled.

ST Tag: @slither-in-a-half @i-am-not-the-real-alice @cuddlememerrick

Bones Tag: @chickens-are-life @fairislesheets

Chapter 5: Sacrifice

Face to face at last-- with Sammy, and with the beast that has helped and hindered him so far.

Content warning: violence (it’s fairly vague but the implications are graphic)

“There we go now. Nice and tight. We wouldn’t want our sheep roaming away now, would we? No, we wouldn’t.” Henry came to with a strange sense of déjà vu, like a nagging buzz in the back of his head as Sammy spoke. The words became little more than static as his brain tried to catch up with his body, numbly watching the prophet set his tools out of reach. Clarity snapped back to him when the ink man paused. “Wait! You look familiar to me…” He silently struggled against his bonds, wanting to say something, ANYTHING to tell him he knew him. Henry remembered, even if Sammy didn’t! Whatever happened, they could fix it! They could try to find out how to, if only Sammy would trust him enough to let him go! But no, the crushing feeling of futility bound him just as tight as the rope did. Sammy turned, mumbling dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Little sheep, we welcome you back to the flock. The time of sacrifice is at hand…” Soon he was gone. Henry could see his axe and the seeing tool just in front of him, taunting him. If he could just… break free of these ropes, he’d be able to defend himself from what was sure to come. Now he understood why that beast waited before. He was toying with him! He couldn’t sit by and die like… well, like a lamb brought to slaughter. He redoubled his efforts. An unusual surge of strength ripped through him, and he suddenly burst free of his bonds. He lunged for the axe and tool just as more ink creatures emerged from the bubbling puddles. He readied himself for a fight. … But nothing moved. They just… sat where they formed. Watching him. Waiting. He lowered the axe slightly in confusion. “Shhh. Quiet! Listen! I can hear him. Crawling above. Hear me, Bendy! Arise from the darkness and claim my offering!” Sammy spoke over the loudspeaker, more frantic with every word that spilled from his mouth. They were waiting for their master. He considered running, but the decision was made for him. When he turned to leave, the ink demon appeared in the exit in all his glory. Something felt wrong about this. ALL of this. He wasn’t supposed to stop him. But now, he was face to face with the beast. He should run. He KNEW he should run. Every part of his body screamed for it, but something kept him standing there, transfixed. Neither moved. Even the abominations of barely human-esque ink waited with bated breath. Could they breathe? He shook his head quickly. Focus. The ink demon started to move, lifting one arm to slowly point at the device in his grip. Did he… want him to use it? Muscles tense and mind demanding he flee, he brought his so-called seeing tool to his face. Someone managed to draw on the ink demon. Eyes. Happy, pie cut eyes that, combined with the smile he’d found so terrifying just moments ago, made a very familiar face. “…Bendy?” The creature purred at the name. Just like that, the world broke from its trance. The amalgamations lurched towards him again, and Henry readied his axe. To his surprise, Bendy joined in the fight, easily smashing them back into the puddles they came from. Between the two of them, they made quick work of the few left in the room. Henry took a shaky breath. “You’re really… supposed to be him,” Henry whispered, looking back at the demon. It seemed so wrong. He couldn’t just /be/ Bendy. Not with Sammy the way he was, and those… things, the way they were. The ink demon just stared, making a miniscule motion that Henry decided to interpret as a shrug. “We’ll find out eventually, buddy.” “NO!” His head jerked up to stare at the loudspeakers. Sammy didn’t sound happy. The line went