#nerdy nummies egos
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Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
(Disclaimer: only three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about K.O. here. For more information about Azalea, go here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)
(We've got another special guest appearance by the badass OC of my amazing friend, @sammys-magical-au! Please go reblog Sammy's ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)
(Trigger Warnings: physical violence, blood, gore, descriptions of illegal business, implied poisoning, cannibalism, slight mutilation/dismemberment, murder/death, mentions of food, drinking/eating, insects, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
“Remember that nanny-gig you roped me into a while ago? Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I left something meant for one of my colleagues at your place by accident. I would just come over and take it myself, but I can’t afford to leave my spot right now, so, if you could drop it off to her on your way here that’d be great, okay byyyyyy—!”
Even through the typical graininess of voicemail, Murdock’s tone had managed to sound just as oily as it did in person.
It’d been equal parts ironic and frustrating for Sam to hear.
Ironic because the “nanny-gig” was the favor they’d held him to after he’d roped them into something way more stressful than babysitting, and frustrating because there was already a decent amount of things on their plate for today. (Namely, having to participate in yet another round of highly illegal shenanigans.)
Oh, well. At least he’d asked for their assistance with tonight’s job in advance this time.
And now here they were, hovering in an unfamiliar house, unable to stop themself from looking every bit like a kid in a candy store despite the voices in the back of their head incessantly questioning their life choices for the millionth time.
“You. . .really take holidays seriously, huh?” Sam blurted, glancing between the counters of their host’s kitchen. It sounded much more like a statement than a question, and though they weren’t sure they’d meant it to come out that way, there was really no arguing with it.
Azalea Crawford—the colleague Murdock had mentioned—responded with a short peal of laughter that almost sounded musical. “Well, food is a pretty big part of any holiday, so at least I still know my business.”
Sam nodded, having to blink to stay focused. There were just so many sweet, tantalizing aromas flowing through the air. “And business must be good; there’s no way it can’t be.”
Azalea waved off the compliment, though pride still flickered along her features. “Feel free to have some bits and pieces if you like. Trust me, it won’t make a dent in the spread.”
“That’s a relief; I think I have to now,” Sam chuckled. They could already feel their teeth start to ache, but that wouldn’t be a problem so long as they stayed focused. “. . .Y’know, it’s been a while since I saw this kind of hospitality. Thank you.”
“Of course! You’re an ally,” Azalea replied, crossing the kitchen to check on whatever was taking up space in her oven.
Sam strolled about, almost a bit hesitant to let their hands fully outstretch in case they ended up knocking something over. Azalea’s kitchen was a wide and spacious area, which A. honestly made sense for someone who owned a restaurant, and B. meant that it had the potential to be far, far more crowded than strictly necessary.
It truly seemed like the floor was the only available surface not shrouded by plates and trays and charcuterie boards.
Their gaze wandered about the counters for a moment, soon settling on a sheet stacked high with sugar cookies. The batch almost looked like gingerbread men. . .that is, if gingerbread men were supposed to resemble voodoo dolls. The icing on each of them adhered to classic emo color-code; black eyes and purple hearts, all complimented by lines of bright green that gave the impression of stitchwork.
A smidge endeared, Sam approached and picked up one of the voodoo cookies by its little waist, careful to not get any frosting on their fingers. The creepy confection stared up at her, its lifeless eyes somehow managing to long for the sweet release of death. They pushed it closer to their face, preparing to take its head off in one clean bi—
“WHOAWHOAWHOA, NO!” Azalea’s voice was suddenly loud enough to ring in Sam’s ears, now laced with an awful amount of panic that most certainly hadn’t been there a moment ago. She was a blur of movement as she rushed to Sam’s side. “NOT THOSE ONES!”
The voodoo cookie was launched into the air; Sam just barely managed to catch it before it met a broken fate on the floor. They practically slapped it back down with the others before holding their hands up in a defensive gesture.
Azalea took a few deep breaths, her expression contorting from panic to exhaustion to relief. She raised her hands to knead at her temples. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just—” She sighed, slipping past Sam to grab the voodoo cookie tray and carry it off. “I can’t believe I just left these guys right there.”
Sam stared after their host, trying to convince their heart to stop hammering against their ribcage. “Are they. . .meant for a target?”
“Yep,” Azalea responded as she placed the deadly treats on top of her refrigerator.
A few seconds of awkward silence came and went.
Azalea fidgeted with her sleeves.
Sam cleared their throat, straightened their back. “What makes those ones special, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, not at all.” Azalea returned to casualness so quickly it would’ve given anyone else whiplash. “Rough-skinned newt poison. It typically does the job in about two hours and twenty-five minutes. So, plenty of time for my target to eat one and get back to wherever they came from before they keel over.”
“And by the time that target is found by someone else,” Sam continued, their eyebrows quirking in fascination, “the poison should be too broken-down in their system to really be traceable.”
Azalea’s grin slithered back onto her face, dripping with well-earned confidence. “Precisely.”
Sam, a seasoned animal nerd who’d done a few very unconventional things in the past, couldn’t help but grin back. “. . .Nice.”
Of course, they’d already known about Azalea; they could remember catching glimpses of her at the Pentas meetings they’d been invited to. Murdock had mentioned her a few times during morbid professional discussions. They’d even found themselves dining at Aftertaste, the very place she ran in order to keep up appearances for her work, once or twice in the past.
They’d been an ally to The Pentas Family long enough to learn how most of its members carried out business, and yet Murdock was the only one they knew somewhat personally.
It was such a strange thing to think about.
Still, it hadn’t taken much time at all for Sam to figure out just how much of a badass Azalea really was.
That hadn’t been entirely apparent at first. Azalea was, to put it frankly, cute as a button (especially with the soft green sweater and purple denim shorts she wore right now. Much more pastel than what Sam had seen of her typical wardrobe). She had to be one of the shortest adults Sam had ever met, with long, silky chestnut hair that was just a single shade lighter than her warm eyes. Her voice was bright and sweet.
And yet. . .when you knew what to look for (and how to look for it) like Sam did, you could see a cunning, brilliant, venomous soul lurking under the surface. Even now, as she paced to and fro through her kitchen and casually chatted with her guest, Azalea held herself with grace and quiet authority that would’ve been impossible to not respect.
The insufferable city councilwoman who had collapsed at the mayor’s public birthday celebration? She’d ended up spending a week in the hospital, just barely alive, and subsequently stepped down from her position soon after recovering, never uttering a word about the incident.
Sure, it could’ve just been a particularly awful case of allergic reaction, but the thousand-yard stare she’d been wearing in the newspaper photos suggested otherwise.
That important gala that’d been held in the next city over a few months ago? Well, four of its most prominent guests had been reported dead a couple days later, and while each of their autopsies had apparently suggested poisoning, there was just no way for it to be traced back to the right person.
Just a couple of the many rendezvous Azalea had partaken in. Sam had only heard snippets of the rest from Murdock, but in all fairness, they’d just come dangerously close to being part of the job Azalea was apparently taking on tonight.
Aftertaste was one of the most popular restaurants the Cove Port Inlets had to offer. It just made sense for catering services to be offered on the side. From what Sam was told, Azalea and her employees served at events ranging from simple weddings or funerals to private functions at City Hall.
And it was clear Azalea’s catering plans for the Cove Port Inlets’ latest Halloween festival went so, so, so much further beyond the typical pumpkin chocolate-chip bread or pie.
There were eclairs topped with chocolate molds of mummified bodies, bright red donuts with tiny black horns and spade-tipped tails, little pastries that’d been cut into the shapes of coffins and covered with pastel icing.
About a dozen or so candy mice had all been organized in a bowl that was, fittingly enough, right next to a wide dish of pretzels that resembled coiled snakes (the powder decorating said snakes was a dark shade of green, but there was no denying the lovely smell of cinnamon wafting off of them).
Cake pops that looked like tiny little witch cauldrons, complete with green frosting bubbles at the tops and orange frosting flames at the bottoms. Sam almost shuddered at the thought of how much patience the decorating process would’ve had to take.
One of the larger platters held an entire cake that was surrounded by yet another batch of sugar cookies; the former bore creepy similarities to a brain while the latter mimicked the various other organs of the human body. (It was quite impressive how accurate the details were.)
Sam couldn’t help but snort at the sight. “I’m guessing Caliban requested these?”
“No, actually.” A sly yet soft knowingness crept into Azalea’s smile. “But I’ve had those cutters for years now, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t the reason. We both knew cookies wouldn’t really be the best placebo for meat, but they were better than nothing when we were on the run.”
The sound of a record scratching echoed from one corner of Sam’s brain. We? Years? On the run? Before they could ponder just how far back her host apparently went with the cannibal in question, Azalea piped up again.
“So, according to Murdock, you have something of mine?” Azalea hovered by the stovetop, holding an icing bag over a batch of cupcakes. It seemed to take far too little time for her to decorate them as nicely as she did, but she managed it. After that, she reached into two bowls, producing a handful of black n’ white striped fondant.
She cut it up into clean sections, each of which she rolled into tendril-looking shapes that soon found themselves burrowed into the cupcakes’ frosting, the tips coiled in the air like cartoonish sandworms. “Not to sound pushy or anything, but I still have a few more things to finish before I can head over to town square.”
A few MORE things? Sam’s mind repeated, genuinely stunned. They knew it made logical sense—the public Halloween festival would have way too many attendees to count, so of course the provided food would have to come in a huge amount—but Azalea had still made so many things already. Sam could only imagine how early she must’ve had to wake up in order to make sure the entire catering order was fresh.
“Ah, yes,” Sam replied, shaking their head in a way they hoped didn’t look too obvious. They reached into one of the interior pockets of their jacket (a leather one that gracefully shifted from violet to brown, boasting some filigree designs embroidered around the shoulders. They could remember neither where they’d gotten it from nor how long it’d been since they last wore it) and fished out a small glass vial.
The fluid inside of it was a dark shade of magenta; it also seemed quite viscous, only a few bubbles inside moving ever so slowly as Sam held it out.
Azalea’s smile evaporated, eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as she nodded and stepped away from the cupcakes.
“Why would Murdock give this to you?” She inquired, examining her returned property. The question almost seemed to be directed a bit more to herself than Sam. “I mean, thank God it’s not empty, but—”
“He didn’t give it to me. He actually just left it at the rental home I have here,” Sam interjected. “I just knew it couldn’t be something I already owned because it’d clearly been shoved behind the decor on my mantle.” As they looked at the new shock on Azalea’s features, something cold and clammy festered in the pit of their stomach. “. . .Come to think of it, Murdock never really mentioned what that stuff is. . .”
“Oh, it’s honey. Specifically made from the nectar of the Rhododendron flowers in my greenhouse,” Azalea proclaimed, carefully spinning the vial between her fingers. “Whenever they’re in bloom, I always make sure to harvest their pollen and send it off to get processed; the family has an under-the-table arrangement with a beekeeping company.”
“Mad Honey,” Sam murmured, nodding along. That particular hallucinogenic was deadly enough to have earned a reputation amongst people who’d never even looked at suspicious substances in their lives. Why it was still legal to sell in the United States, Sam would never understand.
You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out why a hitwoman cultivated Mad Honey; it took the term “slippery slope” and completely redefined it. The only way to enjoy its euphoric side-effects was to take a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy sample of it. . .and, of course, it was all too easy for high-chasers to accidentally miscalculate the amount of their indulgence. Which, in turn, would pave the way for an assassination to be written off as a simple case of overdose.
With this new development, Sam’s mind jumped from point to point.
First, they felt some satisfactory amusement at the fact that Azalea worked with her namesake.
Then their knowledge on Mad Honey turned itself into a mantra, rattling between their ears with the same volume and presence of an airhorn taped to a ceiling fan.
And then everything seemed to freeze in place due to the cold, quickly building fury with the realization.
“Murdock. . .” Sam announced to no-one in particular.
“. . .left Mad Honey. . .” They felt their eyes bulge, felt the blood just beneath the fragile barrier of their face reach a boiling temperature.
“. . .in the sAME PLACE AS MY KIDS?!”
The color drained from Azalea’s face. Her shoulders slumped, grip visibly tightening around the vial.
A silent, uncomfortable staring contest was initiated between the two, lasting ten or so seconds that felt more like five hours.
“I’ll. . .have to bring that up with him later,” Azalea finally announced. Though she still looked extremely caught off-guard, her tone still made it obvious that “bring that up” was code for “slap some damn sense into him.”
And while Sam did appreciate that, they managed to slowly shake their head.
“No. Nononononono,” they seethed. “Considering I have to meet up with him for his little job tonight, I’ll be happy to take care of that myself. Trust me.”
Azalea hummed thoughtfully. She sidled past Sam, passing the vial to her other hand. “I need to get this to my storage space. Be right back.” And with that, she glided out of the kitchen. Sam could hear her footsteps ascending the staircase they’d seen in the front foyer.
Sam spent the next couple moments pacing in a small, angry circle. Incomplete words attempted to squirm out through their gritted teeth.
Calm down, calm down, calm the fuck down, Sam thought, flexing their hands to try and drive away the aches already lingering around their knuckles.
True, Jay and their children had already flown home about a week ago. And true, not a single one of them had shown any strange side-effects or died before that. And true still, like Azalea had said before: none of that Mad Honey was missing from its vial.
Even so, that did absolutely NOTHING to change the fact that Murdock was now in desperate need of a few dozen lessons in karma. . .
“Now, you’ve got every single right to be angry. I’m not even gonna try to deny that.” Azalea stalked back into the kitchen, her voice entering a few voices before she actually did. “But this little mishap is technically only half Murdock’s fault.”
Sam halted in place, turning their head to raise an eyebrow at their host.
“Well, if that’s the case,” they muttered, “then who the hell do I need to throttle for the other half?”
Azalea tilted her head, almost looking a bit amused. “The same guy you’re helping take care of tonight.”
Curiosity slowly but surely began overtaking rage. Sam rolled their shoulders, motioning for Azalea to elaborate.
“Another group of competitors has been encroaching on Pentas turf.” As she explained, Azalea took a small, shiny paring knife to an apple’s outer skin, deftly etching little pieces off.
“They call themselves ‘The Bronze Owls,’” Azalea’s tone turned sour and mocking as the title left her mouth. “Their leader tried to scam his way into a deal with The Boss, but obviously she saw right through and told him to go pound some sand.”
“In far more eloquent terms, or. . ?” Sam asked, having calmed down enough for their more typical humor to reappear.
“Yes and no.” Azalea smirked with a little shrug. “Naturally, the guy decided to get his shorts in a twist about it, and his crew’s been annoying us all month long. Some of them jumped Murdock when he was picking up the honey.”
By now, the likeness of a skull and crossbones had been etched into the fruit in her hand. She dropped it into a glass bowl of heavenly-looking cider before reaching for another apple.
“One tried playing target practice with me. . .”
Sam watched, noting how Azalea’s movements seemed a bit more aggressive than before as she repeated the carving process.
“. . .and another stabbed Cal.” Something awful slithered into Azalea’s eyes as her knuckles turned white around the knife’s handle.
There was anger, yes, but it was accompanied by a certain type of pain. The type that was practically impossible for onlookers to even try describing, yet somehow managed to be well-known as the absolute worst.
Sam felt their features soften a little. But before they could begin offering any comfort that they unfortunately already knew would be cold, Azalea briskly shook her head.
“But those problems have already been taken care of,” she continued. “They wanted our attention so badly? Well, now they’ve certainly got it.” A dark chuckle rose from her lips. “Before the night is over, the pests will be stamped out completely.”
She paused, then glanced over at Sam. “And we’ll have you to thank for part of that goal.”
___
The building was a sort of a hole-in-the-wall, but it still stood out from the businesses it was sandwiched between. Its bricks had been coated with a pretty mixture of paints; a few different shades of blue all set off by streaks of black that came in varying lengths and widths. In fact, it almost gave the impression of waves, or maybe some kind of spiral-esque pattern.
An LED sign was positioned at the front of the building’s roof. It wasn’t illuminated at the moment, but that didn’t prevent Sam from reading The WormRoll in a sleek, playful font.
The WormRoll. . .what an odd name choice. Though as Sam trekked through the empty parking lot, xe was quick to realize that it made sense.
Just because roller-skating was fun didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. Only a third less difficult than ice-skating, really. When you fell on skates, you had no choice but to do The Worm as you tried and failed to regain your balance. That applied to even the most thoroughly-trained professional skaters, because there was simply no such thing as practice without falling.
Sam approached the glass entrance, instinctively grasping one of the cold metal handles and giving it a tug. The door rattled in its frame, but otherwise refused to budge. Sam blinked at this, xer brow furrowing as xe peered inside. Xe saw two thin hallways—well, technically it was just one hallway, but a waist-high metallic fence stretched down the middle, keeping a second set of heavier-looking doors separate. There seemed to be a window just before the threshold on right; it reminded xer of a ticket booth.
It was all shrouded in darkness, only illuminated by the nearby streetlamps.
Just as Sam finally noticed a small sign posted near the door, silently announcing the rink’s hours, one of the doors further inside creaked open. Sam couldn’t help but flinch as a figure poked their head through the crack. It was too dark to see what this person really looked like, but their eyes still glinted as they scrutinized xer.
Sam’s mouth opened and closed a few times with no words coming out. Xe offered the figure a curt nod, gesturing to the dart frog pin on xer shirt.
In response, the figure’s eyes widened. They tilted their head at xer, then pointed toward the left side of the corridor before pulling the inner door shut.
Sam passed the glass doors by, cautiously walking in that same direction. Xe soon discovered an alleyway, a narrow gap between The WormRoll and its next-door-neighbor.
There was no aesthetically-pleasing blue-and-black paint to be found here. Despite this, Sam just barely managed to discover yet another door as xe traipsed along. This one was made from some kind of dark gray material, almost perfectly camouflaged.
Before xe could raise a fist to knock, a rectangular slot in the door suddenly slid out of place, allowing those same eyes from before to peek out at xer from the other side.
“Name?” A low, hushed voice called.
“. . .Sam Ryder,” Sam whispered with a bit more hesitance than xe’d care to admit, squaring xer shoulders. “I’m here to talk with K.O.?”
“Right, right.” The stranger on the other side of the door nodded. The little slot was pushed shut, and a chorus of semi-muffled clicking jabbed through the air. The door was heaved open, and Sam took a quick, subtle deep breath before marching into what looked like the storage room of a typical snackbar: shelves lined with stacked boxes adorned by various candy labels, a popcorn machine that needed some serious repair work, colorful jugs filled with syrup for a slushie mixer, the works.
Xe paused, glancing over at the stranger as he pushed the door shut and re-engaged its honestly comedic amount of locks.
Sam was used to most people being shorter than xer, but this guy would’ve only needed an extra two inches to look xer in the eyes. Not to mention that he was just as well-built, sporting a head of curly brown hair along with a bit of a stubble. He was also very much stone-faced, tense as he turned and folded his arms, looking xer up and down.
The fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck pricked up as xe registered the cacophony of shouting and whistling and guffawing that echoed from somewhere a little too close for xer liking.
“Is there a price for admission?” Sam asked, already dreading the answer.
The doorman shrugged. “Yeah, but not for Pentas allies. Unless you decide to make any bets on the fighters, that is.”
. . .Huh, Sam thought. That was an awfully considerate policy. More considerate than xe would’ve expected from a mob-owned illegal fighting ring, at least.
The doorman must’ve seen the pleasant surprise that washed over Sam’s features, because he offered a small smile and wink. About half a second afterwards, he briskly shook his head, his face falling right back into the no-nonsense mold he’d apparently learned to use. He beckoned Sam to follow as he moved toward the storage room’s entryway, where dim light and all that noise poured in.
Sam moved quickly, having to blink as new light assaulted xer eyes.
The snackbar was about the size of a tiny cafe, only a few tables positioned here and there. As Sam walked along, xe turned xer head to realize that the right side of this area was shielded by huge panels of glass. (Whether this had been implemented as a precaution for the skating customers or the fighters, Sam really couldn’t be certain.)
As the two of them reached the snackbar’s entrance, where linoleum met carpeting, the doorman pointed to a small corridor that opened up in the wall to his left. Beside aforementioned corridor was a water fountain and a sign that proclaimed LOCKER ROOM.
“Find Locker Sixty-Nine and knock seven times,” the doorman instructed. He then fixed Sam with an icy, warning glare that almost made xer want to recoil. “And don’t throw him off.”
With that, he trekked onto the rink floor, which nearly swallowed up the building’s whole interior.
Sure, there was space outside its perimeter for a carpet walkway adorned by a pattern of glow-in-the-dark stars. Some benches were lined up just outside the rink, offering people a place to either sit and get themselves ready, take a break and catch their breath, or wipe out onto when they got too cocky after finding a rhythm. There was a long counter nestled in the corner, beside those two doors Sam had seen from outside; the shelves behind it must’ve been where all those rentable roller skates were stored. But even so, that space still seemed so thin.
Especially with the raucous crowd that the doorman had just disappeared into. Sam couldn’t tell exactly how many people were gathered at the center of the rink, but it still gave xer anxiety to see all those figures climbing onto or pacing around collapsible bleachers that could’ve been found in any high school gymnasium.
Remembering the cargo in xer bag, Sam shook xer head, rolled xer shoulders, and ducked into the corridor.
Xe found xerself in an area decorated by lockers. (That was a relief. Sam had been so worried there would’ve been nothing but ovens in here.) The compartments were shiny, having been painted bright red, each one probably offering enough space for the average backpack. They were lined up in rows of four, completely filling out the walls.
Sam scanned them, counting under xer breath until xe found the one xe apparently needed. A small piece of paper had been taped right below the number plaque: Please do not use this locker. Its keypad has been damaged, and we’re still waiting for a replacement. Thank you! –Management.
Sam rapped xer knuckles against Locker Sixty-Nine. After the seventh knock, xe took a step back, rocking on xer heels.
A muffled voice called out, “It’s open! C’mon down!”
Sam quirked an eyebrow, turning xer head this way and that. Whoever had just spoken up had to be close, but xe genuinely couldn’t tell where they were.
But their instructions couldn’t be any more clear.
So, Sam grasped the locker’s handle and pulled.
The compartment door didn’t move. Instead, a loud, dull CLANK boomed from the other side, and there suddenly seemed to be a lot more weight against Sam’s hand. Sam felt xer eyes widen, forced to braced xerself as the entire wall of lockers slowly-but-surely swung out on a well-camouflaged hinge.
In less than five seconds, a smaller doorway was revealed, sticking out like a sore thumb against the rest of the formerly hidden wall. A small steel push-handle had been welded to the back of the locker section, with a strange type of key slot right below it. But it still would’ve resembled any other door when the lockers were pushed back into place. It yawned out into a steep concrete staircase, which Sam found xerself descending once the impressed surprise wore off.
So. The WormRoll was the metamorphosed form of yet another one the Cove Port’s Inlets old subway stations.
Of course it was; Sam still hadn’t forgotten xer stroll through the abandoned tunnels, so how the hell had xe not expected this? Xe’d just turned to haul the locker-wall-door shut, coming dangerously close to tripping when that voice broke the silence again, much clearer than it had been a moment ago.
“Whatever this is, it’d better be fast. I’ve had tonight’s matches scheduled for a week, and I can’t just—” The speaker trailed off, turning to face Sam just as xe came to hover at the foot of the stairs.
He seemed to be in his late twenties; younger than any of the other Pentas members xe’d met so far. His hair was stark-white, though the roots were a dark shade of brown that matched the peachfuzz growing above his lips and along his jaw. A short white lollipop stick protruded from one corner of his mouth. An open black robe was draped over his shoulders, complimenting the pair of amaranth trunks that hugged his waist.
“. . .Do I know you?” He tilted his head, squinting his grayish-blue eyes as he glanced back and forth between his guest and the dart frog pin.
“Not really,” Sam replied, fidgeting with the decorative buckled straps lower on xer jacket. But before xe could try to further explain, the young man—er, K.O. This had to be him, after all—snapped his fingers, his expression brightening.
“Oh, wait-wait-wait! I remember now!” K.O. crowed. “Sam, right? Yeah, I was there when you went over that contract with The Boss!”
Sam nodded, trying to ignore the little chill that crept down xer spine.
Xe remembered that fateful evening like it’d just happened an hour ago. When Murdock had led xer down to one of the other repurposed subway-tunnel dens. To the very base he’d mentioned before. . .
It’d been dimly-lit, but Sam had still seen at least a dozen other figures lurking around the furniture in the corners. Xe’d felt so many curious, cunning eyes burrow into xer skin as xe trekked to the head of the room, where Murdock had slithered in order to stand beside a woman sitting at a mahogany desk.
Xe couldn’t deny how clever of a tactic that was. It presented a united front, showed how close The Pentas Family was in terms of decision-making and the like.
On the other side of the coin, it made potential allies (or enemies) feel humbled in the mob’s presence, made them aware of just how outnumbered they could be. . .
“Well, sorry about that. It’s just been a hot minute,” K.O. continued, snapping Sam from xer thoughts. He held out a hand, now smiling politely. “Nice to finally meet you for myself. I would’ve tried to earlier, but there’s just been so much on my schedule lately.”
“Likewise, no trouble at all,” Sam assured. Xe reached into xer jacket, quickly producing a black pouch that was made from a combination of silicone and fiberglass. I.e., both fireproof and water resistant. Despite only being a bit longer than Sam’s hand, it had a surprising heft.
Recognition sparked within K.O.’s eyes as he took the cargo. “I was expecting Aza to stop by with this?”
“So was Aza,” Sam replied. “But I guess plans for the festival took up most of her focus.”
Xe’d been wrapping up the initial drop-off on Murdock’s behalf when the poison-expert in question abruptly remembered a drop-off of her own. Apparently, yet another member of The Bronze Owls had tried to steal something from K.O. And they’d almost succeeded, but Azalea had managed to catch them halfway.
Sam wasn’t quite sure why xe’d offered to help out with this delivery. On one hand, xe already had a big enough task on xer plate. On the other hand, The WormRoll really wasn’t that far at all from the place xe agreed to meet up with Murdock, so, xe figured this wouldn’t take too much time. (And aside from that. . .well, xe’d been the one to deliver a freshly-severed head to Caliban last year. They hadn’t been told what was inside the armored pouch, but it still seemed much easier than that misadventure.)
K.O. hummed, nodding as he fidgeted with the pouch’s zipper. “That’s fair. Seems like Halloween is always the busiest time of year for the family.”
He then crossed the abandoned-subway-office-den to open up a storage cabinet positioned between his exercise equipment.
Sam watched, taking note of the artwork that adorned the back of his robe: the embroidered likeness of a peacock mantis shrimp. It was so vibrant against the black fabric that it almost looked like it was ready to pounce. The colors of each thread seemed to sparkle in the dim light.
After hiding the little pouch of whatever-was-so-important away, K.O. sat down on an incline bench in the corner, passing a small, pale green object from hand to hand. It took a few seconds for Sam to realize that it was a spool of bandages, which he deftly wound about his palms and fingers in a specific pattern. He shot another coy grin in Sam’s direction. “I typically use a different brand, but I figured these would be perfect for tonight.”
“. . .Why?” Sam asked. As far as hand-wraps went, these ones looked pretty plain.
“Because they glow in the dark! They’ll look so damn cool!” K.O. answered, standing back up and waggling his fingers in the air. A more sinister energy crept into his expression as he added, “Especially after I win. . .”
Sam tilted xer head, having to bite xer tongue in order to not snicker at the display. Xer ears picked back up on the chorus of shouting upstairs. Yes, it may have been thoroughly muffled by the concrete walls in here, but the energy of that crowd was still practically palpable.
“So,” xe finally pronounced. “I take it The Pentas Family has finally branched out its business practices?”
“‘Finally?’” K.O. echoed, raising an eyebrow. He reached up, tugging at the lollipop stick to reveal. . .well, it looked like a traditional sucker at first. But as Sam stared at the bright blue candy, it didn’t take long for them to realize that the blurry little shape inside said candy was, in fact, a scorpion. “No, I entered the family a good few years ago. The Boss was still shopping around for fighters when I first met Murdock.”
Sam nodded in a thoughtful manner, trying not to dwell on the fact that K.O. apparently enjoyed dead bugs in his sweets. “Uh-huh. And you were the one to make the cut?”
K.O. popped the sucker back into his mouth and tucked it into his cheek before shifting his neck from side-to-side with a couple audible cricks. “I guess you could say that.”
Despite a few seconds of delay, the mention of the hitman’s name brought Sam’s train of thought to a screeching halt.
“. . .Oh, fuck,” Xe groaned as they fished out their phone to look at the clock on its screen. Xe turned, ready to reclimb the hidden staircase.
K.O. seemed to have other ideas, judging by how he darted over to stand by xer side. “Whoa, hang on. I wasn’t trying to kick you out.”
“I know you weren’t,” Sam reassured, wincing, “but I was already late for the meetup before I stopped by. Murdock’s probably getting into a huff right this second.”
K.O. pursed his lips, folding his arms across his chest. After a few seconds of mulling this over, he waved a hand in a dismissive manner. “Ah, Murdock can afford to be patient; I’ll text him before I get started for the night.”
Sam’s face grew quizzical as xe peered back and forth between the stairs and xer host.
“I mean, I’d be happy if you stuck around for the first match,” K.O. elaborated. “I can’t just send an ally off without giving them a little entertainment, can I?”
A sardonic chuckle fled Sam’s lips before xe could stop it. “I mean, whoever you’re going up against probably won’t see it that way. Not to mention the people betting on him.”
K.O. scoffed with an overexaggerated eye-roll. “Yeah, well, we’ve all gotta experience grief at some point. Kids need to learn about it earlier, in my opinion. Then they might figure more shit out sooner.”
Sam stared at K.O. before sputtering and doubling over. That made xer laugh way harder than xe probably should have. Hell, there were even tears in xer eyes when xe corrected xer posture. K.O., meanwhile, simply beamed at xer, almost as though he’d been hoping to hear laughter like that for the better part of the day.
“Well, I mean,” Sam murmured, still chortling a bit, “if you can really get Murdock off my ass about it, then. . .I guess I could stick around a bit longer.”
K.O.’s smile widened. “Perfect! Thank you!” He practically sprung in place, pacing around in a quick, small circle. “The match’ll be starting in about five minutes. Go on up to the ring; there should still be a couple empty seats left.”
“Roger that,” Sam replied. Xe began traipsing up the stairs, one hand on the concrete wall to steady xerself. But just before xe passed that wall, xe paused. Glancing back down into K.O.’s den, xe called, “Are you sure you want me here?”
“Of course I am! Fights are always so much better when people I know are in the audience. In fact,” K.O. mentioned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the storage cabinet. “I’ll even consider that drop-off as your first bet on me.”
Sam hummed at the sentiment, thinking.
Xe’d only known K.O. for a handful of minutes, but the read xe’d gotten on him was a bit awkward. He just. . .didn’t quite seem like the type for illegal fighting rings. Now, there was no denying the muscle he boasted despite being lean, but it wasn’t just that. The way he spoke and moved. . .it all just felt a bit too bubbly for a professional mobster.
K.O. must’ve seen a vague reflection of Sam’s thoughts through xer features, because a cold type of understanding flickered on his own expression. His brow furrowed, eyes ever-so-slightly turning bitter in a way Sam was all-too familiar with.
