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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 month ago

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Day 2: Operation

(Disclaimer: only three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about K.O. here. For more information about Caliban and R.D.—who are only mentioned, but still deserve some credit—go here and here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(There's a little something-something included at the end of this story; a sneak-peek for the events of Day 6 and Day 7. Originally, there were going to be three bonus snippets at the end of three specific stories, all leading up to a separate story as a Halloween Special. But I was on a time-crunch, and plans had to change. Just figured I'd give some extra context.)

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

Day 1 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7

___

A slick, bubbling sigh crept up into the air as Murdock raked his dagger down the target’s chest.

The crimson line left in his wake slowly grew wider and wider, oozing out to unveil the remaining layer of muscle tissue that stretched about the sternum. Having that stuff be touched by cool, relatively fresh air for the first (and last) time must’ve been something else.

The edges of flesh seemed to pucker, almost resembling a frayed seam in clothing.

Even if he typically didn’t do much harvesting himself, he’d still stuck around to chat and watch one of his many accomplices harvest from plenty of targets in the past. He still knew most of the basics.

Through the years, Murdock and Caliban had bonded over quite a few things—knives being one of them. Sure, the cannibal’s pun-addiction never failed to be infuriating, but he (and, by extension, his sister) was still a damn good colleague to have.

Someone who was not only a reliable body-disposal resource, but also knew how to make collective millions on the Black Market, as well as help play some thrilling games with the mob’s targets?

That was someone who you’d have to be an absolute dumbass to not want in your corner for this type of business.

And business was typically good when knives were involved. Yeah-yeah, other weapons had their merits, other weapons were more suited for certain situations, take your pick.

(OR just finally own up and admit that blades are the best when it comes to dramatics. Not only because they make the work nice and messy, but they also require you to actually practice and learn so you can eviscerate the idiots who decided to talk behind your back with even more skill and flair than the average JoCat-inspired comeback.)

Knives were one of the things to have awoken his passion for mayhem years ago.

Knives brought blood, and blood brought profit and suggestion and energy…

A soft, strangled groan seeped out through the target’s teeth. Murdock paused, turning his head to peer down at the other man’s eyes.

It seemed that most of the lights were out—save for one that was still trying to flicker out of pure desperation—but someone was still home. He wouldn’t be for much longer, of course, if the lack of motion and the glaze in his eyes and the unnatural angle of his neck and the space between each shallow, wheezing, barely-audible breath was any indication.

Murdock chewed his lip before shrugging to himself, returning his focus to the incision.

It could be hard to apply the right amount of force (since people were infamous for being shockingly durable and shockingly fragile at the same damn time). But then, there was always a plethora of potential buyers wanting organs for a plethora of increasingly specific and increasingly fucked-up reasons. Even the ones with a little damage could still make money.

As Murdock set his blade off to the side and took hold of the sections he’d just sliced, pulling them even further apart and tearing a few strands of formerly internal tissue, he caught a metallic glint out of the corner of his eye.

There, resting right above where he’d just started cutting, was a tiny pendant crafted in the shape of a butterfly. Squinting at it, Murdock realized that the charm’s bright yellow material looked oddly pure. Moreso than the brass of his own necklace. Not only that, but there was a total of four little gems adorned it, one attached to each wing, all cut in a Marquise style.

…Gold, a voice in his head hissed. GOLD.

The color, the way it shone in the light; there was no way this thing wasn’t genuine! Hell, if his guesstimate was right, then it had to be fourteen karats! Which, in turn, meant even at its size—just big enough to balance on his thumbnail—it would still be worth a little over five-hundred dollars.

Even more than that if those stones were authentic diamonds and not just Swarvoski…

Sure, when it came to stuff outside a target’s body, a price like that wasn’t much compared to the prices of the stuff inside a target’s body.

But that was just it: patrons of the Black Market were often there simply because they’d grown bored of normal luxuries (and true luxury never came without the suffering of others, did it?).

If they weren’t looking for organs or skin or bones, then they’d be looking for trinkets that seemed casual at first, only to come with sinister stories.

Such as, for example, a little jeweled trophy snatched away from the poor victim of a hitman while they lay dying a slow, painful death.

Bloodstains could dress up the sale even more, but then, most of those elite customers got all pouty and extra annoying if they couldn’t flaunt what they bought. With that in mind, Murdock decided to put the butterfly charm off to the side until he was done with the harvesting.

The thin chain snapped like a reed as he pulled, pinching the butterfly’s sides between his index-finger and thumb.

And then, all the jokes Caliban had made about butterfingers were ringing in his ears as the pendant was suddenly airborn…

___

Of all the things K.O. had imagined when he’d first been offered a place in The Pentas Family, petsitting was not one of them.

Not that this was really a problem, mind you—he’d gotten the other things he’d expected and then some. (A better fighting schedule, a much more profitable hidden-in-plain-sight arena, opponents to beat to a pulp, paid assignments on top of the money he raked in each time he won a match…)

Besides, while he was a definite dog-person, he still had a soft spot for animals in general.

Even the one that might just be attempting sabotage at the moment.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Snare,” K.O. called, not looking away from the cutting board and the various leafy things he’d been systematically chopping up for the past few minutes.

Snare’s only response was to keep weaving around the fighter’s ankles, regularly pausing to reach up and paw at his knees.

A half-smile on his face, K.O. continued, “Look, even if I did end up getting one of my own fingers by accident, I still wouldn’t give it to you. I already gave you one from Cal’s freezer, and the instructions say you can only get two per week. That’s just the rules, and the only time I can really break any rules is when I’m in the ring.”

He paused, thinking. “And even then, I save that for when the other guy decides to fuck around and find out.”

Snare tilted his head, craning his neck to look up at him, his dark amber eyes eerily thoughtful as always. Even if Caliban was the only person who could really read the leucistic hare’s body language, K.O. just knew when he was being judged (whether it was in a playful manner or not).

“...Yeah, I’m not sure why I told you all that, either,” K.O. replied with a shrug.

Sooner or later, everything was ready.

K.O. reached over to set the knife down in the sink, then carefully lifted up the cutting board and strode out of the kitchen. Snare followed along, only to bury his nose in his bowl, nibbling at the mix of dark green the fighter dropped off.

K.O. carried on, soon marching up a narrow staircase that stood just across the hall from Caliban’s bedroom.

This house’s second floor only had two rooms to offer: a tidy guest suite, and a surprisingly spacious office. K.O. entered the latter, setting the board of goodies down on a desk in one corner before surveying the cage that loomed in another.

Where Snare’s hutch was wide enough to nearly take up half of Caliban’s living room, the enclosure that R.D. had set up for her rats was tall—topping four feet of wire-mesh, the metal framing of its sides hidden by smooth gray wood. Hell, K.O. would put money on this thing being intended for creatures like ferrets or chinchillas…but then, even the smallest animals needed way more space than what they were usually given in the pet stores.

The cage’s interior was organized into five levels, all connected by little ramps. Judging by the little nametags that were attached to the corners of the tiers (HERBERT on the first tier, SURRIDGE on the second, MOREAU on the third, FORSYTHIA on the fourth, and PHIBES on the fifth at the very top), each one acted as a sort of bedroom for each of the rodents.

“Hey, guys. I figured you’d like some snacks to start off the week,” K.O. greeted, leaning down and smiling as he peered through the mesh. Through all the bedding and tiny blankets and even tinier toys, several pairs of beady eyes peered back, each with a little pink nose that twitched curiously.

K.O. hovered by the desk, flipping through the notes that had been left for him. Once he got to a page labeled FEEDING, he took a moment to re-read:

There’s a big bag of nutri-pellets in the cabinet by the cage; just one tablespoon in each bowl is enough per day. (Make sure to refill their water-bottles every morning.) Still, rats are big omnivores, so it’s best to give them a little extra variety 1–3 times per week.

Phibes likes apple slices (PEELED AND WITHOUT THE SEEDS)

Moreau likes thinly-chopped carrots (again, PEELED)

Surridge likes small cuts of pear and mango (if you didn’t already guess that they should be PEELED AND HAVE ANY SEEDS/PITS REMOVED…well, I’m not TOO disappointed, but still. You’re an adult, you should be able to see a pattern by now)

Forsythia likes kale and spinach, judging by how many times he’s tried to sneak leaves out of Snare’s bowl (I know I was specific before, but please, PLEASE tell me that you won’t try to peel stuff like leaves)

Herbert likes cauliflower and broccoli (look, I’ll be very grateful if you follow my instructions, because that means you care about keeping my little guys healthy and happy…but if you seriously try to peel tiny trees, then I’ll have no choice but to tell Cal to keep an eye on you for a while)

Rats really only need protein on occasion. Too much in one sitting will just make them sick. So, if you think that they deserve a meatier treat, then it has to be something LEAN. There’s a container full of roast chicken in the fridge; these guys all love a thin slice of the breast or skin. (If you really want to go the extra mile, carve the bones out of the wings and break them in half. They’re perfect for gnawing habits, plus the marrow is a great source of vitamins and minerals.)

DO NOT FEED THEM ANY HUMAN FLESH. SNARE CAN ONLY PULL IT OFF BECAUSE HARES ARE NATURAL OPPORTUNISTS; THEY’RE BUILT TO SCAVENGE OFF OF LARGER PREDATORS WHEN THEY NEED TO. YES, WILD RATS CAN HANDLE THAT TYPE OF DIET, BUT THE DOMESTIC ONES JUST CAN’T.

Good luck, and thanks again for taking the time to look after everything! See you soon!

— R.D. & Cal

K.O. snorted; the letter was dripping with sarcasm, but he respected people who were so meticulous with their pets. It just meant that they cared.

Plus, it felt nice that he was trusted to help out with something like this; after all, it wasn’t like Caliban could afford to just drop Snare off at a boarding kennel, considering the hare’s special diet…

Each tier on the rat-cage had its own little door, which made it easier for him to drop off the right snacks into the right bowls. None of the rodents tried to scurry out or climb on this new person's arms, though they did approach to cautiously sniff at his hands.

(Well, all but Moreau. He just squinted at K.O. with near-palpable suspicion. But then, Moreau only had three limbs—there was a stump where his right hind-leg should’ve been. So, it seemed he had every damn right to be a little withdrawn.)

Before he could try to pet any of them, however, a faraway noise caught his attention…

“...Murdock?” K.O. called, remembering exactly what he’d been up to before all this.

Murdock didn’t call back, either because he hadn’t heard his accomplice or was just intentionally ignoring him.

K.O. chewed his lip, then closed the rat’s cage back up and headed back down the staircase.

All the while, that noise got somewhat louder and clearer, muffled yet echoing in a way that could only be caused by old concrete walls.

Once he’d returned to the first floor, he couldn’t help but smirk upon recognizing a string of very frustrated, very colorful words set in that familiar baritone.

___

Blood was a fickle thing.

On most occasions, Murdock enjoyed that fickleness.

There were so many different ways that deep crimson juice could seep out of someone just depending on the angle of a laceration.

Sometimes you had to make it all rush out and splatter all over the walls in a manner of minutes, other times you got a chance to stretch the bleeding out and watch a pool form on the floor, growing wider and deeper and darker. In any case, you never missed out on feeling the weight of your blade as it sank into flesh.

This current occasion, however, was not one of them.

“Where is it?!” Murdock hissed to himself through clenched teeth, looming over the fresh cavity.

Despite his leather gloves, it was pretty damn obvious that his knuckles were turning white. He gripped the surgical tweezer he’d found in Caliban’s toolcase, jabbing it back-and-forth, side-to-side in the crevices of the target’s intestines.

Crimson droplets came spraying out, though the stains they left weren't really noticeable, considering the deep shade of currant that colored his favorite turtleneck. On the other hand, the specks that landed on his black-tinted shades stuck out in a very sinister way.

“Where is it, where is it, where in the flying FUCK—”

“Where’s what?” A familiar voice interjected, accompanied by a hollow chorus of footsteps that were growing closer and closer.

Murdock paused, straightening his back and glancing over his shoulder just in time to see K.O.’s thin-yet-muscular form descending the hidden staircase (or, one of many hidden staircases, to be precise. Almost every one of his peers had a den like this).