dead as the prophet raced back to the room, agitated in body movement, if not in expression. “How did you survive?!” Sammy cut off abruptly once he caught sight of the demon just feet away. “M-my lord… What is going on? Do you reject this sheep?” Bendy shuffled closer to Henry, towering over him a moment before simply flopping over. Henry grunted at the sudden weight, panic bubbling up as he felt ink writhe over him. Then Bendy wrapped his arms around him. He was hugging him? He was trying to, at least. It didn’t seem like he could bend his legs, on further inspection. Hesitantly, he tilted slightly up so he could hug the ink demon’s torso. The gangly creature purred again. He tried to ignore the movement under his fingers, pulsing ink slithering around in constant circulation over Bendy’s body. An uncomfortable, yet strangely soothing minute passed before the demon pulled back once more, attention back on the prophet. The poor man radiated confusion, despite the obscuring mask. “I can try to explain,” Henry offered, stepping towards him. Sammy shook his head quickly, focus entirely on the demon. “Oh, come on, Sammy. He can’t speak as far as I’ve seen-“ “NO! I-I don’t know how you did this, but my lord has NEVER rejected one of my offerings before!” Henry sighed, pushing up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t say your… offering, was ‘rejected’, per say.” The prophet ignored him though, instead approaching Bendy entreatingly, arms spread open. “Tell me, my lord… what have I done? Why have you rejected this sacrifice? I will make it right! Just tell me how…” Bendy didn’t respond, except to step away from him into the ‘exit’. Sammy obediently followed, until they reached a familiar piece of ink writing on the wall. He pointed to one of Sammy’s writings, He Will Set Us Free scrawled. He put particular emphasis on ‘he’, then gestured excitedly to Henry. Sammy scratched his head. “…I was referring to you with that, my lord…” he murmured, sounding confused. Bendy shook his head and pointed again at Henry, more aggressively this time. Sammy sighed. “…I am your shepherd, and I am your prophet. If you believe in this man, I shall follow.” Henry grimaced, insisting, “But how can I help you? I don’t know what’s going on…” The ink demon chirped in displeasure. Henry frowned back, crossing his arms defensively. “Do you know something I don’t?” Bendy nodded, grabbing him by the wrist before he could protest and dragging him over to a sigil on the wall. He paused there, staring at Henry for a reaction. The man gave him a puzzled look back. He chirruped again, sinking his free hand INTO the sigil. Henry’s eyes widened. “I don’t think I can do that, Bendy.” He didn’t give him another choice, slowly pulling Henry closer as he stepped in. As soon as Henry’s hand met the wall, they came to a hard stop. Bendy poked his head back out inquisitively. “Like I said,” Henry commented, gesturing to his hand pressed flat against the sigil, “I can’t do that.” An annoyed noise escaped the ink demon. It stepped back out of the sigil and stepped in front of Henry to push him flush against the wall. Henry chuckled good-naturedly. “Bendy, I promise you, I’m stuck. You can’t-” The words died on his lips. His eyes widened in surprise and fear. Something grabbed his leg. A long, spindly, inky arm wrapped its claw-like fingers around his ankle. Almost as soon as he noticed it, another arm burst through the wall, gripping his arm. He gasped and squirmed, trying to pull away as more and more arms reached from the sigil to clutch and— And pull him back, painfully back crushing like a vice between their hands and the wall— But the ink demon’s hands kept him firmly trapped. “Bendy, please-!” A hand snaked around to cover his mouth, muffling his agonized cries. With one sickening crunch, the impossible became possible, and searing pain enveloped him as the hands yanked him through.

