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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months ago

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IT'S FINALLY DONE. OH GOD THIS IS MY VERY FIRST CRACK-CROSSOVER I'M SCARED—

(Lol, don't worry, I'm kidding. . .well, actually half-kidding, let's say)

It's usually pretty damn hard for me to keep stuff short, but I suppose I gave it the ol' college try. . .I hope you enjoy this!

___

Terminal Case of the Ol' Switcheroo [Part 1]

(Disclaimer: only one of the EgoPats in this snippet belongs to me. For more information about Caliban, go here. And if you'd like to learn about the mob he works for, go here.)

(One more thing: I’ve actually written a full character analysis on the dynamic between Mad and Caliban. If you’re interested, please feel free to check it out here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, knives/blades, implied kidnapping, implied violence, talk of murder/death, cannibalism, mentions of illegal business, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Epilogue

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“W-wait, hold on—” All the screaming inside Ness’ head seemed to fold in on itself, ever-so-slightly muffled as he squinted up at his captor. “Have. . .have we met before?”

“Possibly in Michigan,” Mr. Sharp Teeth mused, chuckling at the new confusion on Ness’ face; clearly this guy was the type who enjoyed really obscure stuff. He then gave pause, his sly grin fading away as he tilted his head and squinted right back. A couple seconds passed by before his eyes widened, before something flickered on his face.

“Ah—no! No, we haven’t,” Mr. Sharp Teeth reiterated, clearing his throat and shaking his head in spite of the fact that it was obviously already too late for denial. “Definitely don’t remember you from anywhere. Nope, you’re not ringing any bells at all. Sorry about that.”

More alarm bells started ringing, but somehow they didn’t stop Ness from blurting, “Are you sure? I mean, I’ve been wrong before, but—you look familiar to me.”

The surprise on Mr. Sharp Teeth’s expression morphed into panic. But then, that panic didn’t last long before something much darker and more desperate chased it away.

“Alright, let me rephrase: I’d better not look familiar to you,” he explained, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. “Being recognizable isn’t always a good thing in my line of work. And if you can somehow recognize me more than I can afford to let you, then things just won’t go well for either of us.”

He leaned closer, knuckles turning white as he gripped Ness’ shoulder. “Get the picture?”

Ness’ instincts shrieked for him to back away. Actually, scratch that, his spine was trying its damnedest to break out of his skin and go somewhere less tense. But thanks to the bindings, all he could do was lower his head to show cautious, frightened respect.

“Yes, I-I’ve got it,” Ness stammered. “I understand, I swear!”

“Good.” Mr. Sharp Teeth’s eyes drilled into him for a few more long, harsh seconds before he let out a little sigh and nodded, pulling away to resume pacing the concrete floor.

A shiver raced up Ness’ spine with disrespectful speed. The cacophony in his mind hadn’t exactly tapered down at all, but it still seemed to partially give way to a sardonic little voice that chided him for playing all those horror games that revolved around retail workers having their night-shifts go from bad to worse. The fact that he’d perfectly fit the bill for one of those helpless protagonists even before this happened really didn’t do his mood any favors.

After a long, uncomfortable few minutes, he decided to pipe up again.

“. . .I’ve lived in a lot of rough places,” Ness coughed, his voice quiet and careful.

Mr. Sharp Teeth glanced at him. “So?”

“So, I–I know the score,” Ness reiterated. “I don’t know everything about your. . .your type of business, but I still know the basics. I know when and how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Sure you do,” Mr. Sharp Teeth hummed, though a teensy bit of stress seemed to vanish from his features. You’d have to squint, but Ness was pretty sure he’d caught it. He had to take that as a somewhat-decent sign.

Mr. Sharp Teeth sighed again, folding his arms across his chest and drumming his fingers on his bicep. Obviously still deep in thought, he started chewing his lip, allowing the very thing that caused Ness to come up with that nickname in his mind to catch the light.

That was the first thing Ness had seen when he’d come to a few minutes ago.

Or, more accurately, when the burlap sack that now lay empty on the floor had been taken off his head a few minutes ago, he’d come face-to-face with that same set of of pearly-white teeth.

. . .Well, except for one. The upper-left canine, to be exact. It had only taken a few seconds for Ness to see how that one technically wasn’t a tooth at all. It was just a silvery cap meant to look like a tooth. Apparently the real one was gone.

The silver tooth-cap shone in the light much more than its neighbors. It really wasn’t much of a stretch to compare it to a knife. In fact, the longer Ness looked at it, the more he thought it looked similar to a fang.

Something meant to rip and tear into a meal that was still conscious and struggling rather than simply grind up a piece of food that was either already dead and processed or had never been alive in the first place because you just needed to add some water and pop it in the microwave.

The fact that it, along with the rest, had been bared in a grin that looked too wide and too…well, sharp didn’t bode well. At all.

And it was because of that train of thought that Ness decided he really, really didn’t want to know how the original tooth had been lost. Natural curiosity be damned.

Even so, there was no doubting just how familiar it was to Ness, along with the jagged little scar set in the skin right above Mr. Sharp Teeth’s upper lip.

No, Ness knew he’d seen them before, seen their owner before. The more he thought, the more he could just barely remember making smalltalk with a man who had come in for dinner with a couple friends late one evening.

The only difference between then and now was that Mr. Sharp Teeth was wearing a black apron over a dark blue button-down rather than a red-leather-jacket-black-hoodie-combo.

. . .Plus, the fact that Ness was bound to a chair in the corner of a place he’d never seen before, rather than the kitchen at Sparky’s. That was a huge departure, too.

“I guess you really have been through some crap,” Mr. Sharp Teeth finally announced.

Ness offered a combination of nod and shrug, swallowing the lump in his throat. He really wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take that as a compliment. “How do you mean?”

Mr. Sharp Teeth shrugged back. “Well, you calmed down a lot faster than I expected.”

“Trust me, I haven’t. It’s just all on the inside right now,” Ness let out a mirthless, sopping-wet laugh.

“Ah.” Mr. Sharp Teeth nodded sagely. “That definitely makes more sense.”

Ness felt a paw brush against his cheek, courtesy of the long-eared ball of pale fur that was currently sniffing at his shirt. “I mean, having a bunny this close makes things seem an iota less terrifying. No offense.”

Mr. Sharp Teeth snorted. “Snare’s not a bunny. He’s a hare. I thought that’d be obvious.”

Ness squinted, examining the creature a little more closely. “. . .No, wait, I can see it now. I’ve just never really seen a white hare before.”

“Most people haven’t,” Mr. Sharp Teeth replied.

The ha–er, Snare seemed to puff up his little chest at the statement, his adorable Y-shaped nose twitching as if to say, Yeah, that’s right. I’m special.

Quiet smugness aside, Ness was kinda-sorta in the odd little creature’s debt.

After all, Snare had been the one to stop his owner from just going ahead with all the torture he’d apparently had planned for tonight.

Snare had been the proof Ness so desperately needed that this really was some insane misunderstanding.

When Ness had still been panicking, still trying to defend himself against Mr. Sharp Teeth’s claims that Ness already knew who he was and why he he’d been knocked out and subsequently dragged to wherever this was. . .Snare had taken the chance to hop up onto Ness’ lap, bracing his paws against the waiter’s chest to curiously inspect him.

That had been the thing to make Mr. Sharp Teeth give pause.

Because apparently, Snare couldn’t stand whoever Ness had been mistaken for.

It hadn’t helped a lot, since Ness was still bound to a chair and forced to watch Mr. Sharp Teeth fidget with the very same meat cleaver he’d taunted him with earlier, but something was better than nothing.

Thinking of which. . .

“Who was meant to be here?” Ness blurted. He didn’t know why, but if he had to be anywhere against his will, then damn it, he’d better get to ask at least a few questions. “Who are you after?”

“Like that’s any of your business,” Mr. Sharp Teeth snickered. He came a little closer. “The real question is. . .what to do with you.”

Ness felt his heart sink. His mouth opened and closed with no words coming out.

“On one hand, there wouldn’t be any point in killing you, since you’re not even a target,” Mr. Sharp Teeth mused. “On the other hand, you’ve definitely seen a bit too much for my liking, and I’m not sure I can really trust you to commit to keeping quiet, no matter how much you promise to.”

He aimed a quizzical glare in his captive's direction. Ness couldn’t help but shrink a little.

“On the right index finger,” Mr. Sharp Teeth continued, “if I keep you alive down here, there’s a chance we could find a way for you to be useful in the future. But on the left index finger, there’s also a chance that you might find a way to escape, even with all the precautions I’ve set up. And on the right middle finger, you’re guaranteed not to escape if I just kill you.”

“All valid points, all valid points,” Ness admitted, his vocal cords finally remembering how to work. “But on the left middle finger, I have friends who I know would try to track me down if I ever went missing; they’d just cause you more problems if they came looking for me.”

He paused for a brief second, thinking frantically.

“A-and on the right ring finger,” he added in a rush, “there’s still a chance I might know something about the guy you mistook me for. But if I’m dead, then you won’t be able to ask me any questions about him, right?”

Mr. Sharp Teeth raised his eyebrows at this. “. . .You know you just kinda copied one of the points I made.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ness gulped. “But. . .I think it still stands, don’t you?”

Mr. Sharp Teeth’s only reply was a vague hum. Even so, a small, strange smile graced his lips. Amusement seemed to flicker in his dark eyes, along with…something else. Ness couldn’t tell what it was—part of him got dangerously close to wondering if it was something similar to respect—but it didn’t seem bad. Not yet, at least.

That smile died a quick-yet-brutal death as low, organic growl broke the relative silence. Ness recognized it by instinct; he himself heard it whenever he hadn’t gotten enough to eat during his breaks.

Mr. Sharp Teeth shook his head a little, fishing a phone out of his pocket to glance at the clock on its screen. “Oh—oh, right, today’s the day—”

With that, he turned away, quickly walking over to the other side of the room.

While this place certainly didn’t look like Sparky’s kitchen (or even the kitchen in the apartment Ness had been sharing with Jack for the last few years), there was no denying how it'd been set up like one.

From where he sat, Ness could see a block-island in the center of everything. All manner of cooking equipment was positioned against the walls: a refrigerator, an oven, a utility sink, a chamber vacuum sealer not at all unlike the one he’d seen in the butchery department of his local grocery store. . .and a huge chest freezer that Mr. Sharp Teeth was now rummaging through. The appliance’s lid thudded shut as he fished out a rather large bundle of something wrapped up in layers of white paper.

Ness watched as his captor set the bundle down on the block island before going through its drawers. He produced a leather roll and a stainless steel case; Ness felt even more cold sweat materialize on his forehead as the former was revealed to be holding a collection of butcher knives, while the latter turned out to be full to bursting with surgical tools.

After setting what looked like a cast iron skillet on the stove, Mr. Sharp Teeth began peeling back all the paper that shrouded whatever he’d taken from the freezer.

The entree that was unveiled. . .well, Ness couldn’t tell what it was at first. He couldn’t get a good vantage point, and really, that wasn’t his fault. For the first few seconds, all he could see was a dull, pale-pink lump among the discarded wrapping. Then again, he’d cooked enough to recognize cuts of raw meat when he saw them.

That particular thought took on a whole new, sinister meaning when Mr. Sharp Teeth turned it to the side in order to line up a knife against it: the way he moved it caused a set of five fingers to drape over the edge of the block-island.

Time seemed to slow down.

Ness felt a cluster of thorns manifest in his throat. He was forced to grit his teeth: if he let his jaw drop at the terrifying sight, then he risked something much more solid than panicked breath flowing out of his mouth.

The next few minutes felt like at least three hours apiece.

With swift, fluid movements and experienced hands, Mr. Sharp Teeth sliced a generous portion of flesh out of the arm, guiding his knife from the wrist all the way to the elbow.

Once he was satisfied, he gathered up the leaking morsel in his hands and carried it over to the stove, where it landed against the pan’s metal embrace with a sizzling splat.

“. . .You’re a cannibal!” Ness cried. That was all there was to it. There really wasn’t much else he could say at that moment.

Mr. Sharp Teeth glanced back at him. That same sharp, unhinged, hungry grin from earlier etched its way across his face.

“Sure I am! What’s your point?” He replied, lightly jabbing at the air with the bloody blade for emphasis. He then threw his head back, cackling in a way that made the sound seem to slither into Ness’ ears.

Under normal circumstances, Ness wouldn’t have been shy about calling people out for laughing at their own jokes. However, this was FAR PAST a normal circumstance, and cannibals were not people he could really afford to call out for the sake of his health.

Snare suddenly perked up, long ears twitching as he leaned away from Ness. Then, fast as a bullet, he hopped down from the captive’s lap and scurried over to stand on his hind legs and paw at his owner’s apron.

Mr. Sharp Teeth glanced down at his pet, raising an eyebrow. “Ohhhh, so now that I’ve brought out a treat, SUDDENLY you want to spend time with me again? Real convenient how that works, huh?”

Snare, of course, didn’t exactly reply, but he still made a sound argument via leaning against the cannibal’s leg, looking up at him with bright, warm, excited amber eyes.

“No, don’t give me that look—don’t give me that look, Snare!” Mr. Sharp Teeth argued, pointedly looking away. “You know what you did.”

Snare tilted his head, his fuzzy little face suddenly looking quite sad. His oval-shaped ears drooped almost like wilting flowers. With a now slightly-shaking paw, he reached up to scrub at his little muzzle.

Mr. Sharp Teeth gazed at the hare yet again, and his expression immediately softened. “. . .D’aww, fine! I can’t stay mad at you!”

He then reached down to scoop the pale hare up, cuddling him against his face. “Who’s my bad boy? Who’s my bad boy? Oh, you are! Yes, that’s you!”

Like a switch being flipped, Snare abandoned his dejected look and happily nuzzled his owner’s cheek, purring in a gravelly, odd-yet-cute way.

Afterwards, Mr. Sharp Teeth set the hare back down before returning his focus to the arm. He took a thick pair of scissors from the leather roll. . .as well as a pair of tweezers from the steel case. He cut the fingers away from the hand in less than a minute. He plucked the grayish-blue nails out of the skin in even less time than that.

He then took one of the digits and lightly tossed it over to Snare, who jumped at just the right moment to catch it. He sat back on his haunches, holding the finger between his paws, crimson stains quickly spreading on his pale fur as his buck-teeth sheared away at the flesh.

. . .Somehow, this display wasn’t the most horrific thing Ness had ever seen (remember, he worked at a roadside diner), but it was still pretty high-ranking.

“Th-the guy you mixed me up with,” Ness choked out, his filter having taken a well-deserved vacation. “You—you were going to eat him?!”

“Oh, c’mon, What do people always say about making assumptions?” Mr. Sharp Teeth chided with a sly, insane smirk. “If you really need to know, I was just gonna rough him up a little. We’ve had a whole catch-and-release thing for a while now; I like my meat medium-rare, not char-grilled. Besides, he’s the type of guy you can’t not mess with, y’know?”

“NO!” Ness argued, frantically shaking his head. “No, I really don’t!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth raised an unconvinced eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m not sure I believe that.”

He then waved a dismissive hand. “Look, I know what you’re thinking right now. But believe me: the guy who should’ve been in your place? He deserves all the stuff I specialize in.”

“‘Believe you?!’” Ness echoed. “I can’t! I’ve never met anyone who deserves to be tortured by some hungry sadistic bastard and his pet!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth offered a long, thoughtful hum in response. “Sure you have. You’re still working that waiter job, right?”

Ness’ intended retort died on his tongue. Hell, he even briefly stopped trembling for the first time since he’d regained consciousness.

Memories from both the past and the present came flooding back. He’d been working in the food industry ever since he’d grown tall enough to take cups or plates from a counter without standing on his tip-toes. And ever since then, it’d been impossible for a week to go by without at least two customers acting. . .less than ideal.

Ness usually wasn’t the type to hold grudges, but. . .every cruel word, every patronizing gesture, every occasional display of actual violence that he’d experienced. . .it’d all just stuck to his mind like a tumor.

And he knew deep down that it would never, never leave him alone.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mr. Sharp Teeth’s voice was shockingly soft as he clearly read the emotions on his captive’s face like a book.

“My sister runs one of the best restaurants in this city; sometimes I’ll pop in to help her out. I’ve seen customers pull all sorts of petty BS with her staff for no goddamn reason. It’s infuriating, isn’t it?”

Against his instincts, Ness slowly nodded.

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

Ness nodded again. Then, somehow, he found his voice.

“Still,” he replied in a shaky whisper, “even if people deserve bad karma, bad karma doesn’t just automatically mean death!”

“You’d be surprised by how quickly that snowball can roll.” Mr. Sharp Teeth clicked his tongue. As he tended to his meal, he continued: “In any case, what I do has rules. I can only afford to eat the targets my friends and I are hired to get rid of.”

“. . .Really?” Ness asked, trying not to let hope flood through his chest too quickly.

“Yeah, really,” Mr. Sharp Teeth huffed. He glanced at him over his shoulder, his eyes now completely unreadable. “There’s this new thing: it’s called Basic Self-Control. It’s not very popular among most people, but I’ve been able to manage with it so far.”

“I feel like a lot of self-control involves not chopping people up to snack on later,” Ness muttered.

“Maybe for you,” Mr. Sharp Teeth shot back.

A tense silence fell over the room.

The smell of blistering flesh was quick to seep into the air; it was all Ness could do to keep from gagging.

Sooner or later, dinner was apparently ready.

Mr. Sharp Teeth transferred the slice of human-person from the pan to a plate. And for all his talk about self-control, he certainly didn’t wait long to tuck into his meal. Little droplets of blood splattered around his mouth as he ate with a gusto Ness hadn’t seen before and hoped to never see ever again.

Ness’ stomach churned with horror. He lowered his head, trying to keep his gaze firmly planted on his shoes. Why the hell couldn’t he close his eyes. . ?!

Somehow, someway, thoughts were still able to reach him through the fog of fear.

Mr. Sharp Teeth had mentioned being paid to kill. That had to mean he was some kind of hitman, right? What kind of weird, unconventional laws existed in the underground business? (Ness actually had an idea, but he’d been wrong before.)

What’s more, it was unclear whether or not he’d been paid to go after the guy he’d mistaken Ness for. But either way, that obviously meant that he hadn’t been paid to go after Ness. . .

So, did that mean Ness still had a chance? Even just a small one?

A sharp, sibilant chime cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.

Ness’s heart stopped: he knew that sound. He knew that sound very damn well.

He looked up, eyes frantically scanning the room. He saw Mr. Sharp Teeth hovering over a plate that was now empty, unless you counted a few streaks of red against the white finish, drinking a can of Diet Coke he’d apparently brought out from somewhere in Hammer Space.

The ringtone went off again; this time, Ness could pinpoint it.

A cellphone–his cellphone–was lying vacant on top of the refrigerator, along with all the other things that had been taking up space in Ness’ pockets before he was kidnapped.

Mr. Sharp Teeth put the soda can down, glancing at his captive before moving to grab the device.

“Who is it?” Ness asked, his voice weak.

Mr. Sharp Teeth stayed quiet for a few more seconds before finally replying, “Someone called ‘Mikey-Bear Jinglehiemer Schidmt.’”

Ness felt his face burn. How the hell had he forgotten to change that contact name?!

He blinked, and Mr. Sharp Teeth’s thumbs were suddenly gliding about the screen, eliciting a chorus of little blip-blip-blips as he typed.

“Hey!” Ness blurted. “What are you doing?!”

“It’d be rude to just leave him on Read, wouldn’t it?” Mr. Sharp Teeth grinned as he hit what was so obviously the Send button.

“No, wait!” Ness cried. “You can’t drag him into this! Just—just let me talk to him for a minute! I’ll make sure he doesn’t find out about you, please—!”

Just like that, he was writhing like an animal in a trap all over again. Mike may have not have been his favorite person at the moment, but he didn’t deserve whatever scheme Mr. Sharp Teeth could come up with!

Mr. Sharp Teeth could tell Mike anything if he played his cards right! He could convince him that Ness had fled the country, that Ness hated his guts, that Ness was running off with a new boyfriend!

He could use Ness as a prop to extort Mike, or lure him down here to be tortured, or. . !

“He asked what you were doing,” Mr. Sharp Teeth announced. “So I just had to tell him that you’re tied up at the moment.” He winked, slightly manic giggles leaking through his red-tinged teeth.

. . .Or he could just make puns. That was an option too, apparently.

Ness’ phone chimed yet again, and Mr. Sharp Teeth squinted as he read the reply aloud.