The Pentas Family’s resident illegal-fighting champion wandered over to stand by his side, glancing down at the mess on the block kitchen island that, thanks to Caliban, doubled as a human-disassembly station.

Murdock heaved a sigh, finally loosening his grasp on the tweezers. It was a bit surprising that he hadn’t broken them just yet.

“...I found some jewelry on this guy last-minute,” he explained, nodding to the target’s face (which was, interestingly enough, still twitching and twisting in agony. The strangled sobs had multiplied and even gotten a little louder). “I was just taking it off to put in its own jar or whatever for selling later on—”

“But you dropped it and can’t find it now?” K.O. finished, not bothering to hide the mirth that started to flicker in his blue eyes.

“I know where it is!” Murdock snapped. He then pointed at the target’s guts, speaking quickly before his friend could remind him of the aggravated mantra he’d been spitting out just a few seconds ago, “I saw where it landed! But when I tried to grab it, it somehow slipped again and sank in deeper.”

K.O. sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, brow furrowing with sympathy. He moved to stand on the other side of the island, opposite of Murdock, before squinting down at the body cavity. “Well, what does this jewelry look like?”

“A butterfly. A really small, golden charm with diamonds studded on the wings,” Murdock answered, nearly bumping heads with the fighter as he leaned over again, pushing the tweezers back down into the tangle of bloody, organic tubes.

“...Huh. So this guy technically has a physical butterfly in his stomach,” K.O. announced, chuckling as he fidgeted with the pockets of his amaranth-dyed jeans. “Cal would’ve loved this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Murdock warned, trying his damnedest not to imagine all the puns Caliban would use if he’d been present to see the incident at hand.

(Even if he and the cannibal in question had agreed on plenty other examples of taunting terminology from the criminal underground.)

The cage-lights that adorned the tunnels’ old walls every twenty-or-so feet were dim and flickering. But their near-ancient glow still glinted off of blades quite nicely.

Both Murdock’s dagger and Caliban’s cleaver had seemed to sear through the air as they took turns slashing at their victim, circling around him not unlike a pair of sharks.

The intruder had collapsed against the old, rusty railing, crying out in pain and probably regretting every choice he’d made that led to sneaking down here.

Murdock tsk-tsked, kneeling down to snatch a handful of the intruder’s hair, forcing him to face him. “Hey, that’s what attempted sabatoge gets you. Especially when you think you can just break into our dens.”

He’d traced the very tip of his dagger along the intruder’s cheek, drinking up some more fear before he pressed it into skin. He only used enough force to bring out a little bead of dark red; this show of restraint really didn’t mean much, considering the mess of blood and bruises that he and his accomplice had already inflicted on his head, his neck, his arms…

The bead in question soon turned into yet another thin line that ran down the man’s face, eventually merging with the gore that oozed from his busted lip.

“Wait!” Caliban had suddenly exclaimed, moving to kneel by the intruder’s side. “Wait-wait-wait, hold on!”

“The first couple ‘waits’ didn’t tip me off,” Murdock had snarked, though he did pause his movements. “Why? What’s the matter?”

Caliban grabbed hold of the intruder now bloodstained shirt-collar, partially lifting him up. He then gestured to all the fresh cuts marring flesh. “All these wounds are hungry, ‘Doc! Can’t you see that?” The mask of faux-concern slipped, sadistic glee worming its way back into his expression. “We’ve gotta feed them some SALT!”

The intruder squirmed, wretching and gibbering and shaking his head as he tried to escape. But it was no use; pretty much all the air had been knocked right out of him. And even if it hadn’t been, the collective pain from all those bleeding gashes would’ve slowed him down.

“Oh...Oh!” Murdock crowed, nodding as realization came along. He reached over to clap his accomplice on the shoulder. “Good point, Cal! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

Caliban smiled cheekily. “That’s why we have these little collabs, isn’t it?”

Murdock got to his feet, pacing along the old platform to peer at the intentionally-place graffiti on the walls. “We shouldn’t be too far from your den—” He then stooped back down, trapping one of the intruder’s arms in a vice-like grip. “C’mon, let’s get to it!”

“Right!” Caliban cackled, taking the intruder’s other arm as he stood.

With that, the duo had started dragging their victim along to his fate, eager to test out yet another interrogation tactic.

“You really think you’ll have enough salt for this?” Murdock wondered aloud, glancing back at the struggling mess of a man who decided to fuck around and was now finding out.

“I mean, I should,” Caliban replied. His brow furrowed as he stared at the floor, probably going through a silent checklist.

A few seconds later, he simply shrugged, a sharp, toothy grin etching its way across his features as he looked back at Murdock. “But even if I don’t…I did put a gallon-jug of vinegar under the sink just yesterday.”

“Ooh,” Murdock hummed, offering an unhinged smirk of his own. “Yeah, that’d do the trick for sure!”

Caliban nodded. “Plus, it won’t make much of a dent in the skin’s price, as long as I wash it during the harvest…”

Murdock’s free hand moved to tug at the edges, trying to give the tweezers in his other hand a bit more leeway. Blood pooled up and out due to the pressure.

K.O., meanwhile, fidgeted in place, watching and thinking. “...Remember, skin goes for ten bucks per square-inch. So, if some sections need to be cut smaller because they’re too stretched—”

“I’M AWARE,” Murdock replied, raising his voice to be heard over the truly sickening (one might even say gut-wrenching) song of squelches caused by all the friction.

The target made a feeble attempt to raise his voice, but that didn't change the fact that he was well past forming coherent sentences anymore.

K.O. raised an eyebrow at this, shock beginning to ripple in his eyes.. “Hang on—is he still alive?”

Murdock, taking another quick, angry little break, shrugged. “In a way.”

“But—but I broke his neck not even an hour ago!” K.O. protested, moving to gape at the target’s twisting face. “He fell like a soggy trash-bag! Like a ragdoll! He hasn’t moved at all since before we even got here!”

“Broken necks aren’t always fatal,” Murdock mentioned, digging through the fleshy maze yet again. “Sometimes it just damages the spinal nerves enough to cause paralysis. Maybe you just didn’t twist it enough.”

K.O. hummed at this, surprise warping into morbid fascination. For whatever reason, he didn’t reach around the target’s neck to finish the job just yet. Instead, he went back to glancing in mild, semi-snarky awe at the sheer force of Murdock’s pissed-off snarl and forehead-creases.

Murdock was too focused to see how the fighter sidled around the island to stand just behind him.

That changed with a quickness as he felt a weight materialize on both of his shoulders.

“Here, you look stressed—”

“What makes you say THAT?” Murdock growled, refusing to look away from his work.

“—let me give you a shoulder-rub,” K.O. continued, his tone of voice just singing about the shit-eating grin that was growing on his face.

“I don’t want one,” Murdock argued, rolling his shoulders with much more force than strictly necessary. “Do not touch me, do not touch me, do not touch me, do nOT TOUCH ME!”

“Alright, alright,” K.O. relented…but only for a few seconds. “I can still help—what if I just put my arms under yours?”

“YOU FUCKING GET THOSE OUT FROM UNDER ME!” Murdock snapped, shifting in place to fend off his accomplice's arms before they could brush against his sides.

K.O. snickered, finally holding his hands up in defeat. He moved into Murdock's field of view again, coming to stand by the target’s head.

For the next moment or two, there was somewhat blissful silence.

“What if you just left it like this?” K.O. piped up again. “It might give some extra edge to the sale. Kinda like one of those raffle games.”

“Raffle games?” Murdock echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah! Y’know, the whole ‘Guess How Many Beads Are In This Jar! The closest number gets a price!’ thing.” K.O. spread his hands in a lame gesture. “Maybe you could squish these intestines into a jar with the butterfly still inside, then just tell potential buyers about it! No way there won’t be at least one person desperate enough for gold that they’ll dig through cold guts.”

Although that idea did sound pretty funny, Murdock still shook his head, snorting. “The average set of intestines are about sixteen feet long when they’re stretched out. Good luck finding a jar big enough to hold all that and keep it sealed without cracking.”

With another forceful sigh, Murdock threw the tweezers down. He took a second to tug at his gloves, then flexed his fingers…and plunged his hands into the target’s intestines.

Full.

Submersion.

While he didn’t gag or retch or react in the way any normal person would, Murdock still couldn’t help but cringe a little. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually handled entrails like this—he’d forgotten just how thick and dense they were.

The hitman set his jaw and kept at it, glaring at nothing in particular as his fingers became lost in the maze of gore. Even with his gloves on, he’d still be able to feel the sharp, carefully-sculpted edges of that stupid godddamn butterfly charm…once his hands actually came across it, that is.

More wheezing, unintelligible sobs came leaking out through the target’s teeth.

“Calm, cool, collected…” K.O. taunted, drumming his fingers on the target’s forehead. “…I’m gonna frame you for tax-fraud…”

Murdock didn’t pause, didn’t look over at the fighter…but he just could stop himself from sputtering a small, low, flabbergasted chuckle at such a random comment.

He didn’t see the way K.O.’s lips curled into a tiny, genuine smile.

Whether or not the target was still in the headspace to be worrying about a threat to his taxes (or the current state of his organs), he still kept on wailing, kept on choking.

Kept on being an annoyance. (A much more macabre annoyance than average, but an annoyance all the same.)

“This FUCKING GUY won’t shut THE FUCK UP,” Murdock seethed.

He finally looked back up from his work, locking eyes with K.O. as he used one very messy hand to toss his thumb over his shoulder. “Get a towel—get some paper-towels, get some water. We’re gonna FUCKING waterboard this guy.”

Now it was K.O.’s turn to sputter with disbelieving giggles. But he certainly didn’t hesitate. He raced over to the utility sink in the corner, returning seconds later with a wad of dripping paper-towels.

“Next time you TALK—” K.O. started to warn…only for the target to let out another choked scream. The fighter pursed his lips and slammed the soaked towels down onto the target’s face.

…It actually ended up muffling the ensuing cries even more than expected.

And that got a genuine belly-laugh out of Murdock. Maybe not enough to stave off an impending migraine, but something was better than nothing.

“You’ll be sleeping with the fishes!” K.O. chortled, pressing his handed on top of the mess to keep everything in place. “You’ll be sleeping with the goddamn FISHES!”

More time passed by; now that all those distracting screams had been taken down a notch, things seemed to move a bit faster.

The metallic stench of still-warm blood hung heavy around the duo. Had the air been any hotter down here, it might’ve grown thick enough for them to almost taste the plasma as they breathed

“Let’s be honest here,” K.O. said, shifting in place and lifting his hands away from the target’s face (somehow, the paper-towel-gag didn’t slide off to plop down on the floor). “Can you actually get that butterfly out?”

“I am so close—I just felt it, I almost had it out, but it just clipped the edge of the—” Murdock took a deep breath, turning his head to crack his neck a few times, relieving some of the tension that had gathered there. “I swear to God, I can get this!”

“Alright, alright! If that’s the case, then it might not be as deep as it was before!” K.O. moved closer, leaning down toward the cavity. He reached over to pluck up the tweezers, then started gingerly probing at the entrails.

Murdock’s own hands pulled back, soon coming to rest on his temples in a noble attempt to keep his brain from eroding through his skull. He barely even noticed how the blood smeared against his skin.

A hollow, aggravated, exhausted groan poured out of his lungs. For a few seconds, he simply took a turn to watch.

Evidently, the powder-keg of K.O.’s patience had an even shorter fuse than Murdock’s.

In one swift, fluid movement, he tossed the tweezers away, one hand curling in a fist that plummeted against the surface of the guts with a wet, smacking thump!

And then…THEN…

Time seemed to slow down.

Whatever primordial entity that potentially ruled over this cruel universe finally decided to say, “Why not?”

Because as the intestines quivered from the strike, a tiny, glinting projectile suddenly erupted out from the very center of the mess, arching in the air before landing just a few inches away from the cavity with an anticlimactic plink!

The two mobsters both froze in place, their mouths dropping in near-perfect unison.

The next moment almost felt like a whole hour as they stared down at the golden, diamond-encrusted, butterfly-shaped trophy.