The Graveyard Debacle

(a Beetlejuice drabble) 

by Mordelle & edited by TheArtofSuicide

It is safe to say that pranks are hardly ever any fun for the one being pranked. The argument could be made that this why they’re so funny. The longer the victim of a prank is wound up over the jest, the more hilarious it is. Even more so when there are witnesses. The more the merrier. When the prankster is a poltergeist, however, there are hysterical pros as well as unfortunate cons. For example, there is nothing a ghost who has mastered the manipulation of physical matter can’t accomplish. However, it is almost impossible to take credit for any high jinks unless breathers can see or hear you. It is for this reason that Betelgeuse took to harassing Lydia’s parents primarily.

Delia, although a bit trickier to startle than initially anticipated, would scream so incredibly loud and shrill that it was comparable to nails on a chalkboard. That grew old. Quick. The Maitlands were prone to retaliation- at least Barbra was- and the wicked ghoul knew better than to mess with that sandworm lovin’ bitch. Adam’s reactions were pedestrian, barely worth his time. Lydia, however, was a perfect target. Most of the time, he could hardly get a twitch out of her, which made those times that he was able to scare the unholy hell out of her absolutely delicious.

Betelgeuse usually upped his game in October. The closer to Halloween, the dirtier his tricks became. Every year it became harder and harder to achieve success with his little stoic lover. This time of year inspired something strong and resilient in her, but that never stopped him from trying. Last year's brilliant plan managed to draw some terrified screams from her. The evil bastard had feigned an exorcism, putting on a great show too. Fading from sight, mouthing silent pleas and professions of love as his poor dark-haired saint cried and sobbed from utter fear and grief. This earned him an entire month’s banishment. Betelgeuse would not be trying anything like that again. No, tonight he would stick to a practical plan and go for surprise rather than trauma factor.

Lydia had mentioned something about buying feminine products at the pharmacy and maybe taking some pictures on the way back. There was no way he would follow her to get her intimate unmentionables and she knew that. It was perfect. He knew he could catch her unawares on the way back home and he would bet his afterlife that she would go through the cemetery. And so, there is where Betelgeuse lied in wait; non-corporeal, sleazing around the graveyard with a perfect vantage point from his position in a bushy tree. It took a while, but his patience was rewarded when the sound of a bicycle on gravel ground its way through the dirt path she always took.

He knew he couldn’t get too close or she would sense him so. He refrained from movement and kept his stare slightly askance on the off chance she might feel his gaze. Excitement bubbled within when he noticed her stop and dismount. The bike fell to the ground and Lydia crouched hurriedly to retrieve a plastic bag from the basket. Something was off.

For one thing, Betelgeuse knew she would never treat her delicate vintage so callously. She was always careful with it, treating it like a sentient being with feelings. It was also odd how frantically she tore the bag apart. Curiosity piqued, the ghost put his plans aside in order to see what had his demure lover in such a state. When Lydia finally stood, she had a small box in one hand and what appeared to be a folded up piece of paper in the other.

What are you up to, babe, the creeper wondered, unable to discern too much from where he was hiding. In seconds, Lydia was unfolding the paper until it completely obscured her face. That was a big instruction manual for something that came in such a tiny box. The plot thickened when his lover dropped the paper to the ground, revealing her worried face and heaving shoulders. Betelgeuse swore to himself when she disappeared into the woods with the evidence, leaving him to sit and wait for her return.

Only a few minutes before Lydia emerged from the thicket, anxiously approaching a tall gravestone. She dropped the paper and the box to the ground, very gently laid a small white stick on the head of the stone, and checked her watch. She started to pace in front the grave with her arms crossed over her midsection, muttering under her breath, but it was not until she sobbed aloud that everything finally clicked for the Ghost with the Most.

Holy fuckin’ shit , he thought as his eyes widened in surprise. Is she… pregnant?! His mind raced with other excuses and possibilities but always returned to the same obvious conclusion. Lydia thought she might be pregnant. That thing lying so innocently on the gravestone was a goddamn pregnancy test! It was impossible to decipher which intense feeling came first for the poltergeist. At one point he had settled on something close to adoration for the woman until he realized very suddenly and horrifically that he… could not be the father.

It was not often that Betelgeuse experienced anything close to feeling sick, but in this moment, he had the distinctive urge to vomit as his dead heart plummeted into his gut.

No, he reeled, no, she couldn’t… would never… A familiar sensation started to crawl up his spine and into his muddled brain. Rage. A snake of jealousy slithered through his mind in the form of visions of his beautiful, innocent soulmate in the arms of another. Blinding hatred began to boil his long-drained blood when he imagined her face touched with pleasure as she writhed beneath another man. A man . A mortal, living, breathing, man. That thought, which should have only fueled his fury, diminished it into utter despair.

This is where he would always fail. This is where he was lacking. The subject of his inability to procreate was a topic which he always expertly avoided when she tried to bring it up in the past. Now the colossal problem was biting him in the ass in the shittiest, most epic way possible. How could he blame her for betraying him? She had been so young when he had attached himself to her, his greed and ego stealing away any kind of normalcy from her promising life. Still, this truth did nothing to quell his aching fucking heart.  He wanted to cry, rip into his chest, throw himself at her feet and demand to know why she had done this to him. Why she couldn’t have just told him she’d grown bored of him, didn’t love him anymore, wanted to live her life . Unless, he thought with a sliver of hope, she was just experimentin’. That was something he could understand. He would still be incredibly pissed and feel a pressing need to extract some form of revenge but ... a young woman, hormonal, wanting to experiment before making her final choice? Hell, he had experimented plenty when he was alive and even more so when he was dead! Who was he to deny that to her, the woman he loved more than anything on any plane of existence? So long as she chose him in the end. He had been around long enough to know that she was the only one for him. All he needed to do was convince her that he was the only one for her! It would not take him six hundred years to do that. Oh, no sir! All he needed to do was up his ante and decimate the breather that dared touch what was undoubtedly his. But first… first, Betelgeuse needed to know what in the flying fuck that test was going to read.