“‘Very funny, you’re literally in the next room over. Is everything okay?’”

Ness could practically feel the color drain from his face. “But. . .no. No, no, no! That isn’t possible! I was almost a mile away from him when you knocked me out!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth raised an eyebrow at him. “Then who is he with right now?”

Ness wracked his brain, only to freeze in place. Tears gathered in his eyes. “My stalker. It has to be; h-he mentioned Mike in the last letter he left at Sparky’s!”

“‘Stalker?’” Mr. Sharp Teeth echoed. He set Ness’ phone down and started pacing. A few long seconds passed before he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, eyes widening in time with a snarl.

“How close did this guy ever manage to get to you? Did you ever see him? If so. . .did he happen to be wearing a bear costume, by chance?”

Ness could hardly believe his ears. “Yes! I mean, he never approached me directly, but I still got a few glimpses of him! How did you—”

“That’s why I mixed you up!” Mr. Sharp Teeth shouted, seemingly to himself. “Of course you two were in the same place at the same time! Oh my God, that slippery sON OF A BITCH!” He pounded his fist against the block-island, prompting a dull thud! to ring through the room.

Ness gaped like a fish. He’d witnessed plenty of disturbing coincidences before, but having a stalker who apparently had some kind of petty rivalry with a cannibalistic hitman was in a weight-class of its own.

“I need to get back to Mike!” The tears were flowing freely now. Ness’ nerves felt like they’d been dipped in acid. “God knows what he’ll do to him—what if Abby is there when it happens?!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth went quiet again, turning his head to face Ness so violently that it looked like he was on the brink of a seizure. He furiously gestured for Ness to elaborate.

“Abby! Mike’s little sister!” Ness cried without thinking. “She—she’s already been through so much! She can’t be anywhere near that lunatic!”

Something new slithered onto Mr. Sharp Teeth’s features. It took some time for Ness to realize that it was. . .fear. Pure, genuine fear.

“You’re damn right she can’t,” Mr. Sharp Teeth agreed, his voice now hollow.

“What do you mean? How can you tell—” Ness tried to ask.

Mr. Sharp Teeth cut him off. “That idiot’s got a price on his head for a lot of things. One of them being that. . .well. . .” His tone was grim as he took his apron off, crossing the room to don that same jacket-hoodie-combo Ness had seen so long ago. “He isn’t exactly known for picking on people his own size.”

A terrified, strangled cry ripped its way through Ness’ throat.

“Well, looks like it's your lucky day,” Mr. Sharp Teeth announced. “I can get you back to them in one piece. You just have to hold still—”

He rummaged through a bag that hung from the same rack that his jacket had been placed on, pulling out the long, slender, unmistakable shape of a syringe. “I used a higher dose than I should’ve earlier, but there should still be enough to keep you asleep until everything’s clear.”

As his captor-turned-sort-of-ally(?) approached, Ness, furiously shook his head. “NO! You can’t just knock me out again!”

“I’m pretty sure I can,” Mr. Sharp Teeth snarked, spinning the syringe in his hand.

“I need to be awake for this!" Ness protested, "I need to be able to help!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth raised an eyebrow. “Look, just be glad I’m not trying to use chloroform, okay? It’ll be better for everyone if I can just take care of this myself.”

“And how exactly is that going to work?!” Ness snapped back. “Think about it: I wasn’t anywhere near mine or Mike’s place when you took me! You have no idea where Mike lives! It doesn’t matter what kind of resources you may or may not have; if you don’t let me help, you’ll still be taking shots in the dark!”

For the first time all night, Mr. Sharp Teeth seemed more uncertain than Ness. His brow furrowed as he weighed the options.

“I told you before: I know the score,” Ness tried. “I know how to keep my nose out of certain things. . .and that means I know how to keep other people away from those things, too! If this guy is as horrible as you’re implying, then I won’t have any problem with you hunting him down if it means keeping him away from the people I care about! But that can only happen as quick and efficient as you probably need it to if you have my help!”

Mr. Sharp Teeth stared at Ness for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Ness tried desperately to read his expression, to see what else he had to do to convince him. But for the life of him, he just couldn’t.

From its place on the block-island, Ness’ phone chimed once more.

Mr. Sharp Teeth shut his eyes tight for a few seconds, heaving a harsh sigh as he re-opened them.

“If you’re really insisting on this,” he finally proclaimed, “then you’re gonna follow my lead. You’re gonna do exactly as I say, and you’re gonna keep your damn mouth shut until I give you the all-clear. Understood?!”

Ness only hesitated for about a millisecond. Then he nodded, hoping his eyes were just as fierce as his former captor’s.

Mr. Sharp Teeth gave him another tense, searching look. He then stuffed the syringe into one of his jacket's pockets before moving to untie the bindings around his wrists.

“You’d better not make me regret this,” he growled.

Snare, who seemed very excited by all the new vibes in the room, didn’t waste any time in hopping onto his owner’s shoulders.

___

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @lampsforsocks

A comic I made that happened pre-handless Madpat.

A little spinoff where Mike Schmidt being the sleepy Himbo that he is, confused a certain killer with his beloved Ness, and now Madpat is confused whether or not he should kill this guy, or play along as he never had any affection from anyone before, so he’s intrigued. @crazy-obsessed-enby @wouldntyou-liketoknow @iswmperson @lexusinsannus

Meanwhile with Ness:

Ness: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!

Caliban: How rude, I might not eat you if you tell me where that dreadful Madpat it

55 notes · View notes

world-of-ezraprisc · 9 months ago

Note

are we both going crazy over fnaf musical legally *looks at you like this 🥺*

What do you think?

#fnaf the musical #random encounters #matpat #madpat #aftonpat #fnaf dark remains #game theory #gtlive

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the-matpat-ever · 4 months ago

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FNAF MUSICAL MOVIE SPOILERS

DAWKO DAWKO ITS DAWKO.

OMG DAWKO.

DAWKO IS FUCKING MADPAD

DHEUSTA KINDA...

HERE ME OUT

ALSO ALSO

ASH CAMEO. AND AND FREDDY SOUNDS SO FUCKING SAD WHEN HE CALLS NATE:(((( MY POOR BABYYYYY

AND MATPATS HANDS??? THEY LOOK SO COOLLL

CRYING RN

I WAS SO SHOCKED WHEN I SAW WILLIAM TRYING TO HELP THE CHILD

I HAD TO TAKE A MINUTE TO PROCESS IT BECAUSE THE FNAF FANDOM KINDA JUST...OVERLOOKS THE WHOLE CHILD ABDUCTION BECAUSE ITS NOT ANYTHING NEW BUT HOLY SHIT

ELIZABETH AND BABY FUCKIN DIED

NOOOOO

LIZZY MY POOR BABYYYY

GLITCHTRAP GO KILL YOURSELF

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lexusinsannus · 9 months ago

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"i love aftonpat!!" and this is aftonpat

Ladies and gentlemen, William "the kids are fine and wanna come back to freddy's!!" Afton everyone

#this dude #matpat fnaf musical #matpat fnaf musical dark remains #matpat #william afton #aftonpat

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 9 months ago

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Comparing Killers

I sent an ask to my buddy @insane4fandoms a few days ago, and in their reply, they mentioned potentially doing a character analysis for both MadPat and my very own fanmade cannibal EgoPat Caliban in the future.

(This stemmed from one of their latest drawings. Again, thanks so much for remembering my scrunglies, friendo ❤️)

SO, being the way I am, I took some random inspiration and now I'm going through with that exact analysis myself! Just following my instincts as a writer and all that stuff.

___

MadPat:

Now, just to get this out of the way because I have a sneaking suspicion that someone’s gonna read this and automatically assume I’m being stuck-up: I really like Mad as a character. Matt has done an amazing job portraying him. . .though, Matt just has a knack for unhinged characters in general, lol.

And thanks to Matt's acting skills, Mad is an enjoyable villain. He’s cluster of chaotic problems shaped like a man in his thirties, and we all love him for it. (Honestly, I kinda see Mad’s behavior as similar to that of The Actor from all of Mark’s projects. Comedically evil with a tendency to throw tantrums when things don’t go his way.)

The FNAF Musicals have made many slight tweaks to the lore of the games to not completely plagiarize the story. So, of course, Mad is a slightly-tweaked version of William Afton: it’s made very clear that his crimes include murdering kids. On top of that, he has no problem playing long-cons with pizzeria employees before eventually killing them, too.

We’ve seen plenty of times that Mad is pretty much never afraid to get violent. Oh sure, he tries to put a mask on when he needs to, but it’s easy to see all his urges beneath that mask. (And again, much like Actor!Mark, Mad ain’t too shy about being callous and hostile to almost everyone around him.) He’s very quick to anger. To make things worse, he’s also quick to desperation.

While Mad is too smart for everyone else’s good, he’s still pretty damn impulsive/irresponsible. His crimes were all concentrated on the pizzeria; it didn’t take very long at all for the disappearances to pile up and gain unwanted attention. Now, a bunch of missing-person-cases are one thing, but leaving evidence is quite another.

Hell, in the beginning scene of Web of Lies, the wacko-in-a-bearsuit himself literally said, “Every INCH of this place is INCRIMINATING! Ten minutes of poking around this place and they’ll discover what I did. . !”

If Mad were to hear of Caliban's work, he'd probably be impressed at first and automatically assume that Caliban is just like him, just with more people-eating. However, if Mad were to actually meet Caliban and get a better read on his personality, Mad would likely end up insulting him one way or another. He'd see Caliban's professionalism as tedious.

___

Caliban Crawford:

Though I've made it pretty obvious that he's my special boi, Caliban is an objectively bad person. He may be insane, but he’s not delusional enough to deny that. Whenever his and/or Murdock's targets happen to be alive when they’re dragged to his den, he can be very, VERY sadistic throughout the butchering process. (Especially if the target has done something to personally affect him, Azalea, or any of his other peers.)

Sure, he doesn’t complain about working with dead bodies, but having a live meal is quite a special occasion. In such cases, he enjoys watching the unfortunate soul in question squirm and listening to them scream/beg. Taunting, dragging things out, making morbid puns all over the place, the works.

Despite all this, I’ve specifically crafted Caliban to be an extremely morally-gray character. (To be honest, the only fanmade ego of mine who’s full-on evil is LeviathanPat.) He’s still able to be logical/rational when he needs to. He takes pride in his self-control; yes, he has cravings for human flesh, but he knows he can’t afford to just attack any person he sees whenever he gets hungry. He knows he has to be EXTREMELY CAREFUL in order to keep his business away from the authorities. So, he only eats those he and his peers (Murdock, Azalea, etc.) are hired/paid to bump off.

On top of that, Caliban still has some humanity left. While he’s obviously nowhere close to a perfect angel, he’s still able to form genuine relationships and treat those in his circle with kindness/respect. Get on his good side, and you'll have quite a strong ally.

Though his morals are limited, one of the biggest differences between him and Mad is the fact that Caliban would never, NEVER stoop so low as to harm a child. In fact, he tends to avoid children altogether due to his own childhood trauma. (Totally not me projecting because I grew up in a dysfunctional family with verbal/emotional/psychological abuse.)

Getting back to the juicy stuff: Caliban is smart and efficient with his work. He prides himself on not leaving any evidence behind. (Yes, he still makes occasional mistakes, but even then, the aforementioned evidence still comes in very tiny amounts.) That's why he and Murdock became friends and started working together in the first place: since Caliban divides up which parts can be cooked/eaten and which parts can be sold on the Black Market, it really is easy for targets to just seemingly vanish into thin air.

Though my stories involving Caliban probably show him acting calm (despite his pun-addiction, lol), please, PLEASE don't be fooled. He's got just as much unhinged energy as Mad. He just happens to hide it a bit more often. But he definitely has his chaotic moments; half of the time it's out of unhinged joy, and the other half of the time it's because an enemy pissed him off enough to get their skin privileges revoked. (Basically, it's not that much of a stretch to see Caliban as a combination of The Hermit and Mack.)

Now, if you've seen @insane4fandoms artwork of him, then it's pretty clear that some inspiration was taken from Hannibal Lecter. And while I definitely appreciate references like that. . .well, that inspiration is mainly just for Caliban's appearance. I've said before that Caliban is nowhere near as arrogant as Hannibal. Even so, if Caliban were to see/hear about all of Mad's shenanigans, he'd write Mad off as being sloppy and unimpressive. If he were to actually meet Mad, his opinion would just get worse; he'd see Mad as a fair bit annoying and bratty.

___

@sammys-magical-au @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @themarpsimp @lexusinsannus @crazy-obsessed-enby @rozeliyawashereyall @gaymingintrovert @lampsforsocks @forestcouncil @x-hotrose-x @v1rus-seal

#my writing #insane4fandoms #friendship #my fanegos #fanmade egos #caliban #caliban the cannibal #madpat #aftonpat #matpat #egopats #matthew patrick

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 6 months ago

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Oh, Mad for SURE. Since I've been writing about him lately, along with watching the latest FNAF Musical installments, he's just been on my mind.

...Plus, I've put him through an absolute THRASHING in mine and @insane4fandoms little collab, so to hear that he's still feeling some type of way in a different story-universe is hilarious

Which part are you most interested to read?

#polls #madpat #aftonpat #matpat #egopats #matthew patrick #fnaf the musical

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intered · 9 months ago

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theorussy...

i finally got around to watching the fun facts video for web of lies and these two facts are absolutely everything you need to know about matpat i think

#fnaf the musical #fnaf #random encounters #fnaftm #matpat #aftonpat

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lexusinsannus · 9 months ago

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cant wait to meet you- (aftonpat walks in)

i should do this in cosplay

day 1 of drawing fnaftm until shadows of agony is out

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 3 months ago

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YOOOO THIS LOOKS GREAT!!!

I did a lil something inspired by @littledeathlittleghost from their little headcanon of fnaftm Nate being Natemare‼️

HEHEHOEKBAKBA

I LOVE NATE AND I LOVE THIS AU SO SO MUCH

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I HYPERFIXATE ON STUFF

I turn it into an animation >:)

#art #animation #not mine #madpat #aftonpat #fnaf tm!phone guy #fnaf tm!henry emily #matpat #egopats #matthew patrick #natemare #natemare nwtb #nightguard!nate #nathan sharp #natewantstobattle #nwtb egos #fnaf the musical

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 3 months ago

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OKAY OKAY OKAY IT'S FINALLY HERE!

(Sorry about the long wait, friendo 😅 Don't worry, things should move along a little easier after this. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!)

___

Abel Impulse [Part 1]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms. MadPat was created by Random Encounters)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, poison, blood/gore, violence, mentions of beating/fighting, mentions of allergic reaction, mentions of cannibalism, knives/blades, fire/smoke, mentions of arson, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

Azalea wasn’t quite sure why the knocking had startled her.

Aforementioned knocks had been soft, just barely making the old door shake in its frame. They hadn’t even made her jump; just sent a quick, light flare of something both cold and hot up her spine.

It wasn’t like she’d been alone—no, she’d had company ever since sunset.

First with her peers, during the long drive from the Cove Port Inlets to one of many small, decaying towns on the side of the roads across all those vacant fields…and then with her latest target. (Well, that was only technical. She hadn’t been hired to kill him. This was a bit more personal than most jobs. Then again, there was no denying how he’d painted a target on his own damn back, so…)

A sleazeball who went by the name Mr. Honey. Very ironic, considering what she’d done to him.

It wasn’t like Azalea had been on-edge due to her current environment, which was, to put it frankly, decrepit as all getout.

Wallpaper peeling in awkward curls, the smear-covered shards of a few broken windows here and there, a smell in the air that was like if a thrift shop had just given up…or a perfume made from the blended remains of bedbugs. Azalea was no stranger to rotting, run-down places. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time she’d found herself in an abandoned motel for a job. Sure, it wasn’t very glamorous, but it worked. You had to be flexible if you wanted to be successful in business like this.

(This was Honey’s fault, really. According to a few underground grapevines, he’d made this forgotten inn a hideout for his goons—including the one she knew was currently taking more licks than even the average Tootsie Roll Pop—for almost a year now. No way this was the first time someone else had found it and snuck in while he was away…though it’d definitely be the last time. The last time for him, at least.)

It wasn’t like the room Azalea had chosen for this session had been very silent. Her victim’s voice had been tapping on her eardrums for about an hour or so.

The whistling that grew louder and louder as he’d drawn closer to her hiding spot.

The shocked sputters when she was able to jump him, which had quickly evolved into threats and insults as she managed to hog-tie him and drag him away.

The doubtful taunts that crumbled all too quickly, arrogance eaten up by dread as he watched her fill up the syringe.

The screams of horror and pain after she’d pushed the needle deep into his skin, on the spot where his neck met his chest. (Not too close to the carotid artery; that would’ve just made him bleed. Would’ve made things happen too fast.)

And now, a raspy chorus of wheezes and sobs and splutters, all unintelligible and creeping along similar to how mold would spread over something damp.

(Plus, that wasn’t mentioning the another room just down the hall. Even with all the walls in between, if Azalea concentrated, she could pick up a distant cacophony. Muffled cries of pain, thuds and thumps, laughter…Well, that’d been the case earlier. Now the noise had tapered down considerably.)

So, to hear such a light tapping at the door cut through all the downright delicious agony…

Maybe it was kinda like a spark creeping toward a powder-keg, just barely being snuffed out before it moved too far up the fuse.

That particular analogy turned out prophetic as the door opened with low creeaaak, and a familiar face peeked inside, fair skin framed by long, straight black hair. “How’s it going here?”

Azalea nodded in greeting. “Good. I think my part of this whole thing is pretty much done.”

Phoenix tilted her head, leaning a little further inside. “Wait, really? What happened to those multiple doses needing a few hours to take effect?”

Azalea shrugged, then gestured for her friend to come closer. “See for yourself.”

Phoenix slipped inside and shut the threshold behind her. She began traipsing across the little room, only to stop short once her focus settled on the old, rickety bed in the corner.

Or, rather, the mound of lumpy flesh that used to qualify as a person weakly trembling on the musty mattress.

Half of Honey’s body had swelled to nearly twice its original size. Not only that, but his skin was discolored and flushed, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Clusters of shiny, angry-looking hives had sprouted up along his arms and neck and face; they could’ve been mistaken for scalds if you were watching from a distance.

“Oh my God…” Phoenix murmured, her eyes growing wide with morbid fascination. “What did you give him?”

“Japanese giant hornet venom,” Azalea replied.

“Okay, but how much?” Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said before how expensive some toxins can get; you didn’t run out of anything, right?”

“No, I didn’t. Just had to use one syringe’s worth.” The softness left Azalea’s grin in favor of something sly and acidic. She knew damn well that even if those hornets were far more aggressive than bees, it still would’ve taken a couple hundred stings for them to be deadly.

Phoenix blinked, then glanced back at the man who lay gasping and somehow barely managing to even squirm on the mattress. Her eyes were searching now.

“Oh, wait—he had an allergic reaction, didn’t he?” A smirk graced her features as she looked back at Azalea, who offered a nod.

“Exactly! What a lucky coincidence, right?” Azalea directed that last part toward her victim, her voice tapering down a few octaves. She took a step closer, leaned down ever-so-slightly.

Even through all the torment, Honey still winced, trying and failing to edge away despite the fact that his torturer actually wasn’t even close enough to reach over and poke him.

Of course, he wasn’t just wincing from the pain.

He’d known a whole lot about allergies himself.

Enough to somehow hear about K.O.’s nut allergy.

Enough to sneak around The WormRoll on a recent fight-night.

Enough to somehow find K.O.’s water bottle and spike it with nut-infused cooking oils. After all, the match would’ve had to be technically forfeit, and all the betted money would’ve gone to Honey’s own fighter (nicknamed Swerve, if she remembered correctly) if K.O. had a reaction before he even stepped into the ring…

Thank God that The Newcomer had managed to find out—hell, they’d been the one to rush in and smack the contaminated drink out of K.O.’s hand just before he could take a sip.

Still, impressive as it’d been, it hadn’t stopped Honey and his goon from running off before much else could happen.

Azalea wasn’t sure why; fleeing after attempted sabotage never made things better. NEVER.

Especially not when you tried to pull that shit with The Pentas Family.

“Did you check up on the guys?” Azalea wondered aloud.

She turned her attention back to the syringe she’d used, now being both cleaned and fidgeted with. She shifted the base of it in her palm, allowing the needle to catch some light from the dim, flickering insect-morgue on the ceiling. (She wasn’t sure how long it’d been since this motel had been left to rot, but her instincts said it was a wonder there was any electricity left.)