But instead of truly addressing it via snarling or spitting out a dark promise, K.O.’s smile slowly etched its way back over his face. It was a different smile than before.
A more confident one.
A more challenging one.
A more determined one.
K.O. plucked the creepy-crawly lollipop out through his lips once more. He peered at it for a few thoughtful seconds, then glanced back at Sam. Then, he bit down on the sucker with a lot more force than necessary. A chorus of rhythmic crunching broke the new silence—Sam couldn’t tell whether it was the candy or the scorpion. It could’ve very well been both, since both were currently being pulverized between K.O.’s teeth.
K.O. still had yet to break eye-contact with Sam. And he just kept casually chewing as he motioned for xer to go up and join the crowd.
___
“—then he just clocked the guy in the throat! His arm just plowed forward like a fucking battering ram!” Sam exclaimed, unable to look at anything besides what was outside the passenger window. “The way his head snapped back. . .I swear, I almost expected it to pop off!”
“Like a cork from a wine bottle,” Murdock chuckled from the driver’s seat, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “Well, I was really looking forward to giving you shit for being late, but I guess I can let it slide. Once you start watching K.O. in the ring, you just can’t seem to stop until he does.”
“But he hardly ever stopped!” Sam argued. “As soon as the fight began, he just kept moving! He only held still for a couple minutes after the referee called the first match!”
“Yeah, well, he’s a powerhouse.” Murdock’s grin widened, raising one hand to fidget with the white medical eyepatch wrapped around his head. For a hitman on Halloween, he was dressed much more plainly than usual. His currant-colored turtleneck and black overcoat had been replaced by an array of tan garments. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: we pick the best for our family.”
Sam could barely suppress a shudder as she drummed her nails on the door’s armrest.
The way K.O. had charged into the makeshift ring, his body becoming a blur of motion as he attacked the first person to challenge him. . .it’d all happened so fluidly.
The fight only seemed to have lasted a moment or two.
At some point, Sam had expected the referee to approach K.O. and his opponent—a man who apparently went by the nickname Short Fuse—to tug them away from one another and send them to opposite corners of the ring for a quick break.
But he never did.
. . .Of course he never did.
That fight wasn’t an authorized one; wasn’t a legal one.
There were no true rules, hardly any limitations to be found in The WormRoll during certain hours.
Hell, now that she really thought about it, it would’ve been impossible for some of the past matches over there to not have ended in death.
It was a terrifying thing to think about. Even for someone with experiences like Sam’s.
And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as scary as what she’d seen at the end of that first match.
When K.O. had wiped at his brow with those glow-in-the-dark hand wraps freshly spattered with Short Fuse’s blood.
When K.O. had glanced through the crowd to lock eyes with Sam yet again.
When K.O.’s face twisted into a triumphant smile that just screamed, What do you think of me now?
“Did he ever try to back K.O. into a corner?” Murdock inquired. “The other guy, I mean.”
“Uh. . .yeah, I guess,” Sam replied, still somewhat trapped in her thoughts. “It only lasted for a few seconds, but—”
“Ah, that’s it.” Murdock nodded, a horrible type of pride glimmering in his visible eye. “I guess K.O. didn’t mention how he’s a bit of a claustrophobe, huh?”
Sam simply shook her head. “I didn’t really take him for being claustrophobic.”
Murdock snorted, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Fear is one of the most complex things a person can have. Of course you can’t just know what someone’s afraid of; you have to wait for them to show you that. One way or another. . .”
An oily chuckle slithered into Sam’s ears. “K.O. can handle a lot, but small spaces just aren’t his thing. Especially not in a high-energy environment. So, if his opponent tries to take too much space away from him. . .well, you’ve already seen what could happen.”
Oh, Sam had fucking seen alright. Seen how Short Fuse collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, twitching and bleeding from every hole in his face.
But before they could start wondering about what had happened to those K.O. had faced off with in the past, the keening of tires stabbed into her ears as Murdock’s car came to an abrupt halt.
“Here we are!” The hitman announced, rubbing his hands together after he tugged his key out of the ignition. “A certain someone’s final destination.”
Sam peered through the windshield. She was quick to recognize the sheds and greenhouses that were positioned at different sections of the grounds, coming in various sizes and sheltering various plant types.
Around these structures, all sorts of trees and shrubs had been planted in organized groups, leaving enough space for dirt pathways to run through the garden like veins. At the center of it all was a towering silo and a huge warehouse that managed to look a lot more homey than some of the modern houses Sam had seen in the past.
Though Murdock had parked around the back of the area—just outside the white picket fence that marked the perimeter—Sam could still picture the sign at the front entrance: Pieces of Eden.
The Cove Port Inlet’s very own nursery.
It was large enough to potentially be mistaken for a botanical garden, and well-known for its habit to double as a pumpkin patch every October.
“So,” Sam finally pronounced, finally looking over at Murdock. “The pest you were talking about is trying to set up shop here?”
Murdock nodded, a concoction of frustration and sadistic glee on his face. “Something like that. And I’ve got a feeling we’ll have to deal with more than one tonight.
The duo exited the car, one after the other, both just barely remembering not to slam the doors shut on instinct.
“You go to the right, I’ll take the left,” Murdock murmured less than a second after he and Sam set foot on the property. “We’re gonna patrol the barriers and meet back up in the warehouse. If you see or hear something, don’t hesitate.”
The sun had set about an hour ago. The moon was full, but its cold, eerie glow still wasted no time casting long, dark shadows to stretch from across the ground.
And those shadows all too were eager to help Murdock vanish as he stalked off before Sam could ask any more questions.
Rolling her eyes, Sam began her trek along the right side of the fence.
She’d seen enough horror movies to know that splitting up was the crown king of stupid ideas. Then again, that was usually the case when characters were trying to ditch the serial killer whose entire purpose was to pick them off one-by-one.
And Sam was actually working with a professional killer right now, so perhaps she wouldn’t be in for a series of horrific, idiotic events. (Not that she was getting her hopes up, mind you.)
Besides, she’d be lying if she said she couldn’t see a point to this strategy of Murdock’s: the nursery sprawled for miles. That, coupled with all the landscaping equipment and horticulture, offered a generous amount of hiding places for one or two gangsters who might’ve finally started wishing that they’d gone to college.
Out of instinct, Sam felt one of their hands rest on the sheath strapped to her waist under her jacket. The Lion’s Breath never failed to give her comfort, but goosebumps were still determined to prickle over her skin.
The world around her wasn’t exactly silent. Pieces of Eden may have been a fair distance from the rest of the city, but if Sam listened hard enough, she could hear the cacophony of thunderous music and pre-recorded screams that’d been playing at the Halloween festival.
Hell, it’d been loud enough to make her teeth vibrate when she’d met up with Murdock. Or, when she’d found Murdock busying himself with a pumpkin-carving contest and then acting very smug when the judges oohed and aahed at the grotesque faces of his jack o’ lanterns.
Speaking of which. . .
Sam’s foot collided with a mass on the ground. It was soft, emitting an awful squelch as it gave way under her weight. She startled, having to bite down a scream as she backed up a few paces.
She stared at the ground, at the slimy streak left by her boot. It took a solid ten seconds of staring and heavy breathing for one part of her brain to accept the fact that she’d stepped on a rotting pumpkin rather than any number of much gorier things.
If she’d known what was going to happen next, she would’ve stopped herself from even thinking about that.
Because just as her pulse started to taper down to a steadier rate, irony decided to make it shoot right back up. The telltale roar of an engine rumbling to life boomed from somewhere across the nursery’s acres.
Sam’s stomach sank all the way into the ground beneath her. That didn’t stop her from sprinting in the direction of the sound. She didn’t want to, but she’d long-since gained a sort of sixth sense for knowing when shit was about to go down. And she’d literally agreed to get involved, so. . .
The noise grew deeper and deeper, grinding its way through her eardrums. As she got closer to it, she remembered the importance of stealth and ducked behind one of the nursery’s utility sheds. She tried to concentrate, straining her ears. Sure enough, she detected voices buried within the mechanical buzzing.
She moved tactfully, shifting her weight with each step as she maneuvered around the shed, making sure to stay in its shadow as she peered around the corner and took in the sight of a huge machine.
It had to be at least twenty feet long and twelve feet high, coated in dark green paint. Half of it took on the shape of an angular, sideways funnel. For where Sam stood, she could see a wide, square hole within the center of that funnel. It was as dark as the mouth of a cave, and the awful shearing noise seemed to be leaking through it. The other half of the apparatus was dedicated to a long, sloping chute that ended in a much similar opening, looming over anything that came within touching distance.
A woodchipper, Sam realized, feeling dread start to churn in her brain.
She was staring at an active woodchipper.
. . .As well as a few shadowy figures orbiting around it.
One of them paced by the side of the monstrous widget: Sam could tell right away that it was Murdock.
She squinted at the other two, but they both had their backs to her. She couldn’t find any features to potentially recognize. One of them wore a jacket made of bright yellow leather, having pulled a rhombus-shaped hood over their head.
The other seemed to be dressed in filthy denim—or, that was Sam’s best guess, at least. They were practically a blur, moving in a frantic, frenzied manner. And for good reason, too: Yellow Hood held them fast, dragging them along as they climbed up onto the woodchipper’s feeding tray.
Murdock’s words echoed in Sam’s mind: I’ve got a feeling we’ll have to deal with more than one tonight.
Sam glanced at the hitman. He was still gliding to and fro beside the machine, never taking his eyes off of the pair as they halted before the funnel’s entrance.
What was he doing? Those two people had to be the targets he was looking for, right?
So why was he just watching and waiting? Why wasn’t he the one trying to back them into this massive, deadlier cousin of the modern blender?
Is he waiting for me? Sam wondered.
It didn’t feel right at first; Murdock was a contract killer, but that didn’t mean he killed just for the sake of a paycheck. He craved mayhem and violence like this. He could be a bit of a greedy bastard at times, but he’d still made his willingness to work with others clear. (Why else would he be part of a mob?)
That must be it, Sam realized, exasperation mixing in with panic. He’d seen what she was capable of. He probably wants to watch me dispatch these idiots so he can try to play a mind game with me later.
Fine, then.
He wanted a spectacle?
She’d give him a goddamn spectacle.
Sam looked away from the woodchipper, scanning the rest of the environment around her. Yes, The Lion’s Breath was always a faithful weapon, but she had a feeling it could only do so much right now.
Sooner or later, her eyes landed on a large wooden stall that most certainly hadn't been here the last time she’d visited. She jogged over to it, curiously examining the four contraptions lined up in a row on its platform. Each one almost resembled an iron lung, excepting for the long, slender tube that protruded from the front of it. A group of cardboard cutouts were clustered about ten feet ahead of them all, boasting hastily-painted bullseyes. A wide crate sat on one side of the platform. It was filled to the brim with sugar pumpkins—the types that only grew to the size of a grapefruit and had grown popular amongst piemakers.
For a brief few seconds, Sam’s mind became a smidge more lighthearted than before.
She was standing at a makeshift shooting gallery. What she now recognized as industrial air cannons must’ve been built to entertain the nursery’s younger patrons while their parents paid for the larger pumpkins they’d chosen to take home and carve.
The more grim aspects of her scenario slapped her across the face.
Taking a deep breath, Sam marched toward the generator that’d been positioned next to the pumpkin crate. After making sure its cords led to the right place, she turned a cold switch on its front panel. A low electrical hum murmured through the air as the air canons all began rattling. It wasn’t loud enough to compete with the woodchipper’s racket, of course.
Sam snatched up one of the miniature pumpkins, carrying it over to deposit into the tank of the second-to-last air cannon.
Those two strangers were still grappling on the woodchipper’s feeding tray. . .
Sam gripped at the handles on the base of the tube, having to hop off the platform as she pivoted her new weapon. She closed one eye as she lined up her shot
Ready. . .aim. . .FIRE!
Sam reached forward to slap at the glowing button on the cannon’s side.
SSSHHHHHRRUMM-POW!
The air cannon rocked back as an orange blur erupted out from it.
The vegetable-masquerading ammo soared through the air.
Time seemed to slow down as the mini-pumpkin met its fate: it slammed into Yellow Hood’s back, exploding into a puppy mess on impact, sending seeds flying like bits of shrapnel.
Yellow Hood writhed in pain, quickly losing their balance. They teetered on the edge of the feeding tray, erratically waving their hands before collapsing onto the ground. The person they’d been grappling with. . .well, they weren’t quite so lucky. They fell further back.
Right up to that hole at the center of the funnel.
They vanished through a row of black vinyl curtains.
Sam, having already ditched the air cannon, was racing forward. But as she finally grew close enough to call out to Murdock, she was forced to freeze in place.
Earlier, the woodchipper’s engine had been dominating, swallowing up every other sound.
But now. . .now it had to compete with raw, agonized, horrific shrieking.
It stabbed its way through Sam’s guts, clawed at her brain, helped bile to manifest in her throat.
That just wasn’t enough, of course.
It needed to be accentuated by something.
And that something came in the sickening echo of flesh being torn and bones being ground against relentless blades.
It was all Sam could do to keep whatever snacks she’d had earlier down.
It wasn’t like she’d expected a different outcome, but. . .
The screaming stopped in less than thirty seconds. The woodchipper’s inner workings sputtered; just because it was deadly didn’t mean it was used to chopping up people rather than wood.
. . .Then again, this nursery was on The Pentas Family’s turf. . .
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!”
The excruciating howls were still coiling around in Sam’s ears, but the voice cut through them like a hot knife through butter.
It wasn’t Murdock’s voice.
Sam flinched badly, grabbing for The Lion’s Breath as Yellow Hood stormed over to her.
Finally, she could see his face. . .
A face adorned by a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. . .as well as a small, jagged scar on the left side of the upper lip. . .right above a silver canine cap, which glinted in the dim light as its owner snarled at her.
“Caliban?!” Sam nearly shouted.
The cannibal in question halted, huffing and puffing. His face was contorted with pain, yet his typical sarcasm still made an appearance. “No, actually. I’m just a waiter from that one diner a few states over—wHO ELSE COULD I POSSIBLY BE, SAM?!”
Sam recoiled, holding her hands out in a defensive stance. “Alright, you can stop fucking yelling like that!”
“Considering you almost shoved me into that thing,” Caliban furiously gestured at the woodchipper, “I think I have a right to yell as much as I want!”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen!”
“It sure as hell felt like you did!”
“No, I—!” Sam cut herself off, growling in aggravation. “Okay, fine, FINE! The setup was intentional on my part. But that wasn’t meant for you specifically! I just didn’t recognize you at first!”
It was the truth, but it didn’t seem to help Sam’s case
Caliban was still practically shaking with rage as he blinked. He blinked again, slowly extending his arms and shaking his head in an infuriated lame gesture.
Sam stammered. It felt like her head was about to explode.
“. . .Look, I’m only here because Murdock wanted my help bumping off the idiots you’ve been dealing with! And Murdock told me not to hesitate if I found anyone!” She jabbed her finger in the direction of aforementioned hitman, whose expression was sifting through shock, morbid fascination, and perhaps a bit of amusement.
Caliban tossed a glance at Murdock.
Murdock simply shrugged. “Hey, at least one of the pests is gone, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
Caliban groaned, shoulders slumping as he dragged one hand down his face. “I was only using the chipper for interrogation. I wanted that guy for myself! And when I caught him, I thought I might as well try to get some information out of him before. . .”
He trailed off, leaving Sam to grimace.
Out of nowhere, a pale, cat-sized figure came bounding up to circle their ankles.
It was Snare: Caliban’s beloved leucistic hare who managed to be just as carnivorous as he was.
Caliban perked up, automatically kneeling down to make eye-contact with his pet. “What’s the matter, buddy?”
Snare replied via pawing at the dirt, his long ears flattening as he took a corner of Caliban’s jacket between his little teeth, gave it a tug, and released it. He then scurried away from Caliban, pausing with his back arched and his cotton-tail in the air.
Caliban’s eyes widened. Without another word to Sam or Murdock, he bolted after Snare.
Sam stared after them as they ran. It looked like the hare was leading his owner to the nursery’s main warehouse.
On any other day, Sam would’ve been immensely curious about the code Snare had apparently been trained to use. But then, any other day probably wouldn’t have involved almost becoming an enemy of the very mob she was allied to.
She stalked closer to Murdock, her eyes narrowing almost to slits. “What the fuck is your game? You didn’t say Caliban would be here too!”
“Okay, first of all: don’t use that damn tone when you’re talking about my colleagues,” Murdock replied, glaring at her. “Second of all: I wasn’t expecting to see him, either. Some of the others had plans over at the docks tonight. I thought he’d decided to go with them, but I guess something changed.”
Sam scoffed, though she had to admit that the explanation was pretty reasonable. “I’m assuming he already knew I’d be with you?”
Murdock nodded. “We try to update the family’s roster with each new work schedule.”
Sam nodded back, still trying to pace herself. “. . .What’s up with that yellow jacket?”
Murdock quirked an eyebrow at her, probably amused that she was asking about a clothing change after the terrifying act she’d helped to commit. “Oh, he just sent his red one to get cleaned. Not sure what happened to it, but it must’ve been pretty bad.”
“Can’t be half as bad as what’s gonna happen to your clothes,” Sam mused. “Unless you take a couple steps to the side, I mean.”
Murdock’s features changed from casual to confused. He glanced around, motioning for Sam to elaborate.
In turn, Sam simply pointed up at the woodchipper’s discharge chute, which Murdock just so happened to be standing beneath.
Murdock shook his head, a low chortle oozing up from his throat. “Oh, please. Nothing’s gonna come out. This thing’s meant for wood, not bodies. That guy you tried playing Pumpkin Shotput with is just caught in the grinder.”
“. . .So how is your cleanup crew supposed to even start cleaning him out?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.
“They have their ways,” Murdock promised. “Trust me, this thing is a lot easier to work with than you might think.” As if to prove his point, he reached over to lightly rap his knuckles against the woodchipper’s green paintjob.
This tempted irony to prove that it didn’t just save its cruelty for Sam.
Something inside the woodchipper jerked with a squishing screech.
Then, in a manner similar to a jug of gatorade being dunked over a football coach’s head, a stream of red matter came cascading out of the chute’s opening.
It completely and utterly drenched Murdock, soaking him from head to toe before it pooled on the dirt with an awful gurgling cry.
Murdock’s visible eye bulged from its socket. He pursed his lips, lowering his head to stare at his now bloodsoaked hands for what seemed like a long time.
Sam, who remained dry and clean, had to clamp a hand over her mouth. She was caught between gagging and cackling like a gremlin.
She’d never been a fan of gore, but humor worked in mysterious ways.
A moment of silence came and went.
“So. Murdock,” Sam stated once she was sure she crammed the laughter far enough down. “Do you believe in karma, or. . ?”
“Oh, you bet your ass I do!” Murdock fixed her with a tight-lipped smile and a dry, hollow laugh. “Speaking of which. . .you were right, actually. I should’ve handled things differently tonight. . .”
He took a single step forward
Sam took a step back, her dread returning at breakneck speed. “What’re you doing?”
“I just think I owe you an apology,” Murdock explained, taking another step closer.
Sam backed up yet again. “Murdock—”
Murdock outstretched his arms, prompting some of the blood to fly off in either droplets or ribbons. “How about we just hug it out, huh?”
Sam could feel the color drain from her face. “Murdock, don’t you dare.”
“Oh, c’mon!” Murdock jeered. “You know you want to!”
“I really fucking don’t,” Sam protested.
“Saaaaaaaaam,” Murdock sing-songed, his gait becoming much faster.
“Get tHE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Sam turned on her heel and ran, not caring which direction she took so long as it kept her from looking like one of those melted taffy apples.
Murdock’s sadistic laughter echoed behind her. His footsteps, on the other hand, fell silent, but Sam wasn’t about to stop and look over her shoulder.
In fact, she was so focused on running that when she passed the warehouse, she almost didn’t register shouts leaking through its half-open door. Without thinking, she ducked through the threshold, heaving it shut behind her.
It truly looked even bigger on the inside than it did on the outside. It was also in a state of functional chaos. At least two dozen industrial shelving units had been organized along the walls. Stainless steel tables were lined up every which way, some empty while others supported various planters and tools.
One stood out from all the rest, as a very frenzied Caliban was being pinned down on it by yet another unfamiliar figure clad in grubby flannel.
The other pest Murdock had predicted needing to deal with.
. . .There was no way he couldn’t be, right?
He damn well better be, Sam thought as she moved forward, because frankly she’d had just about enough macabre shenanigans for tonight. The second pest had his back to her, focusing all his energy on trying to ignore the way Caliban was clawing at his face.
Neither of them could’ve seen her as she approached, silently grabbing a fire extinguisher from its mounting bracket on the nearest wall.
Then again, Caliban seemed to notice her at the last minute; his eyes widened as she crept up behind his attacker, raising the extinguisher much like a baseball bat.
With dramatic flair in mind, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
The second pest pushed his thumbs against Caliban’s throat and hissed, “Where’s your family now, fucker? What’re you gonna—”
THUNK!
The word became prolonged and slurred as Sam interjected, slamming the end of the extinguisher into the pest’s neck. He staggered sideways, violent tremors wracking his body as he toppled over in a heap, his eyes wide and his head at an unnatural angle.
Caliban sat up, his breathing ragged and heavy. His eyes met Sam’s, sharp and wild and a bit disbelieving.
Sam’s mouth opened, but not a single word even tried to come out. So, she closed it with a little snap, offering a curt nod instead.
Caliban nodded right back. Without warning, he curled in on himself, his face contorted with a particular sort of ache. A long, low, organic growl broke the brief silence, and Sam immediately understood.
A choked wail broke the brief silence. The second pest was fading fast, but his chest still heaved in a shallow, painful way.
Shock was chased out of Caliban’s features by a vicious, hungry grin. He got to his feet, strolling over to kneel down before the pest. His hands lashed out, one maneuvering the pest’s head out of the way while the other dug its nails into his shoulder.
Caliban lunged downward, sinking his teeth into the exposed flesh around the neck.
A desperate, unintelligible scream bounced along the warehouse’s walls and floors. The sound felt like all the movement the pest was no longer capable of.
Sam’s stomach roiled. She turned away, abandoning the fire extinguisher on the floor in favor of covering her ears. She wanted to screw her eyes shut.
So why the hell couldn’t she. . ?
Before she knew it, everything had gone quiet again.
Except for Caliban’s footsteps as he strolled past Sam, that is. Little red spots were left in his wake.
As Sam stared after him, Snare reappeared before her. She blinked, squinting at the hare.
“. . .Have you been here the whole time?” She murmured without quite meaning to.
The pale hare raised one paw to scrub at his little muzzle as if to reply, What do you think, Sherlock?
He then scampered over to the warehouse door, glancing back at Sam in a way that was almost inviting.
Sam hesitantly took that invitation, forcing herself not to look back at the pest’s corpse. She stepped outside, following Snare’s lead around the warehouse. . .and over to the silo right next to it. A white fence had been set up a little ways around its base. A sign stood next to said fence’s opening: FRESH BRICK OVEN PIZZA! READY IN JUST THREE MINUTES!
. . .Oh right, Sam thought, memory flowing as she and Snare wandered around the tables that had been set up inside the fence’s barrier.
Years ago, when Pieces of Eden had just barely opened its doors to the public, that silo had apparently been cleaned out and repurposed. That new purpose was only really used when October rolled around, but it was still a pretty clever idea.
It was clever when it came to the pizza offered to daytime customers.
Right now, as Sam caught flashes of yellow through the silo-kitchen’s service window, it was a lot more twisted.
Sam poked her head through the doorway, just in time to see Caliban using a pizza peel to push a lump of human flesh and a single finger into the oven.
“You’re seriously doing that right now?!” She blurted, hoping that her disbelief would distract her from new nausea.
“Yeah,” Caliban replied, leaning against the counter as he turned to face her. His mouth was soaked with blood; his silver tooth gleamed like a scythe. “Yeah, I am. Because get this: I’m hungry.”
He paused to lick his lips, not removing any of the crimson stain from his skin. “I’m really goddamn hungry.”
As if to drive the point home, his stomach let out another chilling growl.
Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head as she came to stand on the opposite side of the small room.
Slowly but surely, the scent of blistering flesh slithered into the air.
Sam swallowed the bile in her throat. She fought to keep her expression as neutral as possible. Tonight marked the very first time she’d seen Caliban actually prepare a target (or, a piece of one, at least). Except for the way he drummed his fingers against the counter, he was perfectly still. Quiet. Almost like a cat studying its prey to make sure it wasn’t just playing dead.
Somehow, that was the most disturbing part of this. He hadn’t lost his touch when it came to being so damn casual in the face of death and gore, but his typical sarcasm, his morbid sense of humor, his well-hidden energy. . .it’d all just taken a backseat to his appetite.
Which was not something Sam could afford to further trigger.
Logically speaking, she knew he wouldn't just snap and go for her next. She was wearing that dart frog pin, after all. For all the danger and threats the criminal underground was infamous for, an odd type of honor still had its place there.
Going after someone you were paid to go after? Sure, fine, whatever. They were probably playing with fire to have gotten your client's attention in the first place.
Going after someone who was specifically under your protection? That was very much frowned upon.
Still, it would've been impossible for Sam to not see how Caliban was struggling right now. His experiences had obviously been different from hers, but. . .she knew what it was like to be hungry and desperate. Despite knowing next to nothing about his past, she recognized the haunting look in his eyes.
She'd seen it in her own eyes quite a few times.
“The cleanup crew is gonna have to wipe down every inch of this place,” Sam mentioned.
“I know,” Caliban acknowledged, not taking his eyes off of the oven. His anticipation was nearly palpable. “That’s why we pay them so well.”
“You’d certainly better,” Sam murmured. She wasn’t sure how much cash would have be offered to convince her to clean up that woodchipper.
Surprisingly enough, the three minutes it took for Caliban’s impromptu snack to cook went by pretty fast. A hopeful smile spread across his face as he pulled it out of the oven, steam curling off the skin almost like spindly, spectral hands.
He took a white cardboard plate from the packaged stack on the counter, slapped the horrific morsel onto it, and stalked off to sit at one of the tables outside. Sam followed at a careful distance.
It was a good thing Caliban wasn’t focusing on her right now, because it was incredibly difficult to avoid wincing in disgust as she watched him tuck in.
Snare hopped onto the chair beside his owner, bracing his paws against the tabletop.
Caliban paused, then fished through his pockets to produce the damascus steel meat cleaver that was apparently to him what The Lion's Breath was to Sam. He plucked up the finger, holding it away from himself as he lined up the utensil. He then slashed the finger's nail clean off with a swiftness that might’ve made some chefs green with envy.
Afterwards, he set the appendage down in front of Snare, who purred as he held it between his paws, his buck teeth shearing away at skin.
Caliban leaned forward, giving his pet a quick kiss on the forehead, gently stroking his back.
The scene almost reminded Sam of how she played with Zephyr back at home.
Except for the fact that A. Zephyr was a tiger, and B. she’d never even consider feeding pieces of a person to her.
“Thank you,” Caliban called, his voice soft as he glanced at Sam. “For. . .the assistance back there.”
“It’s nothing,” Sam responded, feeling herself ever-so-slightly relax.
A grateful cannibal was better than an angry cannibal, after all.
“It’s really not,” Caliban argued. His voice remained calm, if not a bit uncertain. "Pretty damn impressive, not gonna lie."
". . .Huh." Sam tilted her head to the side. She could tell that the compliment was genuine, but that didn't mean she knew how to feel about being complimented by someone who was actively eating a fresh section of human-person.
Caliban raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'huh?'"
"Nothing, nothing." Sam shrugged, nodding to the cleaver. "I just assumed that you might be biased toward knives."
Caliban glanced down at his deadly favorite toy. A chortle bubbled up from his throat. "Can't be helped. I guess I would be interested to see how you handle knives. Then I'd have another reason to call you SamChop."
Sam clicked her tongue. The way she reached up to pinch at the bridge of her nose only encouraged Caliban to laugh even more. She knew there was no use in trying to combat his affinity for puns.
Footsteps manifested somewhere just outside the white fence.
Sam felt her shoulders tense for the millionth time.
Caliban's snickering came to a sudden halt. He halfway rose from the table, one arm reaching around to shield Snare while the other held that bloody blade at the ready.
A hand emerged from the other side of the pizza area's threshold, smearing the white paint with red. A similarly scarlet-soaked face peered out alongside it, framed by dripping raven hair. One dark brown eye drilled into the three pairs up ahead.
. . .Well, the other eye would've probably done the same, if not for the formerly white eyepatch-headwrap-thing.
Caliban immediately relaxed, nodding as he sat back down.
The sigh Sam heaved wasn't too obvious. She'd already been left out of breath a few too many times tonight.
It wasn't exactly out of relief, either, considering how Murdock was still drenched in gore. The calmness he carried as he strolled around the tables didn't help.
"I got the body in the warehouse," he announced. "Cleanup should be here in thirty minutes or so."
Caliban hummed with appreciation. "Great."
Sam, meanwhile, gawked for a few seconds before snapping, "How have you not washed all that off yet?!”
“Just because a stain is fresh doesn’t mean it’ll disappear like that,” Murdock snarked with a snap of his fingers. “I already tried the hose around back. Blood’s just stubborn.”
He took a seat across from Caliban, looking exhausted yet satisfied.
Sam rolled her eyes. “Just means you’ll have to take the long route once we're finally done here.”
Murdock shrugged. “Hey, even if someone ends up seeing us, it won’t matter. Tonight’s Halloween, remember? If anything, Cal and I would blend right in with all the people at the festival.”
Caliban chuckled, baring his bloodstained teeth in a contemplative grin.
Sam pursed her lips.
Murdock did have a point there.
She wouldn’t admit it, but she couldn’t really deny it, either.
@sammys-magical-au
#my writing#my stories#sammy's magical au#friendship#sammy's magical au's oc#sam ryder#azalea/aza#nerdy nummies egos#rosanna pansino#caliban#caliban the cannibal#snare the hare#matpat#egopats#matthew patrick#K.O.#K.O./kaiser oasis#crankegos#ethan nestor#crankgameplays#my characters#fanmade egos#my fan egos#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#mark fischbach#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw blood
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#tumblr polls#youtube#youtuber#youtube poll#youtube channel#rdcworld1#mark phillips#RDCWorld#kurtis conner#Kurtis#Kurtis Matthew Kenneth Conner#markiplier#mark fischbach#markiplier egos#rosanna pansino#Nerdy Nummies#Baketopia#MrBallen#true crime documentary#Jonathan B. Allen#youtube content#random polls
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If each of the egos started their own YouTube channels what would they be about
Dark–couldn’t be bothered, but he might upload a video or two of him playing the piano
The Host–already does podcasts where he tells some of his stories
Wilford–candy unwrapping videos paired with uploads of his interviews
Dr. Iplier–self-care and healthy tips
Google–let’s plays between the four of them, but let’s be honest, they know how to cheat the system so it isn’t exactly entertaining
Ed–cooking, but manlier (I can see him doing a video with Rosanna from Nerdy Nummies)
Silver–videos of him playing “Just Dance” and singing along to all the songs off-key
Bim–aesthetically pleasing videos of him watering his plants and vlogs about his daily life as a TV show host
#ego asks#markiplier egos#darkiplier#the host#wilford warfstache#dr. iplier#googleplier#ed edgar#silver shepherd#bim trimmer
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Day 4: Amputation
(Disclaimer: only four of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Caliban here. For more information about Azalea, go here. For more information about K.O., go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, and if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. To learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here. And last but certainly not least, for more information about R.D., go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: cannibalism/implied cannibalism, torture, blood, gore, dismemberment, exposed bones, mentions of eating/drinking, descriptions of illegal business, knives/blades, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13
“Feeling any better, Cal?” Murdock queried, titling his head as he leaned against the wall. This might’ve been an odd thing to hear from a hitman, but Caliban had known him for years now. He knew how to dissect his words, how to tell when he was being at least somewhat genuine.