If ghosts could sweat, he would have been soaking through his clothes. Still frozen up in the tree, Betelgeuse waited on unnecessarily bated breath while Lydia checked her watch for the zillionth time, nearly exhuming the unfortunate corpse beneath her incessant pacing. How long had it been? A minute? Ten seconds? An eternity? Jesus fuckin’ Christ on crutches! How long do these fuckin’ things take?!

Finally, Lydia launched herself at the test and hovered over it. Rooted to the ground, wide-eyed with flared nostrils, she let out a breath and squeaked…

“Oh no.”

Oh no, his inner voice mimicked. Oh god, no.

“What the fuck,” she breathed, barely a whisper. “Oh my god. What the fuck?!” She yelled, frenzy taking over.

“YEAH, WHAT THE FUCK?!” Betelgeuse bellowed back, no longer able to keep his composure.

Upon sighting him, Lydia whitened to a ghostly shade that he didn't know she was capable of producing. He dropped from the tree and physically charged right for her, not bothering with manifestation. Instinctively, the adulteress backpedaled and cowered before him as he lunged for the damning white stick. Lydia brought her hands behind her back, denying him access to the answer he needed to see with his own eyes.

“GIVE THAT FUCKIN’ THING OVER RIGHT-THE-FUCK NOW, LYDIA or I- swear -on-ma-own-goddamn GRAVE IN WALES! IMMA FIND THE PRICK WHO KNOCKED YOU UP, and make sure he ends up in that forsaken waitin’ room WITH HIS OWN COCK DOWN HIS THROAT!!”

A small sob escaped her as she collapsed at his feet. The pregnancy test was offered up with trembling hands. He ripped it out of her grasp and brought it close to his face, eyes hungry and full of wrath only to find black letters scribbled across it in dark permanent marker…

GOTCHA

Frigid and expressionless, he stared unblinkingly at the offending piece of plastic. How long he stood there was a mystery but when he finally heard a click and a puff , his eyes slowly met his wife’s. Lydia was leaning casually against the gravestone, smoking a cigarette, face blank, giving nothing away. For a long moment they stared at one another, both unspeaking. Then, she stubbed out the cherry without once breaking eye contact and, very suavely, picked up her bike and walked away. When she reached the threshold of the cemetery gates, she gazed over her shoulder, right at him. The slightest of smirks twitched at the corner of her evil little mouth before she mounted her bike and pedaled away.

The comical, dumbfounded look etched into his features morphed into relief before settling onto one of pure awe. They were definitely made for each other. Of that, Betelgeuse was certain.

If you liked this drabble, you might like my longer fic of the same fandom. Read it here. 

priceless

“Miss, mi-- miss?...” ....

“Miss?... Miss--”

“HEY, BROAD.”

An ear perked, a young blonde man, streetwise and thiefwise, cast his gaze across the mostly-empty restaurant floor to  the leather-wrapped booth on the far wall.

The crowds had clearly avoided Chuck’s Chophouse tonight, a restaurant of spartan appearance but excellent reputation lounging on the south side of Boston’s inner harbor. The south side - the rough side. The sun hung lazy along a sky emerging from the gloom of a day-long rainstorm, the fingers of a pink-orange sunset cresting through a shroud of gray cast long across iron piers, rusty warehouses and a section of slums stinking with crime and rot. Chuck’s fit right in - its exterior of unembellished steel sheets, cracked wooden logs and dirt-crusted windows giving it the look of any of a dozen different crumbling repositories situated along the industrial shores of a region slowly forgetting its past.

Nothing screamed that nearly as loud as the fat man with the jet-black hair and the five-thousand-dollar suit in the far booth, his gruff voice and the hacking, throaty coughs that followed far less suited for the south side of Boston, and far more like something one would find milling about the streets of New York. The accent, the manner, and the unmistakable Italian screamed obnoxious out-of-towner, in with the right sort of people, the sort of people who fed his ego; the sort of ego that led this portly, mottle-skinned man bully waitresses with only a few days on the job.