“Oh, yeah. They should be ready to wrap up soon. K.O’s gotten his own fill—last I saw, Cal was halfway through with the harvest,” Phoenix reported, leaning against the adjacent wall.

She played with the buttons on her blazer, which was tinted a deep teal hue that no-one else would’ve been able to pull off. It’d been sewn in a perfect combination of fitted and draping. Apparently to keep up the personal trend, rather than a button-down and slacks, she wore a lovely jumpsuit underneath that was such a dark shade of indigo it nearly matched her raven hair; just a hint of violet-blue buried low in the fabric.

The news brought a smile to Azalea’s face. Sure, Caliban could’ve just waited to do his disposal stuff back at home (and aside from being potential extra backup, there was no doubt he’d come here for the adrenaline rush), but it was still nice to hear that her brother was going the extra mile to help out a friend.

Through the corner of her eye, Azalea caught another metallic glint.

Phoenix fished a small box-like shape from one of her pockets. It shone in a silvery way, despite being covered in thin streaks of black that all worked together to form a pattern like half-melted spirals. She’d had it since even before she’d first joined the mob. Azalea wasn’t sure where it’d come from, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Phoenix had made it herself. Just like the rough-around-the-edges band of silver that was almost always coiled around her index finger, topped with a small, raw piece of garnet.

With a clink, the lighter’s top half was hanging open by a hinge. And with a soft, almost whispering fwoosh! she brought a spark to life, quickly coaxing it to grow into a thin flame that lapped at the air. She didn’t produce a cigarette—she never had, and not just because smoker’s lungs made mob work even harder than it already was—nor did she hold it close enough to her face for the glow to reflect in her eyes.

But really, that didn’t make a difference.

Plenty of people had dark, warm eyes.

Phoenix’s eyes had never been just warm. More like burning from inside…

“Good thing Cal keeps a hidden stockpile. Y’know, jars and chemicals for his Black Market clients. For the stuff he decides not to eat,” Azalea mentioned, an unconventional type of sugar seeping back into her voice. “I’m pretty sure he brought a little too much ethanol along tonight. Guess I can’t blame him, since it’s not too often he gets to do his work anywhere outside his den, but still…”

The way she trailed off was very intentional.

After all, K.O.’s car had already been crammed almost as tight as a steel drum at the start of this job. She didn’t need to spell out how there’d only be so much trunk-space after everyone was ready to go back.

Certainly not enough for two dead bodies, even if one had been hollowed out like a pumpkin. And that wasn’t even mentioning how there wasn’t exactly a good spot outside the motel to hide them.

A new smile spread across Phoenix’s features, now with a clear pop of energy. Her knuckles twitched, grip visibly tightening around her lighter.

Ethanol was very common in the world of specimen preservation (the casualdejekyll to formaldehyde, as Caliban had once said with enough pride and knowing snark to make Murdock start a small fistfight with him). It was perfect for killing bacteria and slowing down the decay process, allowing dead tissues to still look fresh.

It was also well-known for being quite flammable, to the point where it could even be ignited just by being left too close to a hot surface.

“Huh,” Phoenix finally replied, tracing her fingertips along the lighter’s stripes. She glanced around the room, grinning at the peeling wallpaper that seemed to have a similar texture to old, dry newspapers. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” Azalea chuckled. “C’mon, you know Cal; he won’t mind. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s gonna miss this place.”

“True, true,” Phoenix hummed with a joking conspiratory edge.

Azalea’s smile went soft and knowing.

Despite all the occasional squabbles here and there, Caliban got along well with the rest of his and Azalea’s peers. Family was part of this mob’s title, after all. (It was kind of a blessing, really; way back when, he and Azalea hadn’t exactly had the resources to make many genuine friends.)

Addiction came in many different forms, so against all odds, it made a morbid type of sense that people could bond over it.

Caliban craved flesh and blood, Phoenix craved flames and smoke.

They both felt itches in the back of their minds, both had urges that needed to be hidden outside of work.

Of course they’d wound up having a little kinship. (Hell, one time R.D. had even cracked a joke about basically having an extra sister-in-law.)

“By the way,” Phoenix cleared her throat, nodding over to Azalea’s victim. “When is he gonna give it up? I mean, no rush, really, but still…”

She trailed off, leaving Azalea to pause, chewing her lip.

“Yeah, good point,” she agreed, chewing her lip. “Well, anaphylactic shock works differently for everyone. Sometimes it takes half an hour, sometimes less than fifteen minutes. I don’t know this guy’s history, but—oh!”

She glanced back at Mr. Honey, only to cut herself off at the sight of his watery eyes, which had apparently rolled up into his head, hiding his irises from the world.

The conversation must have distracted her from how his breathing had gotten more slow and shallow and resigned, bit-by-little-bit until it sank into the new silence.

“...Well, I guess he’s gone now,” Azalea replied with a shrug.

The syringe in her hand gleamed like it’d been fully polished; no more bloodstains or drops of deceptively clear-looking liquid remained. So, Azalea looked over at the dust-buried nightstand, reaching over to grab a small container—one of many that she’d brought from home, made from pink-stained wood.

She popped it open, revealing four syringes in the top half, kept in place by velcro strips, and five glass vials, each filled with a different toxin, nestled in slots on the bottom half.

Ah, make that five syringes, now that she was returning the latest needle to be used.

With that, she slid the box into a crossbody bag (one of her favorites, since it was fluffy and pastel; no way most people would look at it and guess that its contents were something lethal) and headed for the door, blissfully unaware that the universe had decided that she needed a callback from earlier.

There wasn’t really any other way to explain how the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a heavy thud! as a much taller figure clad in crimson leather rushed across the threshold.

Azalea let out a short scream, which was a somewhat impressive feat, considering how her heart had all but leapt into her throat.

Phoenix followed suite, shock forming an invisible trebuchet that launched her lighter into the air, all the way up to the ceiling.

Did it count as a miracle how that forced it shut, snuffing the flame out before it could catch anything?

Scratch that, it was definitely some form of divine intervention. What goes up must come down, after all, and as the lighter plummeted, it managed to strike the intruder’s head with an almost cartoonish thunk! before bouncing again and finally hitting the floor.

Despite its small size, the lighter was still pretty much solid metal, so of course the intruder stopped in his tracks with a yelp, clutching at his temple and gritting a mouthful of teeth that seemed a bit too sharp the longer you looked at them.

“Oh my—Caliban!” Azalea half-shouted, relief and exasperation making a very interesting concoction as they slithered through her brain. “Don’t give me a heart-attack, I’m not ninety-two yet!”

Instead of answering, Caliban resumed his hussle.

“Snare?!” He called, dropping to his knees to look under the bed, not paying any mind to the corpse nearby. “Snare..!”

Caliban’s voice gave Azalea pause. Despite the volume, it wasn’t sharp like usual. In fact, it seemed to almost be fraying around the edges.

He nearly flipped the rickety old frame as he stood up and moved on to yank the closet door open. Once he’d apparently discovered what Azalea had when she’d checked it an hour or so ago (which was a big pile of nothing, unless you counted cobwebs and dust bunnies) he turned back to face her.

She saw how her brother’s eyes bulged from their sockets, how some of the color had drained from his face, and she felt something cold and clammy trickle along her ribcage.

“Cal, what’s going on?” She ventured closer to him, her voice a little softer than before.

“I—I lost track of Snare,” Caliban answered. The panic in his eyes seemed to pulse; the struggle to keep his focus from dropping to the floor was clear as crystal. “The room K.O. chose—I could’ve sworn the door was closed and locked when he started on his half of the job. I was holding Snare during all that, but once it was my turn, I set him down. And by the time I was done…”

“He wandered off when you weren’t looking?” Azalea finished the report for him, making sure to be quiet and give off no trace of sarcasm. That was the last thing he needed right now.

Putting on some kind of facade was a common underground tactic, one they’d both learned a long time ago. (Hell, Murdock did it all the time when he was in public.) But if anyone could tell when Caliban was being genuine with his emotions, it was her.

Caliban nodded ruefully. “I realized I hadn’t taken any fingers for him, but once I did, he—he was just gone! I almost tore up the whole damn room, but I couldn’t find him anywhere!” He wrung his hands, glancing back and forth between his sister and Phoenix. “Have you guys seen him?”

“...No, I haven’t. The door’s been closed since I started up on my half,” Azalea replied, her heart sinking as she saw how his eyes were glistening.

Phoenix shook her head, a similar type of worry creeping across her features.

“Did you check any of the other rooms? I saw some open doors while I was keeping watch,” she offered as she quietly stuffed her lighter back into her pocket.

“Yeah, yeah. Up until this one, I mean…” Caliban chewed his lip. “There’s just a few left on this floor, but still no sign of him so far.”

“Okay, okay.” Azalea nodded, reaching up to put at hand on his arm. “No reason to stop looking, right?”

“Right!” Caliban echoed with an empathic nod, staying by his sister’s side as she led him through the door and back out to the hallway.

Phoenix followed the duo, quick to push Room Twenty-Three’s door shut behind her, closing off the corpse before any eyes could’ve potentially peered through the hall’s windows at the wrong time.

Azalea caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and it only took a few seconds for her to recognize the figure exiting the last room down the hall. The jeans he wore had been tinted amaranth; the exact same red shade as the boxing trunks he wore to his fights.

K.O. was resourceful like that—he didn’t want to represent The Pentas Family only half of the time. (The fact that they complimented his sleeveless, bleach-dyed shirt so nicely helped.)

“Any luck?” Caliban asked, taking a couple steps toward the slightly younger man.

“Not yet,” K.O. replied, his voice apologetic and a bit lower than usual. He winced as the cannibal stopped short, shoulders slumping. He closed the distance himself, pausing opposite of Azalea, his blue eyes as determined as they were sympathetic.

“Hey, it’s not like this is The MGM Grand. There’s just fifteen more rooms to go,” K.O. continued, gesturing past them to the alcove across the hall, where the matted carpet turned and stretched to cover a narrow staircase. He then reached over to clap Caliban on the back. “He couldn’t have gone too far. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Anyone else would’ve flinched, considering how K.O.’s hands were still adorned by a pair of brass knuckles (especially since they were both smeared with fresh blood).

But Caliban only took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks. I owe you one after this—don’t let me forget.”

A brief smile flickered on K.O.’s face. “Don’t worry about it.”

And with that, he raced down the hall, his footsteps getting more and more faint as he descended the stairs.

“Maybe he went back to the room you guys used after you left?” Phoenix wondered, her eyes now thoughtful as she scanned the world around her. “He might think he’s just playing a game with you.”

Although worry still had a strong grip on his eyes, Caliban perked up. “Good point…!”

He turned on his heel, Azalea letting go of his jacket sleeve so she could jog alongside him past one door, then two, then five…

“I’ll go help look downstairs!” Phoenix called after them.

Azalea tossed a quick “Thanks!” over her shoulder as Caliban ducked into Room Thirty.

(Even if motels were meant to be smaller scale, there was no doubt he and K.O. had felt a little disappointed that there weren’t enough rooms here for digits to reach the sixties and then some.)

“Snare? If you’re here, then fine, haha, you got me,” Caliban called, his voice getting a little closer to breaking. “Y-you can come out now…”

The scent of iron—or maybe pennies? It was hard to tell sometimes—hung in the air, heavy like the heat of dryer exhaust.

Even as she helped her brother search, Azalea couldn’t help but examine his and K.O.’s work. Checking under the bed was the first thing she did, and just like Room Twenty-Three, there was a dead body lying on it, so…

Neither his arms nor legs were bound, but strips of nylon were strewn about a folding chair in one corner.

Granted, the pressure tattoos they’d left around the corpse’s wrists were a bit hard to see, what with all the angry splotches of pink tinged with yellow that bloomed over almost every square inch of visible skin.

Azalea knew from experience that it’d take a day or two for those marks to turn black and purplish-blue…then again, the guy’s skin would adopt a sickly shade of gray by then.

The bruises on his face were complimented by streaks of dark red, oozing from a nose so broken that it could’ve been compared to a ball of clay squished by a toddler’s fist, as well as busted lips and some freshly-broken teeth.

Above it all, a pair of eyes that were both swollen shut from repeated strikes (kinda fitting, since this guy wasn’t in any condition to ever open them again).

And yet, all the obvious head-trauma hadn’t been what killed him. No, that honor went to his neck, which rested on the mattress at a very uncomfortable angle, forcing him to face the wall and nothing else.

“K.O. must’ve taken his time with this, huh?” Azalea inquired.

“Yeah, he did,” Caliban replied, glancing over to the beaten mess of a man. “It was kinda interesting to see, since he usually moves so fast in the ring.”

Azalea tilted her head to the side. “It was nice of you to be so patient.”

(Well. Patient might’ve been a generous word if she was honest. Long, wide strips of skin were missing from the corpse’s arms; portions of muscle tissue underneath had been taken as well, leaving some of the gashes deep enough to reveal slivers of bone. Though most of the slicing had been done with a knife, there were messier bits here and there—curving scrapes that ended in small, shallow holes that could’ve only been left by teeth…)

Caliban shrugged. “Can’t really blame him for wanting to stretch the session. Considering what could’ve happened, I mean.”

He kept moving as he spoke, dropping to the floor every few seconds as he checked and re-checked every nook and cranny of the room. He even went so far as to stand on a chair and stick his head in the vent on one upper-corner of the wall.

The corpse’s chest was open wide in a classic Y-incision, flesh jagged around the edges. The ribcage had been spread like one of those stiff-jointed stim toys, the ends of each one snapped off. Other than that, the cavity looked truly hollow—unless you counted the intestines, that is. A few of them were dangling out, probably having been tugged this way and that while the kidneys were being taken.

The carnage was all topped off by the dead man’s hands. A total of ten bloody stumps at the base of each knuckle.

“I should’ve done it earlier,” Caliban murmured, gazing down at those stumps, shaky hands clutching at his hair as he headed over to the door. Snare clearly hadn’t come back here (and despite morbid instinct, whether it was being used as a weird game or survival, not even freshly-harvested human bodies made good hiding places. Huge animals were the only way to go if you had to be that desperate), so the search had to continue. “He would’ve stayed if I did...”

“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Azalea protested as she followed him. “Snare wouldn’t just leave you for no reason. He’s never been to this place; he probably got curious and went off exploring.”

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding. “Right, right. It’s just—I’d hate if he thought I forgot about him—”

For the third time tonight, something came along to make Azalea nearly jump out of her skin. At least she wasn’t alone for it, seeing how a violent shudder raced through her brother’s shoulders.

A chorus of barking and yipping tore through the air somewhere outside the building.

The two of them exchanged glances, both of their eyes growing even wider to accommodate the way panic was getting closer to becoming something physical.

One part of Azalea’s mind went back to all the times her and Caliban’s peers had commented about stuff like Sibling ESP. It was an interesting concept to be sure, though she’d been on the fence about it for the most part. Skepticism had nothing to do with that; she and Caliban had just been through so damn much together.

Right here, right now, however, she could tell exactly what he was thinking.

Snare was fast. Snare was crafty. Snare could hold his own, whether it was against humans or other animals.

And yet, if there was ever a time for What Ifs to infest a person’s mind…

“Cal?!” K.O.’s voice rang up through the thin walls, almost bouncing off the corners. “Cal, Aza, get down here!”

Caliban was off like a shot, stampeding halfway down the stairs before the words were even fully in the air.

Azalea stayed on his heels, to the point that it was astounding they didn’t trip each other up.

Caliban jumped over the last step before disappearing around the corner. “...SNARE!”

Azalea practically ricocheted off the wall, skidding to a halt just in time to see a pale blur bounding up into her brother’s arms.

“Oh my God, oh my God, buddy…!” Caliban almost squealed as he spun around in a tight circle, hugging a very familiar cat-sized, long-eared bundle of white fur to his face.

He paused, looking his pet dead in the eye. “You scared me half to death! You raised my blood-pressure like you were gonna get paid for it!” A breathless laugh tumbled out of his mouth.

Snare, of course, didn’t reply, unless you counted how he pressed his little Y-shaped nose against his owner’s cheek, wriggling excitedly in the embrace.

Azalea let out a little sigh; admittedly, there was still some whiplash in her mind, but it was always nice to see pets getting love. She made a mental note to give Cuddles extra attention once she got back home.

“So—so, where was he?” Caliban asked, still chuckling with relief as Snare tucked his head under his chin. “Where did you…”

He trailed off, eyes widening and jaw dropping.

Azalea followed his gaze, only to feel her own face fall.

K.O. stood just a few feet away, fidgeting in place, carefully bouncing another critter in his arms.

It was a dog—a relatively small one, only so much bigger than Snare, with floppy ears and a coat of short fur a mix of tan, black, and white. A low, anxious whine rumbled in its throat, though it grew quieter as K.O. scratched its belly.

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s alright, it’s alright…” K.O. mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth between his accomplices and the canine. “I, uh—I think Snare must’ve smelled him, or something. I found them running around somewhere by the back entrance.”

Caliban nodded, confusion and relief making for a very interesting cocktail on his face.

Snare leaned forward, curiously tilting his head as he stared at his…chaser? Surprise playmate?

“...Well, he can’t be a stray. Look, he’s got a collar,” Azalea mused, stepping forward to get a better look at the red band around the dog’s neck. And as she gently prodded, she discovered that, rather than a metal tag, a small barrel was resting against the dog’s chest.

She froze; she recognized this collar.

Hell, she remembered making remarks, both snide and genuinely curious, about how Saint Bernards were the only dogs that ever really wore barrels, and that practice in general wasn’t exactly common nowadays, so why would…detective-trained beagles need to…?

“Guys…” she blurted, glancing at K.O., glancing back at her brother. “Guys, this is—”

“Casey’s dog,” Caliban finished, a new type of anxiety flickering in his eyes.

In almost perfect unison, the three of them hurried away from any nearby windows.

“But we haven’t seen him snooping for weeks now!” K.O. proclaimed, ironically hugging Scout a bit closer. (Thankfully, said beagle didn’t seem to mind too much.) “This was a random job! We weren’t even expecting to come here! How the hell could he have tracked us?!”

Caliban’s furrowed his brow as he stared at the floor, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out.

Azalea found herself in a sort of similar boat, struggling to see any potential answers.

K.O. was right, after all; there shouldn’t have been any way for Casey—for any investigator—to have figured out what was going on here.

The revenge-plan had been made so quickly; really, it was sheer luck that they found about about this motel being used as a hideout when they did—

That train of thought came crashing to a halt as Phoenix came into view, leaning around one corner by the dusty old check-in desk. Her face was a mask of concern, fiery eyes wide and uncertain. Without a word, she motioned for her peers to come closer.

And so they did, following her lead down yet another hallway, passing by more rooms (as well as a pool that just had to be a biohazard by now) before reaching a glass door at the very end.

One that led out into the parking lot, which stretched all the way around to the back of the building.

Phoenix stopped just before the threshold. Not pushing the door open, not turning to the others. Instead, she simply pointed.

The old motel wasn’t the only thing in this area that had been left to rot a while ago. It truly seemed like the small town around it had become unsaturated as a whole. It was just one of those places that was meant to be avoided, yet stubbornly kept halfway-functioning. One of those places where cops didn’t bother to come around all that much…

A little neighborhood stood not too far at all from the motel.

It would’ve been impossible not to see movement in front of one house in particular, on the outer-edge of the block: a man dressed in some kind of light-brown suit, spattered with dark red stains that just barely shone in the light of a nearby streetlamp. (Sure, it could’ve been paint. But people like Azalea and her peers knew better. If anyone knew red, it was The Pentas Family.) Caliban sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. Azalea looked over just in time to see one of his eyes twitching.

Phoenix pursed her lips, nodding. “I thought you’d recognize him.”

The group kept staring, kept watching as the same man Caliban had ranted about having a grudge against—for very valid reasons, mind you—pull someone else out of the backseat of a car.

The other man was very tall, and very clearly unconscious, seeing how he didn’t even try to struggle as he was half-hoisted from under his arms and dragged along the grass. He boasted a head of black hair and dark brown skin…which somehow didn’t hide a couple bruises and cuts on his face.

In fact, it seemed some blood had even managed to drip down onto a shiny gadget that hung from his neck…

“There he is,” K.O. blurted after a collective gasp broke the new silence. “It’s him.”

Casey.

Casey Frickin’ Clowes (the Frickin’ was silent, of course).

