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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 17 days ago

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Visceral Valentines

(Disclaimer: six of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on R.D., go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on K.O., go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Parker, go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here.)

(While Howie is only mentioned here, he still deserves credit because he’s another one of my blorbos. So, go here for more information on him, as well as his buddy Miles.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, murder/death, knives/blades, slight mutilation, descriptions of illegal business, slight mentions of human experimentation, cannibalism, violence, kidnapping/abduction, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

The tunnels felt like veins.

R.D. strolled along one of the raised walkways beside the tracks. The rails were too stagnant to pose a threat. It’d been years since that flood had swept through here and forced abandonment. Still, she liked having a vantage point.

Most subway systems were built with pretty simple layouts. Most maps made them look a lot smaller or shorter than you’d expect. Just a group of straight lines that didn’t even interest all that much.

This one sprawling beneath the Cove Port Inlets was different. There weren’t many maps of it (as far as most of the city knew, these tunnels barely even existed anymore) but the leader of Caliban’s crowd had managed to get her hands on one of the last old copies.

Sometime in the past, R.D. had gotten a glimpse of said map. A quick one, but memory could be a perfect weapon depending on A. how you kept it, and B. what you did with it.

Not only did the picture show just how far the tunnels reached in some places; it showed a network full of crossing and branching and curving. A lot like those circulatory diagrams in textbooks that would be kinda-sorta uncomfortable for someone to find in your house if you didn’t work for any nearby hospitals.

To a point where some parts felt a little less necessary than others.

But there was some undeniable advantage to be taken with that.

Blood vessels collapsed almost immediately after death. Without circulation, the fluid inside them had to rely on gravity instead, forced to pool in lower spaces of the body. It was the first phase of the skin’s discoloration. Sometimes it could allow air bubbles to form in the arteries.

She imagined that it felt like the last dregs of a phantom pulse. Low and drawn-out. Desperate, gurgling whispers that grew more quiet by the second until…

___

The days were still shorter, but the sunsets around here were stubborn.

Right now, the sky remained somewhat bright. Clouds were gathering up to form a blanket at a slow, steady pace.

Most of them were tinted a bluish-gray shade (perhaps there’d be a rainstorm sometime later), but thanks to the sinking sun, a section of them were outlined with a warm, orangish-pink glow. Like tangerines on fire.

It really resembled something out of an oil pastel painting.

Even if R.D. didn’t mind the tunnels, it was still crucial to take in the sky before venturing down there. Otherwise you could end up getting whiplash similar to the type that radiated from casinos and barcades.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” An oily baritone called from the driver’s seat. Murdock raised a leather-gloved hand to adjust the rearview-mirror, tilting it to focus first on his black-tinted shades, and then on the slightly younger man who sat beside R.D. in the back.

“I’m sure,” K.O. replied, shifting in his seat and fidgeting with the tiny silver hoop adorning his left earlobe. The bruises on his knuckles appeared rather fresh. “This street is on the way to the chopshop, so Howie’s been scoping it out for a week now. And he said that Lookie-Loo just always takes his sweet time.”

They’d been on the edge of the uptown area for a while now, parked by the side of a particular road. The buildings looming on either side of Murdock’s car weren’t after-hours joints, but that didn’t mean they lacked any secrets.

If anyone knew anything about hiding stuff in plain sight, it was R.D.

…And Caliban.

And his peers, much like the ones who’d been nice enough to pick her up for the next phase of things.

“Thanks again for the help,” R.D. piped up, nodding to the fighter and hitman in turn.

“No problem!” K.O. smiled, gray-blue eyes sparking as he glanced her way. “Stuff like this can be the best.”

“Yeah,” Murdock chimed in, spinning the thin chain around his neck between his fingers, turning the circular brass pendant into a blur. “Not like we want to deal with this guy any longer. You’re doing as much of a favor for us here.”

Like any other couple, it wasn’t uncommon for R.D. and Caliban to take turns venting about things that happened in their respective work-spheres.

From what she’d heard, in recent times The Pentas Family had been dealing with a pest.

One who had been spotted trying to follow certain members on their way to certain jobs.

One who just managed to sneak away after he was noticed lingering outside Pentas-owned businesses at odd hours a few times too many.