Braden sat at a table just as spartan as the rest of the joint, glowering at the New Yorker, the only dim face at a table of drunken, raucous hoods. His blood-brothers since first grade, Bray knew these guys inside and out - Mouse, the redhead at the end, chortling quietly and anxiously, built like a skeleton wearing a man-suit, with big, round green eyes and uneven, bright white teeth, always borne in a sheepish grin. Tommy; the biggest, whiniest pussy you’d ever meet; couldn’t take even the threat of a punch without breaking down into tears, and if he had to run two blocks the poor fucker’d be huffing his lungs out, but he had the money, the mind and this magical something that helped me find damn near any tool, odd, end, or contact anywhere in town. Ripper - pretty ominously named, sure, but it wasn’t that he’d rip you so much as he’d rip you off. Cigarettes, fake checks, Italian suits - he’d steal his grandmother’s antique bicycle if there was a dime to be made on it. 

And then there was Kenny. Braden’s best friend, worst adversary. The loudest, most irritating, and most deadly young guy in all South Boston. Affable to his ‘troops’, but with a temper explosive enough to make a nuclear weapon jealous. He had connections, he had ambitions, he had family. The next generation of southie Irish mob royalty, Kenny Donnelly’d take Braden to the top with him - whether Bray wanted it or not.

Bray watched, and watched. While the gang at the table downed another round, exchanging ribald tales with reddened cheeks and boisterous laughs, Bray waited, reclining in his chair, smoothing a plain-white shirt against his muscles, tattoos spilling out from beneath the short sleeves. He knew the girl waiting on the fat, well-dressed New Yorker - Beth Tierney, one of his old school friends, Shauna’s, younger sister. Seventeen and sweet and far too nervous to be serving drinks to loudmouthed men and well-mannered trophy-dates, poor pretty Beth stood there and winced as a flurry of insults cracked at her composure. Watching her face, Bray could almost see the tears scraping at the corners of the girl’s eyes.

“This ain’t a hard job here, sister,” the out-of-towner barked, gesturing to the room - mostly empty, with only a few couples drinking a boring night away in the corners of the room. “Serve the fuckin’ drink, take the fuckin’ order, look fuckin’ pretty and shake your little ass while you walk away,” he sneered, his date crossing her arms in displeasure, staring silent daggers at the young waitress with the long, fiery-red hair. 

“Now where’s my screwdriver?” the suit-wearing man demanded.

“I-it’s-- it’s right here, sir, fresh from the ba--” Beth offered the glass, snatched unceremoniously from her palm before she could finish speaking. With a deep swig of the mixture, the New Yorker - predictably - responded with disgust, his face curling at its edges. “The fuck’d you put in this? Rat piss?”

“I-- sir, the bartender makes--”

“Well give my regards to the fuckin’ bartender,” the New Yorker interrupted, flicking his wrist the girl’s way, sending a shower of vodka and orange juice at poor Beth’s black apron, a splash of the drink striking her pale-freckled face. “Now make it again,” he demanded, slamming the glass onto the table and swiping it with an open palm, sending it careening off the edge, shattering to shards on the rough brick floor.

Braden’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah hahah --aaah, what’s wrong with you?” Focus shaken, an arm slung along his shoulders, Braden glanced over to his crew. Having had too many as he always did, Tommy pushed a brown-glass bottle into Bray’s face. “Have a drink, you’ll live longer.”

“Live longer? You dumbass,” Kenny howled, the others joining in.

“I’m good,” Bray spoke flatly, eyes spying towards the booth. A quiet fell across the table. The crew housed a curious dynamic - they feared Kenny, but more than that, they feared that one day Kenny and Bray would argue about something and kill one another. That fear was, of course, completely valid; the two had scuffled about dozens of meaningless disagreements over the years. Bray had put Kenny into the hospital for talking about Gracie’s ass once, and Kenny had once picked a fight with Bray over the color of the car the two had planned to steal for a joyride back in high school. The two of them met in a playground brawl, for fuck sake. Whenever tension radiated from one of the two, Mouse and Tommy and Ripper sat still and placid and nervous about who was going to blow up first.