Sure, there was sadistic mockery in Murdock’s tone right now, but even someone who didn’t know him like Caliban did would be able to tell that it wasn’t being directed at him.
Caliban nodded, offering a semi-positive hum as he carved another piece from the freshly-cooked muscle on his plate.
From one corner of Caliban’s den, a shaking man tried to join the conversation with a choked, gurgling holler. The gunman was still capable of producing sound, but he’d also had to gulp down mouthful after mouthful of his own blood while Caliban put a tried-and-true lengua recipe to good use. (Boiling first, searing second. Ooh, that’d been so good. . .)
“Is tonight the first time you’ve used this thing?” Murdock nodded at the chair he and Caliban had wrestled the gunman into a little while ago.
Caliban paused, thinking as he swallowed the last bite of his dinner.
“. . .I guess so. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no actual reason.” Murdock shrugged. “That just makes this kind of special, don’t you think? I get to be here to see you start breaking in my gift.”
Caliban couldn’t help but sputter a laugh. “I thought you said you didn’t put any stock in the niceties.”
“Hey, don’t act like I can’t be fickle.” Murdock preened at his hair, his smile growing even more devilish than before. “That’s how I get my work done.”
The chair in question—or, The Throne, as Murdock called it—was crafted from iron rather than wood. Thick leather straps complimented by heavy metal buckles were attached to the arm-rests, the front legs, the stiles on the back. Its design was simple, yet a bit more interesting than a mere folding chair as well as far, far more uncomfortable.
And it was, indeed, a gift. One the hitman claimed to have built himself as an apology for a few past fiascos that’d happened down here. Needing to restrain a person wasn’t an uncommon task for mobsters, but sometimes mobsters just couldn’t control where they ended up having to do the restraining. And winding rope around Caliban’s block kitchen island never failed to be awkward and frustrating.
Murdock had really gone the extra mile via sneaking into this den on Caliban’s birthday and presenting him with The Throne when he’d ventured down for some standard butchery. (True, he probably should’ve fired that idea at someone else beforehand, since Caliban nearly threw a steak knife in his face when he leapt out of the storage closet holding The Throne almost like a battering ram, but it was the thought that counted.)
“So, what’s next?” Murdock continued, stepping closer to hover by his accomplice. “Between the cooking and the dining, you’ve had plenty of time to brainstorm.”
“Well. . .” Caliban dragged out the word, a conspiratory glint in his eyes as he set his cutlery and now empty plate down in the utility sink. “We both know I’ve gotta take my time with this, right?”
“Obviously,” Murdock chuckled. “Vengeance is best when it’s dragged out nice and far and slow.”
“That’s the thing, though. I can’t get much out of this,” Caliban turned his head to snarl at the gunman, “unless he’s kept somewhat fresh.”
Murdock pursed his lips in consideration, following the cannibal’s gaze to look the gunman up and down. “I mean, you’re thinking of a piece-by-piece basis, right?”
“Golly-gee willikers, what gave it away?” Caliban confirmed, his voice fluctuating between deadpan and sarcastic curiosity.
“I don’t know. Guess I’m just that good,” Murdock bragged, in on the little act. He paced in a small circle, folding one arm against his chest and slightly raising the other to scratch at the hair growing along his jaw. “I’d put my money on this guy being able to last for about a week. You could just start tonight, then go on a three-day-schedule from here and end it on the third.”
Caliban chewed his lip. Remnants of medium-rare flesh and iron were still in his mouth. He knew they’d have to fade away eventually, but he also knew just how deliciously stubborn those particular flavors could be. “That’s not a bad idea.”
Murdock’s face brightened with unorthodox glee. He aimed finger-guns at his colleague, smirking. “You’re welcome.”
Caliban strolled over to the block-island, searching through its drawers and fishing out a number of tools to set down in a line on its countertop. Metal gleamed against the harsh light beaming down from the ceiling. Though his den hadn’t exactly been silent since Caliban and his guests had entered, a sudden cacophony of dull scraping and squealing still made him flinch. He looked up to see Murdock dragging both the gunman and The Throne over to the opposite side of the block-island.
“I thought this might make things a little more convenient,” the other hitman announced in response to the questioning glance he was given.
“I mean, sure, it will,” Caliban agreed, “but you don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”
“Who the hell said I didn’t want to? It wasn’t me, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him,” Murdock replied, gesturing to the gunman—or, more accurately, to what was left of the gunman’s tongue in his bloody, gaping, sobbing mouth. “I’m available all night. I don’t have anything scheduled this week. As a matter of fact, none of us did,” he added, momentarily narrowing his eyes as he snatched a handful of the gunman’s hair and gave it a harsh tug.
Caliban raised his eyebrows as something else besides schadenfreude wormed its way into his expression. It was good to be reminded that Murdock was just as angry about what had happened to Azalea. Sure, he didn’t have the same bond with her as Caliban did, but he was still a strong friend.
“Alright, then. Nice of you to keep me company.” Caliban made his way to the other side of the block-island. He knelt down before the gunman, unfastening some of the restraints around his left leg. “Y’know this means you’ll be handing the tools to me.”
Murdock clicked his tongue, rolled his visible eye at the sight of Caliban’s smirk. “Ffffffine,” he eventually relented with a sigh. “But if you try calling me a nurse, I swear to God—”
“Hey, under the right circumstances, I think you’d make a great nurse,” Caliban protested, snickering. “Repo! would have nothing on you.”
“. . .I mean, of course it wouldn’t,” Murdock snidely agreed as he leaned forward, resting his arms on The Throne’s top back, the perfect combination of casual lounging and looming.
After tossing the gunman’s shoe away, Caliban used a pair of Metz scissors to cut through the top half of the gunman’s pant leg. He then wrapped his hands around the gunman’s calf, digging his nails into bruised, goosebump-covered skin.
In response, the gunman writhed, attempting to kick Caliban in the chest. It wasn’t like all this movement would stop Caliban from doing what he was about to do, but it was still incredibly annoying.
Murdock seemed to have read Caliban’s mind, because he reached over to pluck up his accomplice’s Satterlee saw. He shifted it in his hand so that it was upside-down, then hauled off and slammed the blunt end against the gunman’s temple.
The gunman’s head snapped back. His eyes practically rolled in their sockets, pupils dilating. His mouth gaped like that of a fish. His leg fell limp, still shaking. Blood didn’t start trickling from the side of his head. His breathing didn’t grow quieter.
“. . .That’s not what the saw is meant for,” Caliban mentioned. And he was correct: blunt force trauma was a hell of a thing, but it would still take several more blows for the saw’s metal handle to kill.
Murdock offered a snarky hum. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Caliban couldn’t really deny that. He half-shrugged-half-nodded, then held out one expectant hand. “Scalpel, please.”
“That’s what I thought,” Murdock murmured as he set the saw back down and exchanged it for the requested tool.
Caliban took the thin blade and held it similarly to a pencil. It glided along as though the gunman’s skin was warm butter. The gunman whimpered and convulsed, but he couldn’t be aggressive about it. The pain now thrumming through his skull was probably too overpowering to allow that.
In less than a minute, the middle of the gunman’s thigh was fully encircled by a deep red line. “Boning knife,” Caliban called as he let his bloody scalpel clatter. He was just barely in time to add, “No, that’s not permission to joke about it for the twentieth time.”
“Wha—no, c’mon, I haven’t made nineteen jokes about it,” Murdock scoffed, though he still handed the blade over.
“Yes,” Caliban argued, pausing to look the other mobster dead in the eyes. “Yes, you have.”
Murdock glanced away for a second or two, probably recounting all the times he’d sprinkled innuendos into torture sessions. He then remembered the task at hand and simply shook his head. “Oh, whatever.”
Caliban made sure to hold the blade equal to the diameter of the first incision, then slid it underneath the first layer of flesh.
He coaxed the knife back and forth, back and forth.
Blood came gushing out. It coated his hands in a matter of seconds—though it didn’t seep through his gloves, he could still feel the heat oozing off of it. The scent of iron drifted into the air, almost as warm as dryer exhaust.
Back and forth, back and forth. . .
Although Caliban didn’t put an excessive amount of force behind the knife, droplets of blood were still sent flying to splatter against his apron
Back and forth, back and forth. . .
Even if the gunman hadn’t been screaming in agony, it still would’ve been difficult to hear the soft, slick noises his flesh made as Caliban’s knife moved farther and deeper.
Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik
Caliban turned his wrist as he carved, guiding the knife toward skin that hadn’t been massacred yet. At the same time, he leaned to the side and craned his neck as he lifted the gunman’s leg a bit higher, giving himself easier access to the other side. It shuddered violently, but that wasn’t too disruptive. Caliban could tell that the act was more instinctual than intentional. It was hard for one to move their limb when something was actively slicing into it. And when the natural desire to survive clashed against that. . .well, the psychology of it all was probably better off not being looked into.
Sooner or later, flesh was hanging in thick tatters. Blood had now formed a small pool, which didn’t wait to start trickling down The Throne's seat and legs. Caliban moved back and released his grip on the gunman’s popliteal fossa. As the mangled leg limply collapsed against the chair, he reached over to pinch the top half of his handiwork, pulling it up and over.
Muscles and tissues shone in a horrible way.
Red and raw and oh-so appetizing.
For a normal amputation, the semi-attached wedges of skin would’ve been stitched up to convince the amputee’s skin to knit itself back together, scarring over and healing into a relatively smooth stump.
However, this was anything but a normal amputation.
Caliban was efficient, severing those chunks of meat and setting them on the block-island’s counter. They would’ve just gotten in the way otherwise. He stabbed the boning knife into one of them and left it there, like some strange amateur recreation of Excalibur and The Stone.
A thick, glistening white shape was finally on display in the center of the gore.
The gunman’s femur.
Caliban smirked as he prodded the bone with his index finger, eliciting a dull, porcelain tap-tap-tap.
“I bet that’s what most people think a bone-deep needle feels like,” Murdock proclaimed. “Not that I’ve felt one myself, but still.”
“Maybe,” Caliban mused. “Now’s the time for the saw.”
“Right, right.” Murdock grabbed the saw once again, presenting it with a bit more of a flourish this time.
Caliban could see his reflection in the wide blade; he knew from experience that he’d still be able to see himself when it was soaked in red. The first few strokes were a bit tricky, but it still took little time for Caliban to ease the saw into a grating rhythm.
Ssshhh-Rrrr-shhhrrrr-shrrr-shrrrrr
(Technically speaking, Caliban could’ve used it for this entire process, but that would’ve led to strands of flesh getting pulled up and tangled on the tool’s teeth, and he already had a big enough mess to clean up soon.)
Back and forth, back and forth. . .
A chorus of miserable, wretched cries crawled along the mutilated remains of the gunman’s tongue and up into the air. They were very much unintelligible, but Caliban could still guess at what his victim was trying to say.
Still working the saw, he looked up just in time to discover how Murdock was grasping either side of the gunman’s head, forcing him to watch everything that was happening to him. Caliban tilted his head a bit, nodding at his accomplice, then bared his teeth in a snarl, letting his narrowed eyes drill into the gunman’s horrified, watery ones.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought twice,” Caliban growled, “before you tried to take…pot-shots…at…my…SISTER!”
Ssrrrruuuuh-CaRrA-A-ACk!
Finally, the femur gave way under the tool’s weight, snapping in two—not cleanly, but well and truly. Either of the severed ends boasted jagged splinters, sort of like a broken stick. (Then again, broken sticks weren’t typically slathered with blood or dripping with marrow. They also weren’t known for making awful, organic popping sounds when they snapped.)
Caliban dropped the saw, then reluctantly grabbed a few rolls of cloth bandages. He wrapped them in tight layers around the gunman’s new stump; he wouldn’t be surviving long enough to properly heal, but just letting him bleed to death would have defeated the whole purpose of this venture.
Red spots were already spreading underneath the fresh gauze, but Caliban’s focus had already shifted to the eight-to-twelve pounds of fresh meat he’d just cut. Unlike those of the frog legs in many a middle-school science lab, the toes failed to twitch. The severed end wasn’t actively bleeding, just leaking. Not enough to be a problem in the face of a few sheets of butcher paper.
Caliban shrouded the leg before giving the stray chunks the same treatment. He then gathered them all up to carry across the den. He pried open the chest freezer in the corner, which was already stocked with similar, unassuming bundles. To the eye of an untrained outsider, this would look like something you’d see at the butchery section of the local grocery store.
Murdock snapped his fingers for a long few seconds. “Hell of a show.”
“I try my best.” Caliban couldn’t help but give a slight bow as he turned away from the chest freezer. “And that might as well be it for tonight.”
“Sure thing. We need to get a move-on anyway.” Murdock took hold of The Throne’s back post, hauling it and the freshly-made amputee back over to that one corner of the den. He harshly boxed the gunman's ear, then wiped his hands and glanced at his accomplice. “I need to go get my car from The WormRoll’s lot; I can pick you and Aza up from Aftertaste? So we can head to the base together?”
“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” Caliban answered as he carried his blood-soaked tools over to the utility sink. There, he shed his apron and gloves before turning the water on. “I just need to clean up and grab Snare.”
“Alright, see you then.” Murdock’s words seemed to linger in the air for a few more seconds after he disappeared through the den’s door.
___
Two days later. . .
Somehow, the art fair had resumed its activity, and the detours that’d been set up at the ends of certain streets made Caliban’s typical route take a bit longer. He soon came upon a thin two-story structure that boasted narrow windows and a yellow paint job. A garage filled out the dwelling’s bottom right half, next to a steep set of concrete steps that led to the front door.
It was on the front corner of the neighborhood, slightly distanced from the other houses and right across the street from downtown’s entryway.
Caliban pushed a button to open the garage, then reached over to detach a leash from the harness that had been fastened around Snare’s neck and belly. A pinstripe pattern made said harness as distinguished as it was adorable; that wasn’t really a surprise, considering Azalea had sewn it herself.
Yes, there was plenty of space in the hare’s hutch (Caliban had constructed it himself, so he’d made damn sure of that), along with a comically large hamster-wheel. But all pets required enrichment to be healthy. So what if he got a few weird looks when he took Snare out for walks?
Speaking of Snare: he’d been riding shotgun because he deserved it, but he quickly abandoned his curled-up position in favor of bracing his paws against the passenger dashboard. And for good reason. As Caliban pulled into the garage, it would’ve been impossible not to notice another car waiting inside, leaving just enough room for him to park. . .
Caliban’s eyes widened. His mouth stretched into an excited smile as his vehicle’s engine stopped rumbling. As he unbuckled his seatbelt, Snare bolted over the center console and across his lap to scratch at the door further inside the garage.
Caliban raced to open that door, just barely remembering to close it behind him as he and his pet all but burst into the kitchen. (The main kitchen, mind you.)
He made his way through the living room, into his bedroom, and there she was: the brilliant, sarcastic, gorgeous woman with the softest head of brown hair who had helped his sister find her footing in underground business. The same woman who’d chosen to be with Caliban in spite of how obvious it was that he’d never have a chance at deserving someone like her.
R.D. took her focus off of the half-emptied suitcase on the bed and approached, laughing as Caliban met her halfway, wrapped his arms around her, pressed a kiss to her cheek. Snare, meanwhile, ran in circles around both of their ankles.
“You’re home!” Caliban proclaimed.
“I’m home!” R.D. agreed, playfully ruffling her partner’s hair before leading him to sit down with her. Snare hopped onto the mattress and sidled up to her, prompting her to gently chuck him under the chin.
“What happened to your latest plan?” Caliban inquired. “Didn’t you say it would probably take weeks?”
R.D. clicked her tongue, her excitement briefly shifting to annoyance. “Ah, the deal just didn’t work out. The people who’d contacted my team in the first place tried to short-change us. It took a good while for us to gather the right chemical samples, and we’d assumed that they’d gotten everything else together on their end.”
Caliban hummed with sympathy. “The joys of group projects, huh?”
“You have no idea,” R.D. groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s not even the worst part.”
While his joy was strong, Caliban felt his face fall at that statement. R.D. was one of the smartest, most capable people he knew, but it still wasn’t promising to hear someone in the illegal experimentation business gripe about their work.
“What was the worst part, then?”
“Apparently, the other group decided that a test subject was the only thing they needed to provide.” A mixture of sadness and anger seeped into R.D.’s eyes. “And they had the gall to try convincing me to conduct the experiment on a bunch of kittens they’d gotten from a shelter in their area.”
“Oh. . ! R.D., I’m so sorry!” Caliban took one of her hands in his. R.D. obviously wasn’t much better than him or any of his peers in The Pentas Family, but she still knew to be compassionate about certain things (read: things that were actually important). “Do you want me to help take care of those guys? I’m sure I could convince The Boss to send a hunting party—”
R.D. shook her head. “No, you don’t have to worry about that.” A shrewd smile slithered onto her features, chasing away her distress. “The team and I used our samples to cause a little reaction at their hideout. Cop cars were swarming by the time we left. Plus, my assistant managed to steal all those kittens before we took action; he said he knows some people who’ve been looking for new pets.”
Caliban gave pause, but it didn’t take long for him to start snickering, proud and impressed. “God, it’s good to have you back.”
R.D. hummed as her partner pulled her into yet another hug.
For whatever reason, Caliban felt the need to close his eyes as the two of them leaned against the bed’s headboard. Snare clambered around them, holding one of R.D.’s wrists between his paws in order to groom her free hand—kind of like a puppy, but eerily quieter.
Moments like this just seemed impossibly idyllic. . .
“Besides,” R.D. mentioned, “you and your family already have a manhunt on your plate.”
Aaaaannd Caliban’s eyes snapped right back open. He gave his partner a quizzical glance, to which she casually raised her eyebrows.
“What, you think Aza and I don’t talk anymore? If my assumptions are correct, she sent me a few messages about what happened a couple hours after it happened.”
A few seconds of silence passed them by.
“How’s she doing?” R.D. softly asked. “I mean, she was joking about the scar possibilities, but still.”
“Pretty good, all things considered,” Caliban replied, sighing.
Azalea was, indeed, recovering. She had to change out the bandages on her arm and wash the bullet graze once a day. According to K.O., it would take a little over a week for the wounded tissue to repair itself. Azalea wasn’t even close to death.
Things could’ve been much, much worse.
“So, there’s no way you haven’t made a new job out of this,” R.D. declared.
A dry, hollow laugh escaped Caliban’s lips. “Damn right.”
“. . .Well, don’t just leave me hanging like that! I want at least some details,” R.D. admonished in a joking tone. “What’re your plans? Have you tracked the guy down yet?”
Caliban was about to reply, but he was interrupted. Though the underbelly of his home was almost completely soundproof, he and R.D. had learned to pick up on specific noises.
Such as a muffled chorus of thumps shuffling from somewhere beneath them.
R.D. glanced at the floor, then back at Caliban, tilting her head to the side, her face a perfect combination of surprised and unphased.
Caliban shrugged in response, giving her a grin that was an odd mixture of sheepish and menacing.
“Should I take that as a yes?” R.D. wondered aloud.
“Maybe,” Caliban answered. His sinister smirk died a quick death as he groaned, reaching up to knead at his forehead. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
R.D. seemed a bit taken aback. “What’s the matter? You’re already halfway done with this job. Isn’t that something to be happy about?”
“Yeah, but you just got back!” Caliban pouted. “You’re probably gonna have to leave again in a month! I need to spend some time with you while I still can!”
R.D. had been squinting at him, but her soft smile soon returned.
“And you will,” she assured. She gestured to her suitcase, “Look, I’ve still got some unpacking to do. After that, I have to get online,” she then pointed to the ceiling, impling the upstairs room that served as an office, “and organize some stuff with the team; you’ve seen how long that can take. I’m willing to bet I’ll still be busy by the time you’re finished.”
The sourness in Caliban’s expression softened. He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side in that classic You’ve got me there fashion.
R.D. half-shrugged as if to say I know I do. “Do you have any more jobs lined up?”
Caliban shook his head. “Not yet. The Boss said I could focus on this,” he nodded to the floor, “just so long as I’ll be ready to get back to the regular stuff in a few weeks.”
“Alright, then. We can both take tomorrow off and go from there,” R.D. concluded, lightly squeezing one of Caliban’s shoulders.
“. . .That sounds nice,” he responded, carefully leaning against her with a tiny, genuine smile (which may or may not have been dangerously close to flustered).
Another ensemble of dull banging and thudding called up from the floor, as though some amateur percussionist had broken and entered into Caliban’s den.
“Guess that’s my cue.” Caliban announced. He was still a bit annoyed at his and R.D.’s reunion being interrupted like this, but there was no denying the scary sense of excitement that started churning in his stomach. Snare stayed on the bed, still invested in his latest case of zoomies, taking a break every few seconds to demand pets from R.D., who had now resumed unpacking.
“You know the drill: if you do any eating, just brush and floss your teeth when you come back up,” R.D. called over her shoulder.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Caliban promised as he crossed the bedroom and stepped into his and R.D.’s walk-in closet, not bothering to turn the light on.
Even if the entrance to his den hadn’t been so well-camouflaged with the wallpaper in here, he still would’ve been able to find it. . .
@sammys-magical-au
#the thirteen days of goretober 2023#goretober 2023#my writing#my stories#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#matthew patrick#egopats#R.D.#stephanie patrick#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#fanmade egos#my characters#my fan egos#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#mark fischbach#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw cannibalism#tw blood#tw torture#tw dismemberment#tw knives/blades#tw exposed bones#tw descriptions of illegal business
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Masterpost
What’s up? I’m 22, autistic, biromantic-demisexual, and use She/Her pronouns. Storytelling is really important to me, and the stuff I make is almost always dark, unhinged, and macabre.
This is a list of all the stories I’ve written so far (and I’ll be making updates in time with future stories). The characters I mainly write for are YouTuber Egos; those of Nathan Sharp/NateWantsToBattle, Markiplier, MatPat, Thomas Sanders, etc.
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T̅̈ͥhe P̥e̵n̶̬̬t̲̲ä́͘s͈͈͢ Fͤãm̼i̥lͩy̜ [Tͥh̴ͦ͠e̸̸̥ F̻́utu͒́́r͂e͖͒̐ M͙oͦb̬̈́̒ P̠̩̕r͛͋̈́ȯj͇e̤c̴t̾̇]
The Pentas Family Encyclopedia
Murdock Mallory (My personal headcanons)
(Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism (Caliban, Murdock, The Newcomer)
Running on Empty (Caliban, Murdock, R.D.)
God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting (Sam Ryder, Murdock, Caliban)
What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ? (Azalea, Caliban)
Update the Letter Board! (Azalea, Murdock)
Toxic Tutorials (Azalea, The Newcomer)
(Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones (K.O., Murdock, Caliban)
(Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation (Caliban, Murdock, R.D.)
(Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles (Azalea, Murdock, Caliban, K.O.)
HALLOWEEN 2023 SPECIAL: Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats (Sam Ryder, Azalea, K.O., Murdock, Caliban)
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Fǎ̘nm͌ad̗e̋ͭ̑ E̍͞g̾ös̀͌
Caliban Crawford (My EgoPat)
Azalea Crawford (My Nerdy Nummies Ego)
K.O./Kaiser Oasis (My CrankEgo)
Garret Wyre (My Mick Lauer Ego)
Parker Thenope (My Nathan Sharp/NWTB Ego)
Val Ocitie (My Lio Tipton Ego)
Two-Toes Johnny/Johnathan Shine (My Muyskerm Ego)
Phoenix Rhong (My Safiya Nygaard Ego)
Miles C. Peyote and Howie Thetaxi (My Dawko and 8-BitRyan Egos)
Jay Aienyouess (My Thomas Sanders Ego)
The Newcomer
R.D. (My StephEgo)
Characters and Headcanons and References, Oh My!
What’s This? Natemare is EVOLVING!
I’d Like To Adopt These Side-Characters, Please (And Also Make One Arbitrarily To Appease The Vibes)
Cruz (A LixianEgo that I made as a gift for @sammys-magical-au)
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C̛̪ͤasͩ̓u̜ảl͈ Fį̙͜c̚sͥ͊
From Candygram to Requiem (Noah Walker and the Paranormal Investigators from Random Encounter’s Phasmophobia The Musical)
What’s a Detective Without a Case? (Noir!Engineer Mark, Noir!Mack, Noir!Captain)
Nobody Likes Rude Clients (Patty, Delux/Porniplier)
Caught Between a Monstrosity and An Abomination (EldritchPlier, LeviathanPat, The Reader)
Just Another Night at Sparky’s (Ness, Jack, Mason)
When a Tomb Becomes a Womb (Part 1: Rings) (The Creature/Callum, Lisa Swallows)
When a Tomb Becomes a Womb (Part 2: Honeymoon) (The Creature/Callum, Lisa Swallows)
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S͂̋̕eͨ̓r͈ͣ̄ieͮs͔̃̓ Fi̹̅cs̋
My Goretober Ventures So Far. . .
……….
Gifts for a Bat (an ongoing saga of snippets based off of @that-bat’s awesome Resident Evil: Village AU, where the mutated personifications of Nate, Mark and Matt are Lords serving under Mother Miranda and Ethan Nestor/CrankGamePlays is playing the role of Ethan Winters.)
Part 1: A Spider-Human Monster and A Necromancer Walk Into a Bar… (Nate/Lord Ophio, Matt/Lord Loxosceles)
Part 2: Chaos, Compromises, and Meal-Prep (Ethan Nestor-Winters, Matt/Lord Loxosceles, Mark/Lord Isurus)
Part 3: A New Face In Town (Nate/Lord Ophio, Hunter/The Baron)
……….
The Sides of A Nightmare (short drabbles inspired by @fangirltothefullest’s amazing Sanders Sides Little Nightmares AU)
The Actor (Creativity “Roman” Sanders/Red, Character!Thomas Sanders)
The Professor (Logic “Logan” Sanders/Indigo, Creativity “Roman” Sanders/Red, Character!Thomas Sanders)
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R̸̨̾a̝̒ͣn̮͒͡d̔̈́o̗͇m̜ J͔u͔͞n̤ͥ̕k͋
My EgoPats Meeting the Canon EgoPats
My EgoPats Meeting the Canon EgoPats (Brought To You by Incorrect Quotes)
Incorrect Quotes: ISWM (Parts 1 and 2) Edition
Incorrect Quotes: ISWM Edition (The Second One)
How Mack Snapped and Became the Way He Is in Part Two
ISWM Meets Pokemon
Matt and Ro are Soul-Siblings, So…
Matt and Ro Are Soul-Siblings, So... (But It's Kinda Dark This Time)
Headcanons for Phantom and Monarch Being Allies(?) Since Nate and Amanda Are Friends
RE8 AU Incorrect Quotes
How a Lot of My Followers Probably Reacted to My Hyperfixation on Caliban
RE8 AU Incorrect Quotes [Part 2]
A Fictional AI Argument That No-One Asked For
#my writing#writing requests#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#fanmade egos#my fan egos#my characters#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#R.D.#stephanie patrick#stephegos#egopats#aza/azalea#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#K.O.#K.O./kaiser oasis#ethan nestor#crankgameplays#crankegos#garret wyre#mick lauer#mick lauer egos#parker thenope#nathan sharp#natewantstobattle#nwtb egos
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The Pentas Family Encyclopedia
So, if you’ve been reading my more recent fics, then you’ve probably noticed how I can’t seem to shut up about [The Future Mob Project]. Although this project is going to take a very, very, VERY long time to actually complete, that’s not going to stop me from fleshing out its characters, environment, and lore piece-by-piece. I’ve already written a few stories for this, and plenty more stories are on the way.
(Except for Murdock—and, to an extent, Two-Toes Johnny—every character/ego on this list is MY creation. If any art or other stories happen to be inspired by them, PLEASE make sure to tag/credit me as the creator. I haven’t been this motivated to write in a long time, and I put a lot of time, thought, and effort into my work. If you have questions about the characters or lore, feel free to send me an ask or a DM. I love talking about creative stuff!)
This mob has a lot of growing/developing to do, and I will ABSOLUTELY be making updates/reblogs to this post as new characters are introduced and new ideas are implemented. Please keep in mind that updates may be sporadic, because adult life is complicated and exhausting and I’m ScaredTM.
(Also: @sammys-magical-au, I can’t thank you enough for all the help/advice you’ve given me with certain plot-points so far. You’re an amazing friend, and I’m so excited to brainstorm about upcoming characters/stories with you.)
Now, without further adieu, let’s get on with the infodumping. . .
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🆃🅷🅴 🅿🅴🅽🆃🅰🆂 🅵🅰🅼🅸🅻🆈
This mob consists of several contract-killers, spies/informants, and Black Market merchants. The Boss will often assign the mob’s members to dispatch specific targets, but the aforementioned members are still able to take on hit-jobs if they’re approached by outside clients.
🅲🅷🅰🆁🅰🅲🆃🅴🆁🅸🆂🆃🅸🅲🆂
They’ve long-since claimed the Cove Port Inlets (a quaint seaside city) as their territory. The Inlets used to have an expansive subway system, but those underground tunnels were abandoned due to a bad flood; thus, the above-ground stations were repurposed into varying shops/houses. However, each of those former stations are still connected to the subway tunnels via concrete staircases (which are now carefully hidden). The former stations have all been purchased by The Pentas Family—now, the mob’s representatives either live in or work out of them. As a bonus, the abandoned security offices/subway platforms are used as underground dens/hidey-holes, and the tunnels offer discreet movement beneath the city.
There’s no enforced dress-code, but it’s still advised that Pentas representatives wear red. The red garments in question can be any type of clothing so long as it’s visible, and they can vary from shade to shade.
In the event that the mob gains an ally (not a new member), that ally will be provided with an enamel pin designed to look like a poison dart frog. This dart frog pin will act as an identification device for Pentas members who somehow may be unaware of the new alliance; that way, the ally won’t be mistaken for an intruder. (The dart frog pin can also be used as a warning sign for unallied outsiders—basically, This person is under Pentas protection; screw around with them and YOU WILL REGRET IT.)
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🅻🅴🅰🅳🅴🆁
The Boss [NAME TBA]
Who She’s Bases Off Of: Pamela Horton (PamelaHorton13)
Red Attire: Collarbone tattoo of Egyptian star flowers, aka Pentas lanceolata
Notes:
[INFORMATION TBA]
Current Stories: [TBA]
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🅼🅴🅼🅱🅴🆁🆂
Murdock Mallory
Who He’s Based Off Of: Mark Fischbach (Markiplier)
His Method of Work: Honestly, he’s a jack-of-all-trades. Oh sure, he has an unhealthy amount of knowledge on different types of blades, but that’s just the beginning. Pretty much anything can be a weapon, depending on how creative (read: insane) you are. He also knows his way around firearms, but for...personal reasons, he only uses them when there are no other options available.