One who was slippery in that special, teeth-grindingly aggravating way.

And yet, despite Pentas reputation with the underground grapevines, neither Caliban nor any of his buddies had been able to learn his name.

So, they called him Lookie-Loo.

“I still have no idea how you’re keeping Cal off the trail,” Murdock continued as he glanced through the windows. “He’ll pick the smallest details apart to get somewhere. I’ve only ever seen him drop something once, and that was literally just because he almost gave himself an aneurysm in the middle of a job.”

R.D. paused, thinking back to all the times Caliban had come home late in varying conditions, leaving her to react with concern, or exasperation, or fondness that was hidden behind either of the other two, or, or, or. “Was that due to stress, laughter, or Diet Coke?”

Murdock pursed his lips in consideration. “...A combination of the three, I think? That night was a huge one for the history books, so my memory’s foggy.”

R.D. hummed and nodded, making a note to try asking Caliban about it sometime later.

“Seriously, though,” K.O. added, tilting his head to the side. “What’s the secret? Even Aza has trouble hiding stuff from OH SHIT THERE HE IS!”

All at once the fighter was bouncing in place, clutching at the headrest of Murdock’s seat and pointing through the back window.

Murdock responded with a squawk, which transitioned into a quick string of more colorful things as he shrugged K.O.’s hand away before his own grasp flew onto the steering wheel.

R.D. peered through the glass and, sure enough, a stranger was traipsing along the sidewalk, a phone in his hand and buds in his ears. He was a bit on the scruffy side, looking somewhere in between K.O. and Murdock’s ages. He tossed a glance over his shoulder every few seconds—clearly there was some well-earned twitchiness as well.

Despite the new adrenaline thrumming through the air, R.D. couldn’t help but think about that latest question.

She remembered leading Caliban back downstairs after finding what he’d set up in her office. She’d given him a few hints; she’d seen that infamous spark of curious, determined energy flare through his eyes, seen his mouth stretch into an eager smile.

She’d watched as he raced out of the house to follow her directions.

All that…and he hadn’t given her too much trouble at all.

Sure, he’d had a few joking questions, which she’d been quick to deflect, but he hadn’t launched a search around the house. (...Unless, of course, he’d circled back to do so after she’d left. She really hoped that wasn’t the case, because that would throw at least one wrench into the surprise.)

R.D. would’ve given this more thought, but then things started happening.

It was hard to look away when K.O. threw his door open, lunged out to hug Lookie-Loo’s waist and drag him inside.

It was hard to focus on anything other than sliding over to make room for the poor bastard, to stay out of the way when K.O. hauled off with a punch brutal enough to make the guy’s head slam back against the car’s window.

It was hard to hear much aside from the blood rushing through her ears and tires screeching against asphalt as Murdock sped off.

___

Although R.D. made sure to shift her weight as she moved, her footsteps still bounced off the concrete walls and ceiling.

Old, condemned places like this had a way of just not caring whether you were a raccoon or a refrigerator—if you wandered in areas that most people instinctively knew to avoid, then some noise was gonna follow you.

Where each of the platforms had an old panel light hanging overhead, the tunnels themselves offered industrial caged lights, protruding from the concrete every ten feet or so.

Many of them never produced any illumination at all, but a handful of them managed. Much like the platforms, the glow was persistent, yet always dim, always flickering and sputtering.

(According to Caliban, The Boss had managed to somehow siphon electricity back into the tunnels. Just enough for her colleagues to not have to feel their way around with their hands while leaving the rails safely dormant, as well as not tip off any of the local companies.)

When you really thought about it, however, that dysfunction came with a few advantages.

The varying stretches of darkness here and there could be great hiding spots, so long as you held still and stayed quiet.

They could help make sure an intruder lost their way, whether you had to leave them behind or were luring them into something even worse than whatever they were chasing you for.

And on the other side of the coin…

Those old workhorses on the walls could distort your shadow, make you seem either closer or farther away than you actually were. The blinking could help you practically vanish and pop right up again (providing your reflexes were fast enough).

Tricks like that could be tough to pull off, but if you managed…ooh, that just upped the ante in such an awesome way.