“Got your eye on the asshole in the booth, don’t you,” Kenny murmured, his tone stony and serious. A wave of relief washed over the rest of the crew, thankful another scuffle didn’t seem inevitable. Bray nodded slowly in response, eyes still locked on the fat man across the restaurant.

“Italian. Connected,” Tommy breathed an ominous whisper. “Cara family, one of their bigshots. Name’s No-Bones Bruno,” he continued, playing up the drama of his little tale, enjoying his inebriation a bit too much.

“Wh-what the hell’s h-he doing here?” Mouse chittered out.

“Pretty far from home,” Kenny growled. Bray could already hear ‘Deadly’ Kenny Donnelly cracking his knuckles and sharpening the knives.

“Flexing muscle, probably,” Ripper added, twisting his head to glare at the New Yorker.

“Big power struggle just ended for the Cara family,” Tommy explained in a whisper, guzzling another deep-swallow of beer before sighing contentedly and continuing. “My guess is, No-Bones over there sided with the crew that came out on top. Thinks he’s the king of the fucking world, now.”

“So he celebrates by tossing liquor at young waitresses,” Bray scowled.

“Ain’t that Shauna’s sister?” Mouse asked, twitching his nose; his face was always alive with little flicks, twitches and perks of his expression, more or less like his namesake.

“Yeah, Beth,” Kenny boomed, ready for a fight. Bray gazed down the table at his blood-brother, offering a faint and disapproving shake of his head. Kenny glared, knowing just what that look meant.

“We oughta fuckin’ brain him,” Ripper hissed.

“Yeah, we oughta,” Kenny echoed, pedantry in his voice as his glare bore a hole through Bray.

“Wait in the alley ‘till he comes outside?” Mouse’s words slithered, half-nervous and half-hopeful, from his lips. “We could--”

“No,” Bray spoke resoundingly. Kenny sighed, irritation streaking across his eyes.

“Every fuckin’ time with you, Braden,” he exclaimed. To Kenny, the solution to pretty much every problem was simple - punch it, until things get better. Not surprisingly, Kenny had spent more than half his life in-and-out of correctional facilities. 

Braden had a very different philosophy. He knew how to hit a man hard without lifting a fist in anger. And he knew how to leave bruises that’d last - financial bruises. Ego bruises. Reputation bruises.

“We’re thumping skulls tonight, Braden, and you’re either in or you’re out,” Kenny demanded.

“Bosses say we give a wide berth to any New York fuck that comes our way,” Braden advised. “We don’t want wars, Kenny.”

“Fuck you,” Kenny spoke simply. “We’re kicking his head in.”

“Shut up, Kenny,” Braden spoke just as simply back. That tension returned to the crew’s shoulders. “Tommy,” Bray said, “gotta be a lot of money in winning a mob war, am I right?”

“Plenty of money,” Tommy replied, drunken expression hectic.

“A date like that can’t be cheap,” Bray observed, eyeing the busty blonde giggling through a fake smile opposite the New Yorker. “I’m guessing he doesn’t go cheap on anything. That Brioni he’s wearing’s worth a few grand. He comes to Chuck’s and Chuck’s ain’t cheap. Y’know what else I bet he’s got that ain’t cheap?...”

Ripper grinned. Being thieves at heart, Ripper and Bray got along pretty damn well. Especially in moments like this.

“I bet I know, Bray.”

--------------

There it was. Beautiful.

Sitting under a lone street light, the sun finally falling past the horizon and leaving this section of town so thick in the shadows Braden preferred, he saw just what he had hoped - an expensive car. A really expensive car. Even more expensive than Bray had expected. 

A brand-new Ferrari. A stunning piece of machinery, painted in an extraordinary coat of deep-red; rosso. All these exotics had ridiculous names for their paint colors. Just like an Italian to fork over money for this slick piece of Maranello-born engineering was way too nice for an asshole like that.

No-Bones Bruno hadn’t been completely dense. Having snuck out through the kitchen, the crew watched the New Yorker’s car from a steamy side-alley, spying two leather-jacket-wearing, slick-dressed, rotund mob goons standing like a pair of low-rent nightclub bouncers on either side of the sportscar. 