K.O. was the first to break the stunned silence, throwing his head back and practically screaming with laughter. Murdock followed suite, his own guffaw starting out with a wheeze that built up in volume over the course of a few seconds.

“Did you see that?!” Murdock just barely managed to ask, still wracked with breathless cackles.

“How did that just happen?!” K.O. asked, getting a rare pass for answering a question with another question.

___

[You actually read this far? Wow, that’s dedication! And as a thank you…here’s a little hint at what’s to come, featuring a couple more fanmade characters: my second-ever CrankEgo, and my first ever SepticEgo! To learn more about them, go here. I just feel like the ever-obscure EldritchPlier needs another rival besides my own LeviathanPat. And why shouldn’t that new rival come with his own semi-cultist companion like Cruz?]

(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

The Oozing Crown hadn’t even been closed for a minute.

Outside, the electric sign at the top of the building hadn’t even been turned off yet.

It still glowed with an eerie light that somehow still managed to be welcoming. Its neon wires all worked together to portray a grinning, emerald-green skull with hot-pink liquid fountaining out of a jagged hole in its parietal.

One Moses Norbert had just barely finished cleaning the main floor, securing the rows upon rows of bottles behind the counter. Just as he reached to lock up the shelves for the night, a very distorted, very familiar voice came pouring into his mind like molten lead.

“𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘝̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘐̸𝗫⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘈̸𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥”

All the time Moses had spent running the surface-level of this business granted him the power to find the coveted bottle of Suntory Toki just by muscle-memory. He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a can of Coca-Cola Vanilla from the fridge before setting a pan atop the stove.

“Oh, yeah? Praytell why? Cosmic seasonal depression beyond my comprehension?” Moses asked, chuckling to try and hide the way he stiffened.

It wasn’t at all uncommon for the creature he’d learned to call Septic to ask for some special drinks once the brewery-and-distillery-combo was devoid of all mortal witnesses.

Hell, jokes connecting his drinking habits to the fact that his otherworldly tone was somehow laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent had been a big part of his and Moses’ bonding in the past.

But this was…different.

It wasn’t like Moses was a stranger to adding all sorts of distinctly un-kosher things to soda or alcohol by now, but being asked to boil beverages was never the best omen.

“𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸��⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥,” Septic snickered, though his pitch was still obviously weighed down by something else. “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥.̸”

Despite the fact that no-one was actually around to see his expression, Moses raised an incredulous eyebrow (besides, he knew Septic could see far, far beyond the barriers around them).

“October,” he answered.

“𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥.̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸?⃥”

“…Halloween,” Moses continued, occasionally stirring the soda as it started to heat up and bubble.

“𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗢⃥.” A chorus of almost porcelain clicks echoed through Moses’ head; Septic must have been gnashing his multitude of sharp, jagged teeth together in contemplation. “𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸ 𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘐̸𝗥⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸-⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘉̸𝗬⃥.̸.⃥.̸”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Moses agreed, his brow furrowing at memories of stupid Karens who had ruined one night of trick-or-treating too many when he’d still been just a little kid.

The cola had reached a rolling boil by now, so he turned the burner off and fetched a glass from one of the cabinets. After pouring a little more than a shot’s worth of the whiskey, he carefully upended the steaming pan over it.

And as the concoction practically mixed itself together, realization came in. “…Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“𝗜⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸,⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘔̸ 𝘐̸?⃥” Septic snorted, an eye-roll evident in his pitch.

Moses crossed the kitchen, rooting through the storage closet tucked into one corner. It took little time for him to find a wooden chest stashed on the highest shelf, well out of view to any strangers who might’ve come in here for whatever reason. He opened it up, fishing out the mask he’d been given years ago, as part of the pact he’d made when he was first brought to the apartment on top of the brewery’s roof.

The mask was an amalgamation of leather and metal. It almost resembled one of those typical, vintage gas masks…that is, if those pieces of old-fashioned gear were designed with six spindly copper blades attached to the base of the mouth-guard by a set of rivets. It resembled the mandibles of some kind of hellish, overgrown insect.

And that wasn’t mentioning the mask’s eyes. Yes, it had a primary pair for the wearer to actually, y’know, see through. But it had many, many more, all scattered about the top, having apparently been welded onto the mask’s dome. Right now they were a deep, rich shade of cobalt, though they would sometimes change color depending on what type of ritual he participated in.

Even though he’d signed a (relatively) mutually-beneficial contract years ago, Moses was still somewhat at risk.

Trees emitted oxygen, outer abominations emitted surreal terror that could physically manifest in a number of nasty ways.

(And that included the whole “names have power” schtick. The last part of Septic’s name was the only part that could be spoken by a mortal without causing their vocal cords to explode into tiny, sinewy pillars of thorns from the inside-out. Despite all the adjustment Moses had gone through, the last time he’d dared try to say Septic’s full title, he’d ended up crying bloody slugs for the rest of the night.)

(...Plus, having a special mask for stuff like this gave way for the perfect excuse to make jokes about using protection during rituals. Oh sure, you could say that you wouldn’t jump at an opportunity like that if you found yourself working with a sentient crime against nature…but then your mother would’ve raised a fucking liar.)

Pulling the mask over his head, Moses stepped out of the storage closet and knelt down in the center of the kitchen; the cellar door was well-camoflauged, topped off with a slab of the same material as the floor in here, but he knew how to find the right edges.

Like some kind of weird, reverse murphy-bed, the door glided up and open, revealing a short steel stair-unit.

With that, Moses grabbed the freshly-brewed beverage and headed down.

As usual, the basement was dark, but the mask helped Moses’ eyes to adjust quickly. It was also much, much bigger than the brewery’s main floor; his footsteps reverberated as he paced along an industrial catwalk that overlooked all the machinery down here. But then, most of that stuff was attached to the walls, not taking up too much space.

No, what really needed accommodation were the tanks—a group of seven, to be exact. Six were positioned by the sides, split into two groups of three. They were each about eight feet tall, each painstakingly crafted from silvery metal, each able to brew or distill about a hundred barrels’ worth of product.

And yet, none of them could really compare to the seventh tank.

It stood before the rest at the very head of the room, looming at fourteen feet. It boasted a shiny copper material…though, you couldn’t really tell whenever Septic was active.

As Moses descended yet another metallic staircase and approached, a bright glow sparked to life inside the seventh tank, casting the room in a dark-yet-vibrant shade of green that silently screamed with toxicity.

Moses’ shadow stretched along the floor behind him as halted just a few feet away from the radioactive-looking vessel. The source of that glow rose up, floating in the center and not even having to wade closer to rest his hands—or, more precisely, his clutches of talons—against the tank’s foremost inner wall.

Even though Septic’s outline was blurry, it was still easy to see the several eyes scattered about his torso in arms. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, all glowing and rolling around in their misplaced sockets. A mane of long, dark hair twisted through the liquid, the movement looking similar to trapped, spasming eels.

The tank’s hatch (which nearly scraped against the ceiling) popped open with a pressurized hsssssss. Clouds of discolored steam billowed into the air, along with a smell that was reminiscent of geyser pits…that is, if the natural sulfur came with a trace of sweetness that could only ever be produced by rotting flesh.

Moses held the glass forward, prompting Septic to reach up. One of his arms gave off a chorus of pops and cracks as it protruded from the hatch, stretching far too long far too quickly.

The bones in his translucent skin shuddered and warped, his translucent skin glistening. Droplets slid off, smoking as they met their end against the concrete floor.

Then, just a millisecond after his claws wrapped around the glass, the limb retracted back into the tank with an echoing splash!

Septic’s outline craned his neck to greedy gulp down the casual elixir. Once the glass was drained, he opened wide, causing the strands of torn flesh along his cheeks to stretch even further.

The liquid inside the tank did nothing to muffle the cacophony of crunching and shattering that would’ve made much more sense echoing up from the depth of a malfunctioning garbage disposal.

Septic then let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. “𝗔⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥𝘕̸ 𝘚̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥.̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗠⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥.̸” He nodded in Moses’ direction, pupil dilating in the eye on the center of his chest. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

“No problem,” Moses replied, nodding back. He started rocking back and forth on his heels. “So, what’s this Halloween ritual about? If you’re already taking the atrocity-equivelent of blood-pressure medicine, then it’s gotta do with something bigger than the usual stuff.”

Despite his new anxiety, Moses couldn’t help but snicker to himself. The usual stuff he’d just mentioned involved harvesting souls and emotions from the people he could get away with knocking out and dragging down here to meet a very gruesome fate inside any one of the tanks.

(And he didn’t even really have to clean them out afterwards! Thanks to Septic’s power, the mess pretty much always just dissolved out of existence once the task was complete! How lucky was that?!)

“𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘍̸,⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥.̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘞̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥.” Septic clicked an elastic, forked tongue. He slowly spun around in the tank, almost like the stuff inside lava lamps.

Moses tilted his head to the side, curiosity worming its way into his head. “Wait…this’ll call for more people than just us? For guys like…like you?”

Septic nodded; despite his obvious apprehension, he still bared his fangs in a grin at the inquinsitiveness. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘚̸𝗞⃥.̸ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗙⃥,̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥,̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗙⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘛̸.”

Moses hummed at this. Yeah, there was still a lot of foreboding that came with the statement…but already had bragging rights for working with a cosmic horror! And soon he’d get to work with even more?!

There was no way anyone else’s upcoming Halloween plans could compare to his. No. Fucking. Way.

“𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥,” Septic warned, having clearly both seen and felt the rising adrenaline. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥.”

“...How the hell can I not get excited at a concept like that?!” Moses asked. “If human drama manages to be so weirdly entertaining, then eldritch drama must be even wilder!”

“𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,” Septic agreed with a sardonic chuckle. “𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗣⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗩⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘐̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥.̸”

He paused, diving down for a few seconds before floating closer to the top of the tank. “.⃥.̸.⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸,⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸.⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.”

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Moses chuckled. He then glanced at the catwalk over his shoulder. “How long will you be gone?”

Where some monsters were bound to follow rules that kept them out of places, Septic was restricted to being kept in a place. Ever since he’d had that chance-meeting with Moses, however, he’d had a counter to that pesky binding.

Granted, he could only stay out of his tank for a short time before being dragged back by whatever force was in there underneath him, but he wasn’t one to look a gift morbid-fascination-prone-human in the mouth.

“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘖̸ 𝘋̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘈̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘎̸𝗬⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸.”

“Gotcha. Well…good luck with that, I guess.” Moses moved closer, soon climbing on the stepladder that was pretty much always propped up against Septic’s tank.

He held the hatch’s brass handle in a vice-like grip, knuckles very quickly turning white. He ever-so-slightly leaned to the side, bracing himself. “Ready when you are!”

The green light grew more vibrant, more poisonous.

The tank began to rattle, to groan, to shudder in place. The unearthly liquid inside gurgled and churned as Septic’s form all but flooded out.

Moses’ instincts screamed at him to lower his head and wrench his eyes shut…but everything was over before he even could.

The glow had vanished, leaving the basement full of shadows, safe for the light that trickled down from the kitchen through that door-in-the-floor.

The air was clear.

Septic was gone…though, his voice was stubborn enough to stay for a few more seconds. “𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸!⃥”

“Likewise!” Moses called back. As he slid down the ladder and started making his way back toward the kitchen, he added, “…And bring me back a toy!”

[To be continued on Day 6...]

___

@sammys-magical-au

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 year ago

Text

Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

(Disclaimer: only three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about K.O. here. For more information about Azalea, go here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(We've got another special guest appearance by the badass OC of my amazing friend, @sammys-magical-au! Please go reblog Sammy's ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)

(Trigger Warnings: physical violence, blood, gore, descriptions of illegal business, implied poisoning, cannibalism, slight mutilation/dismemberment, murder/death, mentions of food, drinking/eating, insects, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

“Remember that nanny-gig you roped me into a while ago? Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I left something meant for one of my colleagues at your place by accident. I would just come over and take it myself, but I can’t afford to leave my spot right now, so, if you could drop it off to her on your way here that’d be great, okay byyyyyy—!”

Even through the typical graininess of voicemail, Murdock’s tone had managed to sound just as oily as it did in person.

It’d been equal parts ironic and frustrating for Sam to hear.