Red Attire: Turtleneck sweater (Currant)
Notes:
He has a rare case of eye-misalignment. Specifically speaking, his right eye is turned to the right (as though he’s looking at something sideways). His left eye can move around in its socket as intended, but his right eye never follows along with that movement. According to him, the misalignment was caused by a traumatic accident he experienced before he’d joined The Pentas Family (apparently, it’s a miracle he wasn’t rendered half-blind). When he’s working on underground business, he wears his sunglasses. But when he’s keeping up appearances in normal society, he wears a white medical eyepatch.
Both his black-tinted sunglasses and brass necklace are trophies from his earliest kills. (Yes, I will try to go more in-depth with this idea in the future.)
He was the first official member of The Pentas Family, and has since earned a reputation for being The Boss’ right-hand-man. (Notice: I don’t have the backstory/relationship between the two of them completely nailed down yet. But what I do know for sure is that THEY ARE NOT ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WHATSOEVER. NOBODY IN THIS MOB IS.)
He's a legit bird-whisperer. I’ve seen plenty other people post about him chilling with crows or ravens, and that’s already perfect, but I think adding more birds in general to the mix would make it even better. Chickens, ducks, sparrows, cockatiels, parakeets, pigeons, etc. Even GEESE tend to be calm around him (which could count as a sign of something being wrong with him). It’s not uncommon for him to spend his off-time at the park feeding the birds he claims to have technically adopted.
He lives out of a houseboat docked near the quiet part of the beach. He’s not above driving it long distances across the water when he needs to travel for his work.
If his scene in ISWM Part 2 was anything to go by, he enjoys making morbid jokes/puns. Ironically, he tends to get dissapointed or annoyed whenever other people make morbid jokes/puns. He and Caliban have gotten into arguments (with varying degrees of violence) over puns on at least three separate occasions.
He’s currently acting as a mentor to The Newcomer. It’s his responsibility to teach them and introduce them to the other Pentas members.
Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Running on Empty, God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting, Update the Letter Board!, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
The Newcomer
Who They’re Based Off Of: The Reader (Y/N)
Their Method of Work: They haven’t developed a personal signature quite yet. As of right now, they’re content with just assisting Murdock and the rest of The Pentas Family. They���ve got a surprising/disturbing amount of competence, but they’re still a rookie; therefore, they still have some things to learn.
Red Attire: Leather gloves (Scarlet)
Notes:
[INFORMATION TBA]
Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Toxic Tutorials
Caliban Crawford
Who He’s Based Off Of: Matthew Patrick/MatPat (Game/Film/Food/Style Theory)
His Method of Work: He acts as one of The Pentas Family’s many body-disposal resources (if they disposed of bodies in just one way, they’d risk gathering concentrated amounts of evidence). His particular technique for disposal is good ol’ fashioned cannibalism.
Red Attire: Leather jacket (Crimson)
Notes:
Aside from the body-disposal stuff, he’ll often help other Pentas members navigate the Black Market. He’s also invaluable when it comes to organizing certain trading events. He’s a cannibal, sure, but he also knows just how much of a pretty penny human organs can make. (Besides, not all body parts are safe for consumption; brains, eyeballs, intestines, and bones for example.)
Cannibal puns 24/7. The subtlety—or lack thereof—with which he delivers these puns can vary, depending on the situation he’s in. (“I’ve been told I have a great taste in people.” “If anyone’s a humanitarian, it’s me!” “I am what I eat, after all. . .” etc.)
He has a pet leucistic hare named Snare (somewhat inspired by Matt’s childhood pet bunny, Sunny). As hares are proven omnivores/scavengers, it just makes sense for Caliban to spoil Snare by feeding him human fingers as treats (highly inspired by Monty Python’s Killer Rabbit).
He has an ENORMOUS collection of butcher knives and medical blades, because of course he does. His favorite of them all is a damascus steel cleaver, which he frequently carries in his jacket pocket as his primary weapon.
There’s a silver tooth cap in the place of his upper left canine. He lost said canine when one of his victims surprised him by grabbing his tenderizing hammer and hitting him in the mouth with it as they tried to escape (this also left a small, jagged scar on the left side of his upper lip). Obviously, Caliban recovered from this. But the person who knocked his tooth out? Not so much. . .
His house is located in the downtown area, and is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. He’s basically turned the old security office into a basement-kitchen setup.
(If you’d like to see some awesome artwork of this character, please go here and show the artist some appreciation!)
Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Running on Empty, God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting, What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
Azalea Crawford
Who She’s Based Off Of: Rosanna Pansino (Nerdy Nummies)
Her Method of Work: She knows pretty much everything there is to know about poison. Toxic plants, venomous animals, man-made chemicals, you name it. The collection she keeps for hit-jobs and the like goes way, way beyond your typical arsenic. She even has a greenhouse full of deadly plants (including her namesake, obviously) in her backyard. When she’s on the clock, she’ll usually take care of targets by slipping poisons into a nice little baked goodie. Azalea’s not squeamish about needles, but this is easier and more discreet.
Red Attire: Headband (Cherry)
Notes:
This lovely lady is Caliban’s sister, and shares a strong sibling bond with him. (In fact, she actually taught Caliban a lot of what he knows about cooking. Sure, it took a bit of trial-and-error for some recipes to work with human flesh, but it just be like that sometimes.)
She has a pet scarlet kingsnake named Cuddles. Scarlet kingsnakes are harmless, but they specifically evolved to mimic the coloration of coral snakes, which are infamously venomous. Azalea understands the irony of this perfectly. She also understands how easy it is for people to mix up the color patterns, so, of course, she’ll occasionally handle Cuddles purely for confusion/intimidation.
She’s the owner/head chef of Aftertaste, a popular restaurant/bar, in order to help keep up appearances for The Pentas Family. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels.
If any Pentas members decide to use poison for a hit-job, then they need to go to Azalea for help. She’s one of very, very few people who can be trusted to use such dangerous substances properly. (But sometimes, even mobsters aren’t immune to hubris. So, Azalea keeps a stockpile of antidotes/painkillers in order to fix certain mistakes.)
She’s the reason Caliban was able to adopt Snare. She found the hare in the basement of one of her past targets (who was the leader of an exotic animal trafficking ring); he reminded her of her brother, so she ended up giving him to Caliban as a present.
(If you’d like to see some awesome artwork of this character, please go here and show the artist some appreciation!)
Current Stories: What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?, Update the Letter Board!, Toxic Tutorials, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
K.O. [Kaiser Oasis]
Who He’s Based Off Of: Ethan Nestor (CrankGamePlays)
His Method of Work: Whether he’s in the arena, defending himself and his peers, or extracting information from enemies, K.O. packs a major wallop. Not only that, but his stamina is roughly on-par with that of a mongoose fueled by a few too many Pixie Sticks. . . He was discovered by The Pentas Family shortly after The Boss decided to branch out into the underground fighting business.
Red Attire: Fluctuates between jeans for when he’s out of the arena, and boxing shorts for when he’s in the arena (Amaranth)
Notes:
Despite being a mobster, he’s a surprisingly courteous fighter. Yeah, he pummels his opponents, but that’s literally what career-fighting is all about. Now, on the other hand: if you’ve personally wronged him or someone he cares about, or if he catches wind that you’re going to try and cheat your way through a match with him. . .well, I wouldn’t count on him having too much self-restraint.
Ironically, K.O. also serves as a medic for The Pentas Family. It took some time and practice, of course, but he’s gotten pretty damn good at patching up stab/bullet wounds and resetting broken bones. (It’s not uncommon to get bumps and bruises in the underground business, and going to a normal hospital is typically a big no-no, since the staff there would likely ask too many questions about certain injuries.)
While he only wraps his hands for his fighting matches, he’s still not above occasionally using brass knuckles—which he has affectionately named Francis and J.P.—for interrogation or message-sending assignments.
Though he’ll sometimes travel for certain assignments, K.O. usually represents The Pentas Family at a place called The WormRoll: roller skating rink by day, hidden-in-plain-sight fighting arena by night. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and K.O. has made his personal platform-office-den into a training room.
Before and after his matches, he wears a black robe with a picture of a peacock mantis shrimp embroidered on the back. (When K.O. first joined The Pentas Family, Murdock commissioned a sewing artist to make said robe as a welcoming gift for him. Yes, Francis and J.P. were included in that gift.)
He’s multilingual; he can speak English, French, Portuguese, and Italian on a conversational level. This obviously means a lot of foreign swearing when he’s frustrated/angry. He has no trace of an accent from any of those languages, and none of his peers know why or how he picked them up in the first place. K.O., being the gremlin he is, doesn’t plan to explain anytime soon. (Plus, he can’t not be a little smug about being the only Italian-speaking member of a mob. Just like how he can't not use that to tease Murdock.)
Y’know creepy-crawly lollipops? Yes, the ones that have a cricket or some other insect frozen inside. Those are K.O.’s favorite candy. Unless he’s in the ring, he’s almost always got one in his pocket. (On a slightly more humorous note: sometimes he’ll make a small show of pretending that the lollipop sticks are cigarettes.)
Current Stories: (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
Garret Wyre
Who He’s Based Off Of: Mick Lauer
His Method of Work: If there’s two things to be said about Garret, it’s that he has a pair of big, strong hands, and he knows how to use them. You could argue that “Everyone knows how to use their hands, idiot.” To which I say. . .first of all, chill out. Words can hurt. Second of all, not everyone can make a career out of strangling people. But Garret most certainly has. That being said, he knows when to use other tools (ropes, scarves, cords, stuff like that) to get the job done. He knows he can’t realistically rely on his hands for each and every one of his assignments. In any case, the day his grip isn’t firm is the day he’s not Garret.
Red Attire: Scarf (Maroon)
Notes:
Garret brings a complex vibe to The Pentas Family. His disposition is stern, but he knows to be patient with the other members. Despite this, he’s always a bit. . .fidgety. Restless. He has a hard time sitting still, and an even harder time not giving people the side-eye or glancing over his shoulder. In fact, the only times he seems genuinely calm and self-assured is when he’s choking the life out of his targets. Sure, still acts aggressively toward said targets, but there’s no denying just how soft and quiet his voice becomes when he taunts them.
However, Garret does have his hobbies outside of mob work. Such as knitting and sewing. It just seems to ease his nerves a bit. He even made the very scarf he wears whenever he’s working on Pentas business. (Of course, aforementioned scarf had to be made with much stronger material than you’d think, since he’s used it to strangle his targets on more than one occasion.) Hell, this even bleeds into the fact that Garret is on the more superstitious side of the spectrum. Half of his sewing/knitting projects involve making voodoo dolls of those who screw around with The Pentas Family. He treats said dolls a lot like stress toys, often patching them up after bashing their stuffing out only to do it all over again sooner or later.
Now, Garret doesn’t necessarily believe in the concept of good or bad karma. He’s not delusional enough to deny the fact that he’s a bad person, but he’s also aware of how bad things happen to perfectly good people all the time. That’s literally just life. But he absolutely believes in luck. Very ironic, considering he was born on a Tuesday The 13th (look it up; apparently those are supposed to be even worse than Friday The 13ths). He may not buy into all the chakra-crystal-incense stuff, but he does still keep a glass Evil Eye charm in one pocket, as well a miniature horseshoe in the other. He never goes directly home right after taking care of a target. He avoids the number four like the plague. He makes sure his right foot is leading whenever he enters a room. Et cetera, et cetera.
One of the few superstitions he doesn’t believe in is black cats being harbingers of doom. In fact, he adores black cats. Particularly Juju, a stray black kitten he adopted after a very last-minute, impromptu hit-job.
He’s the manager of Itchy Palms, a popular casino on the edge of The Cove Port Inlet’s uptown area. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. (Considering the sketchy reputation casinos already have, Garret made damn well sure that the entrance to his subway-office-den is thoroughly hidden and difficult for anyone else to access.) And it’s safe to say that Garret knows. His. Business. He knows how to play each and every game. . .as well as several ways to cheat at each and every game without giving said cheating away. His outlook on fairness is. . .unconventional. (I’ll go more in-depth with this later.)
Current Stories: [TBA]
Parker Thenope
Who He’s Based Off Of: Nathan Sharp (NateWantsToBattle/Give Heart Records)
His Method of Work: There are several ways to be adept in water. Such as holding a person under it until they stop moving, or drenching a person over and over again until they give up the information you need. Which is exactly how Parker earns his keep. His assignments often involve haunting the local beach—or, more precisely, the cluster of shallow sea-caves along the beach’s edges. But in a pinch, he’s willing to use pools/hot tubs/etc. to his advantage (it just means he’ll have to be clever with how he goes about the job).
Red Attire: Face-mask (Carmine)
Notes:
Parker is the personification of “it’s always the quiet ones who snap the loudest.” Sure, he’s cooperative and understanding toward his peers in The Pentas Family, but underneath his chill, humorous, nonchalant veil lurks a bit of a ticking time-tomb. As a child, it was constantly drilled into him to camouflage his real emotions, to always appear calm and collected on the outside. He’s learned how to manage his anger whenever it flares up, but if you’ve done something to majorly piss him off, then really, your only chance is to hide and hope he doesn’t find you.
Fittingly enough, his hobbies include swimming. He learned at a very young age, so, it’s safe to say that he’s excellent at following the flow of water, holding his breath for generous periods of time, etc. And who can blame him? It’s a lot of fun, it’s great exercise, and it allows him to have the upper hand whenever he happens to also be in the water while taking care of a target.
When it comes to anything music-related, he’s incredibly skilled. Not only does he have a lovely singing voice, but he’s an expert on playing guitar, drums, and even the piano on occasion. Music is a very effective form of stress-relief, and he’s been using it as such long before he entered the underground business.
He’s very familiar with Ear Caffeine, a music studio in the Cove Port Inlets. He works there as a songwriter/lyricist, as well as a session musician, though he’s now basically in charge of the place ever since its former owners disappeared into thin air. (The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and Parker was instrumental—pun vERY MUCH INTENDED—to The Pentas Family claiming it as part of their territory. I’ll elaborate on how this worked sometime in the future.)
On top of that, Parker also owns Chord Craft, a combination of record store and instrument-repair shop on the side. He was the head-honcho over there before he was welcomed into the mob, and while he’s since hired more people to run it, he still cares for it.
Even before he joined The Pentas Family, he made a point to wear a face mask every day (he sees the red one he wears now as an upgrade). He only ever takes it off when he’s swimming or sleeping. He doesn’t have any scars to cover up; he just finds comfort in personal anonymity.
He’s learned to consider all the different ways decomposition can work in water (or watery areas in general). Just because his signature is to drown targets doesn’t mean he can always afford to just leave their bodies in the water. It’s not uncommon for him to seek out Murdock, arranging to take a ride on the hitman’s houseboat in order to dump certain bodies far out from the Inlets’ boundaries.
Current Stories: [TBA]
Val Ocitie
Who They’re Based Off Of: Lio Tipton
Their Method of Work: Tommy guns may be rare nowadays, but that isn’t a problem for Val. Their hidden arsenal is already impressive enough; you could say they have many, many neutral specials. Sure, they can see the appeal of blades and other deadly stuff, but guns are fast, efficient, and most importantly of all, devastating. (Especially if a silencer is involved. Ooh, does that help thicken the plot.) Don’t screw around with them or their family unless you want to cosplay as swiss cheese.
Red Attire: Chainmail bracelet (Vermillion)
Notes:
Val has long-since learned to thrive in chaos, to the point of outright craving it (so long as said chaos benefits them). Sometimes they see underground business as a game, though they do have control over their impulses. While their attitude is usually excitable around those they trust, their energy can turn aggressive in a heartbeat. They’re the type to get up in an enemy’s face, wearing a false, icy grin all the while.
Along with the hit-jobs they're assigned, Val is responsible for supplying The Pentas Family's firepower. Similar to how Caliban is an expert in organ-trafficking, Val knows the ins and outs of the illegal weapons trade. They've rearranged their personal gun collection several times now, selling and exchanging certain models to avoid leaving any patterns in their work.
Once upon a time, Val worked for a different mob; one that wasn’t exactly on good terms with The Pentas Family. Well, things ended up falling apart, and Val found themself at the mercy of Murdock and his peers. Of course, things were rocky at first. . .but somehow, Val eventually realized that they felt some kind of kinship with them. It took some time, but they were welcomed in, and are now following Pentas operations with strong loyalty.
They grew up somewhat rural, learning how to handle guns at a pretty young age. Though their family wasn’t poor, hunting game animals for food was still a big tradition that they helped to carry on. They don’t really do that kind of hunting anymore, but they still take monthly trips to shooting ranges in order to practice with clay pigeons.
They’re the only Pentas member who doesn’t live in/work out of a building that’s connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. Instead, they live in a tidy cabin located in Reilpi Woods, a huge forest that’s about a fifteen-minute drive from the Cove Port Inlet’s city limits. Not that Val minds, though; the area gives them nostalgia. While they can appreciate all the conveniences of more urban environments, they’ve always enjoyed being surrounded by trees. Besides, it’s not like they don’t know where all the secret entrances to the underground dens are.
They’re a natural when it comes to evaluating another person’s character. It’s an important skill to have in this line of work, especially considering how the work is question is very much illegal. Despite their uncertain start in The Pentas Family, it hasn’t taken much time at all for Val to learn each of the other members inside and out. . .well, except for The Newcomer. (For now, at least.)
Current Stories: [TBA]
Two-Toes Johnny [Johnathan Shine]
Who He’s Based Off Of: Bob Muyskens (Muyskerm)
His Method of Work: Though he’s not really a hitman, he still knows his way around interrogation and message-sending. His weapon/tool of choice is a baseball bat that was apparently an heirloom he just so happened to inherit as a teenager. It might not look like much, but neither will those who anger The Pentas Family (or their clients) after Johnny uses it to beat them black and blue.
Red Attire: Belt (Tawny Port)
Notes:
Now, to address the elephant in the room: yes, he actually does only have two toes. The right big-toe and the left middle-toe, to be specific. All that’s left of the other eight are scars, and exactly how he lost them is a total mystery. Sure, he might vaguely rant about the incident(. . .s?) from time to time—usually after he’s had a few too many drinks—but it just seems impossible for anyone to figure out what the hell happened, as well as why the hell it happened.
While he’s able to get tipsy or wasted, Two-Toes Johnny is nothing if not an experienced drinker. Working in the illegal alcohol trade will do that to you. When he’s not overseeing illicit spirits, he’s The Pentas Family’s primary bookkeeper, organizing all the money he and his peers rake in. He also has a keen set of eyes and ears, which he puts to good use each and every day. When you know what to look/listen for, it’s amazing how many details strangers can spill without meaning to.
He’s the owner/manager of Liquorty Splitz, a (what else?) popular liquor store in the Cove Port Inlets. It currently supplies alcohol to Aftertaste, Itchy Palms, and several other joints. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. (He also has a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend type link to a place called The Robe. It doesn't fall under Pentas control—it’s basically an open secret in the criminal underground as a whole—but ever since Johnny entered the mob, he’s sort of paved the way for Murdock and the others to occasionally use their free-time to pay it a visit.)
He carries a very rough-around-the-edges demeanor. Sarcastic, moody, blunt, quick to make snappy remarks or roll his eyes. It’s one of many survival mechanisms he’s learned over the years. Despite this, he still knows how respect and basic decency work. Earn his trust, and you’ll have an invaluable friend for life. (In such cases, the term “aggressive motivation/positivity” is an understatement.)
He’s a bookworm. His collection of novels is almost constantly threatening to grow bigger than his collection of vintage alcohol. He appreciates a lot of modern stuff, but he’s always had a soft spot for the classics. In fact, he always keeps a few books in his desk at Liquorty Splitz to read on slower nights.
He has two tattoos on his face: a silvery little star just below his right temple, and the branch of a cherry blossom tree stretching along his jawline and ending near his left eyebrow. It’s not uncommon for him to trace the linework of either of them with his fingertips while he’s thinking. He claims that there’s no symbolism behind either of them, that they were the results of a couple drunken nights that took place a long time ago. (There’s a decent chance that’s true. . .but then, why does his expression occasionally turn soft and unreadable when he looks at these tattoos in the mirror?)
Standing at 6’4, Johnny is the biggest/tallest member of The Pentas Family. And he obviously knows how to use this to his advantage. As in, if he and his peers are in a violent situation, he’ll barely hesitate to pick said peers up by the waist/collar/legs and just. . .swing them in the direction of the enemy. Since the peers in question often have weapons on-hand, this method is shockingly efficient. (It’s typically not appreciated, of course.)
Current Stories: [TBA]
Phoenix Rhong
Who She’s Based Off Of: Safiya Nygaard
Her Method of Work: Playing with fire can be hard (depending on your perspective, at least), but getting burned is quite easy. Not so for someone who’s had as much practice as Phoenix. Where there’s smoke, there’s her. Pretty much a pro-gamer when it comes to plotting and coordinating, she’s the one to look for when riskier jobs need to be taken. After all, find an empty building in a very specific part of town, and voila! Instant Distraction—Just Add Fuel and Sparks!
Red Attire: Ring (Garnet)
Notes:
Phoenix serves as a semi-dirty lawyer. As thorough and calculating as The Pentas Family is, mistakes can still be made. Bad timing and unlucky coincidences are still a factor. In such cases, Phoenix is invaluable for keeping her peers safe and their work hidden. On top of that, it never hurts to frame or expose an enemy or two; that just means less attention on her family, as well as less competition to deal with. She knows how to discreetly sow discord among enemies, how to tamper with evidence (whether planting it elsewhere or outright destroying it).
Despite everything, Phoenix would never use fire against a living person. Yes, she’s dangerous and unhinged behind the mask she wears for keeping up appearances, no doubt about that. Yes, she’s addicted to watching flames dance and hearing them crackle, but she still understands that they’re much more brutal than they are pretty. To be clear, she’s made her peace with reducing the corpses of certain targets to ash, but. . .well, they’re corpses. Like paper or clothing or many other flammable things, they can’t scream or feel pain when they’re being disposed of. (Not anymore, at least.) Whatever her peers do to those targets is just how they earn their own keep.
She’s responsible for the ironically legal parts of underground business. Negotiating prices/terms, relaying important messages, that kind of stuff. She helps form the contracts that the other Pentas representatives use, and she’s almost always in the room when those contracts are being discussed with outsiders (clients, allies, etc.).
She’s very savvy when it comes to flammable chemicals. How exactly they burn, what to mix them with for the best results, how long it takes for them to reach their peak. . .Sure, matches and gasoline can be pretty damn effective, but an inferno often has to be handled very carefully, very specifically. Sometimes the flames have to burn slower or faster. Sometimes they need to snuff themselves out at a quick rate. Sometimes they have to leave burned imprints behind rather than devour everything they touch. It all just depends on the job at hand.
As part of an under-the-table agreement, she’s the owner of Scattered Wishes, the one and only crematorium the Cove Port Inlets has to offer. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and she uses her personal den to hide various forms of evidence until they’re ready to be loaded into one of the ovens.
“Phoenix Rhong” is NOT her original name. It’s not a fake identity, either. How she managed to take the name for herself. . .well, I'll go into more detail about that later.
Current Stories: [TBA]
Miles C. Peyote and Howie Thetaxi
Who They’re Based Off Of: Lewis Dawkins (Dawko) and Ryan (8-BitRyan), respectively
Their Methods of Work: When your reputation precedes you from all the way across the pond, you’ve definitely done something right! (Unless that was never your intent, in which case you’ve done something horribly, horribly wrong.) Remember the board game Mouse Trap? Well, Miles probably played it a few too many times in his youth, if the booby traps he sets up nowadays are anything to go by. Whether the goal is to kill or simply capture someone, his designs never fail to be. . .elaborate. Howie, meanwhile, doubles as a mechanic and driver. From ditching cops to running enemies off the road, he has more than enough skill to make professional racers envious. Never, NEVER forget the importance of seatbelts if you’re getting into a car with him. (Also, never put your feet on the dash. It’s rude.)
Red Attire: For Miles, a pair of leather boots (Oxblood). For Howie, a pair of gauge earrings (Carnelian)
Notes:
These two got their start in The Marble Hummingbirds, a different mob based in the UK that has had a strong alliance with The Pentas Family for years now. As part of standard underground affairs, Miles and Howie volunteered to relocate to the United States and work more closely with Murdock and the others. The adjustment was a bit difficult (especially for Howie), but they both understand that it makes several aspects of business more efficient. They both retain a good balance of loyalty between their original crew and their new one.
Miles is selective when it comes to speaking. He’ll talk freely when he’s among people he trusts or is in a place that he’s deemed safe/comfortable, but when he’s out in public, he’s just. . .very quiet. He’ll still talk a little for the sake of politeness or formality, but only a little. If an area is open or unfamiliar, he’ll usually prefer to use body language and the like. (This does absolutely NOT stop him from cackling like a maniac over his traps, but again, that usually takes place in more secluded, secretive areas.)
Howie has no qualms about reckless driving. Swerving, speeding, staging accidents; he can do it all without batting an eye. Whatever it takes to get himself and his buddies (plus their cargo) from Point A to Point B without getting stopped or caught. Keep in mind, this mindset only applies to his personal driving. When he’s casually out and about, he can’t stand other drivers who tailgate, block lanes, cut others off, etc. If you act rude toward him in traffic, he can and will make a side-quest out of finding a way to get back at you. And yes, this extends to when he’s on the job. It’s not at all uncommon for him to go back and forth between chatting with his passengers and yelling at idiots on the road in the middle of a high-stakes-chase.
Miles has a habit of collecting plushies; especially odd-looking ones. (For example: the creepy-yet-cute stuff you might find on Etsy.) But his plushies aren’t just for aesthetic or decoration—they serve the purpose of secretism. He’s modified each and every one of them to be soft little storage units. Some have well-hidden zippers in their backs, while others have their heads function as the lids to jars stuffed inside their stomachs. Miles uses this strategy to hide valuables, such as varying sums of money or the odd piece of jewelry taken from a target.
Howie is miraculously conscious of animals on the road. That’s one of few exceptions to his typical stance on getaway driving. He will always, ALWAYS make sure to avoid hitting cats, dogs, raccoons, deer. . .or squirrels. As a matter of fact, one squirrel that he managed to spare back in the day seems to have pledged a life-debt to him. Seriously, he avoided hitting it while he was still working in the UK, and by now it’s followed him to the US. Wherever Howie is, the squirrel always seems to be somewhere in the background, just watching and waiting. Howie doesn’t see this squirrel as a pet, but he doesn’t have a problem with its presence (even though he’s somewhat unnerved by it).
Along with all the getaway driving stuff, Howie has helped The Pentas Family to form its very own chop-shop. Whenever cars are stolen from targets or enemies, Howie will be there to dismantle or sabotage said cars. Legitimate parts are sold, and certain jobs involve filling a vehicle with counterfeit parts in order to frame its owner.
Ever since relocating, both Miles and Howie live out of The Five Seasons, a hotel near the Cove Port Inlet’s city entrance. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and the duo rotates between sharing the hidden den; Miles will use it to build/test his traps, and Howie will use it simply to store/tamper with various car parts. The hotel just so happens to be right across the street from the car repair garage (Oh, for God’s Brake!) that Howie uses for his day-job.
Current Stories: [TBA]
Jay Aienyouess
Who He’s Based Off Of: Thomas Sanders
His Method of Work: The Pentas Family can be thought of as many things. Well, if you were to think of it as, say, an anglerfish, then Jay would play the role of that bright, shiny lure. He can put on a Grammy-worthy act in the blink of an eye, whether to lead a target to their doom or to keep any potential witnesses away from a soon-to-be crime scene.
Red Attire: Nail polish (Cochineal)
Notes:
On top of con-games, Jay can also be quite stealthy if the job calls for it. Sneaking around enemy turf, setting up a sabotage or two, gathering information, spying on those who give off weird vibes during business negotiations. . .
Unlike most of his peers, Jay was raised in a comfortable, pleasant environment. . .or, that environment was comfortable and pleasant while he was a kid. Things changed pretty drastically after he became an adult; more specifically, after he came out. He ended up leaving his hometown behind, hopping from one motel to another. Though he worked various odd-jobs, he also quickly learned to pick pockets in order to survive.
By the time he had a chance-meeting with a few Pentas representatives, Jay had already somewhat dipped his toes into the criminal underground. Mainly via listening to the hurried whispers of passersby, and then trading those memorized details for cash.
Despite what happened to him, Jay has never once questioned himself or felt ashamed of who he is. Even when he was offered a place in The Pentas Family, he was still very much intimidated by them at first. But the support and open-mindedness they showed was quick to seal the deal for him. This in turn led to him (along with Val) having a hand in making sure that any Pentas-owned businesses are clearly marked as safe spaces for queer people.
He is most certainly NOT immune to morbid fascination. True, he doesn’t do any actual killing himself, but. . .well, I wouldn’t put it past him to look over the carnage left after a hit-job, all curious and thoughtful. The cleanup crew has gotten pretty used to him hanging around while they work.
He works at Bullskit, a theater/auditorium that serves as one of the oldest buildings in the Cove Port Inlets (it’s still in business; it was even freshly remodeled when Jay joined the mob). It’s connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and Jay kinda just lives there after hours. During hours, however, he dabbles in a bit of everything: stagehand, greenroom tech, assistant to the directors, you name it. If a target or enemy happens to get on the stage, Jay isn’t exactly above looking the other way when his peers sneak in to drop sandbags, switch out prop weapons for real ones, rig the special effects, etc.
Current Stories: [TBA]
#my writing#my au#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#the boss#pamela horton#pamelahorton13#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#mark fischbach#markiplier egos#the newcomer#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#matthew patrick#egopats#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies#nerdy nummies egos#K.O.#K.O./kaiser oasis#ethan nestor#crankgameplays#crankegos#parker thenope#nathan sharp#natewantstobattle
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Day 7: Needles
(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For more information about K.O., go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)
(Additional Note: I got some partial inspiration for this story from this lovely drawing by the extremely talented @rebar2042. Please go give them a follow and share their awesome art!!!)
(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of illegal business, physical violence, abduction, blood, syringes, poisonous substances, torture, implied dismemberment, implied cannibalism, implied murder, talk of death/dying, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13
Unless you counted his tinted glasses, Murdock looked absolutely nothing like himself right now.
In the place of his currant-colored turtleneck and black overcoat was a pale button-up and a half-zipped fleece jacket that was the same shade as a cornflower, complete with a screen-printed logo (an orange circle outlined with white) to match the cap resting atop his head. His raven hair was hidden, tied-back and pulled-up, though some of his bangs peeked out from beneath the rim.
Murdock understood the importance of disguises; any hitman who didn’t was a moron who could look forward to a career that would last a couple years at most before ending in humiliation rather than mystery.