The same private detective who’d been trying to disrupt underground business in the Cove Port Inlets.

The same investigator who, despite all the taunting and tricks and near-misses he’d gone through, blatantly refused to give up on his work

The same guy who had, somehow, against all odds, turned out to be…oddly fun in the whole cat-and-mouse scheme of things.

(More fun than the average cop, that is.)

And he was being dragged into a shady house by a scumbag who’d gained quite a bit of infamy for the amount of missing children’s incidents surrounding his own work…

“So.” Phoenix finally turned to her friends, her eyes cautious. “What do you guys think we should do?”

“...Step in,” Caliban answered. “Otherwise that onise-bitch is gonna kill him. There’s no way that’s not what he’s planning.”

“But how can we go about that?” K.O. asked, carefully rocking Scout in his arms. “Without giving him too much to work with?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Azalea replied, subconsciously raising a hand to draw small circles on Caliban’s back, feeling just how tense he’d gotten in so little time. “We always do, right?”

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @im-a-weird0 @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks

I knew you,

In another life

Back at it again with another little comic of Casey Clowes and his brother runaway murder case. Not many are aware of how deeply rooted the hurt hatred the detective has to the child murderer, but most can make an obvious and reasonable guess. Though there is much more than what Casey leads on.

Despite all the horrors, pain, and hate they feel, they were and may always, despite one not wanting to, be brothers. Maybe Casey would like it, that in one lifetime, in all possibilities, life may not have been cruel to give someone to him only to tear them away.

@wouldntyou-liketoknow @crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

24 notes · View notes

wouldntyou-liketoknow · 2 months ago

Text

Yeah, another long wait 😅 But hey, at least it's here now!

How the plot thickens, and how the shenanigans, on a 1-10 scale, go from a 9 to an instant 30...

___

Abel Impulse [Part 2]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms.)

(Trigger Warnings: implied kidnapping, implied murder/death, mentions of gunshots, medical attention, knives/blades, violence, blood/gore, mentions of poisoning, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of fire/smoke, mentions of arson/burning/melting, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

At first, Casey couldn’t tell if he was awake.

He’d experienced similar stuff in the past—drifting in and out of consciousness at odd hours of the night, dreams blurring and mumbling because apparently his brain just couldn’t make up its damn mind.

Everything was shrouded in darkness. It was like his eyes had sunken all the way to the back of his skull. Like the end of each lid had gotten caught underneath, forcing the sockets to wrap themselves shut far too tight.

But as the seconds ticked by, he felt his brow furrowing, felt the sore muscles in his neck protest as he tried to shift.

And the pain wasn’t far behind at all.

Some kind of drumbeat that wracked his abdomen. It started out with pinches, like a hand topped with sharp, ragged, dirty nails groping around at his guts. And then those nails melted and started seeping deeper and deeper into his flesh.

Burning and stinging with a shaky flare, like mosquitos drunk on the ashes that flew off of a crackling firepit.

If noises could be captured and distilled into physical feelings, then this would qualify as the reincarnation of a scream.

A deranged, hopeless scream that went on far longer than it should’ve been able to, perhaps until it forced vocal cords to snap like guitar strings.

“You there, Casey?”

The voice called from what had to be just a few feet away. It was low but not deep, thoughtful but not quite focused, and almost a bit raspy around the edges. Not pointing to cigarettes, though smoke was definitely responsible in some other way.

Worst of all, it was familiar.

Familiar enough to send a chill down Casey’s spine, which mixed with the burning in an awful way.

It really shouldn’t have been familiar.

It’d been years upon years since he’d heard that voice…then again, that was just a technicality. He’d heard it a few times after that one branch of his life.

Those few times had been set in fear and hate, filtered with the stench of metal and oil, full of verbal arsenic (as in, insults and threats and the hollow horror that came along when ear-splitting, sadistic laughter mixed itself into enraged shrieks…)

Spots danced in Casey’s vision, bright little sparks that faded away in a millisecond. He had to blink a couple times with a bit more force than strictly necessary. At least the new light around him was dim.

The pain in his stomach didn’t stop—if anything, it ate up his awareness like fire to dry newspapers—but a different type of ache thrummed on one side of his head. Dull, lukewarm, almost sweaty.

The left half of his view remained stubbornly blurred, as though he was peering through a glass fishbowl full of cloudy water, while he took in the walls.

Each one was covered in a fine layer of dust (which was just ridiculous. Walls were vertical! Why couldn’t they act like it?!) that didn’t do much to hide a dull yellow tint.

He tried to sit up, only to hiss through gritted teeth as another flare raced through his guts and up to his ribs.

His elbow brushed against brown leather that had taken on that weird scratchy-yet-velvety feel that could only come from years of less-than-gentle use.

The couch it covered looked like it’d once belonged to an animal shelter, having been set up for playful kittens (read: the ones that you’d think somehow got a few drops of Red Bull in their kibble) to tire themselves out.

A coffee table stood before the sofa. It was low to the matted carpet and coated in white paint, though as Casey’s aching eyes wandered over it, he discovered awkward little cracks and bumps, making the material uneven. Like the table had been flipped or thrown on at least three separate occasio—

A shape lay discarded on top; the dim light flickered, coaxing out a familiar, metallic glint that practically slapped Casey across the face.

His half-respirator!

Alertness crashed over him like a wave.

It’d taken so long for him to find that thing, for him to find one that could give extra protection without slowing him down. He couldn’t afford to just lose it!

The pain seemed to blink, not quite fading but still being pushed aside as he reached out.

The floor creaked, fabric shuffled, and then another hand was there, wrapping around his wrist in a firm, cold grasp.

“Hey!” The cry was guttural, instinctive. Casey tugged his arm back, but his hand wasn’t released. He craned his neck to glance over, only for a shuddering flare to drag its way down his heart before moving onto his lungs.

“Oh, finally!” That same voice announced, with a joking edge that did not belong here. “For a second there, I was worried I’d have to get an ice bucket.”

The man looming beside him had clearly been put through the ringer. (More than one, if Casey was honest.)

His face was horribly scarred—almost the entire left side was splotched with an angry shade of pinkish-red. The texture might’ve looked wrinkled from a distance, but this close, it nearly gave the impression that he’d taken one of those loop tools used in sculpting and just raked it along his forehead, his cheek, his chin over and over again.

Maybe that analogy wasn’t so far off, considering how some of his fair skin had been spared. The burns stretched over, but only a bit, leaving patches on his face’s right side that were big enough to not render him completely disfigured. The wound almost seemed like it’d been placed by an artist. Granted, there’d have to be some sick, macabre thoughts involved to make it work, but still.

Especially for his eyes.

One of them really should’ve been fused shut and hidden under the blistered tissue, but nope. The socket was crooked, like it’d been ever-so-slightly pinched. But as Casey watched, it blinked, which meant that it could still move and…he couldn’t be certain that seeing was an option, since it was dull gray and boasted a texture that reminded him of a withered grape.

But its counterpart…well, it didn’t look healthy, what with the way a bag had long-since formed underneath it, or just how bloodshot it was. But it was still functioning, still alert, still alive.

Alive enough for its pupil to shrink down to a pinprick.

Alive enough to showcase how the brown iris had a peculiar orange sheen about it.

Alive enough to drill an invisible hole into Casey’s head.

Casey shuffled, grinding his jaw as he leaned back.

Mad took that as an invitation to move himself, now leaning over his captive, still holding onto his wrist. “Here, let me get a look at you.”

He then tilted his head, his free hand moving to nudge a navy-blue blanket aside.

Casey made to snap again, to keep struggling. As his eyes followed along, however, he stopped short.

His jaw dropped at the sight of bandages wrapped around the lower-half of his bare chest in a tight layer.

The white gauze was stark against his brown skin, but a dull, dark red stain just underneath one section was the thing to really set it off.

And as he tried to regain focus, he saw how his right forearm had been dressed in a similar way. The burning and stinging felt muffled, but not by much.

“Hmm…” A few long seconds ago, Mad’s mouth had stretched into a grim, uncertain smile with a corner of his mouth twitching. But now, he was pursing his lips in a frown. “Well, patching things up never was my forte, but—”

“Stop! Get away! Let go!” Casey interjected, nearly screaming with another attempt to free his wrist. “What did you do to me?!”

An interesting mixture of anger and confusion (as well as…wait, was that actual, genuine concern?) stirred around in Mad’s eyes. “I didn’t do this!”

His grip tightened as he jostled by the couch, trying to shift his weight against his captive. “Hey, hold still! You’re gonna mess up the wraps! It took me forever to stop the bleeding; we can’t give it a chance to start again!”

“Don’t give me that BS!” Casey spat, trying to twist his arm and having to wrench his eyes shut as another bolt of pain flared under the gauze. “You don’t clean up messes! You just cause ‘em! That’s all you EVER do!”

“Not this time! It wasn’t me!” Mad protested. “Come on, Casey! These are bullet-wounds, and since when have I ever used guns?”

Casey froze in place, the upcoming retort dying on his tongue. Loathe as he was to admit it, that defense was an accurate one.

It was common for serial killers to develop signatures—personal quirks, things to make their grisly work unique to them and them alone. Sure, a lot of them knew the merits of keeping a varied inventory, but sometimes they still wound up getting attached to a particular tool or weapon or process.

Sentimentality could be a strange, horrifying thing.

Mad was a prime example of that, even when improvisation ended up not working out so well for him. But at the end of the day, he had his own handmade Ol’ Reliable. Casey had only seen it in action once or twice, but there was no doubt that it was devastating…

Watching the realization cross Casey’s features, Mad offered a smug nod.

“I didn’t see the whole thing,” he proclaimed, his gaze wandering about the room. “I was out and about, working on some of my own stuff—” Mad pointedly pretended not to see the way Casey snarled at that phrasing, “—but then I heard shots from just around the corner. I got curious, and when I snuck over to see what was going on…”

Slowly, his eyes went back to boring into Casey’s again.

For the first time in recent years, there was no rage, no ulterior motive, no sadism to be seen. In all honesty, Casey didn’t know what he was looking at, but he couldn’t take any chances in guessing.

Mad heaved a disappointed sigh. “I couldn’t make out what the guy looked like. He was halfway down the street by the the time I realized it was you lying on the ground.”

“An extortion racket,” Casey murmured without quite meaning to, putting the pieces together as the memories finally started filtering back through his head. “My latest client works at one of the stores around here…said that someone was threatening their boss in order to get free goods…using a mask and everything…”

Mad continued on, either because he hadn’t heard him or didn’t care for details right now. “You were out like a light. And you were just bleeding so much. Too much for me to waste time on a chase and then come back to you—”

He didn't trail off, but his words grew blurry, as if echoing from somewhere far away, while Casey racked his brain.

Getting shot out in the open was bad enough. Even if he’d made relative peace with all the danger he exposed himself to for his cases, it was still a nightmare scenario.

Part of his mind flashed to all the powerpoints and books he’d had to study for training. Some examples had been much more shocking than others, of course. If there was one part of that he knew for certain he would never, NEVER forget, it was the Bystander Effect.

Such a simple yet awful phenomenon.

He’d read so many reports about the targets of mugging (or something even worse) being left to bleed in a ditch or alleyway, wailing for help so loud and for so long that it’d be a miracle for their poor throats to not go raw.

And yet, no matter how loud those victims were, any other people who happened to be near were likely to just. Not. Answer.

Casey couldn’t wrap his head around something like that.

The most common excuse was that most bystanders believed plenty of other people were around to help. (Funny how that logic apparently applied to those other people too, hmm?)

Perhaps those bystanders had a reason to think it was some kind of elaborate trap. Maybe they had a reason to fear that if they helped, then unfair blame for what happened would be cast onto them.

But why was something like that so universal?

Why was it just accepted that people would go out of their way to avoid taking responsibility for bad things out in public?

It truly felt like some kind of Yin to the Milgram Experiment’s Yang…

Mad was the absolute last person Casey would expect to help him.

If anything, Mad was the type of person to take advantage of the Bystander Effect, whether he was hiding his victim or aiming to snatch one up and drag them into the night, sealing their fate himself just because he was in a bad mood.

“—Aaaaaaannd that’s how we got here!” Mad concluded with an awkward, sweeping gesture of the room. With his free hand, mind you. Since he still hadn’t let go of Casey.

The staring contest resumed (then again, had it ever really paused?) for another long, uncomfortable moment.

Casey took a quiet deep breath. “...What’s your game, then?”

“What do you mean by that?” Mad asked, his brow furrowing.

“You know what I mean. I’m not playing around with this,” Casey replied in a terse tone. “You’ve obviously brought me here because you want something. So, you might as well just tell me and get it over with already.”

Mad scoffed and pouted at the same time, which would’ve looked kind of funny if it weren’t for all his burn-scars. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. You took one bullet to your stomach and another to your arm! You’re pretty damn lucky that I managed to get them both out and dress the wounds.”

He paused, a small chuckle crawling up from his lungs. “Besides, that was only half the struggle. You’re not exactly a pocket-watch anymore.” He glanced over Casey again, and even lying down, it was obvious to anyone how he was much taller than his captor. “Makes me glad I got all that teasing out back when I was still able. Because I just knew the tables would turn someday.”

“Don’t.” Casey growled, deep in his throat. “Don’t you dare talk about old kid stuff.” He chewed his lip, then heaved a sigh. “Like it even matters anymore.”

“What?” Mad’s lips peeled back in a sneer, his much more typical anger flaring back to life in his narrowed eyes. His grip tightened around Casey’s wrist as he leaned a couple inches closer.

“Give me one good reason why I can’t,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

The challenge hit Casey like a .44 slug. He stared at his captor for a long few seconds, blinking as his own anger set his mind to a rolling boil.

“...One?” He asked, spitting the word out like it was a rancid piece of meat. “ONE reason?! You really think there’s just ONE?”

The pain didn’t even give him much trouble as he propped himself up against the couch’s armrest, returning the favor via almost getting in Mad’s face.

“Susie, Gabriel, Jeremy, Fritz,” he listed off, his heart aching at the memories of each Missing Child report. “Not to mention how many came AFTER them! Or the ones that came BEFORE them! I can only think of one time when the person you went after was an adult!”

He let out a mirthless, infuriated chuckle that came dangerously close to a sob. “But hey, I’m sure you’ve already updated that part of the list. The bodies just haven’t been found yet, huh?”

Invisible needles dragged along his brain as older memories played.

Glass shards slathered in red, glistening in the darkness.

The stench of iron swallowing up the typical smell of wood-polish.

A huge grandfather clock laying on the floor, broken beyond repair.

The horrific, pulpy mess crushed beneath all that weight.

Bits of brain and skull sticking to the once-glossy finish on the sides.

Red, red, so much RED…

Mad’s eyes flickered; Casey could see those exact images reflected—only from a much different angle of things. Almost as if his memories had been spinning through a film projector.

But that was just it.

Vague recollection was the only thing Mad’s eyes had to offer right now.

No guilt.

No sadness.

No shame.

No remorse—one of the most important ingredients to a person.

Mad wasn’t feeling sorry about the fact that he’d done any of those things.

Only sorry that he’d ever gotten caught.

“Oh, wait, did I catch you off-guard with that?” Casey wondered, his voice dripping with false apology. “Did you forget all those times; those names?”

Mad’s mouth opened and closed with no words coming out.

Part of the emotions on his face looked proud, looked disgustingly nostalgic.

Another part was seething, in a way so dark and rotten that it could've been infested with maggots.

“I guess that makes sense,” Casey continued, rolling his eyes quite pointedly. “Because you don’t care to remember. You just can’t be bothered to! That’s why you think you can just make a hobby out of hurting others! YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE OR ANYTHING BUT YOURSELF.”

Without warning, Casey felt the pressure ease around his wrist; Mad’s grip had finally slackened. It was obviously a subconscious, accidental gesture, but it was better than nothing.

Not intending to waste any chance he could get here, he tugged his arm back once again.

Mad noticed, of course, but he was too slow to retain his hold.

Casey peeled the offending hand away, then shoved it toward the lunatic in front of him…only to freeze in place.

Way back when, Mad’s palms were rough and bumpy, pretty much always boasting a few callouses. One time Casey had caught him tearing the little clumps of dead skin off with his fingernails. He remembered his worry taking on a gross, itchy feeling that churned around in his stomach at the sight.

He didn’t feel any callouses now. Didn’t feel any nails, didn’t feel any skin.

All he felt was something hard, smooth, and cold.

Time seemed to slow down as his eyes wandered over the prosthetic.

A clutch of five digits sculpted from some kind of plastic.

A tangle of thin, tiny wires wove out from the base of each “knuckle,” simulating the tendons that were supposed to reach all the way up to the elbow and give fine motor-control.

They all connected to a metal band, which encircled Mad’s wrist, just barely jutting out from whatever scarred skin remained.

Casey’s focus darted over, confirming that the hand’s counterpart was in the exact same condition.

It seemed the shock on Casey’s face was the key to finally convince Mad on the importance of personal space. He snatched his hardware away and stumbled back, blindly groping at the armchair positioned by the couch.

After a painfully awkward moment passed by, he produced a pair of thick black gloves. He shoved them on, one after the other, as if that would somehow magically turn his hands back to flesh and blood and bone. The way they should’ve been.

Casey had to hold onto his anger—his needed to.

He couldn’t let himself get caught up in anything. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. That was exactly what Mad wanted.

But even as all those horrible, monstrous things kept echoing through his head, he couldn’t help it when his voice tapered down to a whisper: “Did…did you do that?”

Mad stared at him, his expression now unreadable. The seconds felt like hours as he offered a hesitant nod.

Casey’s eyes bulged from their sockets. A tidal wave of screaming questions crashed over his head, but he could only drag one out into the air. “Why?”

Mad’s features twisted in a scowl that was made even worse by how it stretched the scarred, burned tissue around his lips.

“Because I had to,” Mad replied, his tone dripping with ice. “Business had taken more than enough hits. People were asking too many questions. I needed to get away. To start over.”

And just like that, Casey’s fury resumed its festering path around both his brain and his heart.

The statement rang through his skull like a rusty, broken church bell.

“The disaster at that one Freddy’s…They said two bodies were found. The owner and an employee,” Casey murmured, remembering the news story he just so happened to find while flicking through TV channels one morning. “That was you. You’d left some evidence around the place that couldn’t be covered up or cleaned off. So you decided to just send it to high-heaven.”

Mad folded his arms across his chest, sighing through his nose and rolling his eyes like a stereotypical teenager. Despite this, you could still catch his eyes twinkling with sick, arrogant pride.

“Afton,” Casey continued, putting piece after piece together. “That was the guy’s name. That was the latest fake identity you were using!”

Mad looked like he’d been about to say something, but a small, hitching gasp seeped through his teeth instead. His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“You killed someone else before it happened, didn’t you? You cut off their hands, got rid of them, and then you—you left yours behind with the body.” Casey felt his chest tightening, felt the new gash in his torso burn and sting so bright it almost felt fresh.

“That way, if anyone came sniffing through the wreckage…they’d have no choice but to connect your fingerprints to the victim. Your records, too. They’d think you died in that explosion.”

Casey had seen his fair share of criminals going out of their way to make things…elaborate. Sometimes that just made them easier to catch, but other times it left him feeling cold, scared, almost helpless depending on what exactly he was looking for.

The scheme Mad had apparently cooked up was a very labored one.

It was a long-con, a true gamble.

And, worst of all: it was infuriatingly, horrifically clever.

Now it was Mad’s turn to whisper, his voice dangerously close to shaking.

“H-how…how did you do that?!”

“It’s really not that hard with you, Mad!” Casey fumed, throwing his hands up in the air and wincing as the muscles in his bandaged arm screamed. “Keeping track of everything you’ve done? That’s painful for sure. But you always have your damn tells!”

Mad gripped the arm of his chair, his hand shaking as his digits sank into the leather.

“Shut up.” The warning came out as a hiss.

It fell on deaf ears.

“Why else would you keep running around with fake names, ruining different people’s lives, causing wanton destruction?!” Casey shouted. It felt like a section of his brain was about to bash its way out of his skull. One hand subconsciously reached for his head, soon touching down to rake across his black hair, almost digging his nails into his own scalp.

“Shut. UP,” Mad repeated, his breathing now ragged.

Casey wasn’t deterred. “It’s not just because you get a kick out of it! It’s because you can’t even take responsibility for crimes, of all things! You really think you’re some kind of mastermind, but if it wasn’t for all the high numbers and missing cases and flash you’re so obsessed with, then you’d just be another low-level, dime-a-dozen scumbag!”