Ironic because the “nanny-gig” was the favor they’d held him to after he’d roped them into something way more stressful than babysitting, and frustrating because there was already a decent amount of things on their plate for today. (Namely, having to participate in yet another round of highly illegal shenanigans.)

Oh, well. At least he’d asked for their assistance with tonight’s job in advance this time.

And now here they were, hovering in an unfamiliar house, unable to stop themself from looking every bit like a kid in a candy store despite the voices in the back of their head incessantly questioning their life choices for the millionth time.

“You. . .really take holidays seriously, huh?” Sam blurted, glancing between the counters of their host’s kitchen. It sounded much more like a statement than a question, and though they weren’t sure they’d meant it to come out that way, there was really no arguing with it.

Azalea Crawford—the colleague Murdock had mentioned—responded with a short peal of laughter that almost sounded musical. “Well, food is a pretty big part of any holiday, so at least I still know my business.”

Sam nodded, having to blink to stay focused. There were just so many sweet, tantalizing aromas flowing through the air. “And business must be good; there’s no way it can’t be.”

Azalea waved off the compliment, though pride still flickered along her features. “Feel free to have some bits and pieces if you like. Trust me, it won’t make a dent in the spread.”

“That’s a relief; I think I have to now,” Sam chuckled. They could already feel their teeth start to ache. “. . .Y’know, it’s been a while since I saw this kind of hospitality. Thank you.”

“Of course! You’re an ally,” Azalea replied, crossing the kitchen to check on whatever was taking up space in her oven.

Sam strolled about, almost a bit hesitant to let their hands fully outstretch in case they ended up knocking something over. Azalea’s kitchen was a wide and spacious area, which A. honestly made sense for someone who owned a restaurant, and B. meant that it had the potential to be far, far more crowded than strictly necessary.

It truly seemed like the floor was the only available surface not shrouded by plates and trays and charcuterie boards.

Their gaze wandered about the counters for a moment, soon settling on a sheet stacked high with sugar cookies. The batch almost looked like gingerbread men. . .that is, if gingerbread men were supposed to resemble voodoo dolls. The icing on each of them adhered to classic emo color-code; black eyes and purple hearts, all complimented by lines of bright green that gave the impression of stitchwork.

A smidge endeared, Sam approached and picked up one of the voodoo cookies by its little waist, careful to not get any frosting on their fingers. The creepy confection stared up at her, its lifeless eyes somehow managing to long for the sweet release of death. They pushed it closer to their face, preparing to take its head off in one clean bi—

“WHOAWHOAWHOA, NO!” Azalea’s voice was suddenly loud enough to ring in Sam’s ears, now laced with an awful amount of panic that most certainly hadn’t been there a moment ago. She was a blur of movement as she rushed to Sam’s side. “NOT THOSE ONES!”

The voodoo cookie was launched into the air; Sam just barely managed to catch it before it met a broken fate on the floor. They practically slapped it back down with the others before holding their hands up in a defensive gesture.

Azalea took a few deep breaths, her expression contorting from panic to exhaustion to relief. She raised her hands to knead at her temples. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just—” She sighed, slipping past Sam to grab the voodoo cookie tray and carry it off. “I can’t believe I just left these guys right there.”

Sam stared after their host, trying to convince their heart to stop hammering against their ribcage. “Are they. . .meant for a target?”

“Yep,” Azalea responded as she placed the deadly treats on top of her refrigerator.

A few seconds of awkward silence came and went.

Azalea fidgeted with her sleeves.

Sam cleared their throat, straightened their back. “What makes those ones special, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, not at all.” Azalea returned to casualness so quickly it would’ve given anyone else whiplash. “Rough-skinned newt poison. It typically does the job in about two hours and twenty-five minutes. So, plenty of time for my target to eat one and get back to wherever they came from before they keel over.”

“And by the time that target is found by someone else,” Sam continued, their eyebrows quirking in fascination, “the poison should be too broken-down in their system to really be traceable.”

Azalea’s grin slithered back onto her face, dripping with well-earned confidence. “Precisely.”

Sam, a seasoned animal nerd who’d done a few very unconventional things in the past, couldn’t help but grin back. “. . .Nice.”

Of course, they’d already known about Azalea; they could remember catching glimpses of her at the Pentas meetings they’d been invited to. Murdock had mentioned her a few times during morbid professional discussions. They’d even found themselves dining at Aftertaste, the very place she ran in order to keep up appearances for her work, once or twice in the past.

They’d been an ally to The Pentas Family long enough to learn how most of its members carried out business, and yet Murdock was the only one they knew somewhat personally.

It was such a strange thing to think about.

Still, it hadn’t taken much time at all for Sam to figure out just how much of a badass Azalea really was.

That hadn’t been entirely apparent at first. Azalea was, to put it frankly, cute as a button (especially with the soft green sweater and purple denim shorts she wore right now. Much more pastel than what Sam had seen of her typical wardrobe). She had to be one of the shortest adults Sam had ever met, with long, silky chestnut hair that was just a single shade lighter than her warm eyes. Her voice was bright and sweet.

And yet. . .when you knew what to look for (and how to look for it) like Sam did, you could see a cunning, brilliant, venomous soul lurking under the surface. Even now, as she paced to and fro through her kitchen and casually chatted with her guest, Azalea held herself with grace and quiet authority that would’ve been impossible to not respect.

The insufferable city councilwoman who had collapsed at the mayor’s public birthday celebration? She’d ended up spending a week in the hospital, just barely alive, and subsequently stepped down from her position soon after recovering, never uttering a word about the incident.

Sure, it could’ve just been a particularly awful case of allergic reaction, but the thousand-yard stare she’d been wearing in the newspaper photos suggested otherwise.

That important gala that’d been held in the next city over a few months ago? Well, four of its most prominent guests had been reported dead a couple days later, and while each of their autopsies had apparently suggested poisoning, there was just no way for it to be traced back to the right person.

Just a couple of the many rendezvous Azalea had partaken in. Sam had only heard snippets of the rest from Murdock, but in all fairness, they’d just come dangerously close to being part of the job Azalea was apparently taking on tonight.

Aftertaste was one of the most popular restaurants the Cove Port Inlets had to offer. It just made sense for catering services to be offered on the side. From what Sam was told, Azalea and her employees served at events ranging from simple weddings or funerals to private functions at City Hall.

And it was clear Azalea’s catering plans for the Cove Port Inlets’ latest Halloween festival went so, so, so much further beyond the typical pumpkin chocolate-chip bread or pie.

There were eclairs topped with chocolate molds of mummified bodies, bright red donuts with tiny black horns and spade-tipped tails, little pastries that’d been cut into the shapes of coffins and covered with pastel icing.

About a dozen or so candy mice had all been organized in a bowl that was, fittingly enough, right next to a wide dish of pretzels that resembled coiled snakes (the powder decorating said snakes was a dark shade of green, but there was no denying the lovely smell of cinnamon wafting off of them).

Cake pops that looked like tiny little witch cauldrons, complete with green frosting bubbles at the tops and orange frosting flames at the bottoms. Sam almost shuddered at the thought of how much patience the decorating process would’ve had to take.

One of the larger platters held an entire cake that was surrounded by yet another batch of sugar cookies; the former bore creepy similarities to a brain while the latter mimicked the various other organs of the human body. (It was quite impressive how accurate the details were.)

Sam couldn’t help but snort at the sight. “I’m guessing Caliban requested these?”

“No, actually.” A sly yet soft knowingness crept into Azalea’s smile. “But I’ve had those cutters for years now, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t the reason. We both knew cookies wouldn’t really be the best placebo for meat, but they were better than nothing when we were on the run.”

The sound of a record scratching echoed from one corner of Sam’s brain. We? Years? On the run? Before they could ponder just how far back her host apparently went with the cannibal in question, Azalea piped up again.

“So, according to Murdock, you have something of mine?” Azalea hovered by the stovetop, holding an icing bag over a batch of cupcakes. It seemed to take far too little time for her to decorate them as nicely as she did, but she managed it. After that, she reached into two bowls, producing a handful of black n’ white striped fondant.

She cut it up into clean sections, each of which she rolled into tendril-looking shapes that soon found themselves burrowed into the cupcakes’ frosting, the tips coiled in the air like cartoonish sandworms. “Not to sound pushy or anything, but I still have a few more things to finish before I can head over to town square.”

A few MORE things? Sam’s mind repeated, genuinely stunned. They knew it made logical sense—the public Halloween festival would have way too many attendees to count, so of course the provided food would have to come in a huge amount—but Azalea had still made so many things already. Sam could only imagine how early she must’ve had to wake up in order to make sure the entire catering order was fresh.

“Ah, yes,” Sam replied, shaking their head in a way they hoped didn’t look too obvious. They reached into one of the interior pockets of their jacket (a leather one that gracefully shifted from violet to brown, boasting some filigree designs embroidered around the shoulders. They could remember neither where they’d gotten it from nor how long it’d been since they last wore it) and fished out a small glass vial.

The fluid inside of it was a dark shade of magenta; it also seemed quite viscous, only a few bubbles inside moving ever so slowly as Sam held it out.

Azalea’s smile evaporated, eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as she nodded and stepped away from the cupcakes.

“Why would Murdock give this to you?” She inquired, examining her returned property. The question almost seemed to be directed a bit more to herself than Sam. “I mean, thank God it’s not empty, but—”

“He didn’t give it to me. He actually just left it at the rental home I have here,” Sam interjected. “I just knew it couldn’t be something I already owned because it’d clearly been shoved behind the decor on my mantle.” As they looked at the new shock on Azalea’s features, something cold and clammy festered in the pit of their stomach. “. . .Come to think of it, Murdock never really mentioned what that stuff is. . .”

“Oh, it’s honey. Specifically made from the nectar of the Rhododendron flowers in my greenhouse,” Azalea proclaimed, carefully spinning the vial between her fingers. “Whenever they’re in bloom, I always make sure to harvest their pollen and send it off to get processed; the family has an under-the-table arrangement with a beekeeping company.”

“Mad Honey,” Sam murmured, nodding along. That particular hallucinogenic was deadly enough to have earned a reputation amongst people who’d never even looked at suspicious substances in their lives. Why it was still legal to sell in the United States, Sam would never understand.

You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out why a hitwoman cultivated Mad Honey; it took the term “slippery slope” and completely redefined it. The only way to enjoy its euphoric side-effects was to take a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy sample of it. . .and, of course, it was all too easy for high-chasers to accidentally miscalculate the amount of their indulgence. Which, in turn, would pave the way for an assassination to be written off as a simple case of overdose.

With this new development, Sam’s mind jumped from point to point.

First, they felt some satisfactory amusement at the fact that Azalea worked with her namesake.

Then their knowledge on Mad Honey turned itself into a mantra, rattling between their ears with the same volume and presence of an airhorn taped to a ceiling fan.

And then everything seemed to freeze in place due to the cold, quickly building fury with the realization.

“Murdock. . .” Sam announced to no-one in particular.

“. . .left Mad Honey. . .” They felt their eyes bulge, felt the blood just beneath the fragile barrier of their face reach a boiling temperature.

“. . .in the sAME PLACE AS MY KIDS?!”

The color drained from Azalea’s face. Her shoulders slumped, grip visibly tightening around the vial.

A silent, uncomfortable staring contest was initiated between the two, lasting ten or so seconds that felt more like five hours.

“I’ll. . .have to bring that up with him later,” Azalea finally announced. Though she still looked extremely caught off-guard, her tone still made it obvious that “bring that up” was code for “slap some damn sense into him.”

And while Sam did appreciate that, they managed to slowly shake their head.

“No. Nononononono,” they seethed. “Considering I have to meet up with him for his little job tonight, I’ll be happy to take care of that myself. Trust me.”

Azalea hummed thoughtfully. She sidled past Sam, passing the vial to her other hand. “I need to get this to my storage space. Be right back.” And with that, she glided out of the kitchen. Sam could hear her footsteps ascending the staircase they’d seen in the front foyer.

Sam spent the next couple moments pacing in a small, angry circle. Incomplete words attempted to squirm out through their gritted teeth.

Calm down, calm down, calm the fuck down, Sam thought, flexing their hands to try and drive away the aches already lingering around their knuckles.