Yes, he was more attached to his usual work clothes, but he took satisfaction in that particular sentimentality being more fucked-up than one would probably expect. Aside from that and the business angle of things, costumes really were just a fun concept to play around with. Even now, as he pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked near the curb, the adrenaline that’d already been slithering around his lungs spiked when he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
He hopped out, stepping around the decoy mail truck to hoist the back door up. After pulling out the dolly and loading a larger-than-average box onto it, he tucked a much smaller package and a clipboard under his arm and strolled up the driveway of the nearest house.
Murdock rolled his shoulders, taking a quick, deep breath. He went over the script in his head for what was probably the eighth time today, then reached out and rapped his knuckles against the front door.
Five seconds or so passed, and then the telltale sound of muffled footsteps approached from the other side.
Murdock put on a polite, well-rehearsed smile as the door was pulled open.
He immediately had to bite his tongue to keep that smile in place as he registered the man now hovering in the threshold.
He was the same height as Murdock, appearing a bit older. . .well, that was Murdock’s best guess, at least. The amount of tattoos on his skin was truly shocking. Only a few patches of his natural skin were left in between each of them.
For the most part, Murdock didn’t really have an opinion on tattoos. He was aware of how painful the process tended to be: therefore, when any of his victims happened to be inked, he tended to take that as something of a personal challenge for interrogation and the like. He knew it was best to avoid getting any himself, and he knew whatever body art anyone else decided to get was none of his business.
But he also knew how the lines between good body art and bad body art were not fine.
At all.
It seemed his latest target didn’t have that same understanding.
“Delivery for Mr. Abbott Tudye?” Murdock announced, willing his tone to sound lighter than usual.
“Right on time,” the target replied with a nod. Glancing at the larger package, he backed up a few paces, holding the door open. Murdock took the invitation, dragging the dolly along and leaning it against the nearest wall as the door was closed behind him.
“I’ll need—” Murdock cut himself off, just barely managing not to swear in surprise at the discovery that his target was among the ranks of people who’d gotten famous online for having actual pictures of faces permanently drawn on the backs of their heads.
The target turned to face him, casually raising an eyebrow.
Murdock cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, need a signature for both packages, please,” he amended, holding the clipboard aloft.
The target blinked at this, but simply shrugged and took the offering into his hands. “. . .Y’know you don’t have to keep that act up in here, right? Suppliers are the last people to tattle on in my book.” He then outstretched his free hand, patronizingly gesturing for Murdock to fork over the smaller package
“Look, those papers are part of the contract. I just want to be thorough” Murdock reported, giving up the box like a good little boy and biting back a grimace at the sight of the back of the target’s hand.
(Was that tattoo seriously supposed to be depicting a lion’s head? If so, then it was proof of miracles, because it would’ve made the damn Gripsholm Lion look natural!)
His sudden surge of disbelief and disappointment was quickly calmed by smugness. He could tell when he was being lied to, but that didn’t really bother him right now. The pack of lies he’d personally help to set up for this job were much more clever.
“Besides,” he added, ever-so-slightly raising his voice, “you can never really tell when there’s some extra eyes or ears around. Not until it’s too late, I mean.”
The target snorted, rolling his eyes and shaking his head with a smirk. “Okay, calm down with the conspiracy, buddy.” He walked past Murdock to set the clipboard and pen down on his coffee table, his focus now consumed by the package. He fished a small knife out of his pocket, pushing the blade toward the thick line of tape. “Since you bring up eyes and ears, though. . .have you heard anything about my trigger? It’s been a good while since I sent him out, and he hasn’t reported back to me at all.”
“I’m afraid not. I did try to ask around, though,” Murdock answered, his expression flickering.
On one hand, the target had his back to him yet again; Murdock knew he had acting skills, but just how little this guy thought things through almost made his performance way too easy.
On the other hand, the target turning his back to Murdock meant he had to look at that second stupid fucking face again.
Oh, well.
He kept speaking, making sure the sound of his voice drowned out the way he carefully dragged one of his own knives down the length of the larger package. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’ve all gotta lay low after a job, don’t we? Your guy is probably a lot closer than you realize.”
The larger package silently twitched. A pair of brown eyes glinted at Murdock through the sliver of space between cardboard folds. The hitman smirked, raising a hand to count down on his fingers and mouthing along.
Three. . .two. . .
The scream that tore through the air was at an octave usually reserved for fire alarms, but neither Murdock nor his accomplice flinched at it.
A small thump followed the distress call, which was now breaking apart into shorter wails as the target backed away from the box he’d just opened. Murdock copied those movements, making sure to stay behind him. The target turned around soon enough, of course, his face contorted in absolute horror at the fact that he’d gotten so close to a pale, dried-blood-covered human foot instead of the cocaine block he’d been expecting.
“Y-you. . !” The target cried, now charging forward, anger joining his fear. “What tHE FUCK IS—”
His words suddenly wilted into unintelligible sputters of pain. He’d been a mere inch from Murdock when a blurry shape came jettisoning out of the larger package to collide with his neck, forcing him to double over.
“Haven’t you heard to not blame the messanger?” A new voice inquired, sounding like a casual lacing of venom in sugar. A petite woman emerged from the package, holding an unusually large packing tape dispenser and narrowing her eyes at the target in a way that should’ve turned him to stone. “I mean, this whole thing was my idea, so. . .”
“I’m not denying that,” Murdock promised, jokingly doffing his delivery cap to Azalea.
Azalea, in turn, nodded, her expression shifting from composed fury to maniacal at lightspeed. The target tried to regain his bearings, tried to keep shouting, but she had other ideas. In a single, fluid movement, she stepped closer and bashed the tape dispenser against his nose. She repeated this action until the target was on the floor, and even then she kept swinging the strange choice of weapon up and down onto his head again, and again, and again, and again.
Murdock was prepared to step in, but his instincts told him that wouldn’t be necessary. His expression grew more curious than sinister as he watched his colleague convince the target that he could be a phrenologist’s dream come true. Sure, the tape dispenser had some solid weight to it, but. . .wow.
“Impressive,” Murdock mused once the target finally when still and Azalea finally paused for breath. “And I thought I’d end up having to knock him out.”
“What, am I supposed to just let you take all the credit?” Azalea huffed a laugh, rising to her feet to look up into her accomplice’s dark eyes. “This is a half-and-half job.”
“It sure is.” Murdock knelt down beside the target’s unconscious form, fishing a few zip-ties as well as a bundle of thick cloth out of his disguise jacket’s interior pockets. Once the target was properly bound and gagged, Murdock crammed him into the same package that Azalea had previously been hiding in, not being the least bit gentle. He held the panels closed so Azalea could reseal them (which was a bit awkward, since the tape dispenser was now broken due to being used as a makeshift hammer).
“I’m a little surprised Cal let me take this,” Murdock mentioned as he strolled across the target’s living room, leaning down to stuff the severed foot back into the small package.
Azalea shrugged. “Feet are mostly just skin and bones. Plus, from what he’s told me, they just sell better on some markets than others.”
“. . .I mean, do the connoisseurs of those ‘other markets’ really know if the feet they’re looking up are still attached to people?” Murdock pondered, cackling when Azalea rolled her eyes and lightly punched him in the side.
“I texted the cleaning crew while I was in there,” Azalea pronounced, nodding to the larger package and its new cargo. “They should be here in thirty minutes or so.”
“Great!” Murdock nodded, remembering that The Pentas Family’s chop-shop was in need of a new car. “And we’re still set on the site you picked out?”
At his cohort’s affirmative hum, he bared his teeth in a patented, dangerous grin. He grabbed the dolly’s handle, then gestured to the front door. “Shall we, then?”
Azalea’s smile was a bit more lively, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t frightening. “Let’s.”
___
Reilpi Woods was a quaint place. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Cove Port Inlets, stretching for miles and miles and miles; a good portion of it grew near the beaches and along the seaside cliffs. Sure, its title kind of sounded like the beginning of a drunk madman’s attempt at a prophecy, but it really was a nice place. A convenient place, too.
With how deep it went, it could be plausible for someone to, hypothetically, get lost on a camping trip and never come back. That also made up for many of the hardships that came with burying a body (after tricking the authorities into digging up untouched soil in a specific location with a false report, of course).
The branches on the majority of its trees intertwined with one another, forming more than enough of a shield from both the sun or the odd camera-equipped drone piloted by some background character whose life could potentially be changed for the worse.
The trees in question came in varying heights: some were as towering as houses, and others were short enough to be scaled quite easily.
Murdock had chosen a tree that seemed to be right in the middle of those categories. It didn’t take too much effort to aim and toss the long end of the rope coil over a thick, sturdy branch. He gave the line an experimental tug, just to be certain it was secure, then began pulling it hand-over-fist.
“HMPE. Nice,” Azalea complimented, watching her accomplice work as she retrieved the small, pink-stained wooden chest she’d previously hidden in the decoy mail truck’s glove compartment.
“I only work with the best,” Murdock replied cheerfully. “The hardware store had a great sale earlier this week.”
Once his and Azalea’s target had been hoisted a few inches, just able to stand upright with bound wrists suspended over his head, Murdock strode over to a smaller tree nearby, tying the end of the rope into a tight knot around its trunk.
When exactly the target had regained consciousness, neither of them could be sure. By the time he’d started making noise, they’d already driven a good, long way into the heart of the forest. He’d tried to start running as soon as Murdock reopened that package, only to collapse on his face about three seconds afterwards. Even now, strung up and shirtless, he apparently still thought there was some use in writhing. He kicked and swayed, eyes bulging, chest heaving. His attempts to hurl obscenities at his captors were well-muffled by the gag that’d been tied around his mouth.
Azalea dragged a collapsable table out of the trunk, unfolded it a few feet away from where the target stood, and set the aforementioned pink chest on top of it.
“So,” Murdock pronounced as he walked past her, carrying a long leather case he’d produced from under the driver’s seat. “How much time do you think you’ll need?”
Azalea hummed as she pried the little chest open: five empty syringes had been organized into a little pyramid, kept in balance by the line of five glass vials sitting right beside them. “Well, each dosage will need at least a few minutes to take effect. I already have some pretty good estimates, so maybe. . .twenty-five minutes? At most?”
“Yeah, that’ll be just fine.” Murdock nodded. “Becky’s a fast worker.”
Though Azalea didn’t pause as she pushed a needle into a rubber stopper, she still couldn’t help but chuckle.
Murdock refused to stop his movements as well. While opening up the leather case and lifting a shovel out, he raised an eyebrow at his colleague’s laughter. “What’s so funny?”
Azalea tilted her head, flicking at the now full syringe before setting it down to prepare one of the others. “You always give the others flack for naming their equipment, but you don’t have any room to talk.”
“Excuse you, I’ve got tons of room,” Murdock protested. “Becky is special. She’s been there for me ever since I started out.” He hugged the shovel close, some brief yet total adoration worming its way onto his face. He then spun Becky in his hands and brought her tip down into the soil about ten feet from where the target was hanging.
“Good for her,” Azalea replied. “Still, are you sure you’ll be done around the same time I am? I wouldn’t want to just keep you out here for hours.”
Slight hypocrite or not, Murdock did have a bit of a point. The blades of Becky’s cutting tip were ridged, implying that she was capable of slicing through more than just dirt. There were black grips along the socket and handle. She truly had a polish to her, one that would seem more appropriate on a blessed and/or cursed weapon of yore.
“Hours?” Murdock barked a sarcastic laugh, glancing back and forth between Azalea and the ground. He worked himself into a pattern of movement, the little pile of loose dirt beside him growing bit by bit. “Becky and I will race you, Aza!”
Azalea blinked, placing a hand on her hip. “That hole’s gonna have to be six feet deep, at least.”
“And it will be!” Murdock insisted. Nodding at the target, he added, “Plus, we’ll be putting him in vertically.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Azalea retorted. She fidgeted in place. “. . .Aren’t longer holes harder to dig out than wider holes?”
There was no response from Murdock this time. He just kept digging, though he peered up at her over his glasses. His eyes were just barely visible, but that expectant, daring look was obvious.
“Okay, then.” Azalea offered a polite shrug before turning on her heel and approaching the target.
The target snarled at her, raised a leg to try and kick her. But as she gracefully sidestepped out of the way, she saw how he finally seemed to notice what was now in her hand. His scowl wavered, his muffled insults came to an abrupt halt, the patches of skin unmarked by tattoos turned pale as the needle caught a stray beam of light peeking through the canopy above.
Azalea rolled the first syringe between her fingers, thoughtful as she paced around the soon-to-be sentient pincushion. She had the experience to know which areas were most sensitive to injections: hands, the soles of the feet, palates, that little groove between the upper lip and the nose.
She couldn’t really go for any of those areas right now, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Run-of-the-mill muscles could always make getting a shot more of a struggle than strictly necessary.
With that in mind, Azalea halted in her tracks just behind the target. He tried to turn himself around to keep facing her, but he wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t even have time to recoil as she stabbed the needle deep into his lumbar, effectively piercing the tattooed eye of a snake that had bent fangs and looked more drunk than menacing.
Azalea pressed the plunger down with enough force to almost risk crushing it. She held onto it for a few long seconds, just to be sure, then stepped back. The syringe stayed in place when she let go of it, well and truly stuck in the target’s skin.
Slowly but surely, a dark red bead rose up around where the needle met the syringe’s hub. And as it began to trickle down, leaving a thin, red streak to disrupt the tattoos below that embarrassing snake, the target started bellowing.
The cries were low at first, but they grew louder in no time, broken up by the target’s gasps for air. The skin around the injection site was already swelling—it couldn’t really be compared to an allergic reaction or the like, but it was still horribly noticeable.
From what Azalea had heard, Gila monster venom caused an intense burning sensation, as well as dizziness, a rapid heart rate, and sometimes even a decrease in blood pressure. Cases of being bitten by the lizard in question were rarely ever fatal, but that was just fine.
A dosage of something fatal would’ve been too good for the target.
About a week had passed since the incident.
That one spot on Azalea’s arm still ached and stung like no other, but she didn’t have to wrap a new set of bandages around it anymore. The dull red mark still stuck out against the rest of her skin, but it seemed to be getting a little smaller every day. Hell, by now it could’ve been mistaken for a simple scrape, as though Azalea just had a disagreement with the sidewalk pavement.
The tranquilizer gun fit shockingly well in the pocket of her vest. The weapon was a lot like Azalea, actually; it was small enough to underestimate, and it packed way more than enough of a punch to make whoever was doing the underestimating regret all the choices they’d made to get to that point.
Azalea didn’t need to use it very often—remember, her way of work was all about stealth and cunning and HAHA YOU FOOL, YOU’LL NEVER LOOK AT A COOKIE THE SAME WAY AGAIN BECAUSE YOU’RE DEAD NOW!—but ever since that fateful evening, she’d made a point to carry it every moment she wasn’t in the public eye. Once she and her peers all made sure that the threat was truly gone, she’d return it to that innocent-looking little safebox in her cabinet.
The Pentas Family wasn’t on total lockdown; just lying low for a bit. There’d been no complaints about The Boss’ orders, of course. Just like there was no doubting that they’d come out on top. But that impromptu emergency meeting had still been so tense. . .
Azalea gave the Gila monster venom about three minutes to work its magic. The target had yet to vomit, but the nausea in his eyes was painful just to look at.
She checked in on Becky and Murdock, who were still preparing the grave.
The mound of dirt had definitely grown, but the bottom of the hole was still very much shallow.
Murdock glanced up as his accomplice approached. He stayed just as silent as Becky, but the sheer amount of excited determination on his face spoke volumes.
Azalea didn’t really have anything to say either, so she just gave him a curt nod before retreating to start the next phase of the session.
Warrior wasp venom wasn’t lethal, but it could almost make you wish it was. The insect in question was aggressive and territorial, so encounters with it weren’t exactly uncommon in certain parts of South America.
Some victims likened the sting to boiling oil being poured over your skin. Others compared it to being chained down in front of an active volcano, right in the path of all that flowing lava. Perhaps no two victims could describe it in the exact same way?
Azalea wasn’t certain, and she probably never would be. It wasn’t like the target had a chance to give her a description.
Or. . .maybe he did, in a way.
Because just a moment after she stabbed the second syringe into his right deltoid, he confirmed the rumor that warrior wasp venom made people sound absolutely insane when they screamed.
Azalea lightly shook her head, drumming her nails against the box she was carrying in time with her footsteps. Aforementioned box was full of sweets, but unlike many of its predecessors, none of those sweets would end up killing whoever decided to help themself.
K.O. deserved a reward for being so quick and so efficient with the bullet graze, after all. Yes, he’d already gotten paid for taking on the last-minute assignments, but Azalea couldn’t just not thank him personally.
Due to his walnut allergy, K.O. had to be very, very careful about the treats he consumed. Anything involving chocolate was almost always too risky, but Azalea had plenty of recipes for different types of candy. She knew this gift wasn’t much, but she also knew that K.O. would still be happy with it.
As if on cue, K.O. popped up right as Azalea rounded the corner. He was halfway leaning through the door to his den, light streaming across the old platform. What a coincidence: Azalea hadn’t told him about her plan to stop by, but she’d still predicted that he’d be down here.
What she hadn’t predicted was for Caliban to be down here, too. Last she’d heard, her brother was running his own errands around town. But, sure enough, here he was, doubled-over and gritting his teeth as he trudged onto the old platform from the opposite direction.
That was what made Azalea stop short before she could call out to either of them.
Something was wrong.
Caliban always kept his back straight unless. . .
An awful type of energy slithered along Azalea’s neck as she quickened her pace, nearly dropping her cargo.
A panicked shout caught in her throat, making both Caliban and K.O. flinch as they finally looked over and realized she was here with wide eyes.
Even with the dark blue shade of the fabric, it was easy to see a stain blooming through the lower half of Caliban’s button-down.
Even in the dim lighting, it was easy to see how the hand Caliban pressed against his stomach was covered in glistening red.
Even through the immediate cacophony of questions on Azalea’s part and instructions on K.O.’s part, it was easy to hear droplets of blood plopping against concrete as they trickled out between Caliban’s fingers.
Yet another wasp’s venom was next on Azalea’s list for the session, so the syringe containing it would go in the target’s left deltoid. To compliment the other, see?
Not immediately, though.
“The guy you sent is dead,” Azalea announced, speaking to the target for the first time since she’d knocked him unconscious. Her voice was soft, and muffled, agonized, unintelligible groans were still leaking out of his mouth. But she knew that he could hear her.
“. . .Or, I’m pretty sure he is, at least. He was kept alive for a few days after his little stunt, but there’s no saving him now,” she continued.
Visible shivers had been wracking their way up and down the target’s body all this time. Azalea knew that they were involuntary, that they were just more side-effects of the poisons she’d given him so far.
Now, however, he froze in place.
Azalea smirked, practically able to see her words registering in his mind. “Nobody’s going to find either of you, y’know. Even if someone actually tries to look, they won’t get any leads.”
She resumed her pacing, never taking her eyes off the target, watching as his ragged breathing stuttered.
“I know, I know. Scenarios like that are pretty underwhelming, but that’s more on you for springing this on us the way you did.” Azalea shrugged as she passed the syringe from one hand to the other.
Her smile widened a bit. “Don’t worry, though! We’ll try to make things more interesting for your other cronies. I bet one of them will end up being found again and again for a month or so. It’ll have to happen in a different city, but that’s not too big of a problem.”
Tarantula hawks got their name from their frightening diet, but that most certainly wasn’t the only thing they were infamous for. By some terrifying miracle, their stings truly felt similar to an active hair dryer after it was dropped into someone’s bathtub. They were described as explosive
The toxin was apparently explosive enough to give the impression of electric currents literally tearing their way through your bloodstream.
“This is like a weird variation of sibling ESP,” K.O. blurted as he carefully prodded at the puncture site with gloved hands. “Really, I’m surprised some cosmic imbalance hasn’t been triggered.”
“Don’t remind me,” Azalea replied, wringing her hands. She’d just returned from washing them for the third time. The skin around her knuckles almost felt a little dry.
“Hey, if I had to be jumped, at least it was by an amateur,” Caliban mused, chewing his lip while staring at the ceiling. A good few minutes had passed since he'd stopped shaking and choking on air. It seemed the sheer awkwardness of having to lay across someone else’s workout equipment with his shirt half-unbuttoned was balancing out his stress.
“Good point,” K.O. agreed as he soaked yet another washcloth into the bucket of cold, clean water he’d brought from upstairs.“I don’t really work with knives, and I can still see how that idiot should’ve used a drill if he wanted to cause some real penetration.”
The resulting fit of snickers on Caliban’s part were so sudden and loud that he lurched forward. Said snickers automatically had to compete with the way Caliban sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth as K.O. swept the washcloth over the latest wound.
“. . .I should’ve seen that coming.” The mental image of a person’s guts getting all twisted around a drill bit wasn’t pretty, but Azalea still clicked her tongue and fondly rolled her eyes as she carried over a thick roll of gauze.“If Murdock isn’t around to make jokes like that, then someone else always will. Always.”
“We’ve all gotta do our part.” K.O. took the bandages, offering a proud, smug grin in return. “Okay, Cal: sit up slowly but don’t move your feet too much. And keep your arms above your stomach.”
Caliban was still giggling at the semi-dirty quip as he complied with the other mobster’s instructions. His face fell, however, as he looked down at the new gash on the left side of his abdomen. Sure, the bleeding had stopped, and sure, it was actively being hidden by layers of fresh heavy-duty bandages.
But even with the knowledge that it hadn’t gone deep enough to cause any serious infections, Azalea could tell that it hurt much more than Caliban was letting on. She sidled around K.O., careful to give him enough space as she stood beside her brother. She quietly rested one of her hands on his shoulder, trying to help him stay steady.
Despite the initial panic, things had moved nice and quickly. Time hadn’t even seemed to slow down and make everything feel worse for once.
It hadn’t exactly been pleasant to feel her brother’s blood spill onto her hands while K.O. rushed to get something more effective for applying pressure, but Azalea knew how much of a tough cookie he was. This wasn’t the first time Caliban had gotten stabbed; this wasn’t even the worst example out of all the other scars decorating his torso. If he could heal up from all those other cases, then this one would be a cakewalk. He was going to be fine.
Azalea stared into her brother’s eyes, hoping to somehow filter all those little reminders into his brain without speaking.
Caliban stared right back at her. And, judging by the way his features seemed to relax a bit more, her efforts were successful. “That’s the thing about stabbing,” he finally continued, the usual grin back on his face. “You have to know where just the right spots are if you want to be effective. Otherwise you’ll just make the rest of us look bad.”
“Well, I’m sure you can give that moron a proper demonstration once we track him down,” Azalea promised, madness flickering along her otherwise gentle expression.
The tired look returned to Caliban’s eyes. He let out a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head sulkily. “No, I really can’t.”
“Why not?” K.O. asked as he secured the last layer of padding.
“Because the guy was covered in tattoos!” Caliban threw his hands up in frustration, eyes growing wider and just a bit more wild than before. “And when I say covered, I mean COVERED! Ink like that just completely ruins the meat! Makes it taste horrible!” He made the mistake of ever-so-slightly stretching his stomach, which prompted him to grind his jaw, screw his eyes shut and fall back with yet another hiss.
“. . .So, you’re saying other types of ink could make people taste better?” K.O. wondered with a smirk.
“Yes, K.O. That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Caliban deadpanned, craning his neck to raise an eyebrow at his colleague, who held up his hands in mock surrender.
Azalea, meanwhile, kept drawing circles on Caliban’s shoulder, all the ideas on what to do to her brother’s attacker quickly forming a maze in her mind.
“. . .They weren’t even flattering tattoos,” Caliban murmured, gingerly folding his arms across his chest. “Seriously, there was a pinup girl on one of his arms and she looked like a random stranger just offered to share a toilet seat with her.”
“Did you seriously not see this coming?” Azalea inquired, halting right in front of the target. “That’s hard to believe.”
The fourth and final syringe was ready. It was almost as long as a pencil, wider than the three that had been used before it. Its needle was thicker, shinier, sharper, the meanest-looking thing in Azalea’s collection. But even if it wasn’t, that wouldn’t have mattered.
When you were handling a dosage of fresh, pure, unadulterated bullet ant venom—a substance that was infamous for literally being described as “walking over flaming charcoal with three-inch nails in your heels”—nothing really mattered.
“Turning the art festival into a gun range wasn’t enough, huh? You just couldn’t resist going after my brother yourself.”
The target’s head had been hanging. He must’ve been tired from shaking it side-to-side as if that would somehow convince his brain to magically alleviate the torment. But it suddenly jerked up like that of a marionette puppet.
Like a new, foreign weight had just settled around his shoulders, encouraging the tiny rivers of blood to keep trickling down his chest and back. Not chasing all the pain away, but somehow managing to distract him from it, if only for a moment. His bloodshot, watery eyes seemed to grow even wider than before as he stared at his torturer.
“What, couldn’t you tell?” A sarcastic chuckle bubbled up in Azalea’s throat. “I know he’s a lot taller than me, but still: isn’t the resemblance obvious?”
She pretended to mull the question over for a few long seconds, then snapped her fingers.
“Oh wait, that’s right! There really is no way you could’ve known about that.”
She rested her thumb on the syringe’s plunger. Her knuckles were turning white as she kept the barrel pinned between her index and middle finger.
“You probably didn’t even know I was there for your first little rendezvous. . .” she continued, drawing even nearer, now holding her little weapon aloft.
The target attempted to stagger back, attempted to turn his head away.
Azalea, in response, reached up and gripped his chin, digging her nails into the skin of his jaw as she forced him to face her. Her other hand was a blur, the syringe glinting hungrily.
“. . .Because you’re just a bottom-feeding coward.”
The needle sank into the target’s flesh; the left side of his abdomen, to be specific.
There was still half of the venom left in the syringe when the target started screaming. His legs gave out from under him as though his bones had dissolved into his blood. As his knees couldn’t touch the ground, he swayed to and fro in a very unnatural manner with such violent convulsions that he could’ve been mistaken for having a seizure.
He’d been screaming for the majority of the session, of course, but this scream was. . .something else. It was like nothing Azalea had ever heard before; and this wasn’t even the first time she’d used bullet ant venom.
Eh, what else could be expected from the brilliant, intense, undeniable crown queen of pain?
Even with the new ache in her ears, Azalea felt a smile etch its way across her face. It wasn’t calm just yet, but it would get there eventually. She’d reached her goal: there was no way in hell that this target wasn’t regretting his choice to screw around with her, Caliban, and the rest of their family.
“Looks like I’m done over here,” Azalea pronounced, wiping her hands as she turned to look at Murdock. “Sorry if all this noise has been bothering you.”
“Oh, not at all,” Murdock reassured, his voice suspiciously more chipper than tired.
Azalea was about to jokingly ask if he’d brought a second shovel along so she could help him finish digging out the grave.
She was about to. . .but she couldn’t.
Surprisingly enough, the way her jaw hit the ground didn’t disrupt the pile of dirt beside Murdock, which had transformed from an improvised molehill to a small mountain. It even seemed to be a couple inches taller than he was! The hole that’d been excavated was just wide enough to put an adult human in feet-first. It also seemed to go much, much deeper than six feet; a sunray was shining down into it, and yet the bottom was still shrouded in darkness!
“H-how—HOW—?!” Azalea stammered, glancing back and forth between Murdock and the pit.
“Like I said, Aza: Becky works fast,” Murdock explained without really explaining, smirking like a bastard as he rested his arms on his beloved shovel’s handle.
“AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGH!” The target tried to add.
Azalea blinked, slowly raising her hands to massage her temples and reminding herself that she and Murdock had someone to bury. There wasn’t time to question the potential reality-bending powers of some tactical shovel. “Fine, okay, whatever. Could you just bring him down, please?”
Murdock nodded. “My pleasure.” He cradled Becky in his arms one last time before setting her back down in her leather case and returning it to the decoy mail truck. After that, he made his way over to where he’d tied the line. Azalea followed him, orbiting around the target one last time before the rope went loose.
Just because those four syringes were empty didn’t mean she wanted to waste them, after all.
@rebar2042 @sammys-magical-au
#the thirteen days of goretober 2023#goretober 2023#my writing#my stories#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#mark fischbach#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#matthew patrick#egopats#k.o.#k.o./kaiser oasis#ethan nestor#crankgameplays#crankegos#fanmade egos#my characters#my fan egos#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw physical violence#tw abduction#tw syringes#tw poisoning
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Matt and Ro are Soul-Siblings, So. . .
Prof. Beauregard (my headcanon name for her is Ruby) is Mack’s sister.
Ruby is one of few people whom Mack genuinely respects/trusts. Before he went off with the colonists, Ruby sort of acted as Mack’s conscience as well as his friend.
Ruby did great things at university while Mack was training to be selected for the Invincible II’s crew.
Shortly after the Invincible II had finally made it to space, Ruby began experiencing the events of AHWM.
Due to standard time-travel-wormhole fuckery, Ruby and the Captain just so happen to wind up in the universe where Mack becomes a dictator.
They literally just appear in Mack’s throne room. Out of nowhere.
It’s been quite a while since the siblings have seen one another, so Ruby and Mack have a quick staring contest.
For a moment, you could hear a pin drop.
At first, Ruby feels happy. This is her brother–the guy who used to video-call every week and told her all about the stars and the ship and the rest of the crew. She’d been so anxious after their last chat. She’d missed him so much!
But then, the questions start running through Ruby’s head. Mack had shown her some parts of the Invincible II during one of their chats–and this definitely isn’t the Invincible II. . ? Shouldn’t Mack be in Cryosleep right now? He’d been wearing a blue jumpsuit the last time she’d seen him, so why was he in a different uniform now?
She slowly glances around the throne room. She sees the golden statues, the banners with that M logo, the Lil’ Cappy dog bed.
And then it clicks. Ruby may not have a complete idea of what’s going on, but she’s not an idiot. She knows that something Problematic™ has happened and that, unfortunately, her dear brother has played a part in it.
Mack is watching as Ruby puts the pieces together. His expression is growing more worried by the second.
Ruby glances at the Captain, softly asking for a little help understanding this.
The Captain looks over at Mack, who shakes his head and clasps his hands together, as if begging them to keep quiet.
The Captain, decidedly, does not keep quiet.
Ruby gapes at their explanation. Then, her wide eyes narrow as she returns her attention to Mack, who is now frozen in place.
She just marches right up to Mack, grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and yanks him down to face her.
Mack is absolutely petrified. He’s stammering, trying to do some damage control, but Ruby isn’t having it.
Ruby rips into him. All the while the Captain is watching, feeling a bit awkward but also extremely gratified.
“What was the ONE THING you promised me you wouldn’t do?”
“. . .go all control-freak on my crewmates. . .”
“And what did you do?!”
“. . .went all control-freak on my crewmates. . .”
Sometime afterwards, the Captain opens a new wormhole, which Ruby leads a very mortified Mack into after them. Forget the paradox and how the Captain may or may not be an anomaly–right now, she’s dead-set on making sure Mack doesn’t become a tyrannical maniac like he apparently has before.
All the while Mack is just made to hang his head and look at his boots. He doesn’t argue against Ruby. He’s just sort of quiet through it all.
Don’t worry, though. Ruby will forgive him eventually.