“SHUT UP!” Mad shrieked, practically jumping out of his chair.

In a swift, blurry movement, he grabbed one of the coffee table’s legs, raised it up, and hurled it across the room.

It hit the opposite wall with a dull, deafening WHAM! before falling to the floor.

(Oddly enough, it stayed in one piece, though there were some brand-spankin’-new cracks in the white paint. Not to mention a fresh dent in the wall.)

Casey stared at the display, only for a violent flinch to sear through him as the shifting continued in his peripheral vision. He braced himself, clenching his jaw, gripping at the couch cushions.

Mad stormed further away, approaching a door that waited right on the living room’s border. He ripped it open, using so much force that it was a miracle he didn’t rip it off its hinges.

Then he ducked into the next room and slammed it shut, making the wall shake for a long few seconds. His angry movements grew muffled, fainter (not by very much of course), but didn’t stop altogether.

Somehow, this new, relative silence felt worse than the screaming.

Casey swallowed a lump in his throat. He chewed his lip, glancing all around the space—there.

A hollow threshold on the other end of the living room, almost perfectly opposite of wherever Mad had retreated into.

He had no idea how much time Mad would take to sulk, to get his aggression out, to be unable to watch him.

He had to move quickly.

Casey sat upright, feeling his shoes touch down on the carpet.

Even after steadying himself, he still had to screw his eyes shut and suck a sharp breath in through his teeth as he stood up.

The room swayed, and the pain drank that right up.

Agony raced up and down his legs as he began to walk, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He shifted his weight with each step, making as little noise as possible.

Once he was close enough, Casey reached out and pushed his hand onto the wall, half-leaning against it to keep his balance.

He had to get out of here, but he couldn’t just leave.

After all, where exactly would he go? He didn’t even know how close this house was to the area he’d been attacked at.

Wandering would be useless; Mad could track him down and re-capture him easily

If Casey truly wanted to escape, he’d have to be smart about it…

___

Azalea dug around in her bag and fished out a familiar, pink-stained wooden container. She popped it open and gazed inside, silently reading the labels on the little glass vials she’d taken samples from a few minutes ago.

She’d used up the Japanese Giant Hornet venom for the job—so, that left four types of hype for her to work with, each ready to go, filled with clear, oh-so innocent-looking liquids.

She settled on potentially incriminating a Gila monster, grabbing the appropriate syringe and spinning it between her gloved fingers.

Those lizards were considered to have one of the most painful bites in the United States, though lethal cases were almost unheard of.

The same went for the other toxins she’d brought.

Arizona bark scorpion, platypus, bullet ant…oh, they offered side-effects that were agonizing, but not technically fatal.

Just enough juice to incapacitate someone for a while.

Though, they couldn’t exactly knock someone unconscious. Sure, the shock and pain could potentially make the unlucky victim pass out, but it was still a gamble.

A gamble that Azalea wouldn’t have to worry about with certain other substances in her collection.

The same ones that she’d somehow forgotten to bring along.

Hell, she’d even neglected to bring a trusty dart gun! It wasn’t impossible to pull off stealth-based work without one, but still...

Caliban pushed off from the top of the fence, landing beside her with a light thump on the grass. He dusted himself off and began stalking forward…only to stop short, seeing the self-aimed disappointment on her face.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t beat yourself up about it,” he assured, giving her a light pat on the shoulder. “We’ve improvised before, so we can do it again.”

“I know, I know,” Azalea replied, offering a gesture that was half-nod-half-shrug as the two of them crept through a very unkempt backyard.

She was grateful for the morbid optimism; he’d already heard her slight panic-rant back at the motel, and yet he wasn’t getting snappy. “It’s just…you’ve got more history with this guy than the rest of us. I don’t want to make things any more stressful.”

“Well, yeah.” Caliban admitted, chewing his lip with a nod of his own. “But since when does random stuff like this not have any stress?”

A wide grin then spread over his features, showcasing the way his teeth looked a bit too sharp. “Besides, most jobs tend to get more fun sooner or later.”

Azalea chuckled, the syringe already feeling lighter in her grasp.

It was very late in the night. The sky had been completely swallowed up by clouds; the moon’s glow just barely managed to peek out through a few of them, but that only made so much of a dent in the darkness.

This wasn’t a problem, really. More than enough time had passed for them to adjust to nocturnal schedules, to learn how to make their way with limited vision.

Maybe that was why Azalea could see her brother’s eyes glinting almost as much as his teeth.

Much like the ones on her face, Caliban’s eyes were brown. And yet, right now, they almost seemed to take on a shade of yellow that would’ve been creepy to most other people.

(His eyes always did that when he had a lot of adrenaline. Even more so when he was hungry.)

Though there was a decent amount of space, the house didn’t have much in the way of a back-patio.

The siblings ducked as they passed a couple windows, soon approaching a door. It seemed a hole had been cut out, since there was a wide plastic panel adorning the lower-half. A typical doggy-door.

“Does he have any pets?” Azalea asked, eyeing it cautiously. “Have you ever seen him with one?”

Caliban shook his head. “Doubt it. He doesn’t seem to like most animals, if the faces he's made at Snare are anything to go by. This probably just came with the house.”

He fished through his jacket’s pockets and brought out a couple lockpicks. It took a moment of shifting them about in the keyhole, but a small click rang through the air soon enough.

He twisted the knob and started to push, only for the door to stop less than halfway.

After flinching in near-perfect unison with Azalea, he carefully wormed his fingers through the crevice between the door and its panel.

“What the—?!” Caliban whisper-shouted, moving his wrist up and down. “...There’s latches!”

Azalea furrowed her brow. “Plural?”

“Yeah! I can feel four or five of ‘em!” The cannibal gave an aggravated growl. “This has to be the one thing he’s actually thorough about.”

Azalea pursed her lips, tossing an anxious glance over her shoulder.

Pre-planned jobs already came with their own time-crunches. Stuff like this only tightened that leash even more.

K.O. had agreed to create a distraction after waiting two minutes; the siblings couldn’t afford to waste even a few seconds if they wanted this to work.

She glanced down at the doggy door, raising her foot to give it a little kick. The plastic flap yielded easily. There was nothing behind it.

After that, Azalea let out a sigh. “Alright, hold these.”

She pushed her bag and the syringe-container into Caliban’s hands without waiting for an answer, then dropped down to her knees to push the flap up and out of the way.

Her shoulders made entry a little awkward, but she was petite enough to make it through just fine. She picked herself up, glancing around at an empty garage.

Or, mostly empty, since the car Caliban’s rival apparently used was parked outside. A desk had been set up in the far-corner, cluttered with sheets of paper and various tools. A few strange, glinting shapes hung on the wall nearby; either weapons or more pieces of equipment—or both.

The smell of metal and motor oil hung heavy in the musty air.

Azalea turned back to the door, making short work of the comedic amount of latches that had been installed onto it.

The threshold was shut as quickly as it’d been opened, Caliban scurrying through to join her.

“You didn’t see anything,” Azalea stated, squinting up at him as he handed her stuff back.

Caliban raised one hand in a small salute…though that didn’t stop one corner of his mouth from twitching in that way you just knew meant a giggle was being pushed down.

Another door stood at attention just a few feet away.

The two of them crept toward it, only briefly jumping out of their skins at the sudden cacophony of shattering glass, followed by the unmistakable wailing of a car alarm.

“There!” Caliban proclaimed, struggling to keep his voice low. “There’s the distraction!”

Azalea nodded, racing up a short set of concrete stairs. She pressed her ear against the door, listening carefully. She managed to catch frantic footsteps stampeding somewhere inside, though they were quick to disappear.

She was silent while turning the knob, swift as she pushed the entrance open. “C’mon, c’mon..!”

Her brother followed her lead into a laundry room, then into a small kitchen.

With the overall dingy vibes and the aged light buzzing and flickering above, you’d think there would be dishes piled up in the sink. But no; there were only knives.

“Where do you think he put him?” Azalea whispered as she sidled past the dining room table. “There’s a chance this place has a basement.”

“Maybe, but this floor can’t be that big—” Caliban started, then cut himself off. He turned his head, craning his neck in a sharp, sudden way. “Wait..!”

He took in a brisk breath, his nostrils flaring in a way that was almost similar to the near-constant twitching of Snare's nose. “I smell blood. Think it’s fresh.”

Azalea was right behind him as he trekked forward.

They came upon a much wider space—a living room, complete with a sofa here, an armchair there, and a small white table to seemed to have had a brief exchange of principles with one of the walls.

A metallic gleam caught Azalea’s eye; Casey’s half-respirator, lying vacant right by the crash site. She tip-toed over and plucked it off the floor, winding the head strap around her free wrist.

There was another door across the room, but the short corridor stretching out to the right seemed a bit more interesting.

The siblings kept going, turning a corner just in time to discover a closet; one that had been installed on a track, not touching the floor or ceiling by less than a single inch.

That itself wouldn’t have been much to look at.

No, what really got their attention was how the door was sliding open.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

A dark eye shone through the crack, widening as it stared at them.

Neither Azalea nor Caliban had much of a chance to stare back.

As if on cue, hollow space grew wider, allowing an arm to lash out. It wrapped around Azalea first, just touching along her back, then stretched to grab a handful of Caliban’s shoulder.

The two of them let out twin yelps of panic as they were drawn forward, soon colliding with a number of hanging coats and miscellaneous clutter as the door slid shut behind them.

And now Azalea could smell blood too. Caliban had learned to track certain scents almost like a shark, but it was stronger in here

The figure responsible for this was taller than both of them.

Even in the darkness, it didn’t take much time at all for both of them to recognize his face from so many near-misses in the past.

But if anything sealed the deal, it was his voice.

“I knew it!” Casey proclaimed, clearly struggling to whisper. His tone was strained by something more physical, though; like he was biting back an acidic tinge somewhere. “You guys have connections with him!”

The investigator raised his arms again, attempting to pin Caliban to one of the narrow walls. “Mad couldn’t get what he wanted from me, so called you in to take care of the rest!”

Even through the new chaos, the siblings still had a chance to exchanged confused glances.

“That’s not true at all!” Azalea snapped right back, tugging at one of Casey’s arms. “It’d be a clear break of the family’s rules!”

“The hell are you talking about?!” Caliban hissed, struggling against the other man’s grip like a bag of angry cats. “That guy’s a total parasite! I wouldn’t even put his cuts on my table, let alone work with him!”

“Likely story,” Casey growled. “Why else would you have come here?!”

“Because we’re trying to help you!” Azalea shoved her way in-between Casey and Caliban, forcing the former to release his grip. Caliban staggered back, catching himself against the opposite corner of the cramped space.

Casey gawked at the two of them, slowly shaking his head. “...No. No, you aren’t—”

“Yeah, we are!” Caliban protested. “There’s no time to explain! Just go with something..!” His eyes passed over something behind all the hanging stuff, only to freeze in a neck-snapping doubletake. His voice suddenly wavered, hitching. “...for once…”

Azalea felt a wave of something cold and prickly slide over her shoulders.

“Cal?” She called, trying to keep her voice soft. “Cal, what is it?”

Her brother didn’t answer. He just kept on staring.

Azalea shuffled closer, pushing everything aside to see for herself.

She automatically wished that she hadn’t.

The closet’s back-wall was, to be frank, falling apart. A large hole marred the paint, revealing crumbling drywall and even a bit of a support beam.

Caliban audibly gulped, his already-wide eyes growing even wider to accommodate the rotten memories now circulating through his head.

Azalea knew, because those same memories were doing that exact thing to her.

Caliban stepped away, pressing his back against one of the closet’s doors.

“Cal,” Azalea repeated, finding it even hard to keep her tone even. “Cal, it’s okay—” She reached up to grasp his shoulder. “Look at me, not at that.”

Caliban swiveled his head to face her. His eyes were still full of that strange, yellow-looking gleam, but his energy wasn’t excited anymore. Now, it resembled that of an animal caught in a trap, just about desperate enough to chew off one of its legs to escape.

“This isn’t the same as that was,” Azalea told him. “We’re not—” She had to take a shallow breath, had to stop herself from shaking. “We’re not back there.”

“I-I know,” Caliban replied, nodding frantically. “I know, I know…”

“We’ll get out of here soon enou—”

“Shh!” Casey (who had apparently just been polite enough to stand by for this little scene), jolted in place, his focus darting back over to the doors.

The three of them fell silent.

Somewhere else in the house, a door let out a long, low squeal.

Floorboards creaked softly.

That might be K.O., part of Azalea’s mind whispered. He could’ve ditched Mad and circled back here to help us.

But that couldn’t be the case.

K.O. wouldn’t have been walking so quietly, so carefully. Not if he’d led a threat far enough away, at least.

Closer…and closer…

“Casey,” an unfamiliar voice called, dripping with bitterness and dread. “Casey, come on—you shouldn’t be hiding from me.”

Casey edged away from that spot where the door met the wall.

Caliban slid closer to Azalea, eyes still wide, fear draining away. His features would’ve been completely unreadable to almost anyone else.

“You said what you said,” the voice continued, even closer than before. “And I said what I said…”

In her peripheral vision, she saw him reach into his jacket, saw something shiny with a wooden handle appear in his grasp.

She brushed her arm against his, shifting the syringe to her opposite hand.

“I know you’re around here somewhere!” The voice was full-on shouting now, desperation hanging in thick tangles around the words. “Doing this won’t prove anything!”

Azalea peered over at the detective, just in time to see him lower his head, shivering and clenching his jaw.

The closet door was flung aside with a grating whoosh!

A new figure loomed in the hall outside, dressed in an unmistakable bear-suit, the tan fabric smeared with red stains. His eyes were narrowed at first, only to almost pop right out of his head as he noticed the new guests in his house.

But that only lasted a split-second.

Caliban leapt out with an ear-piercing war-cry, his favorite cleaver a blur as he raked it against the other man, who shouted with unintelligible rage and hatred as he lashed right back.

In a matter of seconds, they both disappeared back around the corner.

Azalea didn’t hesitate. She surged out and down the other side. Casey struggled, trying to move on his own terms, but she kept a death grip around his wrist. She could still hear her brother, hear his shouts of fury and pain mixing with that other voice, hear the subsequent thudding and shuffling of limbs against the walls and floor…

Coolness seeped over her, making goosebumps sprout all over her arms.

At the end of the hall, she discovered another door, wide open, letting the fresh, nighttime air filter on through.

K.O. raced across the threshold, skidding to a halt upon seeing one of his accomplices.

“I tried to draw him away, but he just went running back here before we could get far enough,” he reported in-between gasping breaths, panic heavy in his voice. “What’s going on?!”

“Change of plans,” Azalea replied, somehow just as breathless.

She pushed Casey toward K.O.—yes, the latter was shorter than the former, but he was also one of the strongest members of The Pentas Family. He was their very own underground fighter, after all.

“Take him back over there!” She instructed, pointing past his shoulder at the abandoned motel, her heart sinking as the background noises grew fainter for a millisecond. “I need to help Cal!”

“Don’t I get a say in this?!” Casey demanded, still jostling unsteadily as K.O. took hold of his arms.

Before either of his technical captors could respond, a new sound sliced through the air.

Azalea couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard something like it, but her instincts were already shrieking and clawing at the interior of her skull. Judging by K.O and Casey’s expressions, they knew to recognize it, too.

A chorus of rapid, buzzing, mechanical revving, almost like a car’s engine.

Almost.

Except for the fact that most cars didn’t come with a long, spinning line of teeth.

“GO! HURRY!” Azalea shouted, feeling the blood rush through her ears as she retraced her steps, sprinting past the closet, back to the entrance of that kitchen from what felt like hours ago.

Mad had his back to her, holding that same shape she’d seen in the garage. The noise it made now felt like nails being drilled into her ears.

And in front of Mad, lying on the floor—Caliban.

The screaming suddenly felt muffled, except for a slight ringing along the edges.

Azalea could practically feel her blood start to boil in her veins.

Her brother had been backed into a corner…and now, some filthy bottom-feeding child murderer was AIMING A CHAINSAW AT HIS FACE.

Caliban was holding up a chair, using it as a shield. The chainsaw’s teeth sputtered and jumped at the obstacle, but that would only last so long.

Before she even realized it, Azalea was running, leaping onto Mad’s back.

Mad let out a guttural yelp, swinging his weapon up and away from Caliban.

He tried to sway from side-to-side, tried to thrash his new attacker off.

But he didn’t move fast enough.

In a hazy, fluid movement, Azalea’s arm lashed out, then came arching back toward him.

The needle glinted hungrily as it sank into his shoulder. She pressed down on the plunger, her white knuckles cracking from sheer force. Part of her almost expected the syringe to break apart in her hand.

Mad froze in place, lowering the chainsaw in a subconscious, almost mechanical way. He started trembling, his breathing growing even more ragged.

She jumped away from him just as he dropped his toy (which apparently landed right on its OFF switch, Thank God).

Then, he crumpled to his knees, and started screaming.

A confused, raspy, keening distress-call.

He writhed in place, clawing at his shoulder as tears streamed down his face.

Caliban was back on his feet in an instant. He raised the ruined chair over his head, then swung it down onto the chainsaw’s engine about half-a-dozen times. That didn't seem to inflict too much damage, but it was better than nothing.

Once he was satisfied, the cannibal turned his sights back to Mad.

Lowering his head and squaring his shoulders, he charged with another bloodthirsty scream, holding his former shield like a battering ram.

Mad’s neck was caught between the two front legs, and though he reached up to grab at them, he couldn’t stop the new momentum.

Caliban shoved him forward, making him skid across the floor. He didn’t stop until the chair’s legs dug into the adjacent wall, causing little wisps of dust and drywall-crumbs to come flying out.

And just like that, Mad was pinned.

For a few long seconds, Caliban didn't let go of the chair's back-post. Instead, he loomed over his opponent, panting like a dog, his eyes feral as they rolled around in his head.

"You look like a tuna melt," the cannibal declared.

Though this didn't stop Mad from all his kicking and squirming, a flare in his eyes made it clear that comment had struck some kind of nerve.

"...I HATE tuna melts," Caliban added, his snarl quickly shifting into a grin so wide it almost seemed to split his face. A dark chuckle seeped through his bared teeth. "I HATE 'EM!"

He pulled away, throwing his head back to let out a loud, ragged high-pitched cackle, his teeth practically gnashing at the air.

While Azalea was normally happy to see her peers getting some well-earned stress relief, she still knew very well that this impromptu timeout-trap wouldn't hold Mad forever.

Sure, the pain from the Gila venom would slow him down, but even that could only last so long. The side-effects varied from person to person; sometimes they'd linger on for hours. Other times, however, they might start wearing off in forty-five minutes...

With that in mind, she felt her free hand tug at her brother's jacket, then heard the speed of the world whistling past the two of them.

She finally, finally managed to blink, and she was outside again.

She didn't have to guide Caliban along. He readily ran beside her, unhinged chortles still leaking out in-between breaths.

Her lungs were threatening to burst open and tangle themselves all over her ribcage, but she couldn't think about that right now.

Azalea just had to focus on running, had to focus on how Caliban was still breathing, had to focus on the two other, very familiar figures up ahead.

Casey, who was being half-carried-half-dragged, and K.O., who was halfway through the entrance of that decrepit motel...

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @lampsforsocks

You changed,

You haven’t

A follow up to our lovely collab with @wouldntyou-liketoknow, this is more of a flashback to kinda get into the relationship between Casey and Mad through Mad’s eyes. It may never erase what he’s done, but it may show a glimpse as to why he can’t seem to let Casey go.

Has always been, and always will be known as a monster, yet one soul decided to take a chance, to hold his hand and make him feel something more than just a monster. He was more in that person’s eyes, and he never wanted to let go of that feeling. The simple single touch of another who never views him as nothing more than a…

Shame he no longer can feel the touch.

@crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au @wouldntyou-liketoknow @the-matpat-ever

He can only dream.

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 6 months ago

Text

(OH GOD I’M SO SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT BUT HEY AT LEAST IT’S HERE NOW—)

Here we are, folks: it all comes down to this!

Mad finally, FINALLY hears some boss music, and Caliban gets to have a dramatic flipping-out-contest with him. Ness, meanwhile, actually gets a break from all the action...kind of...

___

Terminal Case of the Ol’ Switcheroo [Part 4]

(Disclaimer: only one of the EgoPats in this snippet belongs to me. For more information about Caliban, go here. And if you’d like to learn about the mob he works for, go here. Ness belongs to the FNAF movie. MadPat belongs to Random Encounters.)