True, Jay and their children had already flown home about a week ago. And true, not a single one of them had shown any strange side-effects or died before that. And true still, like Azalea had said before: none of that Mad Honey was missing from its vial.

Even so, that did absolutely NOTHING to change the fact that Murdock was now in desperate need of a few dozen lessons in karma. . .

“Now, you’ve got every single right to be angry. I’m not even gonna try to deny that.” Azalea stalked back into the kitchen, her voice entering a few seconds before she actually did. “But this little mishap is technically only half Murdock’s fault.”

Sam halted in place, turning their head to raise an eyebrow at their host.

“Well, if that’s the case,” they muttered, “then who the hell do I need to throttle for the other half?”

Azalea tilted her head, almost looking a bit amused. “The same guy you’re helping take care of tonight.”

Curiosity slowly but surely began overtaking rage. Sam rolled their shoulders, motioning for Azalea to elaborate.

“Another group of competitors has been encroaching on Pentas turf.” As she explained, Azalea took a small, shiny paring knife to an apple’s outer skin, deftly etching little pieces off.

“They call themselves ‘The Bronze Owls,’” Azalea’s tone turned sour and mocking as the title left her mouth. “Their leader tried to scam his way into a deal with The Boss, but obviously she saw right through and told him to go pound some sand.”

“In far more eloquent terms, or. . ?” Sam asked, having calmed down enough for their more typical humor to reappear.

“Yes and no.” Azalea smirked with a little shrug. “Naturally, the guy decided to get his shorts in a twist about it, and his crew’s been annoying us all month long. Some of them jumped Murdock when he was picking up the honey.”

By now, the likeness of a skull and crossbones had been etched into the fruit in her hand. She dropped it into a glass bowl of heavenly-looking cider before reaching for another apple.

“One tried playing target practice with me. . .”

Sam watched, noting how Azalea’s movements seemed a bit more aggressive than before as she repeated the carving process.

“. . .and another stabbed Cal.” Something awful slithered into Azalea’s eyes as her knuckles turned white around the knife’s handle.

There was anger, yes, but it was accompanied by a certain type of pain. The type that was practically impossible for onlookers to even try describing, yet somehow managed to be well-known as the absolute worst.

Sam felt their features soften a little. But before they could begin offering any comfort that they unfortunately already knew would be cold, Azalea briskly shook her head.

“But those problems have already been taken care of,” she continued. “They wanted our attention so badly? Well, now they’ve certainly got it.” A dark chuckle rose from her lips. “Before the night is over, the pests will be stamped out completely.”

She paused, then glanced over at Sam. “And we’ll have you to thank for part of that goal.”

___

The building was a sort of a hole-in-the-wall, but it still stood out from the businesses it was sandwiched between. Its bricks had been coated with a pretty mixture of paints; a few different shades of blue all set off by streaks of black that came in varying lengths and widths. In fact, it almost gave the impression of waves, or maybe some kind of spiral-esque pattern.

An LED sign was positioned at the front of the building’s roof. It wasn’t illuminated at the moment, but that didn’t prevent Sam from reading The WormRoll in a sleek, playful font.

The WormRoll. . .what an odd name choice. Though as Sam trekked through the empty parking lot, xe was quick to realize that it made sense.

Just because roller-skating was fun didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. Only a third less difficult than ice-skating, really. When you fell on skates, you had no choice but to do The Worm as you tried and failed to regain your balance. That applied to even the most thoroughly-trained professional skaters, because there was simply no such thing as practice without falling.

Sam approached the glass entrance, instinctively grasping one of the cold metal handles and giving it a tug. The door rattled in its frame, but otherwise refused to budge. Sam blinked at this, xer brow furrowing as xe peered inside. Xe saw two thin hallways—well, technically it was just one hallway, but a waist-high metallic fence stretched down the middle, keeping a second set of heavier-looking doors separate. There seemed to be a window just before the threshold on right; it reminded xer of a ticket booth.

It was all shrouded in darkness, only illuminated by the nearby streetlamps.

Just as Sam finally noticed a small sign posted near the door, silently announcing the rink’s hours, one of the doors further inside creaked open. Sam couldn’t help but flinch as a figure poked their head through the crack. It was too dark to see what this person really looked like, but their eyes still glinted as they scrutinized xer.

Sam’s mouth opened and closed a few times with no words coming out. Xe offered the figure a curt nod, gesturing to the dart frog pin on xer shirt.

In response, the figure’s eyes widened. They tilted their head at xer, then pointed toward the left side of the corridor before pulling the inner door shut.

Sam passed the glass doors by, cautiously walking in that same direction. Xe soon discovered an alleyway, a narrow gap between The WormRoll and its next-door-neighbor.

There was no aesthetically-pleasing blue-and-black paint to be found here. Despite this, Sam just barely managed to discover yet another door as xe traipsed along. This one was made from some kind of dark gray material, almost perfectly camouflaged.

Before xe could raise a fist to knock, a rectangular slot in the door suddenly slid out of place, allowing those same eyes from before to peek out at xer from the other side.

“Name?” A low, hushed voice called.

“. . .Sam Ryder,” Sam whispered with a bit more hesitance than xe’d care to admit, squaring xer shoulders. “I’m here to talk with K.O.?”

“Right, right.” The stranger on the other side of the door nodded. The little slot was pushed shut, and a chorus of semi-muffled clicking jabbed through the air. The door was heaved open, and Sam took a quick, subtle deep breath before marching into what looked like the storage room of a typical snackbar: shelves lined with stacked boxes adorned by various candy labels, a popcorn machine that needed some serious repair work, colorful jugs filled with syrup for a slushie mixer, the works.

Xe paused, glancing over at the stranger as he pushed the door shut and re-engaged its honestly comedic amount of locks.

Sam was used to most people being shorter than xer, but this guy would’ve only needed an extra two inches to look xer in the eyes. Not to mention that he was just as well-built, sporting a head of curly brown hair along with a bit of a stubble. He was also very much stone-faced, tense as he turned and folded his arms, looking xer up and down.

The fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck pricked up as xe registered the cacophony of shouting and whistling and guffawing that echoed from somewhere a little too close for xer liking.

“Is there a price for admission?” Sam asked, already dreading the answer.

The doorman shrugged. “Yeah, but not for Pentas allies. Unless you decide to make any bets on the fighters, that is.”

. . .Huh, Sam thought. That was an awfully considerate policy. More considerate than xe would’ve expected from a mob-owned illegal fighting ring, at least.

The doorman must’ve seen the pleasant surprise that washed over Sam’s features, because he offered a small smile and wink. About half a second afterwards, he briskly shook his head, his face falling right back into the no-nonsense mold he’d apparently learned to use. He beckoned Sam to follow as he moved toward the storage room’s entryway, where dim light and all that noise poured in.

Sam moved quickly, having to blink as new light assaulted xer eyes.

The snackbar was about the size of a tiny cafe, only a few tables positioned here and there. As Sam walked along, xe turned xer head to realize that the right side of this area was shielded by huge panels of glass. (Whether this had been implemented as a precaution for the skating customers or the fighters, Sam really couldn’t be certain.)

As the two of them reached the snackbar’s entrance, where linoleum met carpeting, the doorman pointed to a small corridor that opened up in the wall to his left. Beside aforementioned corridor was a water fountain and a sign that proclaimed LOCKER ROOM.

“Find Locker Sixty-Nine and knock seven times,” the doorman instructed. He then fixed Sam with an icy, warning glare that almost made xer want to recoil. “And don’t throw him off.”

With that, he trekked onto the rink floor, which nearly swallowed up the building’s whole interior.

Sure, there was space outside its perimeter for a carpet walkway adorned by a pattern of glow-in-the-dark stars. Some benches were lined up just outside the rink, offering people a place to either sit and get themselves ready, take a break and catch their breath, or wipe out onto when they got too cocky after finding a rhythm. There was a long counter nestled in the corner, beside those two doors Sam had seen from outside; the shelves behind it must’ve been where all those rentable roller skates were stored. But even so, that space still seemed so thin.

Especially with the raucous crowd that the doorman had just disappeared into. Sam couldn’t tell exactly how many people were gathered at the center of the rink, but it still gave xer anxiety to see all those figures climbing onto or pacing around collapsible bleachers that could’ve been found in any high school gymnasium.

Remembering the cargo in xer bag, Sam shook xer head, rolled xer shoulders, and ducked into the corridor.

Xe found xerself in an area decorated by lockers. (That was a relief. Sam had been so worried there would’ve been nothing but ovens in here.) The compartments were shiny, having been painted bright red, each one probably offering enough space for the average backpack. They were lined up in rows of four, completely filling out the walls.

Sam scanned them, counting under xer breath until xe found the one xe apparently needed. A small piece of paper had been taped right below the number plaque: Please do not use this locker. Its keypad has been damaged, and we’re still waiting for a replacement. Thank you! –Management.

Sam rapped xer knuckles against Locker Sixty-Nine. After the seventh knock, xe took a step back, rocking on xer heels.

A muffled voice called out, “It’s open! C’mon down!”

Sam quirked an eyebrow, turning xer head this way and that. Whoever had just spoken up had to be close, but xe genuinely couldn’t tell where they were.

But their instructions couldn’t be any more clear.

So, Sam grasped the locker’s handle and pulled.

The compartment door didn’t move. Instead, a loud, dull CLANK boomed from the other side, and there suddenly seemed to be a lot more weight against Sam’s hand. Sam felt xer eyes widen, forced to braced xerself as the entire wall of lockers slowly-but-surely swung out on a well-camouflaged hinge.

In less than five seconds, a smaller doorway was revealed, sticking out like a sore thumb against the rest of the formerly hidden wall. A small steel push-handle had been welded to the back of the locker section, with a strange type of key slot right below it. But it still would’ve resembled any other door when the lockers were pushed back into place. It yawned out into a steep concrete staircase, which Sam found xerself descending once the impressed surprise wore off.

So. The WormRoll was the metamorphosed form of yet another one the Cove Port’s Inlets old subway stations.

Of course it was; Sam still hadn’t forgotten xer stroll through the abandoned tunnels, so how the hell had xe not expected this? Xe’d just turned to haul the locker-wall-door shut, coming dangerously close to tripping when that voice broke the silence again, much clearer than it had been a moment ago.

“Whatever this is, it’d better be fast. I’ve had tonight’s matches scheduled for a week, and I can’t just—” The speaker trailed off, turning to face Sam just as xe came to hover at the foot of the stairs.

He seemed to be in his late twenties; younger than any of the other Pentas members xe’d met so far. His hair was stark-white, though the roots were a dark shade of brown that matched the peachfuzz growing above his lips and along his jaw. A short white lollipop stick protruded from one corner of his mouth. An open black robe was draped over his shoulders, complimenting the pair of amaranth trunks that hugged his waist.

“. . .Do I know you?” He tilted his head, squinting his grayish-blue eyes as he glanced back and forth between his guest and the dart frog pin.

“Not really,” Sam replied, fidgeting with the decorative buckled straps lower on xer jacket. But before xe could try to further explain, the young man—er, K.O. This had to be him, after all—snapped his fingers, his expression brightening.

“Oh, wait-wait-wait! I remember now!” K.O. crowed. “Sam, right? Yeah, I was there when you went over that contract with The Boss!”

Sam nodded, trying to ignore the little chill that crept down xer spine.

Xe remembered that fateful evening like it’d just happened an hour ago. When Murdock had led xer down to one of the other repurposed subway-tunnel dens. To the very base he’d mentioned before. . .

It’d been dimly-lit, but Sam had still seen at least a dozen other figures lurking around the furniture in the corners. Xe’d felt so many curious, cunning eyes burrow into xer skin as xe trekked to the head of the room, where Murdock had slithered in order to stand beside a woman sitting at a mahogany desk.

Xe couldn’t deny how clever of a tactic that was. It presented a united front, showed how close The Pentas Family was in terms of decision-making and the like.

On the other side of the coin, it made potential allies (or enemies) feel humbled in the mob’s presence, made them aware of just how outnumbered they could be. . .

“Well, sorry about that. It’s just been a hot minute,” K.O. continued, snapping Sam from xer thoughts. He held out a hand, now smiling politely. “Nice to finally meet you for myself. I would’ve tried to earlier, but there’s just been so much on my schedule lately.”