#writing#headcanons#in space with markiplier#iswm part 1#iswm part 2#iswm mack#in space with mack#ahwm professor beauregard#iswm captain#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies#nerdy nummies egos#matpat#matthew patrick#game theory
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My Goretober Ventures So Far. . .
These are the projects I try to churn out every October. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write for all thirty-one days, but who knows?
For now, though, I plan to just write for a week each year. (Exceptions might be made if the edgelord stars happen to align. For example: the latest Friday The 13th in October.)
……….
The Thirteen Days of Goretober 2023
Day 1: Impalement (Lucas/Captain!Lix)
Day 2: Self-Mutilation (Phantom)
Day 3: Broken Bones (K.O., Murdock, Caliban, Azalea)
Day 4: Amputation (Caliban, Murdock, R.D.)
Day 5: Drain (Fenwyn, Celine)
Day 6: Decapitation (Janus Sanders, Remus Sanders, Logan Sanders, Roman Sanders, Patton Sanders)
Day 7: Needles (Azalea, Murdock, Caliban, K.O.)
Day 8: Sensory Deprivation (Bones, Phantom)
Day 9: Plants (CryptidXian)
Day 10: Dissection (Logan Sanders, Remus Sanders)
Day 11: Split (Wilford Warfstache)
Day 12: Putrefaction (Unus, Annus)
Day 13: Bloodbath (Convict!Mark)
HALLOWEEN 2023 SPECIAL: Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats (Sam Ryder, Azalea, Murdock, Caliban, K.O.)
……….
A Week of Goretober 2022
Day 1: Voodoo Doll (Phantom, Bones)
Day 2: Cannibalism (Caliban, Murdock, The Newcomer)
Day 3: Broken Glass (Damien, Celine, The District Attorney, Darkiplier)
Day 4: Suffocation (The Captain, Head Engineer Mark)
Day 5: Revenge (Natemare, FNAF’s Missing Children, Purple Guy/Afton/Springtrap)
Day 6: Specimen Preservation (Phantom, Anti-Matter)
Day 7: Lyric Inspired (The Reader, Scaredy/SCARED-E)
#my writing#my stories#goretober#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#egopats#matthew patrick#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#K.O./kaiser oasis#ethan nestor#crankgameplays#crankegos#my characters#my fan egos#fanmade egos#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#mark fischbach#sammy's magical au#friendship#sammy's magical au's oc#sammy's magical au's lixianegos#cryptidxian#captain!lix/lucas#sinking iron#nathan sharp
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R.D.
If you’ve read my stories, then you probably recognize that name above. She has made cameos here and here, and she’s been mentioned in pretty much every story that involves Caliban. I realize that this is kinda late, but the overthinking part of my brain has been nagging at me to clarify some stuff about this character.
Where there’s a character inspired by MatPat, there MUST be a character inspired by Stephanie.
Her name is a pun because I can’t be stopped. Caliban is a simple anagram for cannibal, and R.D.’s initials are literally just a play on the phrase Research and Development.
R.D. is NOT a member of The Pentas Family, but she’s definitely an ally. She’s helped them out with information-gathering here and there, but she just doesn’t have the time to be a contract-killer. (She’s also been considered an honorary member ever since she and Caliban got together.)
When it comes to illicit business, she works on the more sciency side; mainly chemical experimentation and cadaver testing. (Note: the team she leads never uses animals as test subjects. And when I say “chemical” I mean taking Chem Lab to another, more dangerous level, not street drugs.) She’s often required to travel long distances to work on certain projects, although she and her team do have a hidden laboratory in the Cove Port Inlets.
R.D. and Caliban met before Azalea and Caliban were discovered by The Pentas Family. At the time, Azalea had just started to consider delving into underground stuff for money. She’d always been fascinated by poisonous/venomous things, but it’d been pure blind luck that she wound up meeting R.D.
Basically, R.D. helped Azalea find her footing, assisting her with purchasing and then caring for deadly plants in exchange for extracted toxins. Inevitably, R.D. bumped into Caliban during one of her and Azalea’s meetings. Both Caliban and Azalea were a bit nervous about this, but by now, Caliban had learned how to handle his cravings. Plus, fittingly enough, those cravings never once acted up toward R.D. It was awkward at first, but with time, the two of them indeed formed a friendship.
Of course, Azalea and Caliban soon joined The Pentas Family. By now, Azalea was a defacto poison expert, so her and R.D.’s dealings came to an end. Despite this, the two of them still maintained a good friendship and kept occasional contact. Said occasional contact paved the way for R.D. to eventually seek out Azalea for something or other, only to walk in on Caliban completing a hit-job.
Much to Caliban’s surprise, R.D. didn’t react to the sight of him splattered with blood the way most people would. (She’s got a strong stomach thanks to her projects.) Instead, she just casually asked how he and his sister were adjusting to mob-life. From there, R.D. and Caliban started talking more and more often until they decided there was enough trust between them for a romantic relationship.
@sammys-magical-au
#my writing#caliban#caliban the cannibal#egopats#matpat#matthew patrick#R.D.#stephanie patrick#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#my characters#fanmade egos#my fan egos#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw descriptions of illegal business
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Azalea Crawford
(I’ve already made an information post like this, but said post is pretty long; in fact, it’ll just get longer and more expansive as I develop new characters and stories for [The Future Mob Project]. And I’m worried that the sheer length will make readers lose interest when they click on a link to look for a specific character. So, I’ll be making separate information pages for each character while still maintaining the all-inclusive post. Got it? Good.)
Who She’s Based Off Of: Rosanna Pansino (Nerdy Nummies)
Her Method of Work: She knows pretty much everything there is to know about poison. Toxic plants, venomous animals, man-made chemicals, you name it. The collection she keeps for hit-jobs and the like goes way, way beyond your typical arsenic. She even has a greenhouse full of deadly plants (including her namesake, obviously) in her backyard. When she’s on the clock, she’ll usually take care of targets by slipping poisons into a nice little baked goodie. Azalea’s not squeamish about needles, but this is easier and more discreet.
Red Attire: Headband (Cherry)
Notes:
This lovely lady is Caliban’s sister, and shares a strong sibling bond with him. (In fact, she actually taught Caliban a lot of what he knows about cooking. Sure, it took a bit of trial-and-error for some recipes to work with human flesh, but it just be like that sometimes.)
She has a pet scarlet kingsnake named Cuddles. Scarlet kingsnakes are harmless, but they specifically evolved to mimic the coloration of coral snakes, which are infamously venomous. Azalea understands the irony of this perfectly. She also understands how easy it is for people to mix up the color patterns, so, of course, she’ll occasionally handle Cuddles purely for confusion/intimidation.
She’s the owner/head chef of Aftertaste, a popular restaurant/bar, in order to help keep up appearances for The Pentas Family. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels.
If any Pentas members decide to use poison for a hit-job, then they need to go to Azalea for help. She’s one of very, very few people who can be trusted to use such dangerous substances properly. (But sometimes, even mobsters aren’t immune to hubris. So, Azalea keeps a stockpile of antidotes/painkillers in order to fix certain mistakes.)
She’s the reason Caliban was able to adopt Snare. She found the hare in the basement of one of her past targets (who was the leader of an exotic animal trafficking ring); he reminded her of her brother, so she ended up giving him to Caliban as a present.
(If you’d like to see some awesome artwork of this character, please go here and show the artist some appreciation!)
Current Stories: What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?, Update the Letter Board!, Toxic Tutorials, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats
#my writing#my characters#my ocs#(kind of?)#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies#nerdy nummies egos#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#matthew patrick#egopats#game theory#murdock/murderplier#iswm murdock#markiplier#mark fischbach#snare the hare#cuddles the snake#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#🔪 anon
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Caliban’s cravings are so fascinating to me. Can we get a story of when Caliban’s cravings first return? Him trying to hide them at first and maybe when Azalea is beginning to catch on?
That's so sweet of you to say! Thank you so much!
I've already talked about this in a few asks (mainly this one, this one, this one, and these two. Major kudos to the anons who sent said asks in, btw! I've really gotta start making an emoji list so I can recognize people). But I'm happy to expand on it a bit more. Even if I do want to keep some things vague. . .
(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, implied cannibalism, implied violence, mentions of blood, cravings/hunger pangs, mentions of eating/drinking, implied abuse/neglect. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
(Also, just to clarify: this snippet takes place years before Caliban and Azalea joined The Pentas Family)
___
His world is a blur thanks to the violent movement he’s fighting against. . .
Caliban’s eyes felt dry and heavy. One of them twitched as he stared into the darkness of his room. Even as he kept tossing and turning in his bed—the same one he’d had to hide under so many times before—he couldn’t seem to close them.
For the first time in years, the house was quiet. Not calm (a place like this would never, never be calm. Not to Caliban or his sister, at least), but quiet. It had been ever since. . .
Caliban flinched badly as a long, low, sickening growl reverberated under his skin.
. . .Or, the house was relatively quiet.
Logic insisted that the noise wasn’t as loud as it felt, that Azalea couldn’t hear it through the wall in the room next door.
A small voice in the back of Caliban’s head chastised him for still trying to look for logic, considering exactly what he’d done.
Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to take deep, slow breaths.
It didn’t steady him at all. In fact, it almost seemed to amplify his stomach’s demands.
His teeth click-click-clicked against one another as he started moving his jaw up and down without knowing or meaning to.
Caliban hadn’t even realized that he’d started shaking until he felt himself curl into the fetal position, his arms snaking around his abdomen.
As if that would do anything to drive the aching and gnawing and churning away.
The skin is soft and warm under his teeth, tearing far too easily. . .
Several hours came and went, and Caliban found himself in the kitchen with his sister. It was a wide, open area, providing more than enough space for a much larger family to use. That luxury ultimately meant more things to clean, but that wasn’t too much of a problem right now.
Azalea paced back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen, transferring what she and her brother had used from the table to the cabinets.
Caliban, meanwhile, stood before the sink, soap suds nearly reaching up to his elbows. He’d always found it pretty damn stupid that so many types of cutlery couldn’t be put in dishwashers, but he wasn’t about to complain.
He could barely remember the last time he’d eaten a full meal, a proper meal. (Azalea had smuggled food to him whenever she had the chance, of course.)
Now that the two of them had free-reign of the house. . .
Both the pantry and refrigerator were decently-stocked. There was nobod—nothing to withhold any of that food from him now.
Still, he needed to be careful with it. He had to make sure there was plenty for his sister. Aside from that, it would only last so long.
The siblings may have learned how to properly stash any money they managed to come across. (Hell, they’d found plenty more sometime on that fateful day, when they’d entered a room they’d previously never even been able to breathe in the direction of.) But they needed to be cautious about that money, needed to use it sparingly until they figured out what the hell they could do about their circumstances.
Caliban moved to the side as Azalea came up to the sink to soak a spare rag with soap and water. She paused, peering at him, then offered a small smile as she went to wipe down the table. Caliban smiled back.
Earlier, they’d worked together to make a small feast. It truly seemed that Azalea had been born to cook and bake, and Caliban was eager to learn what he could.
It’d been so. Damn. Refreshing.
Being able to just coexist with Azalea, help her, enjoy this new freedom with her. . .it’d almost been enough to distract him.
Almost.
But when Caliban finally turned the faucet off, when he began drying off the things he’d washed, when he took a gleaming steak knife into his hands. . .something crawled into his mind.
The blade was clean.
It shouldn’t have been clean.
It should’ve been be dripping, should’ve been slathered in red, should’ve been slicing into—
It clattered back down into the sink as Caliban’s stomach began to roar.
Caliban ground his jaw. He almost immediately felt cold sweat begin to form on his skin as his sister froze, slowly turning to face him.
“. . .We literally just ate,” Azalea mentioned, tilting her head, eyes filled with concern. “Are you feeling okay? Is your stomach upset?”
“I. . .” Caliban’s reply was shaky, as something in his throat was trying to pull his voice down. “I’m not sure.”
Blood gushes out, dark and crimson and rich on his tastebuds. . .
Caliban had trouble settling onto an armchair at one corner of the living room. It wasn’t uncomfortable; the leather was plush, and it seemed to give the perfect amount of support for his back.
He just wasn’t used to actually enjoying this space. If anything, this room was one that he and Azalea had typically tried to avoid.
Speaking of Azalea: she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She’d all but covered the coffee table in colored pencils and fine-tipped markers, and her eyes were glued to one of the adult coloring books she’d had hidden away.
She didn’t seem to be feeling out of place or tense, but Caliban had been wrong before.
Caliban lightly shook his head, trying to focus on the book in his lap.
The carpet was smooth under his feet.
The carpet also still carried the smell of dish soap. It wasn’t as strong as it had been on that day, (and even then, it definitely wasn’t as strong as bleach would’ve been), but it hadn’t faded away.
A chill raced up Caliban’s spine as he chewed at the inside of his cheek. It’d seemed impossible that he and Azalea had been able to clean the carpet so quickly. Especially with how he’d felt something stir as he’d stared at that huge, dark red stain. . .
He caught movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced at his sister, who was scanning the coffee table instead of the page she’d been working on (an abstract drawing of an octopus, which now boasted pretty blue rings along its tentacles). Her brow was furrowed in confusion; she was obviously looking for something.
Caliban’s eyes wandered to the floor. Sure enough, he discovered a pale-gold pencil resting near one of the armchair’s legs. He reached down and plucked it up, then audibly tapped it against his book. The noise caught Azalea’s attention, and she swiveled her head to face Caliban. Her slight frustration melted into a smile as her brother handed the formerly lost pencil to her.
“It’s healing,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t take more than a week.”
Caliban’s own smile flickered as tilted his head at the statement.
Azalea fidgeted in place, probably wondering if she’d actually meant to say that. “Your eye, I mean.”
“. . .Oh,” Caliban replied. “Right, right.” He subconsciously raised a hand. His fingers brushed against the skin around his left eye, which was a dull shade of purple. It was still sore, but the swelling had definitely gone down.
Although. . .well, it certainly wasn’t the first black eye Caliban had ever gotten. And even if he’d somewhat adjusted to the throbbing, stinging sensation that always came with black eyes. . .he hadn’t exactly had time to focus on the pain that followed this particular one.
Another awful groan shuddered through his intestines. Caliban flinched, biting back a gasp.
He saw Azalea freeze, saw her slowly bring her pencil to rest against the page, saw her begin peering at the room around them.
Caliban forced himself to stare at his book, turning the page and almost accidentally tearing it out. He shifted in the armchair, hoping that the way its leather squeaked would somehow cover up the noise.
Shut up, he repeated the words like a mantra in his head as he pressed a hand against his midsection, his nails digging in through his shirt. Shutupshutupshutupshutup!
The smell of iron (or maybe pennies?) is so strong, completely filling his nose, to the point where his eyes are nearly watering and he can feel it creeping along his brain. . .
Caliban wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d crept out of his bedroom, had trudged down the stairs, had been pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room.
The house was dark. Like the past few nights, it also wasn’t entirely silent.
He was careful to walk slowly, to keep his movement as muted as possible. He didn’t know why he bothered, though.
It wasn’t like he could hear his footsteps through the cries of his stomach.
It felt like the acids were alive, and that they’d somehow formed claws.
So how the hell could his stomach feel so empty at the same time?!
He hovered in front of a door in the corner of the pantry.
The basement was unfinished. There was no carpet down there, no insulation, no windows.
No matter what the weather outside was like, the basement was always very, very, very cold.
The basement had always been a cluttered wreck. On one hand, that made it even more unsavory than its darkness and temperature.
On the other hand, the mess down there had helped him and Azalea to hide the body.
Caliban stared at the doorknob. It looked smooth, polished, even. But his instincts swore that the material would drag along his skin and leave a bloody gash in his palm if he grasped it.
That didn’t change the fact that he needed to open the door. He needed to go down to the basement. He needed to stop feeling SO GODDAMN HUNGRY DESPITE HOW HE’D FINALLY BEEN ABLE TO EAT ON HIS OWN TERMS—
The kitchen light was suddenly beaming down.
Caliban whirled around to find Azalea standing just a few feet away. Her eyes immediately drilled into his, full of stress and hurt.
“Cal,” she pronounced. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Right now.”
Caliban’s mouth opened and closed a few times. No words came out.
“I know something’s wrong,” Azalea insisted. “I know you’re not okay, and I know it’s not just because of what happened. The only thing I don’t know is why, and I can’t just—”
“Since when have either of us ever been okay?” Caliban finally replied, voice shuddering.
“That’s not the point.” Azalea argued, taking a step closer to him. “The point is that you’re my brother and I’m your sister!”
Another step.
“I care about you! I want to make sure that you're safe and happy!”
Another step.
“But I can’t do that if you’re trying to hide things from me when I’ve never hidden anything from you!” Azalea’s voice grew weak, choked-up. She stood in front of Caliban, eyes now glistening. “You never had a problem talking to me before. And I’ve never had a problem listening. So why now?”
“Because I’m scared, Aza!” The words forced themselves out of Caliban’s mouth. “I’m scared because I don’t understand what’s happening to me!”
“And I can find a way to help you understand it!” Azalea almost shouted.
Eyes starting to burn, Caliban nearly yelled back, “Well, what if that leads to you being scared of me?!”
Silence
The seconds dragged by, jeering at the two siblings.
“Do you. . .” Azalea tried, a tidal wave of emotion crashing down on her features. “Do you not trust me anymore. . ?”
Caliban felt his heart sink. “N-no, no! I do trust you, I swear! You’re probably the only person I can ever trust!”
It’d been a miracle that she’d helped him clean up the mess.
It’d been a miracle that she hadn’t fled the house screaming.
It’d been a miracle that, after seeing him hunched over and covered in blood, she’d approached him and snapped him out of that daze.
“I’m sorry—I just—I-I-I can’t—!” Caliban hardly felt dull pain flaring in his knees as he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring down his features. It took effort to feel Azalea wrap her arms around him, to feel himself hug her tightly.
He could barely feel anything other than hunger.
His sister was right.
He had no choice.
“I liked it, Aza,” he confessed, his voice caught between a whisper and a sob. “I enjoyed what I did, and I’ve been starving ever since I did it! The taste was so good and it was everywhere and I’ve just been wanting more!”
And with that, Caliban waited. He waited for Azalea to turn pale. He waited for her to push herself away from him, to stand up and start running.
He waited for what felt like hours and hours.
But she never did any of those things. Instead, he saw her push her hair out of the way before she rested her head on his shoulder. Still embracing him, still drawing circles on his back.
“. . .That’s not your fault,” Azalea finally murmured. “You had your reasons; we both know you did.”
Even though his crying had tapered down into hiccuping, Caliban wasn’t sure how to answer. Relief flooded through him, of course, but it was still overshadowed by shock.
“We can figure this out,” Azalea promised, carefully pulling back to look her brother in the eyes. “You and me.”
Like him, her face was covered in tear stains. But Caliban didn’t see a single trace of disgust or anger or fear.
“You and me,” he echoed.
The screaming keeps coiling inside his ears long after the thrashing eventually stops. . .
#the edgelord gets fed#my writing#writing requests#my characters#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#egopats#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw implied murder/death#tw implied cannibalism#tw mentions of blood#tw implied abuse/neglect#tw cravings/hunger pangs#tw mentions of eating/drinking
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If Caliban was desperate enough… would he attack a loved one? Aza? Murdock? Sam? Miguel?
Nope.
It might very well seem like his cravings can bring out a feral side of him, but he honestly isn't that far-gone.
Like I've said before, even when Caliban is famished and panicking, he's still able to be logical/rational. He's adjusted to only eating people who are specific targets of The Pentas Family. Now, in a really bad situation where, say, a total stranger was involved, he'd have an internal struggle and just might come close to snapping.
For one thing, he knows that the people he works with have instilled actual trust in him. Especially Azalea. (HOW DARE YOU THINK I'D LET MY TWO PRECIOUS MURDER-SIBLINGS TURN ON EACH OTHER?!)
For another thing, he's professional. You don't just betray your allies in the underground and get away with it, after all.
Let's say Caliban is struggling with his cravings while in the company of one of the characters you mentioned. Since these are people he knows and trusts, he'd be honest, quietly giving hints. (He'd be embarrassed that they have to see him panic.)
Azalea is definitely the person Caliban would be most comfortable with, as he knows for an absolute fact that she isn't afraid of him. Murdock is a close second, since he's also not at all fearful; and, y'know, he's one of the people who delivers fresh corpses to Caliban on a semi-regular basis.
As for Sam and Miguel. . .well, they'd also be safe, but I'm sure the sight of Caliban pacing and shaking and murmuring to himself would probably make them a wee bit nervous. What do you think, @sammys-magical-au?
#the edgelord gets fed#asks#my characters#my ocs#(kind of?)#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#egopats#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#iswm murdock#murdock/murderplier#markiplier#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#sammys magical au's oc#sam ryder#sammys magical au's lixian egos#idwbf miguel#lixian
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Toxic Tutorials
(Both of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. Caliban and Murdock will only be mentioned, but my boys still deserve credit. So, for more information about Caliban, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: talk of death/dying, poisonous plants, toxic chemicals, talk of pain/sickness, implied murder, food, talk of eating/drinking, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
A soft, satisfying crack broke the silence in Azalea’s kitchen. The egg in her hand dripped with yolk and albumen—the same way a skull might drip with brains and blood.
After tossing the broken shell into the garbage can, she spent the next moment or two incorporating the yolk into a concoction of butter, sugars and 🅥🅐🅝🅘🅛🅛🅐 🅔🅧🅣🅡🅐🅒🅣. She repeated this process with a second egg, as well as a blend of flour, baking soda and salt. Once that was done, she exchanged her hand-mixer for a silicone spatula, which she used to fold in a bag’s worth of chocolate chips.
Just like that, Azalea had a bowl full of fresh, ready-for-the-oven cookie dough on her hands.
However, she wasn’t about to bake it. She left the mixing bowl on the counter before heading to the sink to wash the equipment she’d used.
A few special ingredients had to be added before this batch of cookies could be completed. Obviously, Azalea could’ve just taken care of this herself. It wasn’t like there was anything to stop her. . .
As she set her tools on the drying rack, the long, loud, pre-recorded chime of her doorbell suddenly rang throughout the house. Azalea startled (whether or not this could indicate the cleanliness of her conscience was up for debate), but was still quick to compose herself.
She walked through the living room and took a moment to peer at her reflection on the TV’s black screen. After checking her white button-down for stains and making some adjustments to her cherry-red headband, Azalea moved to the front foyer and pulled the door open. She discovered Murdock’s tagalong on her front porch. They flinched, probably having been rocking back and forth on their heels during their wait.
“Oh, hey!” The Newcomer blurted, offering a small hand-wave as their gray eyes met her brown ones. “You, uh—you must be Azalea, right?”
Azalea hummed in affirmation. “Just call me Aza if you’d like.”
She held out a hand, which The Newcomer was quick to grasp. She took a few seconds to look them up and down as they shook. The Newcomer stood at an average height: much taller than her, about the same as Caliban and Murdock.
Aside from that, their characteristics were. . .vague. Vague enough to make the scarlet leather gloves on their hands stand out even more than they already did. A backpack was slung over their shoulder, boasting a pattern that resembled a hodge-podge of newspapers.
“Nice to meet you,” they said with a polite smile. “Thanks for taking the time today.”
“Likewise! It’s no problem at all,” Azalea answered as she stepped aside. “C’mon in.”
The Newcomer stepped forward, their eyes wandering about the decor around them as their host closed the front door. They then padded after her as she returned to the kitchen.
Azalea hovered in the space between her oven and the bar, gesturing towards the stools on the other side of said bar. “I heard you met my brother for a demonstration a little while ago. Did he treat you well?”
As they set their backpack down and took a seat, The Newcomer’s eyes widened. The smile remained on their face, though it grew ever-so-slightly nervous.
“Yeah,” they eventually answered. “Cal was super welcoming. His methods were interesting to study.”
“That’s nice to hear. He said you were a great help.” Azalea could tell they were being genuine, but she supposed she couldn’t really blame their anxiety. Sure, they were new to the whole being-a-contract-killer-and-doing-other-types-of-illegal-stuff-professionally racket, but interacting with a cannibal was in a whole other ballpark.
Gratitude manifested in The Newcomer’s eyes, slowly but surely overtaking the wariness. It was a refreshing thing to see.
“Now, to business,” Azalea pronounced. She rested her hands on the bar, lightly drumming her nails on the marble finish. “What do you know about toxic stuff?”
“I, uh. . .well. . .” The Newcomer chewed their lip in thought.
Azalea stayed quiet, raising her eyebrows, showing patience and encouragement.
“Oh! I know almonds can mask the taste of cyanide,” The Newcomer eventually answered. “And arsenic is basically untraceable, since its key elements are vital to the diets of most mammals.” They paused, awkwardly glancing around the room. “That’s about it, I guess.”
“Hey, that’s still a decent start,” Azalea reassured. “You already know more than I’d expected.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just never really worked with poison before,” The Newcomer said with wide, uncertain-yet-curious eyes. They obviously weren’t afraid of the concept; just a bit shy about it. Their tone was somewhat similar to that of a schoolkid introducing themself to their new class.
(Which, in a strange way, they kind of were. If you squinted, at least.)
“A lot of people haven’t. In fact, a lot of people probably shouldn’t, because that’s how news stories about blue-ringed octopi being handled without gloves happen.”
The Newcomer let out a light chuckle. “And that makes the professionals look bad, huh?”
“Exactly.” Azalea felt something grim etch its way into her smile. “And that’s why you’re here. Even if you don’t end up having poison as your signature, it’ll still be good for you to know your way around it. Just in case.”
Azalea stepped away from the bar, beginning to pace the kitchen floor as she continued. “Different materials have to be handled in different ways. For example: if you wanted to use venom from a snake or a spider, you’d have to inject it into your target in order to get actual results.”
“Wait, really?” The Newcomer asked. “Venom wouldn’t work on a target if it was swallowed?”
“You’d think that it would. When I first started out, I thought so, too. But it all comes back to the difference between poison and venom. Which is. . ?” Azalea gestured toward The Newcomer, encouraging them to speak.
“If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous. If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous,” The Newcomer stated, as though they were practicing with grammar flashcards.
Azalea nodded. “Very good. Venom is harmful when it gets into your veins. And the acids in your stomach are actually strong enough to break down venom before it’s absorbed into your bloodstream. You’d probably still get sick, but that’d be it.”
“. . .Oh! Okay, that makes sense.” The Newcomer replied, eyes thoughtful. They considered this for a good few seconds before inquiring, “What if the target had an ulcer? Would that make venom kill them if they ate it?”
“Yeah, it would!” Azalea laughed. “And you said you don’t have much experience with this stuff!”
The Newcomer offered a timid smile, shrugging.
“But when you’re taking on a job, you can’t really depend on something like an ulcer,” Azalea quickly added. “We may need to know as much about our targets as possible, but sometimes, our clients can only provide so much information. And even when we do our own research, we still have limits to deal with.”
The Newcomer nodded. “Right, right.”
“Getting back on track. Injecting venom can certainly be effective, but it doesn’t offer much in the discreet department.”
“And this family relies on things being handled quietly and carefully,” The Newcomer said with an air of understanding. “When in doubt, hide in plain sight.”
Azalea hummed. “And if poisoning a meal doesn’t count as camouflage, then I’m not sure what does.”
She quickly strolled over to the laundry room. On the cabinet above her washing machine, a vaguely owl-shaped watering can looked out over everything below. It was covered in pieces of colored metal, which gave the impression of spiky feathers. The very top of the can boasted a piece of coppery metal that had been cut into an upside-down, slightly-curved triangle to give the owl a pair of those ear-horn-things and a beak. The can’s spout was hidden behind said beak, which was flanked by a pair of wide yellow eyes with huge pupils.
Caliban had given this to Azalea for Christmas last year, and ever since then, it’d been one of her favorite household items. Azalea unfolded an elaborate mahogany stepstool beside the washing machine in order to reach the owl-can, then carried it over to the kitchen sink and held it under the faucet.
“Would it be okay if I took pictures throughout the process?” The Newcomer asked from behind her.
Though Azalea didn’t flinch, she became tense on instinct as she turned the water off. She then turned to face The Newcomer, her dark brown eyes drilling into their dull gray ones, looking for any trace of dishonesty or ulterior motives.
The Newcomer blinked, and another type of nervousness appeared in their expression.
They were quick to add, “Ah, if it’s a no, then I won’t push it. I just thought this could be some good material for my notes.”
“‘Notes?’” Azalea echoed. “What kind of notes?”
The Newcomer unzipped one of the compartments in their backpack, quickly fishing out a small roll of tape, an Instax camera, a mechanical pencil. . .and a journal. They offered the book to Azalea, who carefully took it and examined it.
The front cover was grayish-black card stock, adorned by image of a jumping spider which seemed to have been hand-embroidered with vivid purple threads. When she opened it up, she discovered lines of neat penmanship, as well as some sketches here and a few small photographs there. The first several pages were full, but there were still at least a hundred more pages that remained blank.
“I know my phone and laptop are safe, but Murdock said it’s good to keep an extra log,” The Newcomer mentioned. “Since I’m still just making my way here.”
Azalea pursed her lips in thought. That did sound like the kind of advice Murdock would give.
One part of her wanted to be suspicious; like The Newcomer had just said, any electronics belonging to Pentas representatives were in no danger of being tapped or recorded.
The same couldn’t exactly be said for something more physical, like this notebook. Especially if said notebook wound up being lost. . .or being turned over to an outside party. . .
However, another part of her remembered that not just anyone could join The Pentas Family. Underground business was never for the faint of heart—if you really wanted to make a name for yourself, then you had to earn it. You had to give up blood, sweat, and tears (and if you were to end up doing something traitorous, then even more of those bodily fluids would be taken from you. Violently). So, of course, The Boss was always vigilant when it came to bringing in new people.
Though she’d only known The Newcomer for a short time, Azalea could already tell that they were a good addition. They were just getting their feet wet, but they clearly had that cunning, unconventional and resourceful nature that The Boss invested in.
“As long as you don’t aim the camera flash at my eyes, I’ve got no problem with photography,” Azalea finally stated as she gave The Newcomer’s journal back to them. “Just make sure you keep close track of this book.”
“Of course,” The Newcomer said, nodding solemnly.
Azalea took a few more seconds to peer at them before turning on her heel to lead them through the laundry room, out the backdoor, and into her backyard.
The weather was lovely today. Birds were singing, clouds were slowly chasing one another across the sky. Sunlight glinted off the panes of Azalea’s greenhouse, making it almost appear to be sparkling.
The structure’s looks were truly just as deceiving as the things that it was currently protecting.
Azalea paused before the glass door, reaching into one of her pockets and fishing out a small bronze key. Although it didn’t have much of an antique appearance, its bow had been crafted to resemble one half of a pomegranate; the seeds packed inside were visible. If a mold hadn’t been used to make it, then the designing process must’ve been painstaking.
She slipped the pomegranate key’s biting cuts into the greenhouse’s doorknob, then turned it to the left. Once she heard a sharp, confirming click, Azalea held the door open, allowing The Newcomer to step inside.
They gaped in wonder, slowly turning in a circle to take in the beautiful controlled chaos. She chuckled at the sight of a killer-in-training looking like a kid in a candy store. As she worked with these plants on a regular basis, she’d gotten adjusted to the veritable explosion of color in here.