That was how Caliban saw it. He’d had told R.D. about times like that.

Jobs that had seen him racing along the pavement down here, able to feel his eyes spinning in their sockets due to how the dull flare mixed with the shadows.

Blood looked pretty much like oil in the darkness, but even the weakest, oldest lights could make it beam.

No matter how much red was there, whether spraying or dripping or leaking, it would still look so deep, so warm, so RICH…

“Hello?”

R.D. halted in her tracks, pressing herself against the wall.

The voice echoed across old, dead cement and rusted metal. Despite how unfamiliar it was, she still knew the source.

Hell, she’d been expecting to hear it call out at some point, been wondering how close she could potentially get to it.

___

It could be shockingly easy to smuggle a body into certain places. It just depended on how you handled things.

Of course, sometimes you just couldn’t afford to divide said body into multiple pieces and then stuff said pieces into luggage or garbage bags or anything else that you’d have to be a special kind of desperate to try keeping after the fact, no matter how thorough you were with scrubbing the stains out.

Sometimes you couldn’t even afford to have the body qualify as such right then and there. Because, for whatever deranged reason, you needed your victim to keep moving and breathing. For just a little while longer, at least.

In that case, a crematorium would probably be your best bet.

And even then, that was a colossal “probably”…unless the crematorium’s manager knew the same things you did.

Having a weird little friendship with an in-the-know manager didn’t hurt, either.

“Oh, wow.” Phoenix had been pacing the floor for the past few minutes, but now she hovered by one edge of the table. “Is this what he got for you?”

R.D. paused, looking up from her project. Following the arsonist’s gaze, she discovered a rose lying just a few inches away from the unconscious man’s side. Its white petals were adorned by streaks of violet so dark that they almost looked black. Then again, they grew a bit lighter toward the center.

“Yeah, it is.” She offered a small smile, nodding. “I think they’re called dragon roses.”

There were eleven more of them back home, still in a shiny vase that two boxes had been propped up against. The first was filled with various uncommon types of tea—Jasmine Pearls, Uji Gyokuro, the works. The second held a set of carefully-arranged beakers, flasks, test tubes, and other basic necessities for a chemistry lab.

(“Since you said one guy broke a lot of your old stuff…” Caliban had cheekily explained when he’d found her looking over the presents in her office.)

(Granted, the guy responsible for the breaking had plenty of reasons to put up a fight, considering what R.D. and her team had put him through, as well as what they’d had planned for him next. But hey, he was dead by the time she’d griped to her husband about the encounter, and now she had some fresh replacements, so, yay!)

“Very pretty. Can’t blame you for wanting to keep it close,” Phoenix nodded back. “Y’know, drying techniques are nice and easy. If you really want to make flowers last long, I mean.”

R.D. hummed. “Maybe.”

How had she taken this one without even realizing?

She should’ve felt the flower’s stem in her hands, should’ve caught the delicate scent wafting up from its petals—

Scratch that, how had she even held onto it during that car-ride? How did it manage to even make it through the drive in one piece?

She’d had to help tie some nylon strips around Lookie-Loo’s wrists while he slumped down to the floorpan, eyes glazed-over and drifting shut just as K.O. had tugged a burlap sack over his head.

Well, that nylon had been removed shortly after she’d dragged him down here with Phoenix’s help. He was still out cold, and R.D. needed access to his arms.

(Aforementioned sack was still in place, though, adorned by strips of duct tape that formed a frowny-face with Xs for eyes.)

She readjusted her grip on the scalpel, holding it between her fingers like you would a pencil.

Crimson beads were coaxed out of his skin as she traced the blade along, mindful to not let it sink too deep. That was the only reason she had to avoid the veins in his wrists.

He needed to stay alive for a while longer, otherwise this plan was shot.

(Sure, she could still make do, but it wouldn’t work out nearly as nice.)

“Not gonna lie,” Phoenix piped back up, “I was kinda worried he’d wake up right when you started on that.” She resumed her pacing, raising a hand to brush the long, straight black hair over her shoulder.

R.D. shrugged, not taking her focus off of the carving this time. “Well, the back of the head is pretty sensitive. Get hit there hard enough and you could have permanent problems. And he probably has a garbage sleep-schedule, based on the times you guys saw him snooping.”