“Likewise, no trouble at all,” Sam assured. Xe reached into xer jacket, quickly producing a black pouch that was made from a combination of silicone and fiberglass. I.e., both fireproof and water resistant. Despite only being a bit longer than Sam’s hand, it had a surprising heft.

Recognition sparked within K.O.’s eyes as he took the cargo. “I was expecting Aza to stop by with this?”

“So was Aza,” Sam replied. “But I guess plans for the festival took up most of her focus.”

Xe’d been wrapping up the initial drop-off on Murdock’s behalf when the poison-expert in question abruptly remembered a drop-off of her own. Apparently, yet another member of The Bronze Owls had tried to steal something from K.O. And they’d almost succeeded, but Azalea had managed to catch them halfway.

Sam wasn’t quite sure why xe’d offered to help out with this delivery. On one hand, xe already had a big enough task on xer plate. On the other hand, The WormRoll really wasn’t that far at all from the place xe agreed to meet up with Murdock, so, xe figured this wouldn’t take too much time. (And aside from that. . .well, xe’d been the one to deliver a freshly-severed head to Caliban last year. They hadn’t been told what was inside the armored pouch, but it still seemed much easier than that misadventure.)

K.O. hummed, nodding as he fidgeted with the pouch’s zipper. “That’s fair. Seems like Halloween is always the busiest time of year for the family.”

He then crossed the abandoned-subway-office-den to open up a storage cabinet positioned between his exercise equipment.

Sam watched, taking note of the artwork that adorned the back of his robe: the embroidered likeness of a peacock mantis shrimp. It was so vibrant against the black fabric that it almost looked like it was ready to pounce. The colors of each thread seemed to sparkle in the dim light.

After hiding the little pouch of whatever-was-so-important away, K.O. sat down on an incline bench in the corner, passing a small, pale green object from hand to hand. It took a few seconds for Sam to realize that it was a spool of bandages, which he deftly wound about his palms and fingers in a specific pattern. He shot another coy grin in Sam’s direction. “I typically use a different brand, but I figured these would be perfect for tonight.”

“. . .Why?” Sam asked. As far as hand-wraps went, these ones looked pretty plain.

“Because they glow in the dark! They’ll look so damn cool!” K.O. answered, standing back up and waggling his fingers in the air. A more sinister energy crept into his expression as he added, “Especially after I win. . .”

Sam tilted xer head, having to bite xer tongue in order to not snicker at the display. Xer ears picked back up on the chorus of shouting upstairs. Yes, it may have been thoroughly muffled by the concrete walls in here, but the energy of that crowd was still practically palpable.

“So,” xe finally pronounced. “I take it The Pentas Family has finally branched out its business practices?”

“‘Finally?’” K.O. echoed, raising an eyebrow. He reached up, tugging at the lollipop stick to reveal. . .well, it looked like a traditional sucker at first. But as Sam stared at the bright blue candy, it didn’t take long for them to realize that the blurry little shape inside said candy was, in fact, a scorpion. “No, I entered the family a good few years ago. The Boss was still shopping around for fighters when I first met Murdock.”

Sam nodded in a thoughtful manner, trying not to dwell on the fact that K.O. apparently enjoyed dead bugs in his sweets. “Uh-huh. And you were the one to make the cut?”

K.O. popped the sucker back into his mouth and tucked it into his cheek before shifting his neck from side-to-side with a couple audible cricks. “I guess you could say that.”

Despite a few seconds of delay, the mention of the hitman’s name brought Sam’s train of thought to a screeching halt.

“. . .Oh, fuck,” Xe groaned as they fished out their phone to look at the clock on its screen. Xe turned, ready to reclimb the hidden staircase.

K.O. seemed to have other ideas, judging by how he darted over to stand by xer side. “Whoa, hang on. I wasn’t trying to kick you out.”

“I know you weren’t,” Sam reassured, wincing, “but I was already late for the meetup before I stopped by. Murdock’s probably getting into a huff right this second.”

K.O. pursed his lips, folding his arms across his chest. After a few seconds of mulling this over, he waved a hand in a dismissive manner. “Ah, Murdock can afford to be patient; I’ll text him before I get started for the night.”

Sam’s face grew quizzical as xe peered back and forth between the stairs and xer host.

“I mean, I’d be happy if you stuck around for the first match,” K.O. elaborated. “I can’t just send an ally off without giving them a little entertainment, can I?”

A sardonic chuckle fled Sam’s lips before xe could stop it. “I mean, whoever you’re going up against probably won’t see it that way. Not to mention the people betting on him.”

K.O. scoffed with an overexaggerated eye-roll. “Yeah, well, we’ve all gotta experience grief at some point. Kids need to learn about it earlier, in my opinion. Then they might figure more shit out sooner.”

Sam stared at K.O. before sputtering and doubling over. That made xer laugh way harder than xe probably should have. Hell, there were even tears in xer eyes when xe corrected xer posture. K.O., meanwhile, simply beamed at xer, almost as though he’d been hoping to hear laughter like that for the better part of the day.

“Well, I mean,” Sam murmured, still chortling a bit, “if you can really get Murdock off my ass about it, then. . .I guess I could stick around a bit longer.”

K.O.’s smile widened. “Perfect! Thank you!” He practically sprung in place, pacing around in a quick, small circle. “The match’ll be starting in about five minutes. Go on up to the ring; there should still be a couple empty seats left.”

“Roger that,” Sam replied. Xe began traipsing up the stairs, one hand on the concrete wall to steady xerself. But just before xe passed that wall, xe paused. Glancing back down into K.O.’s den, xe called, “Are you sure you want me here?”

“Of course I am! Fights are always so much better when people I know are in the audience. In fact,” K.O. mentioned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the storage cabinet. “I’ll even consider that drop-off as your first bet on me.”

Sam hummed at the sentiment, thinking.

Xe’d only known K.O. for a handful of minutes, but the read xe’d gotten on him was a bit awkward. He just. . .didn’t quite seem like the type for illegal fighting rings. Now, there was no denying the muscle he boasted despite being lean, but it wasn’t just that. The way he spoke and moved. . .it all just felt a bit too bubbly for a professional mobster.

K.O. must’ve seen a vague reflection of Sam’s thoughts through xer features, because a cold type of understanding flickered on his own expression. His brow furrowed, eyes ever-so-slightly turning bitter in a way Sam was all-too familiar with.

But instead of truly addressing it via snarling or spitting out a dark promise, K.O.’s smile slowly etched its way back over his face. It was a different smile than before.

A more confident one.

A more challenging one.

A more determined one.

K.O. plucked the creepy-crawly lollipop out through his lips once more. He peered at it for a few thoughtful seconds, then glanced back at Sam. Then, he bit down on the sucker with a lot more force than necessary. A chorus of rhythmic crunching broke the new silence—Sam couldn’t tell whether it was the candy or the scorpion. It could’ve very well been both, since both were currently being pulverized between K.O.’s teeth.

K.O. still had yet to break eye-contact with Sam. And he just kept casually chewing as he motioned for xer to go up and join the crowd.

___

“—then he just clocked the guy in the throat! His arm just plowed forward like a fucking battering ram!” Sam exclaimed, unable to look at anything besides what was outside the passenger window. “The way his head snapped back. . .I swear, I almost expected it to pop off!”

“Like a cork from a wine bottle,” Murdock chuckled from the driver’s seat, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “Well, I was really looking forward to giving you shit for being late, but I guess I can let it slide. Once you start watching K.O. in the ring, you just can’t seem to stop until he does.”

“But he hardly ever stopped!” Sam argued. “As soon as the fight began, he just kept moving! He only held still for a couple minutes after the referee called the first match!”

“Yeah, well, he’s a powerhouse.” Murdock’s grin widened, raising one hand to fidget with the white medical eyepatch wrapped around his head. For a hitman on Halloween, he was dressed much more plainly than usual. His currant-colored turtleneck and black overcoat had been replaced by an array of tan garments. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: we pick the best for our family.”

Sam could barely suppress a shudder as she drummed her nails on the door’s armrest.

The way K.O. had charged into the makeshift ring, his body becoming a blur of motion as he attacked the first person to challenge him. . .it’d all happened so fluidly.

The fight only seemed to have lasted a moment or two.

At some point, Sam had expected the referee to approach K.O. and his opponent—a man who apparently went by the nickname Short Fuse—to tug them away from one another and send them to opposite corners of the ring for a quick break.

But he never did.

. . .Of course he never did.

That fight wasn’t an authorized one; wasn’t a legal one.

There were no true rules, hardly any limitations to be found in The WormRoll during certain hours.

Hell, now that she really thought about it, it would’ve been impossible for some of the past matches over there to not have ended in death.

It was a terrifying thing to think about. Even for someone with experiences like Sam’s.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as scary as what she’d seen at the end of that first match.

When K.O. had wiped at his brow with those glow-in-the-dark hand wraps freshly spattered with Short Fuse’s blood.

When K.O. had glanced through the crowd to lock eyes with Sam yet again.

When K.O.’s face twisted into a triumphant smile that just screamed, What do you think of me now?

“Did he ever try to back K.O. into a corner?” Murdock inquired. “The other guy, I mean.”

“Uh. . .yeah, I guess,” Sam replied, still somewhat trapped in her thoughts. “It only lasted for a few seconds, but—”

“Ah, that’s it.” Murdock nodded, a horrible type of pride glimmering in his visible eye. “I guess K.O. didn’t mention how he’s a bit of a claustrophobe, huh?”

Sam simply shook her head. “I didn’t really take him for being claustrophobic.”

Murdock snorted, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Fear is one of the most complex things a person can have. Of course you can’t just know what someone’s afraid of; you have to wait for them to show you that. One way or another. . .”

An oily chuckle slithered into Sam’s ears. “K.O. can handle a lot, but small spaces just aren’t his thing. Especially not in a high-energy environment. So, if his opponent tries to take too much space away from him. . .well, you’ve already seen what could happen.”

Oh, Sam had fucking seen alright. Seen how Short Fuse collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, twitching and bleeding from every hole in his face.

But before they could start wondering about what had happened to those K.O. had faced off with in the past, the keening of tires stabbed into her ears as Murdock’s car came to an abrupt halt.

“Here we are!” The hitman announced, rubbing his hands together after he tugged his key out of the ignition. “A certain someone’s final destination.”

Sam peered through the windshield. She was quick to recognize the sheds and greenhouses that were positioned at different sections of the grounds, coming in various sizes and sheltering various plant types.

Around these structures, all sorts of trees and shrubs had been planted in organized groups, leaving enough space for dirt pathways to run through the garden like veins. At the center of it all was a towering silo and a huge warehouse that managed to look a lot more homey than some of the modern houses Sam had seen in the past.

Though Murdock had parked around the back of the area—just outside the white picket fence that marked the perimeter—Sam could still picture the sign at the front entrance: Pieces of Eden.

The Cove Port Inlet’s very own nursery.

It was large enough to potentially be mistaken for a botanical garden, and well-known for its habit to double as a pumpkin patch every October.

“So,” Sam finally pronounced, finally looking over at Murdock. “The pest you were talking about is trying to set up shop here?”

Murdock nodded, a concoction of frustration and sadistic glee on his face. “Something like that. And I’ve got a feeling we’ll have to deal with more than one tonight.

The duo exited the car, one after the other, both just barely remembering not to slam the doors shut on instinct.

“You go to the right, I’ll take the left,” Murdock murmured less than a second after he and Sam set foot on the property. “We’re gonna patrol the barriers and meet back up in the warehouse. If you see or hear something, don’t hesitate.”

The sun had set about an hour ago. The moon was full, but its cold, eerie glow still wasted no time casting long, dark shadows to stretch from across the ground.

And those shadows all too were eager to help Murdock vanish as he stalked off before Sam could ask any more questions.

Rolling her eyes, Sam began her trek along the right side of the fence.

She’d seen enough horror movies to know that splitting up was the crown king of stupid ideas. Then again, that was usually the case when characters were trying to ditch the serial killer whose entire purpose was to pick them off one-by-one.