White baneberries resembled tiny eyeballs, and the red branches they sprouted from added to an eeriness factor. . .Hydrangeas gave off soft, soothing vibes; the way their blooms clustered together could almost remind one of popcorn balls. . . Angel’s trumpets were colored similarly to pale peaches. . .Larkspurs came in a lovely mixture of blue and purple. . .Bleeding hearts were vividly pink and hung from sinuous, gently-curling tendrils. . .
And that was just scratching the surface of Azalea’s collection.
The air in here was a bit more humid than the air outside, which seemed to make the various scents wafting off of the flora even stronger. Two of the four walls were adorned by wooden shelving, which in turn supported a few dozen flower pots that came in a plethora of shapes, sizes and colors (more past gifts from Caliban. He really knew how to make a horticulturist happy).
Some were kept in shade under suspended veils, and others nearly seemed to glow in the sunlight. Dew droplets clung to leaves here and there. A few baskets hung from the ceiling, almost identical to the decorations on lamp posts lining the streets downtown.
Azalea led The Newcomer over to a wide folding table at the head of everything. She set the owl-can down, then rummaged through the boxes stowed beneath said table, dragging out some basic gardening tools, a bunch of small plastic bowls, and a bag of soil. The Newcomer placed their journal and camera on one corner of the table, trying to take up as little space as possible.
“We’re gonna kill two birds with one stone.” Azalea donned some clean leather gloves. “I’ve got a job coming up this weekend, and today’s repotting day for some of the plants. So, while I’m taking care of them, you’re gonna help extract some of their poison. Sound good?”
The Newcomer nodded briskly, their eyes excited and unhinged. “Sounds great.”
Azalea grinned. “Let’s get to work, then.”
She stepped away from the table and surveyed the shelves, wondering which plant would be best to start with. She wound up choosing one specimen that was adorned by little rows of white, bell-shaped flowers dangling from thin stems. They looked like something a cartoon pixie might wear as a hat. Delicate. Innocent.
Azalea lifted its pot—which looked like a kodama sitting cross-legged—off the shelf and set it down on the table. “You know what these are?”
The Newcomer blinked at her, then cautiously leaned forward to get a closer look. Their features softened. The plant practically smelled the way it looked: sweet and fragile.
“. . .Snowdrops?” They eventually guessed.
Azalea shook her head. “Nope.”
“Ladybells?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Cassiope?”
“Close,” Azalea said, impressed, “but no. Give up?”
“Yeah,” The Newcomer admitted. Their tone was partially defeated, but still curious. “What are they?”
Azalea took one of the stems into her hand and held it away from the rest. “Lilies-of-the-valley,” she announced.
The Newcomer grabbed their Instax, kneeling in order to get a closeup on the flowers. Azalea looked the other way as they focused the lens.
Whrrrrrrrrr. . .SKRT-CLK!
A quick, sharp, bright light flashed at the press of a button. The camera softly hummed as The Newcomer stood up straight. A few seconds passed before a small photograph popped up through a slit on the camera’s side. The Newcomer pulled it out by one corner and carefully shook it up and down. The black rectangle in the center gradually filled with color.
Azalea offered a thumbs-up, which caused The Newcomer to beam as they taped the picture to a blank page in their journal.
As they wrote down and underlined the specimen’s name, Azalea wrapped one hand around the stems to bring them all together. She used her other hand to dig into the soil, gently lifting the lilies out and laying them down on the table. She separated two plants from the rest, pushing them and a pair of gardening scissors towards The Newcomer. “Just cut off the blossoms and put them in one of these bowls.”
The Newcomer took the tool into their hands, nodding enthusiastically.
While they went to work, Azalea took the kodama-pot outside and upended it over her compost mound, getting rid of the old, dry dirt. After that, she hurried back into the greenhouse and gathered the lilies up. She held them in the center of the kodama-pot, carefully pouring some fresh soil around them.
Once they had enough support, she gave them some water and returned the kodama-pot to its place on the shelves. Then, she glanced at the table and realized that The Newcomer had completed their task; one bowl was filled with the bell-shaped flowers.
“Two leaves are enough to make a target severely ill,” Azalea said. “If you’re looking for more fatal results, then you’ll need to use five of the flowers. Its berries can work just as well, but they only sprout around fall.”
The Newcomer paused at this, quickly jotting down notes beside the photograph. “How long does it take? What does the poison do to a person?”
“The symptoms can occur anywhere from two to twenty-four hours. It typically starts off with headaches and dizziness. But then there’s nausea, vomiting, and chest pain. Near the end, the target will experience an altered mental status, an irregular heart rate. . . .and, eventually, cardiac arrest.”
“Holy shit,” The Newcomer murmured, eyes widening in shock.
“Holy shit indeed,” Azalea said as she took another unique planter from the shelves.
This one was a mottled gray color, sculpted in the likeness of a wolf’s raised head. Its clay jaws were wide open and hollow; seven stems lined with dark purple, helmet-shaped flowers seemed to have sprouted from deep within the beast’s throat.
As Azalea carried it over to the table, The Newcomer looked up from their journal.
Their face lit up with recognition as they proclaimed, “Hey, I’ve seen those before! Wolfsbane!” Their uncertainty was made of some stern stuff, because it took no time at all for them to question, “Or. . .is the name monkshood? I’ve heard both, but—”
“It goes by both of those names,” Azalea interjected, “so, you’re right either way. Eating it will make your mouth go numb, your skin turn clammy, and cause awful stomach pain. And after that, a target can expect labored breathing and an irregular heartbeat. Just a two-milligram dose can kill within four hours.”
The Newcomer’s hands were nearly a blur as they readied their Instax. Once again, Azalea had to brace herself for the flash, but it wasn’t long before she was removing more old soil and leaving three of the wolfsbane plants out for The Newcomer.
“Every part is dangerous, but the roots are where this poison is at its strongest,” she explained. “You can take off the flowers if you want, but you don’t have to.”
“Got it,” The Newcomer stated, taping their new photograph to a fresh page in their journal. . .
___
“I still can’t believe I never thought to do my own research on the poinsettia myth,” The Newcomer stated. They were currently holding a calcite mortar-and-pestle, using it to grind some freshly-dried wolfsbane roots into a fine powder.
Azalea shrugged as she reduced a mound of belladonna berries to paste with a stainless steel masher. “I mean, it’s partially true. Those things are toxic, just not deadly. Besides, I can’t really blame people for wanting to keep their pets safe, y’know?”
The Newcomer hummed, nodding, probably thinking about the beloved dog they’d mentioned to their host a little while ago.
About twenty minutes had passed since Azalea’s greenhouse had returned to being silent and empty (aside from all the greenery it sheltered). Azalea found herself back in her kitchen, The Newcomer still by her side, the two of them working on the fruits of the harvest.
Oleander petals became liquified inside a food processor, and the lilies-of-the-valley met a similar fate thanks to a blender. Foxglove blossoms were being dried out inside a microwave oven, having replaced the wolfsbane’s roots just a moment ago.
“And the hemlock trick!” The Newcomer pronounced, eyes widening as their previous frustration vanished. “A flower that forces you to smile when you die? It’s crazy how something like that can actually exist!”
“Yeah, well, muscle constriction is a heck of a thing,” Azalea replied. “Too bad hemlock’s so traceable. Can’t really be used unless you’re sending a specific message.”
It was honestly delightful to have seen just how inquisitive The Newcomer really was. If she’d met them in normal society, she probably would’ve mistaken them for someone who still had the luxury of innocence.
The poison-preparation-process took almost no time at all. After lining up her used equipment by the sink, Azalea produced a box of glass vials that, while appropriately labeled, were empty. One by one, she handed a certain vial to The Newcomer, who paced around the kitchen to fill it with the right substance.
And as they were taking care of the last vial, The Newcomer suddenly stopped short.
“Why’re those in here instead of your greenhouse?” They asked, pointing over to the living room. “Are they not poisonous like the rest?”
Azalea raised an eyebrow, following their gaze and quickly understanding.
Just behind Azalea’s sofa, yet another planter sat in one corner of the front windowsill; it was in the shape of a human skull. Its teeth resembled tarnished brass, and purple spirals had been painted in the darkness of its eyesockets.
A hole had been carved out of the skull’s crown, and a healthy shrub currently protruded through said hole like an erupting geyser. Several lovely blossoms stood out against dark green leaves. The petals were a rich pink hue, funnel-shaped with a slightly rippled appearance.
The space in her house was very nicely furnished, but these were the only flowers that had apparently been grown in here rather than outside.
“Oh, no! They can definitely be life-threatening,” Azalea eventually answered. “I guess they’re just very special to me.”
“How so, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They contain grayanotoxins. So, their side effects range from blurred vision, vomiting, and low blood-pressure to convulsions, mild full-body paralysis, and even seizures.” Azalea strolled over to the skull-planter, reaching out to gently poke at the specimen’s petals. “All parts of it are deadly, although the leaves pack a serious wallop. But its real strength is in its nectar.”
“. . .Are you saying this plant’s honey can kill?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Azalea declared.
The Newcomer blinked before starting to laugh. “I guess that must be the easiest stuff for you to use, huh?
“Yes and no. I have special connections to the local flower shop, which means I can send these off to contracted beekeepers,” Azalea explained. “But honey harvested from these flowers tends to be dark red, so, kinda-sorta-extremely identifiable.”
“Ah. I can see how that might throw a wrench into certain plans,” The Newcomer agreed, wandering closer. “But how does the honey work?”
“After bees finish ingesting the nectar and secrete it into their hive’s combs, the water inside the honey will evaporate. That’ll make the toxins even more concentrated.” Azalea paused, grinning wickedly. “When consumed in large amounts, it generally does the same damage I just told you about. In smaller doses, let’s just say that the consumer’s gonna be. . .seeing things for a while.”
The Newcomer gawked at this. If their expression didn’t qualify for morbid fascination, nothing would. “Really? You mean. . .like a hallucinogenic?”
“It isn’t called Mad Honey for nothing.”
“Wow,” The Newcomer breathed.
“I know, right? And can you guess what the best part is. . ?”
“What?” The Newcomer stared at the gorgeous pink blossoms, no doubt wondering how this risky treat they’d just learned about actually tasted.
“The honey’s actually legal to sell in the states!”
“Nuh-uh! You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not!” Azalea chortled. “It’s prohibited in plenty of other nations, but here? It’s just expensive as all hell.”
The Newcomer still looked very much disbelieving, but the shock in their eyes soon morphed into something more thoughtful. They considered this information for a long few seconds.
They eventually remarked, “So. . .if you were to sell some Mad Honey to a target, as long as you played your cards right, their death would only be seen as a case of accidental overdose?”
Azalea jokingly clapped her hands, nodding and smirking. “I can see why Murdock decided to vouch for you.”
The Newcomer stayed quiet. They offered a small smile in response; it was hesitant at first, but an undeniable trace of madness could be seen.
Azalea reached over to clap them on the back, gently leading them back over to the kitchen. “Let’s get back to it. How’d you like to choose what I put in the cookie dough?”
Though The Newcomer seemed both excited and honored by the prospect, they suddenly stuttered, almost halting in their tracks.
That made Azalea give pause. “. . .Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Don’t worry,” The Newcomer blurted, shaking their head. “I just realized—I never got the name of those flowers.” They glanced over their shoulder at the skull-planter.
Azalea’s brief concern shifted back to unconventional happiness. “Oh, didn’t I say?” Her voice was coy, as she was well-aware that she hadn’t brought up the title at all. “They’re azaleas.”
@sammys-magical-au @neons-trash-blog @insane4fandoms @callmegkiddo @safe-hayven @themarpsimp
#my writing#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies#nerdy nummies egos#the newcomer#my characters#fanmade egos#my fan egos#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw descriptions of illegal business#tw talk of sickness#tw descriptions of pain/suffering#tw talks of death/dying#tw talk of eating/drinking#tw implied murder#tw poison#tw toxic chemicals#tw food#tw strong language
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If you’re up for it, can we see Azalea breaking Caliban out of that interrogation room? That one where his cravings are really bad and Aza poisons the guard and gets him out?
Oh, I'm definitely up for it! (By the way, are you the one who sent that original ask?) I hope you didn't mind the wait, but here it is! Enjoy!
(Trigger Warnings: implications of illegal business, murder/death, poisoning, descriptions of cravings/hunger pangs, blood, implied cannibalism, mentions of unconsciousness, mentions of drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
___
“Drink it. . .” Azalea’s voice was soft, just barely an octave above a whisper, and yet her words still came out in an impatient, acidic growl. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Drink it already, you son of a bitch!”
It was a well-known fact that mobsters tended to avoid police departments like the plague. Another well-known fact about mobsters was that they often worked in the dark. And as of right now, the local station was very dark, save for a few lights here and there.
That was why she, Murdock, and The Newcomer had snuck in just ten minutes ago. It’d been pure luck that they’d gotten here before the officers had returned to drag Caliban into one of the interrogation rooms.
Even if things had taken a turn for the worse, at least it’d been long after sunset. The station’s doors officially locked at five o’clock or so, but that didn’t always mean officers weren’t at work here. It did mean that there were far less of them to deal with—three in this case—so that was something.
She’d already taken care of the security cameras. . .
(Erasing video footage was pretty damn easy, so long as you knew which buttons to press.)
. . .Except for one.
She was fully prepared to knock off that camera’s evidence, mind you. That particular camera would be as good as belonging to an amateur vlogger soon.
Right now, however, it had to stay on.
It wasn’t like Azalea wanted to watch three pigs try to intimidate her brother, but last-minute plans like this had to be handled carefully.
“Has he taken a sip?” A hushed, familiar baritone voice called.
Azalea glanced over her shoulder to see Murdock slither into the office, having left his car’s trunk a bit heavier than before. It felt like only seconds had passed since he’d crept up behind the security guard, since he’d jerked that guard’s neck on a violent right-angle.
“Not yet.” Azalea chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I can accept someone deciding that they need coffee at this hour, but taking this long with it once you’ve got it? Ridiculous!”
The very second those officers had entered the building, Azalea had easily overheard the ringleader ordering one of his cronies to put a pot of coffee on.
Sure, coffee-makers always took time to prepare that addictive battery acid. And sure, policemen were always way, way too unobservant to be as revered as they were.
Still, it’d felt a little miraculous that Azalea had been able to sneak over to the station’s canteen, slip a cyanide pill into that pressed-bean-juice, let that pill fully dissolve, and stir it in before slinking back to the security office.
“. . .I mean, when was the last time you heard of a cop doing things efficiently?” Murdock inquired as he came to stand beside the chair Azalea had claimed. The remaining camera’s blue-glow light reflected off of his shades.
“Fair point,” Azalea admitted, sighing. “I just—I need him to die already.”
“So do I, so do I. One way or another, we’ll get Cal out of here,” Murdock promised. “It doesn’t matter if that asshole is one of those weirdos who likes his brew lukewarm. What matters is how long your little secret ingredient will need to take effect.”
“It should knock him out in less than a minute,” Azalea mused, “but depending on his weight, it’ll take two or four minutes for him to actually keel over.”
“Not too shabby,” Murdock hummed. “Newbie’s on the far corner of the building. They’re gonna set off a distraction on my signal. I’ll help them with an ambush when those two try to investigate.”
Azalea nodded. “Sounds good.”
A brief silence settled over the office as the two of them stared at the camera monitors.
They watched as Caliban slowly but surely began to shudder, making an effort not to squirm in his chair.
They watched as Caliban’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, as he immediately tried not to look at the photographs of blood-spattered crime scenes that the interviewing officer placed on the table.
They watched as Caliban grappled with not being able to reach up and wipe at the thin strands of saliva now rolling past his lips.
“Today was supposed to be a feeding day,” Murdock murmured, sounding equal parts frustrated and guilty while kneading at his forehead.
“You think I don’t know that?” Azalea replied in a somewhat pointed voice. She could already tell that Murdock knew just how furious she was right now, knew that she couldn’t be blamed for her anger-fear cocktail. “You’re gonna be making up for this for weeks.”
“I know I am,” Murdock answered, side-eyeing her right back. Unlike the majority of the time he spoke, there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his tone.
This wasn’t the first time a problem had come up during a job, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. Underground business was always risky, always dangerous. What happened earlier wasn’t exactly Murdock’s fault. . .but tonight’s little rendezvous had still been his idea.
But Murdock’s new debt had to be put on the back burner right now becAUSE OH GOD THE RINGLEADER-COP FINALLY DRANK SOME OF HIS FUCKING COFFEE HOLY SHIT THIS IS HAPPENING NOW!
“There! That’s it!” Azalea hissed, sitting up so violently that it was a wonder she didn't punch a hole in the monitor screen. “The others can’t see the side-effects! Go! Signal the distraction! Hurry!”
Murdock was out the office door and down the hall before his accomplice had even finished her sentence. The fact that he still managed to be mostly silent was as impressive as it would’ve been unsettling to outsiders.
Azalea’s hands were a blur now that she was finally able to clean out that last damn camera. The image on the monitor paused, flickering and blurring before clicking to blackness. With that, she ducked behind a nearby filing cabinet. The seconds jeered at her as they dragged by. And yet, just as she was about to start colorfully muttering to the void, she narrowly avoided jumping out of her skin as some kind of alarm came shrieking through the air.
Yelps of shock followed the distress call, as though the officers down the hall thought they could outdo whatever Murdock and The Newcomer had triggered. Azalea held her breath as muffled footsteps thundered past the security office’s closed door. She could’ve sworn that her heart skipped multiple beats as she was forced to wait for the right moment. Violent shudders wracked her body as she crept up to the threshold and peered through the gap.
As soon as the sound of a stampede faded, as soon as Azalea was sure that the officers had moved far enough away, most of her stealth was kicked to the curb (a few stubborn strands held on, but only because of instinct).
She bolted down the corridor, not caring one bit how there didn’t seem to be any air in her lungs. Through the alarm, through her own thundering pulse, she could still hear the dull thump of a hundred-odd pounds of something hitting linoleum.
She turned a corner, discovering two doors. One hung open; it probably would’ve drifted shut by now, but the heap of man lying in its path had other ideas. At first, the ringleader-cop could’ve just been mistaken for being sloppy-drunk, what with the way he twitched and gurgled. Foamy, blood-tinged drool leaked out of his mouth to form a puddle where his face met the floor.
It would’ve been impossible to enter the room without tripping over him, but Azalea kept her footing via stomping down on his neck. The choked, pathetic sputter she elicited sounded as though it’d come from somewhere much farther away.
Time seemed to slow down as Azalea raced over to the interview table, as she snatched up the paperclip that was keeping all those crime scene photos together. It was only after she’d picked the handcuffs open, when her brother’s arms limply fell to his sides, that she realized Caliban was slumped over the table, eyes closed.
He’d only fainted. Azalea knew he’d only fainted, and yet her eyes still stung as she shook his shoulder. Caliban’s breathing wasn’t weak, but it was shaky, labored. She’d seen all the stress and fear he’d had to go through, and she still couldn’t understand how an unconscious person could look so tense.
Azalea had to bare her teeth to avoid sobbing as she tried to coax him awake, as she struggled to lift him, because the people who tried to hurt him were dead and he wasn’t in danger anymore and she needed her brother—
She startled badly at the sound of rustling plastic. A scream caught in her throat as The Newcomer materialized before her. They mimicked Azalea, grabbing hold of Caliban’s other arm and draping it over their shoulders.
“Murdock’s handling the other two bodies,” they announced as they helped Azalea half-carry half-drag Caliban over the ringleader-cop (who was now wrapped up in a fresh body bag) and out of the interrogation room. “He said he’d take care of the one in here! We just need to focus on Cal!”
Azalea didn’t answer. Her head practically swam. She kept moving forward, but she wasn’t actually seeing whatever was in front of her. Old, awful memories were trapped in her vision, and if she wasn’t busy clinging to Caliban, she would’ve tried clawing at her eyes to force those memories out. The noise all around her made it so much worse.
Somehow, after Azalea eventually managed to blink, she briefly felt cool nighttime air against her skin. The blaring alarm hadn’t disappeared, but it was muffled enough that the telltale sound of a seat belt being buckled rang in her ears. She didn’t remember The Newcomer calling shotgun, but their gray eyes peered at her as they turned around in the passenger seat of Murdock’s car.
“I wiped down the security office,” they coughed. “On my way to you, I mean. Got rid of the handcuffs, too.”
“. . .Oh,” Azalea replied. “Well, good work. Thank you.” On one hand, she hadn’t even thought about fingerprints, and was impressed at The Newcomer’s thoroughness. On the other hand, she didn’t have the heart to remind The Newcomer that she’d been wearing her work gloves all night.
A small smile appeared on The Newcomer’s face. That smile died a quick death when a low, rolling, organic sound broke the awkward silence. Azalea didn’t flinch as she glanced over at Caliban, who had been sat down on the other side of the backseat.
Azalea felt her shoulders slump. She peered back and forth between Caliban and The Newcomer, who was trying (but failing) not to wince. Not that Azalea could really blame them. She’d had plenty of experience helping her brother with his hunger.
But The Newcomer. . .well, even if they’d adjusted to working with a cannibal, and even if Azalea only knew so much about their past, she still had her doubts that they’d ever heard a person’s stomach growl so loudly.
Azalea’s worry came back at breakneck speed. Thankfully, out of the corner of her eye, she spied something shiny and red lying in a heap on the car’s floor.
Her brother’s favorite jacket.
The same one that had interior pockets for days. . .
She snatched the threads up, quickly rummaging through aforementioned pockets until she fished out a small, rectangular bottle. It was shiny, having been designed with a marble-esque pattern that complimented the damascus material of Caliban’s favorite meat cleaver.
Azalea twisted the little cap off, allowing a strong, metallic, infamous smell to seep into the air. She moved closer to Caliban, reaching up to gently take hold of his lower jaw and tilt his head back. Then, she raised the vial to his lips—her hand was still shaking, so it was a wonder how none of the processed blood dripped onto his face.
She heard The Newcomer declare that Murdock was finally leaving the station, heard them get out of the car with the same speed as a cat with a violent case of the zoomies. And while it would’ve been very funny to watch Murdock struggle to carry three full bodybags in a manner similar to a dad refusing to take more than one unloading trip, she wouldn’t take her focus off of Caliban.
Though Caliban’s eyes remained closed, instinct still kicked in (with a little help from gravity, of course). One massive twitch shuddered through his whole body. His brow furrowed as a cough forced its way out of his throat.
“Shh. . .deep breaths, Cal. Deep breaths,” Azalea coached. “Drink.”
A few seconds passed the siblings by.
Then, as the car began to tremble in response to a frustrated hitman bodyslamming its trunk, Caliban’s eyes fluttered open.
“. . .Aza. . ?” he muttered.
And just like that, Azalea grinned at him. All the dread she’d felt up until now. . .something else came along and ate it up. “You owe me big time.”
Caliban squinted at her, obviously still attempting to convince his body to work again, but it took no time at all for him to grin right back.
It didn’t last, as he and his sister yelped in tandem when the car suddenly lurched forward, the tires underneath squealing in excitement.
“Well, that can count as our cardio for the week,” Murdock pronounced, reaching over to clap The Newcomer on the shoulder. He then glanced over his shoulder to peer at his other two accomplices. “How’s it going, Cal?”
“I don't know. How the hell do you think it's going?" Caliban snarked as he leaned back in his seat.
Seeing that her brother was probably coherent enough to do things for himself, Azalea slipped the vial into his hand. Her prediction was confirmed when he immediately took a swig of blood.
Murdock smirked. “That’s a weird way of saying ‘thank you,’ but I’ll take it.”
“Listen, do you know what it feels like to be hungry right now?” Caliban asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “It hurts. Not as much as last month’s target, but it hurts. So I’ll thank you when I’m not so damn hungry, okay?”
“Okay,” Murdock agreed after a second of consideration.
“I mean, there are four dead people crammed in the back. . .” The Newcomer mentioned
Caliban’s eyes lit up at that.
“Ah, you can’t eat any of them, though,” Azalea interjected, offering an apologetic cringe as her brother automatically pouted. “Hey, look, I’m sorry, but you know the drill when it comes to cops. We’ve gotta go the old-fashioned route for disposal—”
“Because the DNA of important public figures can’t be traced anywhere near us. I know, I know,” Caliban finished, sighing. However, his disappointment still didn’t stop him from pulling Azalea into a side hug, which she was quick to reciprocate.
#the edgelord gets fed#writing requests#my characters#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#egopats#the newcomer#murdock/murderplier#iswm murdock#markiplier#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#tw blood#tw cravings/hunger pangs#tw implied cannibalism#tw murder/death#tw poisoning#tw mentions of drinking
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What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?
(Disclaimer: only two of the characters in this story belong to me. I’ve recently made a sister for my dear cannibal boi, and this is my first story involving her, so go here for context. If you’ve read my stuff, then you’ve probably gotten to know the aforementioned cannibal boi by now, but just in case, go here to learn more about him. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob that these two work for, go here. )
(Much appreciation to @sammys-magical-au for not only allowing me to have their very own Louise Editor—go here and here for more information about her—make a cameo, but also for helping me come up with a name for the mob that I plan to grow and write much, much more about in the future!)
(Also, just to clarify: I don’t really have a timeline set up, but this story takes place before my other stories involving Caliban.)
(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, poisoning/descriptions of toxic chemicals, blood, descriptions of illegal business, implied animal abuse, descriptions of eating, slight mentions of cravings/hunger pangs, implied cannibalism, mentions of past abuse, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
The chatter of patrons and the miscellaneous clinks of silverware greeted Azalea like old friends as she pushed the kitchen’s aluminum door open. She maneuvered around tables, nodding to the waitstaff as she passed by. The customers paid her no mind; after all, she was just another employee going about the daily grind, wasn’t she?
Aftertaste was by no means a cramped establishment. Despite this, it wasn’t at all uncommon for the restaurant to get very crowded, considering how good the food was. Fortunately, the building had come equipped with two staircases.
Azalea soon found herself ascending the first, which was located in the main dining room. (The second one was in the kitchen, leading down to one of many old subway office-platforms, hidden behind a false wall that only she and a select few other staff members knew about.)
The second floor boasted a smaller-scale room (which, admittedly, hadn’t been used at all before the building fell into The Boss’ possession). Shortly after she’d been put in charge of this restaurant, Azalea had tidied up the second floor and included it in advertisements; since it was sequestered from Aftertaste’s typical hustle and bustle, it could be reserved for private parties and the like.
On certain occasions, it could also be used for more. . .important matters.
At the top of the stairs, a door was waiting patiently for her. Azalea gave a foreshadowing knock, then slipped across the threshold and closed the door as quickly as she’d opened it.
A lone figure sat at a table in the corner; a bit of a local superstar, to be more precise, with a head of perfectly-gelled black hair and eyeliner sharp enough to rival some of the knives in the kitchen. Azalea had seen this person’s photograph on posters around the city, advertising drag races at the clubs downtown and queen storytimes at the bookstores uptown. She gazed at Azalea with wide, dark eyes, clearly startled by her sudden entrance.
“Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Azalea offered a small wave as she approached the table. “Have you been enjoying your order?”
The drag queen shook off her surprise with impressive speed.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, revealing a thick Portuguese accent. The wine she’d requested earlier swirled as she gently shifted the glass in her hand. Less than half of a serving of tiramisu remained on the plate in front of her. “I think I’ll need your catering for one of my events sometime.”
“You’re too kind,” Azalea replied. Slyness crept into her calm smile as she took a seat on the opposite end of the queen’s table. “But I was told you have some different business to discuss. So, for now, let’s focus on that.”
Azalea couldn’t be sure what this queen had heard or where she’d heard it. However, that didn’t matter quite yet. What mattered was that, according to one of her in-the-know employees, she’d carefully used some distinct wording when she’d made the call to reserve the entire second floor, when she’d asked to speak with Azalea in private.
She obviously wasn’t just another customer.
She was a potential client.
The queen stared at Azalea for a long, tense moment. The anxiety in her eyes was clear as crystal, but that didn’t take away from just how determined her expression was. She sighed and nodded, fishing through the purse that was hanging on her chair to produce a small folder. She then reached across the table, offering it to Azalea.
“I’ve tried less extreme options, but nothing has worked. Nobody is willing to take this issue seriously,” she declared as her host opened the folder, uncovering several photographs that came in varying degrees of quality. “Name your price, and I’ll pay it. . .”
___
Azalea parked her car near the entrance of the cul-de-sac, right around the street corner. Not too far from her destination, but not too close, either. True, there were only a couple other houses near the one she needed to enter (this was one of those oddly spacious neighborhoods), but she wasn’t about to test just how nosey her target’s neighbors were. She moved quickly and quietly as she approached one of the larger houses, holding a small black box close to her chest.
There was no such thing as a perfect place. Every city, no matter the population or location, had its issues. The severity of those issues depended on who you asked. When it came to the Cove Port Inlets, basic criminal activity wasn’t too prevalent. But then, that was just on the surface level (figuratively and literally).
Despite its underground reputation, The Pentas Family was well-camouflaged among the more legal aspects of the Inlets. Rumors did trickle through, of course, but they were easy to manage. In fact, sometimes rumors were even welcomed: not only could they alert the mob’s representatives to potential threats, but they could occasionally pave the way for those representatives to take on a job.
As she grew closer, Azalea noticed how blinds had been twisted shut on the other side of the front windows. There was no light peeking through the aforementioned blinds. To the average person, this would’ve been a sign that the house was empty. Azalea, however, was undeterred. She knew someone was home, and she knew that they were expecting a visitor.
She climbed up a small set of concrete stairs, coming to a halt at the front door. She knocked three times, then took a step back and waited, drumming her nails on top of her cargo. A couple moments dragged by before the door creaked open, revealing her latest target on the other side.
“Good timing. I was starting to think your boss was just giving me the runaround,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
Azalea had known who this man was before her current client had hired her. Hell, she (and her associates) probably knew more about him than most of the people he was actually familiar with. But she didn’t bother thinking of his name.
Like the majority of people, he was much taller than Azalea (who, even with heels on, was quite petite). And like so many before him, he immediately made a show of looking down at her.
In the back of her mind, Azalea added this to the pile of mistakes the target had already made.
“We don’t do things halfway around here,” Azalea answered. Though she smiled politely, the look in her eyes made it clear that she was neither intimidated nor amused. “And I know we weren’t giving off the wrong vibes when you first came to see us.”
Calling hit-jobs complex would be an understatement. Although word spread fast along the illicit grapevine, clients could still have some level of control over what information contract killers had on their targets. Disturbingly high salaries (and disregard for morals) aside, one could not simply kill another person without knowing anything about them. If someone was willing to pay for a death, there always had to be a reason or two for it. . .
The target hummed at this, ever-so-slightly furrowing his brow. “Well, your boss didn’t give off the vibe of someone who’d have some half-pint running her deals for her.”
. . .Not that that was a problem right now. There were more than enough reasons for Azalea to complete tonight’s job.
“First of all, I was in the same room as you during your meeting with The Boss; unless it’s for something very personal, she always includes us in decision-making. I can get why you might not have noticed me, but it’s still not my fault if you aren’t as observative as you think you are,” Azalea retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Second of all, we rotate between these kinds of assignments, because that’s how things actually get accomplished. And third of all: who the hell are you calling a half-pint? I’ve been in the business probably five times longer than you have.”