Despite how much strength K.O. had used, no blood had been drawn in the car. She couldn’t be sure if Lookie-Loo’s skull had even fractured. The skull was the strongest bone in the body, after all, no matter how vulnerable the brain could still be.

(R.D. made a little note to bring that up with Caliban when the time came. Yes, healthy organs often went for the highest prices on the Black Market, but some sickos out there wouldn’t say no to deformities, whether natural or added-on.)

His chest was still rising and falling, albeit with just enough effort to be concerning to anyone else.

Satisfied enough to give her wrist a break, R.D. stepped back from the table. She caught Phoenix peering at Lookie-Loo, her brow furrowed in the way that suggested you weren’t exactly disturbed by something. No, you just…didn’t really expect that something.

It made sense; the building this den was hidden under was Scattered Wishes, after all. Dead bodies were typically the norm. Hence why the business was located a good distance away from the rest of the city. (And that was even without the fact that certain bodies were donated by contract killers for disposal rather than grieving families for a send-off.)

“I take it revenue is still steady enough?” R.D. asked with a grin.

“I mean, I’d be lying if I said I’ve never seen a twitching finger here and there,” Phoenix chuckled. “But hey, you can make severed frog legs do that with some salt. Nothing too special.”

“True.” R.D. nodded, then gestured to her handiwork. “What do you think?”

Phoenix ventured beside her, tilting her head at all the thin, red lacerations forming little shapes that ever-so-slightly leaked onto pale flesh.

“It looks nice,” she answered, the smoke in her dark brown eyes seeming to curl in time with how her smile softened. Her elbow nudged against R.D.’s in a friendly way. “This was a sweet idea.”

R.D. hummed, using a small cloth to wipe the scalpel clean before returning it to the pocket-sized sheath she’d brought along. Much easier to conceal than the case full of her other dissection tools back at the lab.

This particular idea of “sweet” could’ve been used as damning evidence in a court of law (ironic, considering what Phoenix did for the other half of her work), but it was still great to hear.

A pre-recorded swoosh chimed in, accentuated by the way R.D.’s phone buzzed against the table. She pulled it over to tap at the screen; a message from one Parker Thenope popped up.

Hey, just sent him out a few minutes ago. Might be taking bets on how long it takes. See ya later!

R.D. almost jolted in surprise, but she squashed it down. Yeah, she’d wanted the updates to be a bit more on-the-dot, since Caliban could cover a lot of ground with hungry adrenaline.

Then again, Ear Caffeine (as well as the den beneath it) wasn’t all that close to the crematorium above her and Phoenix’s heads.

It’d take some time for Lookie-Loo to get good and lost.

Phoenix must’ve seen the look on R.D.’s face, because she dutifully crossed the subway-office-turned-den to pull a heavy metal door open.

R.D. took hold of the poor bastard’s wrists and started dragging him off the table. This wound up causing his lower-half to crash against the concrete floor with a dull thump.

Which, in turn, elicited a low, muffled groan of pain to leak out from beneath the sack-mask.

Both her and her accomplice’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

So, in less than a second, R.D. hauled her victim across the threshold. Out on the platform, she let go of his arms, reducing him to a heap on the cold, stony floor.

A heap that was now being wracked with those full-body twitches that everyone got in their sleep and no-one ever wanted to see on camera.

“Good luck!” Phoenix whispered, offering a little wave before tugging the door shut again.

“Thanks!” R.D. replied, barely able to hear herself as she pulled the sack-mask away from her victim’s head and took off down the adjacent tunnel.

___

“Hello?” The voice repeated, putting a little more force behind the word. This did nothing to hide the fact that it was quivering around the edges, which seemed to make it linger in the cold, still air. “Is anyone there?”

R.D. lowered her head, straining her ears.

There—a faint pattern of light, uncertain thumps against pavement.

Nervous footsteps.

They sounded a bit closer than she would’ve liked, but not too close, in the grand scheme of things.

There seemed to be just enough distance to pull him along and leave him behind.

Her eyes darted every which way, scanning her environment until she discovered a chunk of debris lying just a few feet away. It was half the size of a softball, but it offered a decent amount of weight as she picked it up.