And Sam was actually working with a professional killer right now, so perhaps she wouldn’t be in for a series of horrific, idiotic events. (Not that she was getting her hopes up, mind you.)

Besides, she’d be lying if she said she couldn’t see a point to this strategy of Murdock’s: the nursery sprawled for miles. That, coupled with all the landscaping equipment and horticulture, offered a generous amount of hiding places for one or two gangsters who might’ve finally started wishing that they’d gone to college.

Out of instinct, Sam felt one of their hands rest on the sheath strapped to her waist under her jacket. The Lion’s Breath never failed to give her comfort, but goosebumps were still determined to prickle over her skin.

The world around her wasn’t exactly silent. Pieces of Eden may have been a fair distance from the rest of the city, but if Sam listened hard enough, she could hear the cacophony of thunderous music and pre-recorded screams that’d been playing at the Halloween festival.

Hell, it’d been loud enough to make her teeth vibrate when she’d met up with Murdock. Or, when she’d found Murdock busying himself with a pumpkin-carving contest and then acting very smug when the judges oohed and aahed at the grotesque faces of his jack o’ lanterns.

Speaking of which. . .

Sam’s foot collided with a mass on the ground. It was soft, emitting an awful squelch as it gave way under her weight. She startled, having to bite down a scream as she backed up a few paces.

She stared at the ground, at the slimy streak left by her boot. It took a solid ten seconds of staring and heavy breathing for one part of her brain to accept the fact that she’d stepped on a rotting pumpkin rather than any number of much gorier things.

If she’d known what was going to happen next, she would’ve stopped herself from even thinking about that.

Because just as her pulse started to taper down to a steadier rate, irony decided to make it shoot right back up. The telltale roar of an engine rumbling to life boomed from somewhere across the nursery’s acres.

Sam’s stomach sank all the way into the ground beneath her. That didn’t stop her from sprinting in the direction of the sound. She didn’t want to, but she’d long-since gained a sort of sixth sense for knowing when shit was about to go down. And she’d literally agreed to get involved, so. . .

The noise grew deeper and deeper, grinding its way through her eardrums. As she got closer to it, she remembered the importance of stealth and ducked behind one of the nursery’s utility sheds. She tried to concentrate, straining her ears. Sure enough, she detected voices buried within the mechanical buzzing.

She moved tactfully, shifting her weight with each step as she maneuvered around the shed, making sure to stay in its shadow as she peered around the corner and took in the sight of a huge machine.

It had to be at least twenty feet long and twelve feet high, coated in dark green paint. Half of it took on the shape of an angular, sideways funnel. For where Sam stood, she could see a wide, square hole within the center of that funnel. It was as dark as the mouth of a cave, and the awful shearing noise seemed to be leaking through it. The other half of the apparatus was dedicated to a long, sloping chute that ended in a much similar opening, looming over anything that came within touching distance.

A woodchipper, Sam realized, feeling dread start to churn in her brain.

She was staring at an active woodchipper.

. . .As well as a few shadowy figures orbiting around it.

One of them paced by the side of the monstrous widget: Sam could tell right away that it was Murdock.

She squinted at the other two, but they both had their backs to her. She couldn’t find any features to potentially recognize. One of them wore a jacket made of bright yellow leather, having pulled a rhombus-shaped hood over their head.

The other seemed to be dressed in filthy denim—or, that was Sam’s best guess, at least. They were practically a blur, moving in a frantic, frenzied manner. And for good reason, too: Yellow Hood held them fast, dragging them along as they climbed up onto the woodchipper’s feeding tray.

Murdock’s words echoed in Sam’s mind: I’ve got a feeling we’ll have to deal with more than one tonight.

Sam glanced at the hitman. He was still gliding to and fro beside the machine, never taking his eyes off of the pair as they halted before the funnel’s entrance.

What was he doing? Those two people had to be the targets he was looking for, right?

So why was he just watching and waiting? Why wasn’t he the one trying to back them into this massive, deadlier cousin of the modern blender?

Is he waiting for me? Sam wondered.

It didn’t feel right at first; Murdock was a contract killer, but that didn’t mean he killed just for the sake of a paycheck. He craved mayhem and violence like this. He could be a bit of a greedy bastard at times, but he’d still made his willingness to work with others clear. (Why else would he be part of a mob?)

That must be it, Sam realized, exasperation mixing in with panic. He’d seen what she was capable of. He probably wants to watch me dispatch these idiots so he can try to play a mind game with me later.

Fine, then.

He wanted a spectacle?

She’d give him a goddamn spectacle.

Sam looked away from the woodchipper, scanning the rest of the environment around her. Yes, The Lion’s Breath was always a faithful weapon, but she had a feeling it could only do so much right now.

Sooner or later, her eyes landed on a large wooden stall that most certainly hadn't been here the last time she’d visited. She jogged over to it, curiously examining the four contraptions lined up in a row on its platform. Each one almost resembled an iron lung, excepting for the long, slender tube that protruded from the front of it. A group of cardboard cutouts were clustered about ten feet ahead of them all, boasting hastily-painted bullseyes. A wide crate sat on one side of the platform. It was filled to the brim with sugar pumpkins—the types that only grew to the size of a grapefruit and had grown popular amongst piemakers.

For a brief few seconds, Sam’s mind became a smidge more lighthearted than before.

She was standing at a makeshift shooting gallery. What she now recognized as industrial air cannons must’ve been built to entertain the nursery’s younger patrons while their parents paid for the larger pumpkins they’d chosen to take home and carve.

The more grim aspects of her scenario slapped her across the face.

Taking a deep breath, Sam marched toward the generator that’d been positioned next to the pumpkin crate. After making sure its cords led to the right place, she turned a cold switch on its front panel. A low electrical hum murmured through the air as the air canons all began rattling. It wasn’t loud enough to compete with the woodchipper’s racket, of course.

Sam snatched up one of the miniature pumpkins, carrying it over to deposit into the tank of the second-to-last air cannon.

Those two strangers were still grappling on the woodchipper’s feeding tray. . .

Sam gripped at the handles on the base of the tube, having to hop off the platform as she pivoted her new weapon. She closed one eye as she lined up her shot

Ready. . .aim. . .FIRE!

Sam reached forward to slap at the glowing button on the cannon’s side.

SSSHHHHHRRUMM-POW!

The air cannon rocked back as an orange blur erupted out from it.

The vegetable-masquerading ammo soared through the air.

Time seemed to slow down as the mini-pumpkin met its fate: it slammed into Yellow Hood’s back, exploding into a puppy mess on impact, sending seeds flying like bits of shrapnel.

Yellow Hood writhed in pain, quickly losing their balance. They teetered on the edge of the feeding tray, erratically waving their hands before collapsing onto the ground. The person they’d been grappling with. . .well, they weren’t quite so lucky. They fell further back.

Right up to that hole at the center of the funnel.

They vanished through a row of black vinyl curtains.

Sam, having already ditched the air cannon, was racing forward. But as she finally grew close enough to call out to Murdock, she was forced to freeze in place.

Earlier, the woodchipper’s engine had been dominating, swallowing up every other sound.

But now. . .now it had to compete with raw, agonized, horrific shrieking.

It stabbed its way through Sam’s guts, clawed at her brain, helped bile to manifest in her throat.

That just wasn’t enough, of course.

It needed to be accentuated by something.

And that something came in the sickening echo of flesh being torn and bones being ground against relentless blades.

It was all Sam could do to keep whatever snacks she’d had earlier down.

It wasn’t like she’d expected a different outcome, but. . .

The screaming stopped in less than thirty seconds. The woodchipper’s inner workings sputtered; just because it was deadly didn’t mean it was used to chopping up people rather than wood.

. . .Then again, this nursery was on The Pentas Family’s turf. . .

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!”

The excruciating howls were still coiling around in Sam’s ears, but the voice cut through them like a hot knife through butter.

It wasn’t Murdock’s voice.

Sam flinched badly, grabbing for The Lion’s Breath as Yellow Hood stormed over to her.

Finally, she could see his face. . .

A face adorned by a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. . .as well as a small, jagged scar on the left side of the upper lip. . .right above a silver canine cap, which glinted in the dim light as its owner snarled at her.

“Caliban?!” Sam nearly shouted.

The cannibal in question halted, huffing and puffing. His face was contorted with pain, yet his typical sarcasm still made an appearance. “No, actually. I’m just a waiter from that one diner a few states over—wHO ELSE COULD I POSSIBLY BE, SAM?!”

Sam recoiled, holding her hands out in a defensive stance. “Alright, you can stop fucking yelling like that!”

“Considering you almost shoved me into that thing,” Caliban furiously gestured at the woodchipper, “I think I have a right to yell as much as I want!”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen!”

“It sure as hell felt like you did!”

“No, I—!” Sam cut herself off, growling in aggravation. “Okay, fine, FINE! The setup was intentional on my part. But that wasn’t meant for you specifically! I just didn’t recognize you at first!”

It was the truth, but it didn’t seem to help Sam’s case

Caliban was still practically shaking with rage as he blinked. He blinked again, slowly extending his arms and shaking his head in an infuriated lame gesture.

Sam stammered. It felt like her head was about to explode.

“. . .Look, I’m only here because Murdock wanted my help bumping off the idiots you’ve been dealing with! And Murdock told me not to hesitate if I found anyone!” She jabbed her finger in the direction of aforementioned hitman, whose expression was sifting through shock, morbid fascination, and perhaps a bit of amusement.

Caliban tossed a glance at Murdock.

Murdock simply shrugged. “Hey, at least one of the pests is gone, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

Caliban groaned, shoulders slumping as he dragged one hand down his face. “I was only using the chipper for interrogation. I wanted that guy for myself! And when I caught him, I thought I might as well try to get some information out of him before. . .”

He trailed off, leaving Sam to grimace.

Out of nowhere, a pale, cat-sized figure came bounding up to circle their ankles.

It was Snare: Caliban’s beloved leucistic hare who managed to be just as carnivorous as he was.

Caliban perked up, automatically kneeling down to make eye-contact with his pet. “What’s the matter, buddy?”

Snare replied via pawing at the dirt, his long ears flattening as he took a corner of Caliban’s jacket between his little teeth, gave it a tug, and released it. He then scurried away from Caliban, pausing with his back arched and his cotton-tail in the air.

Caliban’s eyes widened. Without another word to Sam or Murdock, he bolted after Snare.

Sam stared after them as they ran. It looked like the hare was leading his owner to the nursery’s main warehouse.

On any other day, Sam would’ve been immensely curious about the code Snare had apparently been trained to use. But then, any other day probably wouldn’t have involved almost becoming an enemy of the very mob she was allied to.

She stalked closer to Murdock, her eyes narrowing almost to slits. “What the fuck is your game? You didn’t say Caliban would be here too!”

“Okay, first of all: don’t use that damn tone when you’re talking about my colleagues,” Murdock replied, glaring at her. “Second of all: I wasn’t expecting to see him, either. Some of the others had plans over at the docks tonight. I thought he’d decided to go with them, but I guess something changed.”

Sam scoffed, though she had to admit that the explanation was pretty reasonable. “I’m assuming he already knew I’d be with you?”

Murdock nodded. “We try to update the family’s roster with each new work schedule.”

Sam nodded back, still trying to pace herself. “. . .What’s up with that yellow jacket?”

Murdock quirked an eyebrow at her, probably amused that she was asking about a clothing change after the terrifying act she’d helped to commit. “Oh, he just sent his red one to get cleaned. Not sure what happened to it, but it must’ve been pretty bad.”

“Can’t be half as bad as what’s gonna happen to your clothes,” Sam mused. “Unless you take a couple steps to the side, I mean.”

Murdock’s features changed from casual to confused. He glanced around, motioning for Sam to elaborate.

In turn, Sam simply pointed up at the woodchipper’s discharge chute, which Murdock just so happened to be standing beneath.

Murdock shook his head, a low chortle oozing up from his throat. “Oh, please. Nothing’s gonna come out. This thing’s meant for wood, not bodies. That guy you tried playing Pumpkin Shotput with is just caught in the grinder.”