“Well, if part of your ‘assignment’ is to convince me of something, then you aren’t doing a very bang-up job,” the target sneered.
Azalea barked a laugh. “You think I’m the one who needs to be convincing here? You seemed pretty damn desperate during your first elevator pitch with us.”
The target responded to this by leaning forward and glowering in a very unpleasant way. He was dangerously close to getting in Azalea’s face, but she defied yet another one of his expectations by not flinching at all.
“Look,” Azalea said pointedly, signaling just how thin her patience was wearing. “The Boss sent me because she’s thinking of giving this another chance. But if you’d rather just throw that chance away. . .”
The uncomfortable starting contest continued for a few more seconds. Azalea immediately noticed a spark of panic mixing into the target’s anger. He knew he was about to screw himself out of something he wanted a second time. He knew she was right, that she had the upper-hand here, and he was furious about it.
(And knowing that really helped to calm Azalea’s frustration.)
Eventually, the target moved to the side, closing the door behind Azalea as she strolled in. He then quietly led her through the house, and while she followed along, she subtly scanned this new environment. A few lights were on in the nearby rooms, so her eyes adjusted quickly.
This place offered several indicators that the target was rather well-off; plenty of furniture, various expensive-looking knicknacks strewn about, and the size of the house in general. However, none of that changed the fact that this place was also kind of a pigsty.
Stains dotted the carpet here and there (some were at least semi-cleaned, while others had simply been hidden in a way that just made them more obvious). There were also strange indents along the edges of the walls (a few of which were clearly scratch marks that obviously hadn’t been produced by a human).
Soon, the two of them came upon what Azalea assumed was the dining room table. The target took a seat at the end, motioning for Azalea to follow suit. Once she settled down on one of the chairs, she placed the black box on the tabletop and pushed it closer to the target. Getting the message, the target reached out and lifted the lid to reveal a small assembly of cinnamon rolls.
His features were etched with a look of surprise. He glanced at Azalea curiously. “. . .What’s this supposed to be?”
“A peace-offering,” Azalea announced, lying straight through her teeth. “We might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, but that shouldn’t have to affect business.”
The target’s eyes grew wider, tension quickly draining away to be replaced with more ignorant assumptions. “That’s awfully kind of you.” With that, he fished one of the cinnamon rolls out of the box and took a bite.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Azalea had to stifle a laugh as she watched the target make two more mistakes. She leaned back in the chair, a timer starting in her head, careful to keep her expression neutral.
“So,” the target pronounced, his voice semi-muffled by the treat. “You guys are finally opening negotiations?”
“We might be.” Azalea shrugged. “Might. There’s been a lot of stuff on our plate lately, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“I get that,” the target chuckled. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta be picky, right?”
“Right.” Azalea nodded, smirking at the irony.
The Pentas Family wasn’t the only mob the Inlets had to offer (though it often seemed to be the only mob whose members actually knew what they were doing). There were a couple embarrassing street gangs here and there, but they never lasted very long. A few lone thugs wandered into the area, but they tended to have a bad habit of vanishing without a trace.
It was rare for another actual crime family to try and compete.
Rare, but not impossible.
“This is delicious, by the way,” the target admitted, having gone through more than half of the cinnamon roll in his hand. “Did you make these?”
“Yeah, I did. They were fresh out of the oven before I made my way over here, ” Azalea beamed. “When The Boss organized her turf, she ended up assigning me to Aftertaste. So, I had to act accordingly.”
(For the record, she knew the target was only being more polite because of the deal he thought was at stake. But she also knew that she was one of the best chefs in town, and there was no shame in taking praise for that.)
“Well, I hope you know that baked goods won’t be the most sufficient payment.” Surprise soon left the target’s expression. After he swallowed the last bite of the cinnamon roll, his smile became condescending once again. “If your family actually gets around to starting this partnership, that is.”
“You and your guys weren’t exactly invited to this area,” Azalea deadpanned. “You can’t blame us for not accepting your offers right off the bat.”
The target rolled his eyes. “Rumor has it that your crew has already entered an alliance with someone else. So we figured asking you to work with us would be doing you a favor on top of that.”
Azalea folded her arms across her chest. “Whether or not we’ve already got allies isn’t the point. The point is that our business doesn’t correlate with yours, and if that’s not enough of a hint, then nothing is. The only reason The Boss is considering changing her mind is because she’s a lot more mature than most people with power.”
“Since when does correlation matter?” The target pressed. “There’s strength in numbers, and our respective trades are both lucrative as all hell. Shouldn’t that be what matters here?”
Azalea raised her eyebrows at him. The target was acting just as entitled as he had been during that last-minute meeting a few weeks ago. Azalea had been sure that The Boss would’ve just assigned her or Murdock or one of The Pentas Family’s other representatives to bump him off. The fact that Azalea’s client had come complaining about the target’s business practices so soon afterwards was just a lucky coincidence.
“You’ve said so before,” Azalea eventually sighed. “That your little hustle is worth all the risks it comes with. You’ve said it, but you haven’t really done much to prove it.”
She reminded herself that the timer was still ticking. She’d only have to deal with this guy for five more minutes or so. She just had to keep an eye out for the signs.
“You think I’d be so insistent on negotiating if I didn’t have the goods to show for it?” The target scoffed, clearly frustrated at how Azalea had called him out so blatantly. He was probably trying to convince himself that, somehow, she still didn’t actually know what she was talking about. “I’m not like the dumbass wannabes you’re used to. I’ve got more than enough proof of what my deal could do for your posse.”
Azalea leaned forward, tilting her head to the side in a challenging manner. “Then let’s see that proof.”
The target pursed his lips before nodding. He rose from his seat, breaking eye-contact so quickly that it was obviously on purpose. Azalea got up, once again trailing him as he retreated further into the house.
He led her down one hallway to a door that boasted a comical number of locks. After the target disengaged said locks, he pulled the door open to unveil a staircase, which he and Azalea quietly descended (Azalea made sure to stay behind him).
It took no time at all for the stench to punch Azalea in the face. She didn’t stop moving forward. At least, not until she and the target reached the foot of the stairs.
There was no carpeting to cover the concrete floor, and many of the walls were bare and without insulation. Despite being so unfinished, the target’s basement was roomy. Almost as roomy as The Pentas Family’s dens in the abandoned subway tunnels. And the target had definitely taken advantage of that space.
Several cages were scattered about, coming in a variety of sizes, materials. . .and contents. Many of the creatures being contained obviously hadn’t been born in the States. The noise they made wasn’t so cacophonous as it was depressing.They shuffled behind bars, cowering back, attempting to cover their eyes. They were all obviously cramped and in pain.
“Well?” The target asked smugly. “How’s all this for proof?”
“It’s. . .more than I expected,” Azalea answered honestly. She took a few subtle deep breaths, feeling her fingernails dig into her palms.
Among the many types of illegal business, exotic animal trafficking had never been very respected. Oh sure, you could make a fortune off of selling something that should either be out in the wild or in a zoo, but it was never as simple as that. It caused too many problems for the payoff to really be worth it. Especially since the clientele for that particular trade was frequently composed of rich assholes who wouldn’t know responsibility if it jumped up and went for their jugulars.
Azalea glanced at the target. Her anger cooled down a bit as she noticed beads of sweat collecting on his brow at a suspiciously fast rate.
“How exactly is this going to work?” Azalea inquired, gesturing towards the cages. She didn’t need (or want) to know, but now that the target was officially where she wanted him, she had to keep him distracted.
“That depends on my clients, really.” The target shrugged. The movement seemed casual, but Azalea could instantly tell that he was a bit shakier than he had been before. “Most of ‘em typically want a pelt, though I have gotten orders for complete taxidermy before. And that’s not even mentioning the crackpots who think blood or feathers or bone marrow or what-the-fuck-ever can cure diseases.”
“Oh, really? I always thought some people just wanted a special pet to brag about.”
“No, I do occasionally sell live specimens,” the target explained. He paused to clear his throat before continuing. “But it’s uncommon for most animals to actually make it this far. I guess some of the ones in this batch are just tougher than what I’m used to.”
His lip curled into a cruel smile, though it was wavering. His eyes glistened, suddenly looking very puffy and red around the edges. Confusion briefly crossed his features, along with anxiety that he attempted to hide.
Azalea blinked innocently, acting as though she hadn’t been carefully watching the target up until now. “Is everything alright? It looks like something’s bothering you.”
“Ah, no. I-I’m fine,” the target stammered, raising a hand to knead at his forehead. “Business just. . .takes a lot out of you, right?”
Azalea hummed, nodding in a way that was understanding but not at all sympathetic. “Well, I appreciate you taking the time for this little visit. But I still don’t think we’ll be able to open negotiations.”
The target did a neck-snapping double-take. “W-what?”
“You heard me. I’m not convinced that my family should start working with you. And if The Boss were here, I doubt she’d be convinced, either.”
“Why?” The target’s voice was louder than he’d probably wanted it to be. Azalea wasn’t sure if that’d been caused by his arrogant temper or the side-effects. “I’ve already told your boss about the prices that can be expected! You literally just asked to see what I had in store! How the fuck can you not see the benefits here?”
“Like I said before: our businesses aren’t compatible,” Azalea replied tersely. “We made that very clear the first time you tried making a deal. But apparently you thought screwing around in The Boss’ territory would somehow sway her opinion.”
The target sputtered at this, grinding his teeth as his face contorted into a furious scowl. He made to say something else—well, he was probably just going to start spewing insults—but Azalea cut him off via shaking her head.
“See, that’s another reason why my family doesn’t want anything from your group. You just can’t be professional.” Azalea paused, glancing at the cages again. “Besides, you guys only specialize in your trade, and the performance is sloppy at best. My family is all about variety; no two of us carry out business the same way.”
The target blinked, then barked a mirthless, disbelieving laugh. “Your boss just took ‘expect the unexpected’ and ran with it? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Azalea grinned. The target must’ve gotten so worked up that he didn’t even realize how hoarse his voice had gotten, how close he was to slurring his words. “I really don’t understand why so many people don’t have faith in that kind of work. I mean, you didn’t hesitate to eat from that little box I brought. . .”
The target froze in place. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth gaped open like a suffocating fish.
Then, as if on cue, he doubled over, clearly not having expected whatever pain he was now feeling. His breathing became ragged, his body as a whole shuddered in an odd way. He let out a strangled gasp; when he tried to straighten his posture, he went sprawling to the floor, his hands not instinctively flying out to break his fall like they should have.
The convulsions grew steadily stronger. The target’s efforts to regain his balance were obvious, but it seemed like some invisible force was pinning him down.
“No one would ever expect batrachotoxin to have a sweet flavor,” Azalea pronounced. “I mean, I certainly didn’t at first, but research proves otherwise.”
She took a few steps closer, now looming over the man who’d towered over her just a moment ago. The target was coughing and choking now, blood-tinged mucus leaking out of his mouth. The veins in his neck were now distended in an awful way, more or less threatening to literally pop out of his skin.
“What was that you said earlier?” She asked. “Something about being a dumbass wannabe?”
Her tone wasn’t low or dangerous. Rather, it remained as chipper and casual as it had been for most of this interaction. And that automatically made her more terrifying than she’d been given credit for.
As he was no longer capable of speaking coherently, the target could do nothing but gawk in total horror. For good measure, Azalea didn’t stop staring down at him until his watery eyes eventually rolled back into his head. He still had yet to go completely limp—some of his joints kept twitching—but there was no saving him now.
Azalea lightly shook her head, fished her cellphone out of her pocket. She tapped at the screen, making sure for probably the thousandth time now that her conversations, whether by text or call, were shielded. The Boss had pulled a helluva lot of strings to ensure that those working for her wouldn’t have to worry about being recorded, but it never hurt to double-check.
Once she was satisfied, Azalea dialed a certain number, then held the device to her ear.
The phone had barely started ringing when someone on the other end picked up, though there was silence for a good five seconds or so.
“. . .Is it done?” Inquired a familiar voice.
“Sure is,” Azalea stated, figuring her client had just been bracing herself. She couldn’t really blame said client for needing to do so, considering what she was calling about.
“Good.” The client sighed. Surprisingly enough, her apparent nervousness didn’t seem to overshadow the relief in her tone. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so quickly.”
Azalea chuckled. “We try our best to be efficient.”
“Are there any animals in the house?”
“Yes, quite a few. I had to bide my time to make sure the poison properly took effect. So, I goaded him into showing me where he’s been keeping them,” Azalea explained. “Why do you ask?”
“You said that some of your colleagues would come by once the job was done. Would they be adverse to. . .picking up those animals?”
“Well, that depends: what exactly do you expect the cleanup crew to do with them?” Azalea asked, both curious and suspicious.
“I was hoping they could be taken to Wild Things Rescue. I have connections to that place.” The client explained, meaning the endangered species sanctuary on the northside of town. Then, probably having remembered how she’d been sworn to secrecy, she hurriedly added, “A-and I can make sure that the employees won’t find out about my deal with you! All I’m asking is for the animals to be dropped off at the shelter; I’ll take care of the rest from there. I’m willing to pay more if I need to.”
“Whoa, slow down,” Azalea announced. “I don’t think an extra charge will be necessary.”
“You won’t have—wait, what?” The client had obviously been caught off guard. “Are—are you serious. . ?”
“I am.” Azalea paced around the dead man on the floor. “This guy already had a price on his head; your patronage just sweetened that deal. Besides, you didn’t skimp on the original fee. So, I might as well help you out one more time.” She looked over the caged creatures and felt her face drop. There were a couple panda cubs, a few wolf pups, a pangolin, and even a tiny white tiger. And that was just what the cages immediately in front of her had to offer. “Just because your heart’s in the right place.”
“Oh.” The client stayed quiet for a long moment.
Though Azalea didn’t have a problem with the client’s confused relief, she was still on the clock. Plus, awkward silences weren’t really her thing. “Cleanup’s already on their way, but I’ll bring ‘em up to speed once they’re here. They know this city inside-out, so they won’t have trouble getting to the sanctuary. Can you meet them there?”
The client cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I absolutely can.”
“Perfect. It’ll take them some time to erase everything here. You should be able to expect them within an hour or so.”
“I’ll be ready,” the client promised. And, despite being able to tell so much just from her voice, Azalea still couldn’t imagine the look in the client’s eyes when she said, “. . .Thank you. For everything.”
With that, a loud click sounded on the other end before the call went completely silent.
After Azalea returned her phone to her pocket, her eyes landed on a cage at the end of the row. Unlike all the others, it was empty, and its wire door hung open. Azalea took a closer look and quickly realized that the latch on the cage’s door was somewhat bent, as well as covered in scratches and grooves.
Something must have gnawed on that latch until it finally gave way. . .
Out of nowhere, the silence was broken by a series of shuffling noises. Automatically tense, Azalea gazed around the basement. She carefully reached into one of the pockets in her vest, wrapping her hand around a small syringe.
(An emergency dose of bullet ant venom. It was one of the very few things in her collection that wasn’t actually lethal, but having it in your system was agonizing enough to make you wish it was.)
She soon discovered a large hole in the wall to her left: an empty, unfinished door frame. Azalea chewed her lip, then maneuvered herself around the cages. The shuffling grew louder and louder as she came to hover in the frame.
This sideroom wasn’t much better than the rest of the basement. A desk had been positioned there, supporting a laptop and cluttered stacks of paper and folders. Beside it stood a tripod, complete with a large camera that was aimed at a white sheet on the floor. (This must have been how the target advertised the animals he trafficked. Once you had some quality photos of your wares, all you had to do was post them somewhere online and start taking bids.)
Across the room from this setup, a refrigerator stood in the corner. Its door hung ever-so-slightly ajar, allowing a strip of bright, artificial light to peek out. The sounds of something scratching against plastic echoed from within.
Azalea paused, chewing her lip. Now sure that she wouldn’t have to deal with one of the target’s cronies, she released her hold on the syringe
She inched towards the fridge, moving slowly and quietly. She didn’t plan on opening it all the way—her instincts just demanded that she get a look at whatever was inside.
Once the device was within touching distance, Azalea leaned down, craning her neck to peer through the crack in the door. She soon came to the conclusion that maybe her instincts should’ve just screwed off this one time.
A pale blur erupted out of the fridge, accompanied by a loud, gravelly hiss. Azalea let out a small scream and staggered back, nearly losing her balance. While catching her breath, she watched the creature dart away from her, soon backing into the opposite corner, still hissing as it thumped one of its hind legs against the floor.
Now that it was standing still, Azalea could see this thing for what it was: a hare (admittedly, she’d thought it was a rabbit at first, but then she remembered the differences between them).
Its fur was white. Azalea immediately thought it had to be one of those arctic species, but as she continued examining it, she realized that wasn’t the case. The tips of the hare’s long ears lacked black spots. Azalea’s mind went to albinism, but that couldn’t be right either. The hare’s eyes weren’t pink—their hue looked like a combination of hazel and gold. Like deep, dark amber.
Azalea knew there was another mutation that made animals white when they probably weren’t meant to be, but she couldn’t start racking her brain for the exact term.
Because by now, she’d finally noticed how the fur around the hare’s mouth and forepaws was stained red.
She glanced back at the fridge. Now that the door was wide open, she had a perfect view of all the packages lining the shelves. They each contained varying cuts of raw meat; probably what the target had been using to feed those animals. One of them was laying on the floor—it must have fallen out when Azalea startled the hare. The plastic wrap had clearly been torn open by small teeth, leaving the ground beef inside partially uncovered.
“I didn’t know you guys could eat meat,” Azalea said as she put two and two together. She had no idea why she’d just decided to start talking to the hare. It wasn’t like it could answer her. “. . .Are you hungry?”
And what kind of question was that? Of course the hare was hungry. Why else would it have climbed into a refrigerator to eat some raw meat?
Azalea lightly shook her head, attempting to calm those nagging questions. She worked for a mob full of contract-killers. This was pretty normal compared to some of the stuff she’d done before.
She stooped down to pick up the package. She saw how the hare’s eyes followed the ground beef, wide and hopeful. But as she took a step forward, its ears flattened as it let out a strange, high-pitched growl.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Azalea called softly. She held out her free hand in a calm gesture. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” After that, she plucked a piece of meat from the package and lightly tossed it forward. It landed in front of the hare, who hesitated before wolfing it down.
The hare immediately went back to staring and hissing at Azalea, but that didn’t deter her. She kept sending little bits of ground beef the hare’s way, slowly moving towards it all the while.
Sooner or later, she slowly lowered herself into a sitting position beside the hare. She took yet another chunk of ground beef into the palm of her hand, and then rested that hand on the floor.
The hare warily looked back and forth between her and the offering. Eventually, it claimed the treat—its little teeth nicked the skin of Azalea’s palm, but she stayed still. The hare probably hadn’t meant to bite her; now that she was so much closer to it, Azalea could see just how badly it was shaking.
It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that a person who trafficked animals wouldn’t care enough about said animals to treat them properly, but watching the hare shiver and hesitate. . .
It wasn’t just malnourished. It was afraid.
It hadn’t just been underfed. It had been abused.
And just like that, Azalea finally realized why this seemingly random animal had struck such a chord with her. Oh sure, she’d always been an animal-lover, but the hare specifically reminded her of someone.
Someone who she’d grown up with.
Someone who, like her, had been the subject of cruelty for the majority of his childhood.
Someone whose developing appetite had made the neglect he’d experienced so much worse.
Someone she’d smuggled food to whenever she’d gotten the chance. . .
Azalea felt her eyes start to burn. She swallowed a lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she quietly set the package down in front of the hare. This time, the hare didn’t hold back. It attacked the ground beef with newfound vigor, its little teeth audibly snapping.
Despite the painful memories now circulating through her head, Azalea chortled at the sight. “You’re kind of like a little snare-trap, huh?”
Another couple minutes dragged by before Azalea raised a hand and cautiously pushed it toward the hare.
The hare froze mid-bite, jerking its head to stare up at her, its amber eyes still full of stress. Azalea kept her movement even as her fingertips brushed the hare’s soft, white fur.
The hare flinched, but it didn’t try to run off like she’d expected.
Azalea repeated that action, slowly but surely stroking the hare’s back. Sooner or later, the hare went back to eating. It didn’t resist the petting, didn’t hiss, didn’t try to bite Azalea.
Time just seemed to slow down as Azalea sat there, watching the hare, hoping that comforting it would make the horrible ache in her heart go away.
She was so busy calming herself down that she almost didn’t notice how the hare had suddenly abandoned its meal in favor of sidling up to her, leaning into her touch.
It reared back on its hind legs and braced its paws against her shoulder, then proceeded to push its muzzle against her neck. It wasn’t shaking anymore.
With her eyebrows now on a collision course for Mars, Azalea gently gathered the hare up in her arms, being as delicate as humanly possible. The hare didn’t resist this, and she felt a delighted smile materialize on her face.
She knew she couldn’t keep the hare. It wasn’t like The Boss prohibited her associates from having pets, but Azalea already owned Cuddles. She simply didn’t have enough time or space for another animal.
And in spite of that, Azalea had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter how accidental this encounter was. It didn’t matter how ridiculous it was for her to adopt an animal that just so happened to be in the place where she’d killed a person no more than ten minutes ago.
“I think I might have a friend for you,” Azalea told the hare, her smile growing wider.
The hare, of course, didn’t respond. But the way it tilted its head at Azalea’s words was encouraging enough.
___
Azalea may have loved decorating as much as the next gal, but after she’d cleaned all the old junk out of her secret underground den, she just hadn’t really felt the need to embellish it beyond the necessities.
To the right of the concrete passageway, a huge storage cabinet took up space against the wall. Similarly to one or two of the cupboards in Aftertaste’s kitchen, it was full to bursting with bottles and jars that came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.
The only difference was that the stuff in these containers couldn’t be used in cooking unless Azalea planned to kill someone. (Which, to be fair, was a scenario she found herself in quite regularly.) A few boxes could be found at the bottom of the cabinet; they stored things like syringes and transportation vials.
Right next to the poison cabinet was a mahogany bookcase. Its shelves were inhabited by various chronicles about cooking, baking, hazardous chemicals and how they affected the human body, stuff like that.
She’d also brought a couple tables down here. One was in the corner, currently supporting Cuddles’ terrarium and heat-lamp. The other was in the center of the room (along with a couple chairs), a base for harvesting, or experimenting, or whatever Azalea found herself needing to do when it came to working with poisons.
Right now that table would’ve been completely vacant, if not for the hare, who was currently trying to pace around on it in order to get a better view of this new environment.
“Hey, c’mon. Can’t you hold still for a few more seconds?” Azalea asked, gently keeping the hare in place.
She’d taken one of the hand towels from the restaurant’s kitchen and soaked it in warm water. She was now using it to carefully scrub at the hare’s fur, cleaning off the blood that had been caked around his mouth and paws. For the most part, the red stains had disappeared. There were just a few more specks left, but the hare apparently thought he’d stayed in one spot long enough.
Cuddles, who was loosely coiled around Azalea’s neck, ever-so-slightly leaned toward the hare, angling her head curiously. Her forked tongue flicked in and out of her mouth like a party favor. The hare returned Cuddles’ gaze, his twitching nose somehow adding to the strangely thoughtful look in his eyes.
Azalea knew it usually wasn’t the best idea to have a snake in the same room with a small mammal. However, that didn’t change the fact that scarlet kingsnakes only grew big enough to be a danger to things like mice and rats. And, since the hare was definitely much larger than either of those things, Cuddles couldn’t really do anything to harm him. Besides, she wasn’t nearly as aggressive as most people with ophidiophobia would probably suggest
“You must be pretty excited, huh?” Azalea asked the hare. “I don’t blame you—just wait until you see your actual new home.”
Make sure you have a Plan B, chided a voice in Azalea’s head. There’s still a chance that this won’t work out the way you’re hoping.
Azalea had to bite back a sigh at the thought. Logically speaking, she knew she couldn’t really expect Caliban to just randomly take a new pet home tonight. Especially since she hadn’t mentioned a potential new pet in the text she’d sent him ten minutes ago.
She knew he was on his way here, and that made her simultaneously eager and anxious.
Even so, she still had a good feeling about her plan. She knew her brother better than anyone on planet Earth; hell, he’d said that himself on more than one occasion.
Almost immediately after Azalea had finally restored the hare’s fur to its pure white hue, the door across the room lightly shook as knuckles rapped against it on the other side.
“Speak of the devil,” she murmured, rising from her chair.
Just to be sure, Azalea took a quick peek through the window at the platform outside. After that, she stood before the door, her hand on the knob. “Who is it?”
“It’s the pizza guy,” replied a voice that was as familiar as it was muffled, both lighthearted and sarcastic. “Who do you think it is?”
Azalea pulled the door less than halfway open, poking her head through the crack. There her brother was, amusedly smiling down at her. The dim, flickering light of the abandoned platform shone against his red leather jacket.
“What’re you doing out so late?” Azalea greeted, smiling right back. “You know there’s crazy people down here, right?”
Caliban’s eyes grew wide as he put a hand on his heart in an elaborate mock gasp. “You’ve seen them, too? Don’t you realize how much danger you’re in?!”
The siblings burst out laughing like only self-aware lunatics who’d made their way in a life where murder was casual business could.
“Anyway, what was with that message?” Caliban asked. “You’re only vague like that when you’re up to something.”
“Exactly.” Azalea hummed. “Would you prefer me telling you or showing you?”
“I mean, both would probably work.” Caliban moved forward, obviously expecting his sister to step aside. When she didn’t, he gave pause. “. . .Can I come in?”
“You can,” Azalea replied, “but you’ve gotta close your eyes first.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Azalea quickly glanced over her shoulder, making sure the hare was still on the table, then returned her focus to Caliban before he could try peeking inside.
Caliban blinked at this, raising an eyebrow. Azalea knew he trusted her, but she was just now remembering how his (and, admittedly, her) concept of surprises had become a bit warped over the recent years.
“Does this have anything to do with that job you were talking about yesterday?” Caliban inquired.
“. . .Kind of,” Azalea admitted before hurriedly clarifying, “Nothing went wrong! The target’s dead, I didn’t get hurt or caught, don’t worry!”
The anxiety that had started forming on her brother’s face was replaced by subtle relief. He gave her one more puzzled look before he nodded.
“Alright, then. Lead the way,” he sighed, closing his eyes.
Azalea snickered, taking one of Caliban’s hands in hers to carefully guide him into her den. Once they were both inside, she lightly kicked the door shut and brought Caliban over to the table. She gently pushed down on his shoulder, having him sit on her chair.
The hare wandered right up to them, peering back and forth between the siblings.
“Can I open my eyes now?” Caliban asked, his tone caught between amusement and concern.
“Almost, almost,” Azalea assured. “Just wait a little longer. . .” She couldn’t help but giggle as she watched the hare crane his neck to push his little face closer to Caliban’s, nose twitching adorably.
Caliban could obviously sense that something had entered his bubble, because he immediately began leaning back in the chair. “If whatever this is makes me fall and crack my head open, I swear to God—”
“That’s not gonna happen,” Azalea interjected. “Open ‘em up.”
Caliban’s eyes snapped open, and he very nearly jumped in his seat. The hare flinched back a bit, but he didn’t start hissing. That was a good sign.
Caliban’s shock was quickly replaced by confusion. He looked at his sister, then back at the hare. “Look, I don’t have a problem with bunnies, but I’m not sure if I want to know how or why this one got here.”
“Well, first of all, he’s a hare, you uncultured swine,” Azalea snorted. “And second of all, I didn’t just pick him up off the street. I found him at the target’s place.”
“. . .Are you saying he played a part in how that job went down?” Caliban asked, starting to chortle at how odd that sounded.
“No, not really. He might’ve wanted to, judging by how scared and hungry he was.”
That made her brother’s laughter come to an abrupt halt. The bewilderment was still very much present in his expression, but his eyes made it clear that a chord had been struck.
He cautiously raised a hand, glancing back at Azalea.
“Is it okay if I. . ?”
“Yeah, go ahead!” Azalea beamed. “He really seems to like pets.”
Caliban nodded and held his palm towards the hare, who responded by taking a few seconds to check this new person’s scent. After that, he rubbed his little head against the offered hand, much like a cat.
Despite knowing the things her brother had done—and would likely continue doing for a long while—Azalea knew there was no denying how delightful it was to see his face light up. Slowly but surely, the hare shuffled closer to Caliban, clearly enjoying his attention.
“Not to be rude,” Caliban eventually pronounced, still petting the hare, “but you still haven’t really told me why you asked me to come over.”
“Right, right,” Azalea coughed. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. But for starters, when I saw this guy, I thought of you.” She reached over to scratch the hare’s ears. “He’s got some strange tastes—”
Caliban sputtered with humor, looking briefly shocked at being called out like that. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“—and he’s feisty when he needs to be. But he’s really nice once you get to know him.”
Her brother hummed at this. One part of his expression showed joking denial, but the other part was clearly touched by the sentiment.
“We both know how I can’t really feed you like the others,” Azalea continued, unable to stop herself from sounding a bit guilty.
Caliban caught onto that quickly, his eyes becoming slightly worried. “It’s not like I hold that against you. You know that, right? I mean, in all fairness, it’s better that you don’t give me any bodies. Because of the whole poison-is-your-trademark thing.”
Azalea softly laughed in agreement, but it didn’t do much to hide the fact that both she and Caliban were most definitely on the same train of thought right now.
Before they’d joined The Pentas Family, before they’d even become adults, she’d been the one to care for him when he needed it the most. She’d been there for him every time he couldn’t sleep or got sick due to malnourishment, every time the end of a day saw him bruised and shaking. . .
Just as he’d been there for her whenever she’d experienced similar abuse.
On one hand, they’d both tried so hard to repress those memories, which they had every damn right to do. On the other hand, however, they both knew that they couldn’t afford to forget how they’d managed to survive.
“Aside from that,” Azalea mentioned, her voice growing softer, “I can imagine how lonely it might get around your place when R.D. has to travel for her projects. And since I’m so busy most of the time, I can only do so much to help with that.”
Caliban slowly nodded, biting his lip.
“So, I thought that maybe Snare could help keep you company. That’s his name, by the way. Snare.”
A few long seconds passed before Caliban echoed, “Snare. Snare the hare.” He paused, then let out a quiet chuckle. “I like that.”
@sammys-magical-au @callmegkiddo @insane4fandoms @inkangeliguess @flamestar456 @forestcouncil @slasher-smash @themarpsimp @neons-trash-blog @ayoreneehere @sw33tst4rs @butterboyfly @i-dont-like-it-here-please-help @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp
#my writing#azalea/aza#rosanna pansino#nerdy nummies egos#nerdy nummies#caliban#caliban the cannibal#matpat#matthew patrick#egopats#snare the hare#cuddles the snake#my characters#fanmade egos#my fan egos#the pentas family#[the future mob project]#somone else's character#not my character#sammys magical au's lixian egos#louise editor#biscotti the tiger#lixian egos#tw descriptions of illegal business#tw murder/death#tw poison#tw mentions of blood#tw eating/drinking#tw implied animal abuse#tw implied past abuse
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