And then it was a blur, ever-so-slightly arching in the air as she chucked it, crashing down onto the decrepit railway.

The ensuing chorus was short, but the metallic ClAnKs! felt almost deafening in a place like this.

A startled cry rattled along after it. Then, after a slight pause: “Who’s out there? Can you hear me?!”

R.D. turned on her heel and started sprinting back the way she came. Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears, but her footsteps still put up some competition. They were much louder than before, and that very intentional.

“Hey—hey!” The voice cried, its owner picking up his own pace. “Wait, hold on!”

R.D. raced around one corner, her lips quirking.

___

Shf-thump, shf-thump, shf-thump.

The noise was almost too quiet, but R.D. still froze.

A light, strange cadence against concrete. Too small to have been produced by a person, unless maybe they were barefoot and walking on their tippy-toes.

Shf-thump, shf-thump, shf-thump.

A pale, cat-sized shape trotted out of the shadows up ahead. A Y-shaped nose twitched in an adorable manner as the creature paused to sniff at the ground.

It was so odd, feeling relief at the same time as a spike in adrenaline.

Snare had come along as a present to Caliban from his sister, sometime after he and R.D. had moved in together. He was a lot like his owner: weird, carnivorous, prone to shenanigans that were fun to watch and roll your eyes at.

Sure, the hare had technically never been R.D.’s pet, but she had her own little rat-pack for that, and he was still nice to have around. (It’d taken some time for said rats to adjust to him, but by now they liked playing around with him, so that helped.)

He was also a bit of an omen—good or bad, depending on who you were and what you were doing—since wherever he went, Caliban was seldom too far behind…

R.D. took a tiny step back. In that exact second, without her knowledge, her forefinger and thumb tugged at one of the rose’s petals, which broke away with a muted snap.

Not muted enough, considering how Snare’s head popped up, his long, oval-shaped ears twitching, almost standing at attention. He rose up ever-so-slightly, his paws hovering in the air, beady, dark-amber eyes staring over and up at his second most familiar human.

R.D. stared back, offering a smile.

“Snare?” A voice called from a distance in the shadows, set in a Midwestern accent with a bit of that edge you could expect to hear from some kind of announcer. R.D. recognized it in less than a heartbeat. “What’s up, buddy?”

Snare glanced over his shoulder at the yawning mouth of the next tunnel behind him, then refocused on R.D..

R.D. raised one hand, pushing a finger to her lips. Shhh…

Snare blinked, tilted his head.

Then he dropped back onto all fours, raising one of his hindlegs to kick at the wall beside him, creating a chorus of dull thuds.

Subsequent footsteps bounced along, growing a bit louder with every second.

R.D. felt her face drop, shaking her head and spreading her arms in a lame gesture at the white hare. Although his face was always hard to read, there wasn’t a single shadow of a doubt that he regretted his actions.

She turned and started sprinting; the plucked petal fluttered to the ground in her wake.

Just as she reached the opposite end of the tunnel, just as she was vanishing into another batch of shade between lights, she tossed a glance over her shoulder.

She was just in time to see Snare bound over to where she’d been standing, grab the rose petal between his buck-teeth, and carry it off as he scampered back the way he’d came.

CRAFTY LITTLE BASTARD..! R.D. thought, equal parts impressed and infuriated as she ran.

Sure enough, not even thirty seconds into her jog, she heard Caliban’s voice again.

“Hey! I see you!” Confused giggles bubbled along his words. “Where do you think you’re going?”

R.D. would’ve liked to shoot back with some of her patented sarcasm, but she also wanted to keep the surprise on track, so she had to bite it down.

She lowered her head, putting on more speed. Her pulse was almost buzzing through her eardrums, so it was a wonder how she picked up on the sound of a similar, one-party stampede somewhere behind her.

“I know you’re here!” Caliban called again, laughter rushing out of his lungs between each breath. “I’m gonna getcha!”

If her jaw wasn’t already aching, R.D. would’ve appreciated the irony of how this could almost qualify as a Final Girl’s Circuit.

Almost. Expect for the career she worked and the things she knew.

She rounded a corner—another platform was waiting just a few feet away, complete with a steel door that stood a little off the center of the wall.