“This is what we’re gonna do,” Bray whispered. “Ripper. Floor jack, cement blocks, lug wrench - back of my car,” he spoke quick, “and I’d better see nothing else missing from my trunk when I get back to my car.” Bray tossed the jingling ring of keys to his prized ‘68 Mustang to his compatriot, who nodded quickly and skittered through the back alley towards the rear parking lot.

“Mouse, Kenny, you’re with me,” he beckoned them with a quick flick of his fingers. With a roll of his eyes Kenny begrudgingly sauntered close, Mouse following hesitantly.

“Tommy,” Bray said, and he could already feel the protest building in Tommy’s face. Tommy was a lazy bastard. Thankfully, most of his job - finding things - could be done from home, because that’s just how Tommy liked it. Having to do things, especially things that required.. effort, and talking, and walking, and.. anything, that was too much.

“It’s simple, Tommy, I promise,” Bray reassured him, irritation trilling in his words.

------------

“Man I hate this fuckin’ town,” Vince growled, with all the street-sense in his voice of a pampered rich mob kid who hadn’t even taken a punch.

“When’s the last time you were ever even in this town?” Lou responded, leaning back lazily against the door of No-Bones’s sleek, Italian-built speedster.

“Man, watch the fucking car,” Vince bellowed; Lou perked up, straightening his jacket, glancing around to see if anyone had picked up on his faux pas.

“It ain’t hurtin’ nothing, Jesus,” Lou scoffed.

“This baby’s got a delicate suspension,” Vince hissed, “and you ain’t gonna fuck it up. Now that Ciarelli and his guys are outta the way, ain’t nowhere for us to go but up, Lou - and after a few months, boss is gonna love me so much he’s gonna buy me one of these babies. So keep your shit together.”

“Yeah, I’m sure boss is all about handing out Lamborghinis,” Lou seemed skeptical.

“Ferrari, asshole,” Vince insisted. “It’s a Ferrari Italia, 458--”

“Help!  HELP! S-somebody, help! We need-- SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

That, at least, seemed to grab the two goons’ attention. Slowly. 

“Help! Jesus, won’t anybody-- HELP!”

From the alley running alongside Chuck’s emerged a shrieking young man, portly around the waist, his hair black, his cheeks reddened with the pleasant burn of liquor. Heads turning, expressions rather dim, eyebrows lofted, Vince and Lou watched him emerge, howling into the street.

“You, there, pl-- please! Do you  have cell phones?! A man’s having a heart attack?”

“Cell phones?” Vince asked, though whether the question was what is a cell phone? or something entirely different was anyone’s guess. “Do we have..”

“Yes, cell phones,” Tommy demanded, clearly a tad frustrated with the two slow-witted gentlemen.

“Heart attack?” Lou asked, piecing words together like a brain-trauma victim.

“A man’s having a heart attack, Jesus!” Tommy screeched angrily.

“A man..”

Vince murmured the words, and it slowly, slooowly dawned on him.

“Oh, fuck,” Vince’s slackjawed expression stumbled over the words.

“You think it’s the boss?..” Lou asked, concerned, though his concern felt less like genuine well-being concern and more like a ‘fuck, I’ve gotta do something?..’ sorta concern.

Tommy, meanwhile, had clearly had enough of trying to distract these two idiots.

“Do either of you know a-- a Mr. Bruno? He needs help!”

“Mr. Bruno? Who’s...”

“Wait, isn’t that..” Vince and Lou appeared to be doing difficult calculus for a moment, before..

“Oh, fuck, uhh.. shit, call- call 911, and get your ass..” like a circus-act under the world’s cloudiest big top, Vince and Lou took off across the street, rushing through the doors to Chuck’s, Lou frantically jamming ‘9-1-1′ on his phone.

“Welcome to Chuck’s, how many in your party?”

“Where the fuck is the boss?!” Vince demanded of the young, bright-eyed hostess, who blinked twice at the two men charging through the door.

“Did... you want to speak with the manager, sir?..” she asked, confused.

“Not your boss, our fuckin’ boss,” Vince howled. “Where’s he at?!”

“I’m.. sorry, sir?..”