(One more thing: I’ve actually written a full character analysis on the dynamic between Mad and Caliban. If you’re interested, please feel free to check it out here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, knives/blades, violence, implied violence, talk of murder/death, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of illegal business, eating/drinking, implied stalking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Epilogue

___

“That’s Jack’s cab.” Ness’ mouth moved faster than his brain, as the words came tumbling out before he even heard himself.

Despite this, it seemed the statement was much quieter than he thought, as Caliban tossed a questioning glance his way. “What?”

“Jack works in a taxi business,” Ness murmured, his eyes still glued to the windshield. “That’s his cab—that’s him in there!”

Caliban had kept his car’s headlights out for so long that Ness’ eyes were slow to adjust to the taxi’s bright, artificial glow. It didn’t help that he was now unable to blink and would probably stay that way for the next hour (at least).

But the scene up ahead was all the same.

Mad was back, looming before him once again: the distance between the two of them was only somewhat larger than it had been back at Mike’s house. Even with the car acting as a protective barrier, he still felt paralyzed.

And now that psycho was scraping his knife along metal, staring at the same guy who had been living with Ness and putting up with Ness’ theoretical antics and being basically the only person in Ness’ corner before Mike and Abby came along.

Somehow, Ness’ eyes managed to wander away from Mad and focus on the taxi’s passenger windows.

It was then that he realized several things at once.

The first was that tonight wasn’t on Jack’s driving schedule—he treated his cab like a casual car for convenience, so he should’ve been alone in there.

The second was that Jack was most certainly not alone right now, because as Ness stared, he saw a silhouetted shape riding shotgun.

The third was that the silhouette in question was small; small enough that their head and shoulders were just barely past the window.

The fourth was that he recognized a bright blue backpack with candy-red straps that the passenger was clutching to their chest. He remembered joking about how that backpack nearly matched the cyan-tinted leather jacket he was wearing right now.

The fifth was that he also recognized short, dark brown curls that tickled the passenger’s shoulders…as well as a pair of big chestnut eyes that were so thoughtful and wise (both of which were now being clouded with fear) despite their obvious youth.

Ness’ mind all but caved in at that point, so there was no sixth item on his list.

“Abby,” Ness cried. Part of him felt like his voice could only be heard by dogs at that second. Another part, meanwhile, was shocked that the car’s windows hadn’t shattered all at once. He reached over to shake Caliban’s shoulder, pointing toward the windshield. “Abby’s there! HE can see her!”

Caliban had been in the middle of opening his mouth to ask more questions, but now his jaw went slack as the color drained from his face.

To his credit, he didn’t freeze. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and shifted in his seat to roll his window down. And for a split-second, Ness could’ve sworn that he saw the cannibal’s hand ever-so-slightly shaking.

Cool nighttime air came seeping into the car—for whatever reason, it felt akin to droplets of ice-water splashing against his skin.

Then, in a low, soft voice, Caliban pronounced, “Snare.”

Like a soldier called to attention, the pale hare leapt over the center console and onto his owner’s lap, dark amber eyes wide.

“Now’s your time to shine, buddy.” Caliban gathered Snare up in his arms, then maneuvered him to look at the taxi that was just ten-or-so feet away. “We can’t stop ‘em from following, but we can still keep some distance. You need to be fast, okay? Give that thing a handicap, and then you come right back to me. Understand?”

As he gazed through the windshield, Snare’s eyes suddenly narrowed. His long ears flattened, his little nostrils flared. He bared his buck-teeth and let out a small, gravelly hiss.

Then, he glanced back at Caliban, craning his neck to nudge at his cheek before squirming in his grasp.

Caliban nodded before releasing his hold. “Alright, go! Hurry, hurry!”

The hare didn’t need to be told twice; he became a blur of movement, hopping through the open window and scampering off into the shadows. It didn’t take very long for Ness to lose track of him. Very surprising for a creature with white fur.

Ness tore his eyes from everything up ahead in order to gape at Caliban.

“…What’s that supposed to do?!” He demanded, feeling his nails dig into leather, getting dangerously close to raising his voice.

“Slow ‘em down,” Caliban replied, not looking in the waiter’s direction as he drummed his fingers against the wheel. “Can’t afford to have the kid get any closer to this than she already is. We’re going to Plan C.”

“Plan C?” Ness echoed, shocked at just how incredulous he felt in spite of his panic. “But—but there’s no time for a Plan C—”

There was barely enough time for Ness to let go of the crimson sleeve before Caliban’s fist was in the air, meeting the center console with a heavy thump!

The cannibal almost lunged at his passenger. Almost, because he managed to stop himself halfway in favor of just looming closer.

Just like a few hours ago, back in the den where this entire disaster had started in the first place, all Ness could see were teeth.

Lips peeled back like a snarling dog, those pearly-whites glinted in the darkness with a viscous energy. The silver canine-cap looked even sharper than before; if Ness concentrated, he could see his terrified expression reflected against it.

And they all seemed to gnash at the air as Caliban snapped, “Do you wanna keep your friends safe or not?!”

Ness edged away, partially curling in on himself. Dull pain flared through his arm as his elbow and shoulder knocked against the passenger-side door. He held up his other hand to shield his face, bracing himself.

He expected Caliban to snatch a handful of his jacket and tug him closer so he could punch him, slap him, bite him.

But as the seconds dragged their way by, as the new quiet festered…none of those things happened.

And now that Ness’ eyes were finally wandering up to meet Caliban’s…

Well, he saw quite a variety of things that could be described as psychotic, but that wasn’t it. Something new was flickering within them. At first he thought it was fear, but he was wrong.

This was despair: more raw, more painful, more tinged with what Ness miraculously knew without knowing were…memories.

The kind of memories that weren’t meant to be shared with anyone.

Not unless they had just as many old wounds that would never, never heal.

Not unless the shadows around you were dark and deep enough that you could burrow into them to try and make aforementioned wounds JUST ROT ALREADY, because decay always found a way to move faster than recovery.

This wasn’t just about anger or bloodthrist or whatever petty, horrific history Caliban apparently had with Mad.

There was mutual interest here. (Or, something close to it, at least.)

The current elements worked to keep this from getting awkward, but they would only last so long.

Moving carefully, Ness lowered his hand, corrected his posture.

Caliban, in turn, backed off. While his expression didn’t relax whatsoever, his teeth still wound up hidden by his lips once more.

“Yes,” Ness answered, nodding, his tone hushed and taut…and, somehow, understanding. He wasn’t sure how or why, but he knew that it needed to be. “Yes, I do.”

A long couple seconds dragged by before Caliban nodded back. “Good.”

He made to rest his arm on the bottom windowpane, only to flinch back.

The sound of claws scratching against metal would’ve sent Ness into another panic…however, now that Snare’s fuzzy face was a somewhat familiar sight, he managed to keep himself together.

A smile etched its way across Caliban’s features so fast that it seemed to give him a bit of whiplash, but he still scooped his pet up all the same. “Yeah! Good job, buddy! You did great!”

The hare bounced in place, the tips of his ears twitching with excitement. He was suddenly in Ness’ lap again, pawing at his shirt, swaying to and fro not unlike a hyper kitten.

As Ness stared, he realized that Snare was holding something between his teeth—something tiny and dark. The object fell away soon enough due to all the hare’s movement. Ness palmed it, lifting it up for a better look.

His eyes managed to grow even wider than they already had been. If his environment had been a bit more lighthearted, he might have thought back to all the overexaggerated effects that were drawn whenever cartoon characters gasped or screamed.

It was a valve cap.

He glanced back up through the windshield. It took a few seconds of staring at the taxi’s back tires, but he still managed to catch movement on one of them.

There was no low popping or hissing, and the process was moving at a slow pace…but the rubber was, indeed, growing loose.

Bit-by-bit.

“Get ready to take the wheel,” Caliban instructed.

A cold spark manifested in the hollows of Ness’ eyelids. It moved to rattle through his skull, shot along his ribs, and dripped down his spine before it finally plummeted into his stomach and started churning there.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” Ness stammered, hating how small his voice was as he stared at the cannibal, who was now rolling his shoulders, eyes drifting shut.

“I said—” Caliban turned his head from side-to-side, eliciting a low, sickening crack from the joints in his neck. “—Get. Ready. To take. THE WHEEL.”

The smile seemed to warp on his skin. It was much wider, more sick than any expression he’d made earlier; combined with the dim light, he truly appeared to have a mouthful of razors.

His eyes popped back open, and this time, there was no trace of any pain or aches or dread.

Now, there was only energy.

A chaotic type of energy that made him think of potent acid kept inside an unnecessarily large vial: eager to flood out, to spread, to devour everything in its path.

And, as Caliban ever-so-slightly lowered his head to peer out the windshield through his brows, Ness had to take a millisecond to feel grateful that Mad was the main thing in his path.

Snare pawed at Ness’ chest, clicking his buck teeth together. As excited as he seemed it be, he’d clearly had some kind of premonition earlier, as he was quick to squirm under Ness’ seatbelt, shoulders tense.

The nape of his neck collided with the headrest before he even registered that Caliban had stomped on the gas pedal, that the tires were now screeching against asphalt, that the car was rocketing forward.

The world outside was suddenly a blur; he barely had enough air in his lungs to scream. He couldn’t even close his eyes as he braced for the crash, for the cacophony of grinding metal and shattering glass.

The universe truly worked in mysterious ways, because it was actually a good thing that he couldn’t blind himself to the impending chaos.

If he had, then he wouldn’t have seen how there was about a perfect half-inch of space between Caliban’s car and Jack’s cab.

He wouldn’t have seen how Caliban let out a war-cry and lunged from his seat, partially looming through the open window.

He wouldn’t have seen how Caliban snatched up Mad, executing what was undoubtedly the ballsiest clothesline maneuver possible.

Somehow, the childish side of Ness’ brain decided to perk up right then, murmuring that if he had the ability to pause time, he would’ve just to see the looks on Jack and Abby’s faces because they were in full-on Stuff That Should Only Happen In Movies territory.

Thankfully, his vision started racing back and forth between the windshield and the currently unattended steering wheel.

The air was almost knocked right back out of him as his chest slammed against the center console, but he still wrapped his hands around the leather grips, running on pure desperation to keep it steady.

Soon, he couldn’t hear the keening sound of air rushing past the car, thanks to the shrieks of an unfamiliar-yet-unmistakable voice.

“H-HEY, HEY! STOP, LET ME GO—!”

In his peripheral vision, Ness saw Mad just past Caliban, right outside the window. He watched him throw out his arms, kick his legs, thrashing like a rapid opossum. But no matter what he tried, he just couldn’t seem to get out of Caliban's grip around his neck and shoulders.

At this point, Ness had seen plenty of things that made him question his life and every decision he'd made in it.

But honestly…if someone had predicted that all of this would happen, and then told Ness about their prophecy a few months ago?

The part that would’ve surprised him the most would be the idea that Mad could show fear.

The way Mad had stared at him on the fateful night…his rictus of a grin…how he slowly shook his head and murmured under his breath when he thought no-one could see…

Mad really just seemed like the type of person to not have certain emotions. All those damn packages he’d left for Ness to find certainly hadn’t helped his case.

But right here, right now, Mad’s face was twisted into a mess of shock and panic. Eyes the size of dinner plates, verbal vomit flooding out of his mouth as he struggled…

Then again, that seemed to partially fall away when Mad finally craned his neck to look at his captor. Strands of disgust and fury wove their way into his expression at the way the cannibal cackled.

“REALLY LETTING IT ALL HANG OUT THERE, HUH, MAD?!” Caliban shouted, his grin so wide that it legitimately seemed to split his face in half.

“YOU..!” Mad roared, now throwing punches at the car rather than the air around him. “YOU RUINED IT! YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!”

Keeping the other psycho his clutch meant that Caliban had to respond to all that erratic movement in kind. That, in turn, meant thrashing back-and-forth, both through the window as well as in his seat.

Considering a past night-walk of his had somehow ended in him having to contain a stray cat that acted like it’d gotten a whiff of the odd pinch of cocaine-crumbs in the alleyways around town, Ness was inclined to feel a bit of empathy for Caliban right now.

Only a little bit, though, since having someone’s elbow crash against your jaw a few times in a row was far from the best thing when you were trying to drive.

Ness was more than a little surprised when he managed to swerve the car away from a public mailbox in the nick of time.

In all this new chaos, Ness almost forgot about the close-call Jack and Abby had found themselves in.

…Almost. But that lapse was rectified rather quick.

Jack was an all-around decent guy (so long as you didn’t interrupt his power-naps), but there were only so many friends in his circle. Seeing as Ness was included in that group, he didn’t judge.

Jack kept one particular friend very close a lot of the time; in a special compartment just under his driver’s seat, to be specific. This friend went by the name Remington—Remi for short, though Jack sometimes just defaulted to Buckshot when he was feeling some type of way.

Ness had never really gotten to know Remi himself, but he still knew that Remi was a loud, fast, and expressive speaker. Almost immediately after that act of curbside-service-except-without-a-curbside, Ness heard Remi’s signature voice pipe up and make two far-reaching statements.

Against literally all his better judgement—scratch that, all survival instinct—Ness glanced over his shoulder. Jack’s cab was already a tiny blur in the distance, and the darkness didn’t hesitate to start swallowing it up, but he just really wanted to be sure that his roommate was only just weighing the options of just how philosophical the discussion really needed to be.

Hell, those comments were eloquent enough to make Caliban and Mad stop screaming at each other and simply glance back for about ten whole seconds.

Of course, it didn’t stop them from just picking back up where they left off, but the impact was undeniable.

“THIS WON’T CHANGE ANYTHING! YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” Mad declared, swinging at Caliban’s face. A metallic blur gleamed in his grasp, helping Ness to realize a bit too late that his knife wasn’t still stuck in the hood of Jack’s cab. “YOU CAN SLICE AND DICE YOUR DAMN HEART OUT, BUT I’LL STILL GET BACK TO WHERE I STARTED!”

Caliban yelped, jerking back and unintentionally giving Ness a look at the thin, fresh cut that was suddenly opening up on his cheek. To his credit, he was snapping right back in no time.

Literally—as one of Mad’s sleeves slid away from his black glove, Caliban craned his neck, opened wide, and lunged. His teeth sank into the exposed skin of Mad’s forearm, eyes feral as they rolled around in his head.

All the while, Ness suffered the very worst cringe he ever had when he couldn’t keep the car’s right tires from plowing through one of the decorative bushes that had been planted around the perimeter of the local library.

Mad’s shrieking cranked up to eleven (to the point that Ness was sure that if any dogs happened to be nearby, they might’ve heard a fraction of it). He made several rapid-fire attempts to tug his arm back, but Caliban was having none of it. His chompers remained latched-on as he shook his head like a wolf thrashing its prey.

Time seemed to slow down; Ness even managed to glimpse the way that section of Mad’s skin stretched and split and tore as Caliban pulled back. Little red droplets flew between them to meet their end on either the asphalt or the car’s paint-job.

When Caliban finally released Mad’s arm, his face contorted into a grimace so dark and rotten that it could’ve been infested with maggots.

“YOU REALLY THINK I’D PUT YOUR CUTS ON MY TABLE?! DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF!” He spat out a wad of blood that so obviously wasn’t his own. The horrific smile came flooding back onto his face, just in time for another sick, frenzied cackle to rush up from his lungs.

One of Caliban’s hands was a blur as it abandoned Mad’s shoulder to snatch a handful of his messy brown hair. After that, he leaned even further out, pushing his torso against the windowpane.

Once he had a little more leeway, he yanked Mad’s head back…only to slam the other killer’s face against the car door with a resounding WHUMP.

Then, somehow convincing mania and incredulousness to mix very well together, Caliban decided to have a little fun with punctuation as he continued. “I’M JUST GONNA CHEW YOU UP—”

WHUMP

“AND SPIT!”

WHUMP

“YOU!”

WHUMP

“OUT!”

WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP

With that, weight manifested on Ness’ shoulder. He felt his hands go slack, felt the wheel slip out of his grasp, and found himself trebucheting off to the side until there was no room for Jesus between his face and the passenger window.

Everything came screeching to an extremely abrupt halt.

Ness was frozen in place, listening to the shuffling sounds of Caliban readjusting himself behind the wheel.

If Ness moved, his heart would explode in his chest with such ferocity that little bits of it would shoot out of his ears. Simple as that.

It was quite miraculous that he didn’t pass out right then and there.

The car started moving again, back to an even rhythm.

It was steered along a round angle, circling around a crumpled heap that now lay in the middle of the road.

That heap was wracked with violent shudders, sides heaving in an agonizing manner as Mad braced his palms against the ground, slowly lifting his head and chest up.

Mad’s skin was patchy with several fresh scrapes (asphalt plus speed equaled human eraser, after all), but his face had gone so pale now.

And yet, as the car crept crawling on by, he turned his head at just the right moment to stare through Ness’ window.

To stare at the same guy he’d been stalking and threatening for the past few months.

One of Mad’s eyes twitched. His hands curled themselves into fists.

Ness edged away from the window, but that didn’t really help.

More weight was suddenly on his chest, pushing his back against the seat. Caliban leaned over the center console, glaring daggers through the window, a unique cocktail of anger and entertainment swirling in his eyes.

“Stay the course, idiot!” Caliban called, his voice still full of energy despite being broken up by gasps for air. “Stop beating around the damn bush! You want him?! Come and get him!”

Ness blinked, and the world was suddenly speeding past again. His eyes warily wandered over to the rearview mirror.

Even with all the fast-growing distance, he could still see the rage in Mad’s eyes.

He could see Mad dragging himself to his feet.

He could see Mad forcing himself into a limping jog; there was no way he’d catch up anytime soon, but the promise of his focus was much, much less than welcome.

He startled badly when raucous, jagged laughter erupted from beside him.

“God, what a rush!” Caliban crowed. “That’s what I call living! 'Doc and Aza would’ve loved that!”

Snare was a bit quicker on the uptake than Ness (but then, Snare had cleary experienced all sorts of stuff that Ness was better off not experiencing, so, the comparison was a little unfair). He sprung off of the waiter’s lap, opting to perch near the driver-seat’s headrest and excitedly nudge at his owner’s neck. Caliban chortled, carefully reaching backward to give the hare’s ears a scratch.

“I…I thought your plan was all about stealth,” Ness coughed. Part of his brain instantly started screaming at him for sassing a cannibalistic hitman, especially after what in the fresh hell he’d just seen him do.

However, the other part of his brain—the one with the filter—was just out of commission at the moment. He wasn’t sure when it’d be up and running again. He could only help that the answer was soon, because he really needed it to be.

“Stealth, and then moving as fast as you possibly can,” Caliban replied with a triumphant smile that might’ve looked uplifting without the dark red tinge smeared over his teeth and around his lips. “In my line of work, things just tend to go like that most of the time.”

By now, Mad was very much out of sight.

In spite of that, even as Caliban turned a corner to continue on a route that was so damn familiar, Ness could still feel that monster’s eyes burrowing into his skin, leaving invisible, half-melted gashes that bubbled near the back of his head.

___

It was so odd: Ness had been working at Sparky’s for years, and only now did he really see just how different the diner looked without the light of the pendant lamps that hung over each table. Yeah, he could still see through the windows, but any nearby businesses were just as shadowy. No artificial glow anywhere.

He’d lost count of all the times he’d been responsible for closing up shop after late-shifts. He’d long-since adjusted to the eerie feeling of being pretty much all alone, having to turn everything off and then drive all the way home in the dark.

…At least, he thought he’d adjusted.

Will I be afraid of the dark after all this? Ness wondered, wringing his hands as he paced behind the coffee-bar. How much will tonight set me back? I can only afford to take so much time off—

“You’ve got good taste in roommates,” Caliban mentioned as he slithered into the main area, leaving the kitchen door to swing to and fro in his wake.

A cluster of icy thorns started spinning like a top in the pit of Ness’ stomach. “Ah…sorry, how do you mean?”

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve taken the compliment with a smile; he and Jack didn’t exactly go way back, so it’d been an amazing stroke of luck for them to have clicked the way they did.

Right now, however, all he could think about was the way he’d seen Caliban speak. The way Caliban intentionally twisted his own words to feed his macabre sense of humor.

Ness never thought he’d have to try and dissect such a mild statement and dread that it was code for something along the lines of Your roommate would taste good.