All the doors down here looked pretty much the same, but she was sure she knew whose den this one led to.

She skidded to a halt, just barely remembering the code-pattern she’d learned so long ago as she rapped her knuckles against cold, smooth, tarnished metal.

The knob rattled, a compliment to the keening squeal on the part of the hinges as someone pulled it open from the other side.

There was maybe a few inches of space between the door and its frame, but R.D. didn’t hesitate to squeeze through the gap.

The den was only so much warmer than the tunnels, but you could still feel the difference.

A wooden cabinet stood across the former office, its shelves full to bursting with boxes, jars and bottles that came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.

A smaller bookcase was positioned beside it, similarly stuffed with books on cooking, baking, toxic animals, hazardous chemicals and how they affected the human body, stuff like that.

Opposite of that stood a table, which was supporting a glass terrarium, a heat lamp casting an orange-tinted glow over the plants and rocks and driftwood perch inside

A thin passageway loomed off to the side of everything, concrete stairs ascending up into darkness.

R.D. caught movement in her peripheral vision, recognizing a cherry-red headband sitting atop a head of long, silky coffee-colored hair.

Azalea Crawford raised an eyebrow at her. A knowing smirk etched its way across her face.

The door rattled with a familiar pattern of knocking.

Azalea waved a hand toward one particular corner of her den.

R.D. nodded, sidling over to stand right behind the door. One hand clasped over her mouth before her brain even sent the signal.

“Yeeeees?” Her sister-in-law asked, tugging the door open once more, creating just enough of a gap to poke her head through.

“I know she’s in here,” Caliban’s voice replied. It sounded like he was still catching his breath, but helpless chuckles were still leaking out.

“Who?” Azalea wondered, tilting her head and putting on a mask of obvious over-exaggeration.

“Aza, c’mon. You KNOW who.” There was some light shuffling from the other side.

“Here, look—” Azalea moved about a couple square-inches to the side, stretching one arm to gesture to the room behind her. “See? There’s nobody here but me.”

Right then, R.D. noticed a long, thin shape coiled around Azalea’s neck like a loose scarf. Scales glistened under the dim light; red, adorned by a pattern of small, bright yellow stripes, each bordered by a strip of black.

The scarlet kingsnake—Cuddles, a helpful voice in R.D.’s brain clarified—angled her head toward the friend her owner was hiding. A tiny forked tongue flicked in and out of her mouth, her beady black eyes growing curious.

Caliban leaned forward, to the point that R.D. could see the edge of his face past the door, could see the way he squinted in a conspiratory, intentionally overplayed manner.

But just before he had a chance to glance her way, his sister pressed her free hand against his forehead, making him squawk as she gently pushed him back.

“Seriously, what’s going on?”

Azalea shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what you’re even talking about.”

“Yes you do!” Caliban argued, a chortle stretching out the statement. “I know you’re in on whatever this is! Parker said you might give me a hint.”

“Yeah, ‘might.’ That’s not a guarantee,” Azalea snorted.

“Pleeeeaaaase?”

“Look, when’s the last time you got any hints on a job?”

Caliban sputtered a bit. “Literally every job relies on at least a few hints—” He cut himself off, staying quiet for a few long, merciless seconds. “...Why’d you bring up jobs?”

“You tell me, Mr. Thrill-of-The-Hunt.” Azalea then gave a brisk shake of her head, along with a sigh that just dripped with false tragedy. “Oh, I’ve said too much already~”

“AAAH! No you haven’t! No you haven’t!” Caliban protested, his voice getting a smidge more high-pitched.

R.D. had to bite her tongue to keep her giggles trapped inside her chest.

“C’mon, Aza! What is it? Tell me, tell me!” More playful shuffling against the door. “Please just help me out with this! I need to know!”

“I’ve already done my part,” Azalea replied with a smile that almost could’ve been innocent. “My hands are tied now.”

Another pause that felt slower than a tortoise getting drunk off molasses.

“Yeah, Snare making doe-eyes isn’t gonna work on me,” Azalea announced, though her own eyes went soft and adoring for a second.

Caliban was probably about to retort, but a different sound beat him to it.

Something more faint, more muffled.