“The guy havin’ the fuckin’ heart attack!” Lou interrupted, pressing his phone to his ear. “Yeah, 911? What’s my emerge-- get your asses over here! Where’s.. where’s here? Uh..”

“Someone’s.. I’m not.. sure, anyone’s having a heart attack, sirs,” the hostess raised a brow, almost amused.

“Where the fuck is this place?!” Lou demanded.

“Where’s.. this.. place?..” still perplexed, the hostess took a step back. “Wh--”

“THE ADDRESS, THEY WANT THE FUCKIN’ ADDRESS!”

“Who’s on the phone? Give it to me!” Vince roared, snatching it from Lou’s hand. “Yeah, is this 911? We need an ambulance to-- well, no, he’s my partner, I’m trying to talk for-- what? No, I’m not-- THIS ISN’T A DOMESTIC ABUSE CALL, WE’VE GOT A FAT FUCK HAVIN’ A CORONARY HERE--”

“What the fuck’s goin’ on over here?” A loud, obnoxious New Yorker tone interrupted the circus of a scene, the portly, greasy-black-haired man’s arm looped with his fake-busted date’s, his expression dangerously angry. “Fat fuck havin’ a coronary?”

“OH, uhh, shit, boss-- wait,” Vince blinked, throwing the phone across the room.

“Hey, asshole, that was my phone!” Lou protested.

“Boss, you’re not-- you’re okay?..” Vince played innocent.

“You’re not havin’ a heart attack?” Lou echoed.

“Fat fuck havin’ a coronary, huh?” No-Bones Bruno’s lip twitched.

“Oh, uhhh-- we were.. somebody out in the alley, they said that, y’know, and I was just-- I was wondering, y’know, something..” Vince mumbled.

“What the fuck are you two doing in here anyway? Didn’t I tell you to watch the car?”

“...Oh. The car. The--”

Fear gripping the two boneheads suddenly they burst through the door with the same aplomb with which they had entered, hearts skipping a beat and eyes blinking in shock as they found No-Bones Bruno’s brand-new Ferrari Italia 458 - cement blocks stuffed under its side panels, holding it aloft just far enough for a gang of well-equipped thieves to wrench off the lug nuts and steal the expensive, gleaming silver wheels.

“...Shit,” Vince mouthed.

“What was that about.. boss buyin’ you a Lamborghini?” Lou asked, recalcitrant.

“..Fuck you.”

--------------

“You know, we’re not gonna get dick on the aftermarket for these things,” Ripper huffed up to Braden, breath taken from him as he hurriedly rolled the freshly-stolen Ferrari wheels along the filth-crusted back alley through which the gang had made their escape. Like a well-coordinated train of hoodlums four of them dashed, rolling tires along in front of them; at the rear Tommy heaved and puffed, dragging a floor jack along behind him.

“Can we.. stop now.. jeez,” Tommy gasped.

“We’re far enough,” Kenny said, rolling his tire to a slowing stop, his heavy breathing giving way to an indulgent shout of satisfaction. “Stupid fuck didn’t even see it coming!”

“Where are we gonna offload these things?” Ripper asked, leaning against a wall, letting tire come to rest at his feet. “Your average junkyard doesn’t exactly deal in many Ferraris most days.”

“I know,” Braden responded, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. Bray knew ahead of time he wasn’t going to be making a killing off these wheels. One could count the number of Ferraris in Boston on one hand, and still have a few fingers to spare. Not even Ralphy’s place, the yard Bray usually fenced car parts to, would take these things, and Ralphy had about as many morals as a nun had boyfriends.

“So.. then, what’s the plan?” Kenny asked.

“We keep ‘em,” Bray shrugged. “Decorations. Souvenirs. Hang one up in your garage.”

“So this wasn’t about making a score,” Ripper’s expression shriveled up; he had certainly wanted to rip somebody off for a good penny, tonight.

“Some stuff is priceless,” Bray responded, hoisting his plunder up onto his shoulder.

“Nothing in this world’s priceless,” Kenny rebuffed him.

“That asshole went from trophy girlfriends and throwing drinks at poor Beth, to a sexless night spent hitching rides in taxis around Boston. That’s pretty priceless,” Bray disagreed. After a tense staring match, Kenny finally cracked a little smile.

“Yeah, you’re right, it is pretty priceless,” he laughed.