(Then again, he’d also never thought he’d wind up on the receiving end of an amateur parody of “The Stalker’s Tango,” but here he was.)

“I just mean that you picked a fine one,” Caliban explained. Though he shrugged, the glint in his eyes—as well as how one side of his mouth was curling into a smirk—made it clear that he’d pretty much read the waiter’s mind. “I respect a guy who doesn’t fool around. It takes guts and brains to react so quickly, y’know?”

He paused, drumming his fingers on his bicep in thought. “...Even if they have to rely on guns.”

While a wave of relief spilled through Ness’ lungs (since, logically speaking, it wouldn’t make sense to eat someone you respected, even if you didn’t even really know that person), he still couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

Caliban raised an eyebrow right back. “Hey, c’mon, I get to be biased. All weapons have their merits, but when it comes to knives, you always, always get a chance to swing them around and give yourself some dramatic flair.”

As if to prove his point, he ever-so-slightly pulled back one side of his jacket and reached for an interior pocket a little ways below the collar.

Seconds later, he lashed his hand back out; a glossy wooden handle was now spinning about his fingers, topped by something that gave off a cold, metallic, hungry glint.

Once he decided to hold it steady, the source of said glint turned out to be a meat cleaver, crafted from damascus steel and almost seeming a little too big to fit so perfectly in that pocket.

“Guns, on the other hand, just go ‘bang-bang’ and commit death.” Caliban traced a finger along his deadly toy’s blade before placing a hand on his hip. “That’s it. Makes things end a little too fast for my taste.”

Ness swallowed a lump in his throat, remembering a nature documentary he’d seen just last year that focused on comparing the hunting styles of wild dogs to those of big cats.

Typically, animals like lions or tigers took down prey via a crushing bite to the neck, which meant an instant (although not very painless) death.

Creatures like hyenas or wolves, on the other hand…if you were unfortunate enough to be on their hunting radar, and if they brought you to the ground…well, your life wouldn’t have to end for their meal to begin. The pack pretty much never failed to go for their target’s belly first, biting and clawing until everything inside spilled out.

Paranoid nausea aside, Ness titled his head at this. “Sure, sure. It’s just—I mean, y’know that saying about bringing knives to gun fights…”

(Welp. Even if his filter had woken up earlier, apparently it was only half-functional right now.)

Thankfully, Caliban just rolled his eyes at this. “No—you just need to avoid bringing morons to gun fights.”

Ness’ gaze wandered over to that cut on Caliban’s face. It’d stopped bleeding a while ago, and it definitely wasn’t deep enough to leave a scar like the one above his lip. That didn’t change the fact that it was so bright red and angry-looking. He could only guess how much it stung.

Caliban’s eyes narrowed; either he had legit telepathic power, or Ness really just sucked at being subtle sometimes. “Yeah, yeah. HE doesn’t count, because A. he’s in the Moron Camp, B. he doesn’t even take good care of his tools, and C. he’s in the Moron Camp.”

Ness took a step back, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture.

Caliban clicked his tongue, then crept around the bar’s corner, eyes scanning the little restaurant as he fidgeted with his cleaver.

While Ness was certain Caliban didn’t mind the dark (if anything, he probably thrived in it), he still had to wonder if the cannibal saw it differently as well, since it’d been full of light that evening he’d come in with his friends.

Outside, the air itself decided to pick up the slack in their conversion with a deep, loud chorus that rumbled from above.

A long moment passed before he glanced back at Ness. “…He’ll be here any minute now.”

Ness chewed his lip, nodding slowly. “I know.”

Caliban paused, setting his cleaver down in order to crack his knuckles before snatching it right back up. “The lure’s only gonna work if he thinks he can see you.”

“I—I know,” Ness repeated, shakily rubbing at his arms. He’d taken his cyan jacket off at least five minutes ago, and Sparky’s maintained a pretty warm temperature, even without sunbeams filtering in through the windows.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten such a bad case of goosebumps from something besides a draft.

As if on cue, the rumbling upped the ante in less than a second, transitioning into a booming CRA-A-ACK that got close to shaking the diner’s walls.

Oddly-comedic timing was the only set thing in the universe. Seriously, the way Caliban and Ness both jumped at least a foot in the air almost looked like it’d happened on a choreographer’s orders.

Caliban’s brow furrowed, but concern was quick to wash over his features. With a little more speed in his step than before, he moved over to the right side of the diner, peering through the nearly floor-to-ceiling window that had been installed on the wall. After a moment or two of searching, he let out a little sigh, leaning away from the glass.

“He’ll be fine—he has plenty of shelter, and he’s a tough little guy either way. He’ll be fine…” Caliban eventually muttered under his breath as resumed his pacing.

Though he could tell that the cannibal’s words were directed to himself, Ness still had to empathize a bit.

Apparently, Snare was now keeping watch, hiding somewhere by the outer side of the building. At first, he’d been worried about the hare’s pale pelt giving him away…but then again, Dine and Dash had their fair share of silvery fur, and he’d been a victim of many real-life jumpscares on their parts whenever he took out the trash.

Ness still had no idea what all Snare had been trained to do, but his trivia-obsessed brain helpfully reminded him that hares were much craftier than domestic rabbits.

It gave him a little reassurance, since he’d overheard Caliban instructing his pet about, “If anyone aside from Mr. This-Onsie-Is-My-Second-Skin gets too close, just distract them and lead them away as best you can—and no biting this time, okay? Too risky.”

Sooner or later, Caliban took his position: just across from the booths, hidden in plain sight. There was just enough dim light to see his outline.

“So, what am I supposed to do?” Ness asked, keeping his voice down as his wary focus returned to the front windows.

“Eh, for the most part, just sit there and look pretty.” Mischief and mayhem flickered in Caliban’s eyes, though some seriousness was still behind them. “I’d put money on him calling out to you. When he does, don’t respond. The more we egg him on, the less aware he’ll be of his surroundings.”

Ness winced, thinking back to all those awful letters. “And…what about when you—”

“Shhh!” Caliban jolted, then stiffened a second later. Even in the dark, Ness could see the cannibal’s knuckles turn white around the cleaver’s handle.

Several long, painful heartbeats dragged by as the two of them sat in silence.

For a moment, everything seemed far too quiet, even with the sharp, incessant little tap-tap-taps on the roof as the still-rumbling clouds made good on their promise.

But then…

Scrrrpp-scccrrrp

From somewhere outside, a low, shuffling rhythm interjected.

Scccrrrp-sccrrrrp, scrrrrp-sccrrp

The sound of gravel grinding against itself under the weight of a person’s shoes.

Scrrrrrrp-sccrrrpp-sccccrrrrp

Slowly but surely, a familiar silhouette appeared in the parking lot, growing more and more visible with each second.

Ness practically felt the color drain from his face.

Perhaps that could count as him doing Caliban a favor; the cannibal didn’t even need to turn and look for himself. His eyes darted over to meet Ness’ before he simply tilted his head in a small nod.

“Get. Down.” Caliban squared his shoulders, his voice now an octave below a whisper and seeping out through gritted teeth. “Watch the door.”

Ness didn’t need to be told twice. He retreated to the far side of the coffer-bar before dropping onto his knees just before the edge. This gave a decent amount of space between him and the front entrance.

Not even a moment too soon: he peered one eye around the corner and felt his stomach twist.

Mad was now looming just an inch away from the door, visibly panting like a dog and twitching all over.

Though he wasn’t soaked just yet, the rain had dampened him from head-to-toe. He leaned forward, prompting translucent smears to appear on the glass as he pressed his forehead against it.

Thanks to the raindrops, the red stains on his bear-suit almost seemed to be melting; the longer Ness stared, the more his fear-addled imagination took the fabric’s tan coloring and made him think of flesh with chunks dripping and sloughing off with the water.

Bloodshot eyes rolled around in Mad’s head, glancing every which way. By some miracle, they never landed on Ness’ hiding spot.

Ness watched as Mad stepped back and gripped the door’s handle, giving it a harsh tug…only to stop short, his mouth dropping to the ground as the threshold opened right up.

For a few long seconds, Mad stared, looking just as shocked as Ness felt for having unlocked that very door earlier.

(He hadn’t wanted to, of course, but Caliban had insisted. “This’ll throw him off a bit. Delusional as he is, he still knows you don’t want anything to do with him. He knows you’re scared of him, so a gesture like this can make him to lower his guard.”)

Mad shook his head and ground his jaw before trudging inside like he owned the place, leaving the door to hang open behind him. The storm took his invitation to not just do its bawling outside: cold, wet wind swept into the diner in less than a heartbeat.

And, just as Caliban predicted, Mad didn’t keep his silence.

“I knew you’d come back here, Ness.”

Ness winced; the psycho had spat out his name like it was a piece of rancid meat.

Even so, as Mad loomed by the welcome stand, he still didn't look in Ness’ direction.

In fact, the opposite end of the coffee-bar seemed to take up all his focus.

“You think you’re better than me?” Mad demanded, his voice shooting through several octaves. “Have you been enjoying all the crap that’s happened tonight? Do you think it’s funny to make me run and jump like a trained monkey?!”

A violent shiver wracked Ness’ body. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep any sobs trapped in his chest.

Mad went silent, and the next couple minutes each felt like a Lord of The Rings: Extended Edition.

“You think Crawford is actually trying to help you?” Mad finally continued. He let out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “That’s hilarious. Cute, even!”

There was a brief spark of confusion in the back of Ness’ head at the surname, but clarification came soon enough.

“Don’t you know anything about cannibalism; how that stuff really works?” Mad wondered aloud. “When you squint at it, human flesh is barely any different from drugs. If you manage to eat some and get away with it, it’ll give you a type of high. You know you’re not meant to do it. But since you did…you’ll get hooked. You’ll crave it. You’ll always want MORE.”

Ness rushed to swallow the bile that was rising in his throat. He did know all those Not-So-Fun-Facts, actually. Of course he did—all the horror movies he’d watched ever since his teenage years…to this day, that sort of stuff just made him curious. So, he tended to do his own research, to see how accurate some scenes really were, even if the effects were already believable.

(There was no way he hadn’t ended up on a watchlist by now. Then again, he was just a few feet away from two people who ABSOLUTELY belonged on watchlists, and those people clearly hadn’t been caught just yet…)

“So, in that case, Crawford’s the poster-child for addiction.” Mad paused, chewing at his lip in thought.

“And it’s not just that: he’s about business, too. Him and that mob he runs around with. You have any idea how many people he’s killed—how many people he’s eaten? You really think he’s just gonna let you go after all this? After everything you’ve seen from him? No. No, he’ll just drag you back to that den of his and butcher you. As if you’re nothing but a lamb!”

Mad began pacing in small, tight circles. “He’ll harvest your guts, and you can bet that he’ll make sure you’re still awake while he does it. And whatever he doesn’t eat, he’ll just sell on the Black Market! There’ll be nothing left of you, Ness! NOTHING. LEFT.”

His breathing turned ragged, his jaw clenched. He raised a hand to his face, first to furiously claw at his temple, and then to snarl his gloved fingers in his hair.

“I’m not much better, but at least I’d make it somewhat quick!” Mad tried. “Sure, I’d still cut you open one way or another, but at least I’d just watch how your blood makes a nice, pretty pool on the floor! At least I’d try to give you a semi-proper burial! Doesn’t that sound better than getting crammed into an oven or put on a stove?!”

Mad’s other hand lashed out to his side, letting the tip of his knife sink into the leather cushion of one booth-seat. He dragged the blade along, leaving a jagged trail in the material, letting some of its stuffing leak out and onto the floor.

“…Fine, fine, I’d probably keep a little piece of you as a trophy—but that’s the thing! I’d keep that piece! I’d hide it away in a safe stash! I’d try to keep it clean! I’d actually appreciate all the memories attached to it!”

Something sharp and rotten started searing its way through Ness’ intestines. It was all he could do to not start rocking back and forth. If he did that, then he’d be more likely to get up. To run into the kitchen for cover. To scream.

Mad froze in place again, his mouth opening and closing with no more words coming out. The semi-blissful silence was short-lived, but sometimes you just had to take what you could get.

“…Talk to me,” Mad piped back up, his voice suddenly a whisper. “C’mon—talk…”

He finally took a step forward.

Not toward Ness’ spot, but him moving at all was less than ideal.

“Alright, then,” Mad called, returning to his original volume. “I’ll just have to make you talk!”

He took another step. And another, and another, and another. All drawing him closer and closer to the figure near the end of the coffee-bar.

Once he was in touching range, he lashed out a hand to grab at aforementioned figure’s arm. “I SAID TALK TO ME, DAMN IT, OR ELSE I’M GONNA—!”

Mad cut himself off, words devolving into a guttural yelp as he was shoved back. He staggered against one of the booths, just barely managing to keep his balance as he clutched at the small, bright red nick that was now blooming across his temple.

He sputtered as that figure got up from the coffee-bar, obviously remembering a little too late that Ness never had a scar on the left side of his upper lip.

Cyan was most definitely not Caliban’s color. But right here, right now, it truly seemed to have worked like a charm.

“You’re gonna what, Mad?” Caliban jeered, shifting his cleaver’s handle about his fingers, glancing down at the fresh blood smeared on its blade. “C’mon, now—since you still can’t seem to smell a trap, even with all that so-called experience, the least you can do is finish your sentences!”

Mad’s expression was like a stormcloud.

Finally, finally, Ness moved.

Granted, a swarm of voices in his head were shrieking against the very idea of moving, but he had to, or else the skin of his palms would melt and permanently anchor him to the floor. He shifted in place, slow and careful as he got to his feet.

He didn’t stand to his full height, of course, but he managed to peek over the coffee-bar, getting a prime view as Caliban stalked closer to the stammering, floundering Mad.

Caliban seemed to catch this out of the corner of his eye, because he paused to shoot a sly grin Ness’ way.

“Alright, Ness!” He called, his voice laced with a new burst of horrific excitement. “Go ahead and wait in the kitchen. Mad and I need to have a little chat.”

Still shuddering, Ness made to follow those instructions. You’d better fucking believe he was about to sprint into the kitchen and huddle in one of the corners and wonder where everything went wrong until the sun finally climbed its way into the sky again.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He was suddenly too busy staring at yet another silhouette charging through the rain. Charging toward the diner.

Who in their right mind would come here at a time like this, in a storm like this?!

How had none of them heard the new set of rapid footsteps?!

Why was this maniac wearing the forest-green fleece coat that Mike pretty much…always…

…Mike?

Ness recognized the man who all but burst through the open door, unintentionally slamming it shut. How couldn’t he, considering all the harmless jokes he’d made about basically towering over him?

MIKE.

Right then, a bolt of lightning streaked across the clouds. The flash of light was gone as fast as it’d arrived, but it still lit up a very familiar face adorned by stubble and dark rings just under the eyes, now contorted with panic and self-loathing.

M I K E !

“Ness?!” He shouted, fear sounding so, so wrong compared to the low, bedraggled tone he typically spoke with. He rushed to the coffee-bar, reaching out. “Where have you been?! What’s—?!”

“OH, NO YOU DON’T!” Mad howled as he rocketed off the booth. He tackled Mike to the floor, one hand outstretched to grab at his neck. “I AM DONE WITH YOU, YOU HEAR ME?! DONE!”

And just like that, the world was speeding under Ness’ shoes.

An odd ringing sound manifested in Ness’ ears, growing louder and louder and louder until it managed to drown out his thundering pulse.

He felt a cold mass materialize in his hands—he didn’t even register how he’d ripped the diner’s fire extinguisher out of its mounting bracket on the wall until he slammed it into Mad’s side, eliciting a cry of pain.

By now, Ness finally realized that the ringing in his ears was only being caused by his own voice as he screamed his lungs raw.

Ness hauled back and hit Mad again, in the exact same spot. This time, Mad was knocked off his balance.

Away from Mike.

“COME ON!” With that, Ness tossed the extinguisher away, taking Mike’s wrist in a vice-like grip. “RUN, RUN!”

To his credit, Mike didn’t make Ness drag him along. He was on his boyfriend’s heels in an instant, keeping more than enough pace as the two of them erupted into the kitchen.

Ness didn’t stop, zeroing in on the old supply closet that waited patiently in the corner. Adrenaline-induced aches already flaring in his jaw, he sprinted over, practically tossing Mike inside before ducking past the threshold himself.

It was pure dumb luck that Mad didn’t rip the kitchen door right off its hinges; he entered just in time to see the closet slamming shut.

With another unintelligible, infuriated shout, Mad began to lunge across the kitchen…only to nearly lose his footing as a hand wrapped around the collar of his bear-suit. He was yanked to the side, left to ricochet against a stainless steel countertop that ran the length of the walls.

Caliban raced ahead of him, skidding to a halt before the closet.

A loud, hollow click rang throughout the kitchen as he turned the lock on its doorknob.

“Y’know, even if I’m not all that hungry right now…” Caliban mentioned, his grin growing wider and wider, showcasing the way his silver tooth glinted like a scythe. “…I still need a pound of flesh.”

He outstretched an arm, aiming the blade of his cleaver at Mad.

Mad sneered, tightening his grip around his own weapon. “Come and get it, then.”

___

The supply closet was even darker than the dining area. Much more cramped and stuffy, too.

Even so, it was far, FAR better than staying out there for another second.

(Especially considering the muffled shouts and crashing that sounded from somewhere on the other side…)

Ness’ grip finally went slack, and the air seemed to cave in on itself as he felt Mike tear his wrist away.

“Ness—” Despite how ragged and breathless Mike’s voice had become, despite the whirlwind in his bulging eyes, the declaration was still piercing.

Ness couldn’t help but flinch, instinctively shuffling into one corner of the closet and subsequently knocking his elbow against one of the metal shelves, which triggered a small avalanche of cleaning products to scatter all over the floor.

(Then again, as thankful as part of him was to see Mike again, being locked in a small space with a panicked and confused boyfriend wasn’t exactly a peach, either.)

Mike ignored all the containers rolling around his shoes in favor of planting himself right in front of the waiter. “Ness, you have to tell me what the hell is going on right now, or I swear to God—!”

“I hardly know myself!” Ness snapped, his voice getting dangerously close to just breaking on the spot.

“I’m just as lost as you are—actually, no! I’m WAY MORE lost than you are! My LIFE has depended on just making things up as I go for the past few hours! You might have gotten turned around at the average IKEA, but I’M spinning around in the center of The Bermuda Triangle!”

The next ten-or-so seconds took their sweet damn time to pass the couple by.

Mike stared at Ness. Had the lighting been better, he would’ve been a near-perfect mimic of the Surprised Piakchu Meme.

Still, that stubborn, determined, bordering-on-idiocy nature that Ness had fallen for once upon a time came back for Round 2. “…I’m gonna need a little mORE TO WORK WITH THAN THAT!”

“OH, OF COURSE YOU WOULD!” Ness fired back.

___

Strong as the metallic aroma of blood was, Caliban didn’t have time to appreciate it right now.

Pain seared through his tendons as Mad's knife bit into his arm, but it wasn’t like he was a stranger to getting stabbed.

Before Mad could pull back to try and slash again, Caliban grabbed his wrist, twisting it viciously as he forced his opponent’s arm to stretch at a bad angle.

Mad roared and backed away, trying to tug his arm out of the cannibal’s grasp. His wish ended up being granted: Caliban indeed released him…right as he delivered a swift, brutal kick to one of his kneecaps, that is.

Mad collided with the edge of the coffee-bar. Though he faltered, he sure as hell didn’t slow down.

Just as Caliban pounced, Mad met him halfway.

Or, more accurately, his free hand curled into a fist and met one of Caliban’s eyes halfway.

Having half of his vision go blurry for a few seconds was no picnic, but it still gave Caliban even more motivation to return the favor.

Though you could technically say that his aim was a bit off, there was no doubt just how satisfying it was to hear a wet, pulpy CRUNCH when his knuckles connected to Mad’s nose…

___

“We weren’t alone in the woods earlier,” Ness finally choked out, his eyes feeling like they were slowly filling up with acid. “Someone else was there with us. And a little while after the argument—after I stormed off, they…they just found me. And…took me.”

Although fear had a stronghold on Mike’s features, anger soon made a decent contender.

“…Who?!” He demanded, his voice going low. “Did you see their face? Do you know where they are now?” He spun around and wrapped his hands around the doorknob, tugging it to and fro. When it refused to budge any more than a few centimeters, he tried slamming his shoulder against the door itself.