An echo from somewhere outside. Far off, but not too far when you thought about it.

R.D. felt her eyes brighten.

Of course the victim had heard all the noise she and Caliban had made. (Did that mean his blood would be on Snare’s paws?) He was probably more confused now, more scared than before.

“...What was that?” Caliban asked, his voice tapering down to an excited whisper.

Azalea shrugged again. “Go see for yourself.”

More footsteps, cautiously trekking away from the door.

Then they grew faster, quickly fading into the distance.

Azalea stayed where she was, watching. Once the relative silence had returned, she pushed the door shut, leaning against it. “All clear.”

R.D. corrected her posture, letting her hand fall away and sighing as if she’d been holding her breath for an hour. “I owe you one.”

Azalea snickered, shaking her head. “No, don’t worry about it.”

“Did you see him while you were out?” R.D. wondered, not meaning her host's brother. “When you snuck the other half over there, I mean.”

“Almost. He tried to follow me, but I took the longer route to shake him.”

R.D. nodded, pacing about the room. She’d go back out in a minute; no way Caliban hadn’t covered some distance already.

“Glad you like the roses,” Azalea chirped, bouncing in place. “It took us a while to find the right seeds. He really wanted them to be fresh.”

R.D. glanced down. Of course the rose was still with her.

Thank God the thorns had been snipped off. Otherwise, her palm would be a bloody mess right now.

___

R.D. was back in one of the darker sections when she heard the scream.

Goosebumps prickled over the back of her neck.

Her heart skipped a beat.

But unlike so many times before, she didn’t have to suppress her smile.

Other noises followed—rushing footsteps, of course. Wild and fast and desperate. Striking old, rusted metal.

Words, too. They blurred together, coming out a mile a minute, loud and ragged and growling around the edges. Laughter broke them up as well, growing more and more sadistic with each breath.

It was hard to make them out, but that didn’t really matter.

The second voice was familiar to R.D.. It’d never stop being familiar. She liked hearing it (even when it was used for making puns and then expressing just a little too much pride for said puns).

More screams tore through the air.

These ones were longer, louder. Echoing back onto themselves thanks to the concrete, filled with palpable pain and raw horror.

“AUUGH! NO! NO, NO—NOOOOOO!”

Displaced air whooshed nearby—right beside R.D., actually. As if she’d been on the side of a highway and a car had sped past her.

Slightly below the walkway, to be precise.

One of those caged lights was looming on the wall up ahead.

It cast something of a halo over the two figures she could now see racing along the tracks.

She watched as one pounced, slamming into the other’s back, forcing him to the ground.

Shadows performed a distorted dance as they stretched over the walls and ceiling.

One was pushing and squirming, trying and failing to escape from the other while it lunged, clawed, stabbed, BIT.

Despite all the erratic movement, the light still shone against crimson leather.

R.D. strolled closer, fidgeting with the rose until she came to hover below that light.

She peered down—there was Caliban, working himself into a frenzy.

He pinned Lookie-Loo to the ground. Snapping his teeth, sending viscous little droplets flying as he buried his face into the other man’s shoulder, shaking his head the way a dog would when it ripped an old squeaky toy apart.

(Well. Dogs didn’t always do that to squeaky toys, but it’d probably be better for your mental health to stick with the former allegory, wouldn’t it?)

A metallic gleam followed his movements. Damascus steel was splattered with red as he raked his favorite meat cleaver across his victim’s abdomen. (Just a few more strong swipes and he could’ve torn the poor bastard’s stomach open like a gutted fish.)

R.D. lowered herself to sit on the edge of the walking, letting her legs sway a bit.

Too bad Lookie-Loo was so distracted, kicking and shrieking and sobbing.

He could’ve seen R.D. and tried to drag himself toward her.

He could’ve tried to shout for her to run, get away, save herself.

He could’ve noticed that she wasn’t at all afraid.

He could’ve tried begging her for help (and if he was really quick on the uptake, maybe he could’ve realized that he had to beg her to call his attacker off, to please, PLEASE JUST LET HIM GO!).

Snare scampered around the two of them in tight, quick circles. Little stains were already marring the white shade of his fur. He seemed to notice R.D. out of the corner of his eyes, because he paused, glancing up at her.