“. . .So how is your cleanup crew supposed to even start cleaning him out?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

“They have their ways,” Murdock promised. “Trust me, this thing is a lot easier to work with than you might think.” As if to prove his point, he reached over to lightly rap his knuckles against the woodchipper’s green paintjob.

This tempted irony to prove that it didn’t just save its cruelty for Sam.

Something inside the woodchipper jerked with a squishing screech.

Then, in a manner similar to a jug of gatorade being dunked over a football coach’s head, a stream of red matter came cascading out of the chute’s opening.

It completely and utterly drenched Murdock, soaking him from head to toe before it pooled on the dirt with an awful gurgling cry.

Murdock’s visible eye bulged from its socket. He pursed his lips, lowering his head to stare at his now bloodsoaked hands for what seemed like a long time.

Sam, who remained dry and clean, had to clamp a hand over her mouth. She was caught between gagging and cackling like a gremlin.

She’d never been a fan of gore, but humor worked in mysterious ways.

A moment of silence came and went.

“So. Murdock,” Sam stated once she was sure she crammed the laughter far enough down. “Do you believe in karma, or. . ?”

“Oh, you bet your ass I do!” Murdock fixed her with a tight-lipped smile and a dry, hollow laugh. “Speaking of which. . .you were right, actually. I should’ve handled things differently tonight. . .”

He took a single step forward

Sam took a step back, her dread returning at breakneck speed. “What’re you doing?”

“I just think I owe you an apology,” Murdock explained, taking another step closer.

Sam backed up yet again. “Murdock—”

Murdock outstretched his arms, prompting some of the blood to fly off in either droplets or ribbons. “How about we just hug it out, huh?”

Sam could feel the color drain from her face. “Murdock, don’t you dare.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Murdock jeered. “You know you want to!”

“I really fucking don’t,” Sam protested.

“Saaaaaaaaam,” Murdock sing-songed, his gait becoming much faster.

“Get tHE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Sam turned on her heel and ran, not caring which direction she took so long as it kept her from looking like one of those melted taffy apples.

Murdock’s sadistic laughter echoed behind her. His footsteps, on the other hand, fell silent, but Sam wasn’t about to stop and look over her shoulder.

In fact, she was so focused on running that when she passed the warehouse, she almost didn’t register shouts leaking through its half-open door. Without thinking, she ducked through the threshold, heaving it shut behind her.

It truly looked even bigger on the inside than it did on the outside. It was also in a state of functional chaos. At least two dozen industrial shelving units had been organized along the walls. Stainless steel tables were lined up every which way, some empty while others supported various planters and tools.

One stood out from all the rest, as a very frenzied Caliban was being pinned down on it by yet another unfamiliar figure clad in grubby flannel.

The other pest Murdock had predicted needing to deal with.

. . .There was no way he couldn’t be, right?

He damn well better be, Sam thought as she moved forward, because frankly she’d had just about enough macabre shenanigans for tonight. The second pest had his back to her, focusing all his energy on trying to ignore the way Caliban was clawing at his face.

Neither of them could’ve seen her as she approached, silently grabbing a fire extinguisher from its mounting bracket on the nearest wall.

Then again, Caliban seemed to notice her at the last minute; his eyes widened as she crept up behind his attacker, raising the extinguisher much like a baseball bat.

With dramatic flair in mind, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

The second pest pushed his thumbs against Caliban’s throat and hissed, “Where’s your family now, fucker? What’re you gonna—”

THUNK!

The word became prolonged and slurred as Sam interjected, slamming the end of the extinguisher into the pest’s neck. He staggered sideways, violent tremors wracking his body as he toppled over in a heap, his eyes wide and his head at an unnatural angle.

Caliban sat up, his breathing ragged and heavy. His eyes met Sam’s, sharp and wild and a bit disbelieving.

Sam’s mouth opened, but not a single word even tried to come out. So, she closed it with a little snap, offering a curt nod instead.

Caliban nodded right back. Without warning, he curled in on himself, his face contorted with a particular sort of ache. A long, low, organic growl broke the brief silence, and Sam immediately understood.

A choked wail broke the brief silence. The second pest was fading fast, but his chest still heaved in a shallow, painful way.

Shock was chased out of Caliban’s features by a vicious, hungry grin. He got to his feet, strolling over to kneel down before the pest. His hands lashed out, one maneuvering the pest’s head out of the way while the other dug its nails into his shoulder.

Caliban lunged downward, sinking his teeth into the exposed flesh around the neck.

A desperate, unintelligible scream bounced along the warehouse’s walls and floors. The sound felt like all the movement the pest was no longer capable of.

Sam’s stomach roiled. She turned away, abandoning the fire extinguisher on the floor in favor of covering her ears. She wanted to screw her eyes shut.

So why the hell couldn’t she. . ?

Before she knew it, everything had gone quiet again.

Except for Caliban’s footsteps as he strolled past Sam, that is. Little red spots were left in his wake.

As Sam stared after him, Snare reappeared before her. She blinked, squinting at the hare.

“. . .Have you been here the whole time?” She murmured without quite meaning to.

The pale hare raised one paw to scrub at his little muzzle as if to reply, What do you think, Sherlock?

He then scampered over to the warehouse door, glancing back at Sam in a way that was almost inviting.

Sam hesitantly took that invitation, forcing herself not to look back at the pest’s corpse. She stepped outside, following Snare’s lead around the warehouse. . .and over to the silo right next to it. A white fence had been set up a little ways around its base. A sign stood next to said fence’s opening: FRESH BRICK OVEN PIZZA! READY IN JUST THREE MINUTES!

. . .Oh right, Sam thought, memory flowing as she and Snare wandered around the tables that had been set up inside the fence’s barrier.

Years ago, when Pieces of Eden had just barely opened its doors to the public, that silo had apparently been cleaned out and repurposed. That new purpose was only really used when October rolled around, but it was still a pretty clever idea.

It was clever when it came to the pizza offered to daytime customers.

Right now, as Sam caught flashes of yellow through the silo-kitchen’s service window, it was a lot more twisted.

Sam poked her head through the doorway, just in time to see Caliban using a pizza peel to push a lump of human flesh and a single finger into the oven.

“You’re seriously doing that right now?!” She blurted, hoping that her disbelief would distract her from new nausea.

“Yeah,” Caliban replied, leaning against the counter as he turned to face her. His mouth was soaked with blood; his silver tooth gleamed like a scythe. “Yeah, I am. Because get this: I’m hungry.”

He paused to lick his lips, not removing any of the crimson stain from his skin. “I’m really goddamn hungry.”

As if to drive the point home, his stomach let out another chilling growl.

Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head as she came to stand on the opposite side of the small room.

Slowly but surely, the scent of blistering flesh slithered into the air.

Sam swallowed the bile in her throat. She fought to keep her expression as neutral as possible. Tonight marked the very first time she’d seen Caliban actually prepare a target (or, a piece of one, at least). Except for the way he drummed his fingers against the counter, he was perfectly still. Quiet. Almost like a cat studying its prey to make sure it wasn’t just playing dead.

Somehow, that was the most disturbing part of this. He hadn’t lost his touch when it came to being so damn casual in the face of death and gore, but his typical sarcasm, his morbid sense of humor, his well-hidden energy. . .it’d all just taken a backseat to his appetite.

Which was not something Sam could afford to further trigger.

Logically speaking, she knew he wouldn't just snap and go for her next. She was wearing that dart frog pin, after all. For all the danger and threats the criminal underground was infamous for, an odd type of honor still had its place there.

Going after someone you were paid to go after? Sure, fine, whatever. They were probably playing with fire to have gotten your client's attention in the first place.

Going after someone who was specifically under your protection? That was very much frowned upon.

Still, it would've been impossible for Sam to not see how Caliban was struggling right now. His experiences had obviously been different from hers, but. . .she knew what it was like to be hungry and desperate. Despite knowing next to nothing about his past, she recognized the haunting look in his eyes.

She'd seen it in her own eyes quite a few times.

“The cleanup crew is gonna have to wipe down every inch of this place,” Sam mentioned.

“I know,” Caliban acknowledged, not taking his eyes off of the oven. His anticipation was nearly palpable. “That’s why we pay them so well.”

“You’d certainly better,” Sam murmured. She wasn’t sure how much cash would have be offered to convince her to clean up that woodchipper.

Surprisingly enough, the three minutes it took for Caliban’s impromptu snack to cook went by pretty fast. A hopeful smile spread across his face as he pulled it out of the oven, steam curling off the skin almost like spindly, spectral hands.

He took a white cardboard plate from the packaged stack on the counter, slapped the horrific morsel onto it, and stalked off to sit at one of the tables outside. Sam followed at a careful distance.

It was a good thing Caliban wasn’t focusing on her right now, because it was incredibly difficult to avoid wincing in disgust as she watched him tuck in.

Snare hopped onto the chair beside his owner, bracing his paws against the tabletop.

Caliban paused, then fished through his pockets to produce the damascus steel meat cleaver that was apparently to him what The Lion's Breath was to Sam. He plucked up the finger, holding it away from himself as he lined up the utensil. He then slashed the finger's nail clean off with a swiftness that might’ve made some chefs green with envy.

Afterwards, he set the appendage down in front of Snare, who purred as he held it between his paws, his buck teeth shearing away at skin.

Caliban leaned forward, giving his pet a quick kiss on the forehead, gently stroking his back.

The scene almost reminded Sam of how she played with Zephyr back at home.

Except for the fact that A. Zephyr was a tiger, and B. she’d never even consider feeding pieces of a person to her.

“Thank you,” Caliban called, his voice soft as he glanced at Sam. “For. . .the assistance back there.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam responded, feeling herself ever-so-slightly relax.

A grateful cannibal was better than an angry cannibal, after all.

“It’s really not,” Caliban argued. His voice remained calm, if not a bit uncertain. "Pretty damn impressive, not gonna lie."

". . .Huh." Sam tilted her head to the side. She could tell that the compliment was genuine, but that didn't mean she knew how to feel about being complimented by someone who was actively eating a fresh section of human-person.

Caliban raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'huh?'"

"Nothing, nothing." Sam shrugged, nodding to the cleaver. "I just assumed that you might be biased toward knives."

Caliban glanced down at his deadly favorite toy. A chortle bubbled up from his throat. "Can't be helped. I guess I would be interested to see how you handle knives. Then I'd have another reason to call you SamChop."

Sam clicked her tongue. The way she reached up to pinch at the bridge of her nose only encouraged Caliban to laugh even more. She knew there was no use in trying to combat his affinity for puns.

Footsteps manifested somewhere just outside the white fence.

Sam felt her shoulders tense for the millionth time.

Caliban's snickering came to a sudden halt. He halfway rose from the table, one arm reaching around to shield Snare while the other held that bloody blade at the ready.

A hand emerged from the other side of the pizza area's threshold, smearing the white paint with red. A similarly scarlet-soaked face peered out alongside it, framed by dripping raven hair. One dark brown eye drilled into the three pairs up ahead.

. . .Well, the other eye would've probably done the same, if not for the formerly white eyepatch-headwrap-thing.

Caliban immediately relaxed, nodding as he sat back down.

The sigh Sam heaved wasn't too obvious. She'd already been left out of breath a few too many times tonight.

It wasn't exactly out of relief, either, considering how Murdock was still drenched in gore. The calmness he carried as he strolled around the tables didn't help.

"I got the body in the warehouse," he announced. "Cleanup should be here in thirty minutes or so."

Caliban hummed with appreciation. "Great."

Sam, meanwhile, gawked for a few seconds before snapping, "How have you not washed all that off yet?!”

“Just because a stain is fresh doesn’t mean it’ll disappear like that,” Murdock snarked with a snap of his fingers. “I already tried the hose around back. Blood’s just stubborn.”

He took a seat across from Caliban, looking exhausted yet satisfied.

Sam rolled her eyes. “Just means you’ll have to take the long route once we're finally done here.”

Murdock shrugged. “Hey, even if someone ends up seeing us, it won’t matter. Tonight’s Halloween, remember? If anything, Cal and I would blend right in with all the people at the festival.”

Caliban chuckled, baring his bloodstained teeth in a contemplative grin.

Sam pursed her lips.

Murdock did have a point there.

She wouldn’t admit it, but she couldn’t really deny it, either.

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever

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