“Mike—Mike, STOP!” Ness grabbed hold of Mike’s hood and pulled him back, squeezing around to plant himself between his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s new, inanimate nemesis. “I—I can’t tell you, alright?! And if I can’t do that, then I can’t let you see what’s going on, either!”

“What the hell do you mean?!” Mike contended, spreading his arms in a furious lame-gesture. “We can’t just stay here! We need to run! We need to go to the cops—”

“NO.” Ness’ eyes truly felt like they might pop right out of his head. “Cops are the last people we need getting involved!”

Mike gaped at him again for a long, agonizing moment.

“Let me get this straight…” He growled (and if not for the situation at hand, Ness would’ve reminded him that anything straight was an impossibility for both of them). “Some maniac came along and kidnapped you a few hours ago, and you think you just don’t have to tell me about it?!”

Mike took a few steps closer, and, due to the closet’s size, closed the gap between them almost immediately. “You’re always talking about being in this together! So how can you possibly think that keeping something so goddamn horrible from me is just gonna work out?!”

One hand reached out to grab Ness’ shoulder.

“How the hell do you think that makes me feel right now, Ness?! I trust you! I care about you! Doesn’t that mea—”

“Right, right,” Ness interjected, shrugging Mike’s hand away with a little more force than strictly necessary. “You care about me so damn much. Enough that you confused some random child-murderer for me!”

He gasped for air, his throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. “How do you think that makes me feel?!”

Silence.

A veritable tidal wave of emotion swept across Mike’s face: more fear, shock, dread, pain…and much, much more…

“Y-Yeah, that’s—that’s what I thought.” Ness bit back his tears and folded his arms across his chest, turning his head to fix the darkened corner with a sopping-wet glare.

“I…I know you have lots of sleep-issues, and me looking so similar to that monster doesn’t help…” Ness heaved a guttural sigh, raising a hand to knead at his temple. “But…God’s sake, Mike! I run off wearing what I’ve got on now, and when you think you find me, I’m just SUDDENLY IN A BEAR-SUIT? HUH?!”

Mike ever-so-slightly shrunk at that.

More quiet dragged its feet along before he eventually muttered, “…I mean, there was that one time you and Abby just had to have those onesies we saw at Walmart—”

“I thought I told you to NEVER bring up The January Onesie Incident EVER AGAIN,” Ness seethed.

___

“You really think that little silver-piece is so impressive?!” Mad snarled, pressing a hand to his bicep, over the patch of torn fabric and his now-exposed skin. Little beads of blood leaked out between his fingers.

“If things go my way, I’m gonna rip out all the rest of your teeth! EVERY! SINGLE! GODDAMN ONE! I’m gonna make Orin Scrivello look like a fish out of water!”

Caliban paused, thinking back through all the movies he’d seen in the past.

“. . .Oh, yeah. Orin Scrivello,” he hissed. His tongue darted out to lick at the red stain on the corner of his lips before skating over the teeth in question. “Remind me EXACTLY what happened to him, again?!”

Instead of doing that, Mad lunged at Caliban again, stomping on his foot to try and hold him in place as he shoved him onto one of the tables

Caliban screamed with rage, leveling his knee into the other killer’s chest, as well as hauling back and decking him in the throat. Just for good measure.

In fact, Caliban decided that he could go for even better measure via raising a leg and sending the sole of his shoe right into Mad’s stomach.

Mad crumpled onto the floor, coughing and retching. Too bad the sudden wave of nausea wasn’t enough to stop him from grabbing Caliban’ ankle as he tried to rush past.

Thrown off-balance, the cannibal went sprawling down. Dull pain thrummed through his skull as his chin met the hard tiles; it really almost felt like he’d been stabbed there.

Get up! A voice in his head commanded. Get up, get up, GET UP! Keep moving!

He braced his palms against the floor, lifting his chest up and—

He jolted in place.

His palms…

They were both empty when they rEALLY FUCKING SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN…

HIS CLEAVER! WAS GONE!

Clenching his jaw, Caliban swiveled his head at breakneck speed—THERE!

That blood-spattered, wonderful, damascus steel trophy he’d earned so long ago had landed just a few feet away!

Still on his knees, Caliban scrambled closer, one hand reaching out to take it back. Almost there, almo—!

A filthy boot came down on his hand, brutally pinning it to the floor, Mad’s weight piled on top of it.

Pop went something in Caliban’s wrist; somehow, it seemed louder than the agonized howl that rushed out of his lungs.

Everything lifted away soon enough, but the pain remained, determined to set fire to each and every nerve that was wrapped around his phalanges, one by one.

Mad’s laughter seeped into the air like clouds of smoke, somehow even more grating than before. “You really thought you could keep hurting me with this butter knife?”

A while before all this happened, Caliban was sure that Mad’s face couldn’t get any more punchable. But now, as he lifted his head to watch a coy smirk spread across the other killer’s features, to watch that other killer’s DISGUSTING MITTS fiddle around with HIS CLEAVER…

Well, Caliban was a big enough man to admit when he’d been wrong (not always out loud, though). Something in his ribcage came to a rolling boil. He felt everything begin to shake.

Glancing to the side, he noticed that a wooden broom had been left propped up against one of the booths.

He reached out, ignoring the last dregs of pain as he wrapped his hand around the base to steady himself.

Mad was watching him, but he didn’t seem to care. He was still too wrapped up in gloating over his small victory. He clinked his own knife against the cleaver in a very cheap imitation of sharpening it.

“Oh, look at me! I’m Caliban Crawford! I think I’m so goddamn clever and tough, even though I let myself care about STUPID, WORTHLESS THINGS—”

The attempt at IRL Vicious Mockery was cut short as Caliban raised the broom up and snapped it over his knee. He threw the broom’s head over his shoulder, pointing the jagged, splintery end at Mad before charging like a rabid bull.

“O-oh shit, oh sHIT, OH FUAAAAAAAUUUGH!” Mad shrieked like the average victim of a cassowary-attack as the broken broom plunged into that tender spot just below his shoulder.

Caliban, not to be outdone, let out a horrific scream of his own. Using the broom’s handle for leverage, he forcibly swung his opponent around, subconsciously releasing his hold to throw him across the room.

Still wailing, Mad hit one of the side-windows with a deafening THUMP.

Though the glass somehow didn’t shatter, the psycho’s back still caused a rather large spiderweb-crack to etch its way out from the corner.

This time, Mad finally stayed down. He certainly didn’t look happy about that, but the fact that the broken broom was still lodged in his shoulder was kinda-sorta hard to ignore.

His breathing heavy and jagged, Caliban moved quickly, scanning the floor, desperation reignited. Soon enough, he found where his cleaver had landed—fittingly enough, it was also on top of Mad’s knife, which Caliban swiftly kicked out of sight as he plucked his weapon back up.

He examined it carefully, worried about just how much damage it’d taken. Luckily for him, there only seemed to be a couple new nicks in the blade; nothing the tools he had back at home couldn’t fix.

Hell, even with all the fresh blood that was dripping from it, he could still see his reflection in all those pretty, wavy streaks set in the metal.

Caliban smiled to himself, using one section of his black hoodie to wipe his weapon clean before returning it to its place in his pocket. He already knew he wouldn’t have to use it again (not right this second, at least). Mad was still sputtering, still shaking, still unable to pick himself up.

Speaking of which…

“I’m gonna recap,” Caliban announced, turning on his heel.

“Not only do you just fuck around for free…” He stalked back over to the other killer, soon looming above him. “…but you decide to try and encroach on my family's turf. And then, sometime after we throw you back to wherever you came from—”

Caliban gripped the end of the broom handle. “You have the GALL to crawl back and try to whine about needing us to clean up the messes you keep making. And THEN, after we hand your sorry ass to you for the second time…”

The sadism in his heart glowed as he pushed the broom, forcing it to sink even deeper into Mad’s flesh. Slowly. Agonizingly.

Mad cried out in despair. He had no more energy left to fight, so all he could do was shudder.

“…You decide to just start taking your little bitch-fits out on KIDS,” Caliban concluded, almost able to feel the fluids in his eyes churning as he glared at the other killer.

However, as much as Caliban wanted to see even more blood come rushing out, to form a small lake around Mad as he got all pale and stiff, he couldn’t kill him. That would’ve just been too good for him.

Instead, he shook his head dismissively. “You’ll never have a true career, Mad. You’ll never deserve any kind of reputation. You’re just too sloppy.”

Caliban readjusted his grip…

“Too entitled.”

…and…

“Too pathetic.”

…PULLED.

More screams.

More refreshing, delicious (even oddly musical) screams.

___

“Why can’t you tell me?” Mike tried for what legitimately had to be the thousandth time in the span of minutes.

“I just can’t,” Ness answered helplessly. His energy seemed to be draining bit by bit as time went on.

Was he crying? He couldn't feel any tears, but his eyes were so damn sore that he had to force himself not to keep scrubbing at them. After everything he’d gone through to get to this point, an infection or a stye might've really been the straw to break the camel’s back, and Ness did not want to test that theory.

Mike seemed to have grown a little wearier, too. His voice had tapered down some, and his attempts at Door Violence had transitioned into simply kneading at his temples. Ness would’ve liked to think that he’d contributed to the relative calm, but one part of his brain just chattered on about the first stages of Stockholm Syndrome.

Still, he knew Mike was too stubborn to stop prodding. If Mike kept prodding, then he risked finding out the secrets Ness had sworn to help keep. And if that happened…

“Fine. You really want an explanation?”

Icy claws dripping down his spine, Ness clenched his jaw and gazed directly into Mike’s eyes. “I’ll tell you everything that’s been going on tonight…but only if you tell me why you get so cagey whenever I bring up Freddy Fazbear’s.”

Mike’s face fell even more than it already had as he froze in place. It truly looked as though he might never move again.

“What—what the hell has that got to do with anything?” He stammered.

“You tell me,” Ness demanded, folding his arms across his chest. “Abby seems to love talking about those old animatronics, but it always seems like something inside you dies whenever she does.”

He paused, glancing away. “And…and whenever I bring up my theories on the place, you instantly shut me down and lecture me about how it’s ‘just not worth it’ without ever really clarifying what you mean by that.”

Mike went quiet again; hell, he even seemed to be holding his breath. Sooner or later, his eyes simply dropped to the floor as his shook his head, slow and solemn.

“Exactly.” Ness tilted his head to the side. “You obviously know way more about that than you ever let on. But you never even consider telling me about it. Because you think that’ll keep me out of danger.”

Mike’s eyes remained fixated on the ground.

Though Ness felt some of his muscles relax, the tightness in his chest was far more determined. It felt awful, having to use something that was so clearly NOT ‘just fine, don’t worry about it’ against his boyfriend like this.

But he just had to. For both their sakes.

Without thinking, Ness he reached out and pulled Mike against his chest.

“If you get to keep secrets to try and keep me safe…” He let out a small sigh as he rested his chin on Mike’s shoulder. “…then it’s only fair that I get to do the same. We really need to just leave it at that. Trust me.”

Mike still didn’t answer. But, sooner or later, Ness felt his arms snake around his waist in return.

That was good, since Ness’ arms wouldn’t free him, and right now, Ness’ heart just wasn’t in the mood to even try.

…At least, not until the lock announced itself with another loud click before the door swung open. Mike jolted in place, but just before he could even turn his head, a pair of hands was suddenly grasping at his neck and shoulders.

Then, Mike’s eyes began to flutter as he swayed to and fro for an awkward few seconds before plummeting onto the floor like a slow avalanche.

Caliban stood behind him, watching and casually spinning that same syringe (from what felt like months ago ) between his fingers.

For the record, Ness only stood frozen and gaping for about half a minute. “…WHY?!”

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again: no-one you know can see me. Not while I’m working, at least,” Caliban replied with a shrug. He then rolled his eyes and flicked the base of the syringe.

“Relax. There’s just a few different painkillers mixed together in here. Y’know, stuff to help you sleep. Aza showed me how it works during a past job. I only gave him a tiny dose, so he should wake up in about half an hour.”

Ha. Sleeping stuff, murmured a sardonic little voice in the back of Ness’ head. How appropriate, right?

Still, it seemed Caliban was telling the truth: Mike wasn’t writhing, wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t dissolving into a puddle of gore.

He was just asleep, pretty much the same way he’d been a little while ago.

Before Ness knew it, Caliban’s hand was around his wrist again, pulling him along. This time, however, the grip wasn’t so tight. Fingernails weren’t digging into his skin. The cannibal wasn’t sprinting or furiously murmuring to himself.

In fact, Caliban even seemed to have a new spring in his step.

Quite the unconventional spring, too: as Ness kept staring, he saw how Caliban was now sporting a dark bruise around one eye, as well as several fresh, angry lacerations littered about his arms. His formerly well-kempt hair was now so disheveled, almost like that of a doll that clumsy children couldn’t stop fighting over.

How could he be so happy like this?

“Come look what I’ve caught,” Caliban said, chuckling as he led Ness through the kitchen door.

The two of them passed the edge of the coffee-bar to find a heap of Mad lying near the cracked window.

Still breathing…still squirming…but now in obvious, incredible pain.

For all the thrashing Caliban had received for his troubles, Mad seemed to have gotten twice as much, with a little interest sprinkled on top. His formerly fair complexion was a mess, both of his eyes slowly swelling, blood trickling from his nose as well as one corner of his mouth.

The very worst by far was his shoulder: a gaping wound marred the flesh where it met the beginning of his underarm. Dark red was still oozing out like a wine stain—not fast enough to kill him, but slow enough to maybe make him wish that it already had.

As the duo came to a halt before him, Ness realized that he couldn’t see Mad’s bear-suit anymore. Instead, the psycho had been wrapped almost up to his neck in some kind of black, stretching material.

A body-bag, his mind whispered. Somehow, another part of his brain still compared the sight to that of a swaddled baby.

“G-Get away from me,” Mad spat through clenched teeth, watery eyes glowering up at Ness. “This doesn’t prove anything! You’re not better! You won’t STAY better! You STILL don’t DESERVE what you’ve—!”

Just like that, Ness was suddenly on his knees. His hand flew back, only to come crashing against Mad’s bruised, bloody face with an almost whip-esque cRAck!

He then grabbed at Mad’s neck, throttling and punching for all he was worth. Caliban, meanwhile, propped an elbow against the coffee-bar, snickering as he watched.

Eventually, when Ness finally decided he’d had enough and got back to his feet, he realized that he wasn’t shaking anymore.

That he’d finally stopped shaking for the first time all damn night.

“There!” Ness seethed. “Now at least one of us has gotten what he fucking deserves!”

Mad hacked and choked, more bloody, frothy phlegm dribbling past his lips. Tears leaked from his eyes, clearly not out of emotion, but it was still nice to see him cry for a change.

“...Blood loss?” Mad sputtered, curling in on himself. Despite all his agony, his face still twisted into a sick, demented smile. “No, I know exactly where it is.”

Caliban suddenly threw his head back and barked a laugh, which lengthened into a fit of unhinged giggles as he waltzed around to loom over Mad’s other side. “Ah, what the hell—fine, I’ll let you go. That was a good one!”

Ness’ face fell with the same speed and vibes as the way Mad’s eyes brightened: complete and utter bamboozlement.

“Wait, really?!” Mad cried.

“Nope!” Caliban answered, still chuckling as he unceremoniously jabbed the syringe’s needle into a specific spot on Mad’s neck, pushing the plunger down so hard that it could’ve caved in on itself with just a few more seconds.

Once the syringe was empty, he stuffed it into one of his interior pockets before fishing yet another thing out.

A bundle of burlap fabric decorated with strips of duct-tape.

That very same mask Ness had been forced to wear hours ago.

Mad still tried to glare at Ness, still tried to send hate and venom burrowing into him even as his eyelids drooped and his body went still.

But as Caliban pulled that sack-mask over the psycho’s head, Ness didn’t feel any fear.

(Not that he felt particularly happy, but it was still a welcome change, since he’d had quite enough fear for tonight. If anything, he was just tired as all hell by now.)

Caliban aimed a toothy grin Ness' way, reaching out to give him a solid pat on the shoulder. Then, he grabbed the outline of Mad’s ankles and dragged the Bag o’ Psycho through the diner, into the kitchen, and finally, out the back door.

Ness numbly followed along, watching as the cannibal popped his car’s trunk. Even with all the force he used to toss Mad inside, the other killer didn’t so much as stir. He really was out like a damn light.

Ness wondered just how long Mad would be unconscious, although part of him obviously hoped it would be for the rest of the next day and then some.

He was no expert on sleeping drugs, but that dose had been much, much higher than the one Mike had been given…

Mike, his heart whimpered.

Caliban slammed the trunk shut and locked it, then turned around and whistled. After a second or two, Snare came bounding up, leaping at just the right time and distance for his owner to catch him and cuddle him to his face.

“So…” Ness coughed. “Are—are we done here? Is that it?”

“Yep,” Caliban replied, popping his lips on the p, nodding with a smile. “That’s it.”

He then reached out and gave Ness a friendly dig in the arm. “Hey, c’mon. Get some of the catharsis. It’s good for you!”

Caliban strolled back into the Sparky’s, soon finding himself back at the main dining area. He’d already been enough of a gem to clean up the mess he and Mad had made the best he could—the bloody, broken broomstick now had real estate in his trunk, along with Mad.

After doing one last sweep of the place, making sure there was no biological evidence left behind, he let out a triumphant sigh and headed back into the kitchen…only to stop short upon seeing Ness wander back into that supply closet.

Curious, Caliban took a step closer, watching how his former-target-turned-unlikely-ally was now sitting down beside the man who’d tried to jump into the action earlier. Moving slowly, Ness wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, being gentle as he pulled him closer until he lay against his chest.

From there, Ness leaned against the closet’s inner wall and closed his eyes. Not to sleep, clearly. Just as an attempt to start processing the night now that he could finally afford to hold still.

Good luck with that to ya, said something in Caliban’s head. Even with his sarcasm, he still found himself tilting his head, a different kind of smile growing on his face. It was smaller than his typical grins, and somehow even more unreadable. But that was just fine.

Glancing back, Caliban saw Ness’ cyan leather jacket, still in a crumpled heap where he’d left it just before the fight. Chewing his lip, he walked over, picked it up, then carried it to the closet, where he laid it over both Ness and the unconscious stranger beside him. Ness didn’t open his eyes.

Snare suddenly squirmed in his hold, hopping down and scurrying into the closet. There, he rose up onto his hind legs, braced his paws against Ness’ shoulder, and pushed his little Y-shaped nose against Ness’ cheek.

Ness’ eyes remained closed, but a little more stress seemed to up and vanish from his features.

Once Snare returned to his arms, Caliban rolled his shoulders and turned away, tugging the back door shut behind him. He made his way over to the car, letting Snare climb over to curl up on the passenger seat before he got in and put his key in the ignition.

Back inside the diner, Ness barely even heard the sound of an engine rumbling to life, of tires peeling out into the shadows much too fast.

He didn’t even notice how the rain was finally letting up after all this time, all the incessant tapping on the roof fading away.

For God knows how long, the only thing he heard was his own pulse, as well as Mike’s deep, steady breathing.

…At least, until the little bell suspended above the front door broke the silence.

But then, that wasn’t the thing to really catch his attention, even if part of his schedule-adjusted brain insisted on that.

No, that honor went to two sets of familiar voices calling out.

The first seemed to be the same age as he was, masculine, dripping with adrenaline and concern: “Hello?! Is anyone here?”

And the second…very young, feminine, and sweet (even if the last bit was hidden by clear anxiety): “Ness? Mike? Where are you?!”

___

(The ball's in your court, @insane4fandoms ! Help me make the upcoming epilogue a happy one! ❤️)

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@sammys-magical-au @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph @lampsforsocks @yourlocalsonia2

HEY HEY HEY IM HERE IM HERR WITH THE NEXT PART @wouldntyou-liketoknow I GOT IT

Jack is a good roommate and babysitter, I say as he takes Abby to shoot a killer in the head (like I said, good babysitter lmao). Abby feels regret for being threatened and not being able to help her brother, but like Jack said, she’s only ten. Finally, Mike connected the dots and out he goes to save his family. @crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus

(Don’t worry, I’m not going to expose Caliban, that’s why his headlights are off) Meanwhile, Madpat got exposed (by a taxi)

Madpat proceeded to lose it even more and ran away again, there’s a hole in Jack’s car, Mike is filled with adrenaline and big brother instincts, and Ness and Caliban are silently driving in the darkness.

Shit will go down and I will await for your snippet, hope this doesn’t change what you had in mind 😭

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