After coming to the conclusion that his owner was more than a little busy at the moment, the hare hopped up onto the walkway. From there, he trotted over to R.D., nudging at her elbow.

R.D. gave his long ears a gentle scratch. Sure, she was still feeling a little salty over the stunt he’d pulled earlier…but damn it, he was cute.

Meanwhile, Caliban pulled back. He hovered over his prey for a long, agonizing moment, chest heaving in and out as he panted for air.

Lookie-Loo kept thrashing, trying to clutch at the fresh, gaping wound in his shoulder.

It looked like he was about to glance at Caliban. Maybe he wanted to try and shove him off, take advantage of the sudden stillness. Maybe he still thought he had a chance.

Caliban’s eyes were feral, just as wide as the sharp, hungry grin his bloody teeth formed as they gnashed at the air with his laughter. It was a sight that would’ve made any self-respecting hyena proud.

Then he opened his jaws wide and dove back down.

After that, his victim finally stopped screaming.

Stopped screaming, and started gurgling.

There really wasn’t much else you could do when enamel was sinking into your throat.

Lookie-Loo’s eyes (which, in the grand scheme of things, were the real cause of all this) bulged, dangerously close to popping right out of their sockets, and he fell silent.

More blood came out, though it slowed down to oozing instead of spraying.

Caliban growled deep in his throat, tearing a chunk of flesh free. He was still chewing as he slowly got to his feet, looming over the fresh corpse on the rail…only to pause.

He tilted his head to the side, eyes going from ravenous to curious as he took in all the cuts littered about his meal’s arms.

Took in how those cuts each formed the shape of a heart.

R.D.’s smile softened. Even if he wasn’t facing her yet, it was easy to see how the pieces were coming together in his head. “You’re welcome.”

Caliban’s eyes met hers in about a millisecond. Though she knew his irises were brown, right now they appeared to be an unhinged shade of yellow.

(In fact, they always seemed to flick to that at times like this; whenever he was running on adrenaline or hunger.)

Beneath them, something warm and grateful slipped into his grin. It could’ve powered the entire city for a few minutes.

Caliban stepped away from the body, practically skipping his way over to the walkway. He stood before before R.D., resting his arms on the edge.

“You did this?” He asked, his voice a strange mixture of softness and energy. “You set this whole thing up for me?”

“I mean, I can’t take all the credit. Had some help along the way,” R.D. mused with both a nod and shrug at the same time. “But I know how much you enjoy stuff like scavenger hunts, so…yeah.”

Caliban’s silver canine-cap glinted as he let out another laugh, this one much softer and brighter than the peal she’d heard from him earlier.

R.D. moved a bit too slow to escape the bear-hug he wrapped around her, but then again, she didn’t really mind.

“Did you have fun?” She asked, tousling his hair.

“Of course I had fun!” He assured, eyes still shining. “That was one of the best rushes I’ve had in weeks!”

Sooner or later, R.D. stood back up as Caliban returned to the body, grabbing it by one of the ankles and dragging it up onto the walkway.

From there, the two of them walked side-by-side, chatting about how the day had gone on their respective sides.

Snare made sure to trot in front, as though he was escorting them back to the den underneath their home. Not that the guidance was needed (but it was accepted because Snare was just a little guy and he wanted to help out). They both knew the route inside-out.

All conversations had to come to an end, one way or another.

This one did so via Caliban cutting himself off with a squeal as he spotted something sitting right outside the door to his den. The very same thing Azalea had been nice enough to leave there while both he and R.D. were away earlier: a plushie modeled after a cartoonish venus fly trap, its material going from green and fluffy around the mouth to light brown and smooth around the pot.

Dead weight thumped against concrete as Caliban released his hold on the corpse, running over to pick up the gift for further inspection.

“Oh my God..!” He laughed breathlessly, tilting the stuffed plant, making its “head” wobble to and fro. “How did you find this?”

“Sorry, I signed a non-disclosure about that,” R.D. joked. “I know it doesn’t have a purple tongue or spikey leaves, but—”

“Are you kidding? It’s perfect!” Caliban declared, beaming as he hugged the plushie close.

Both he and his wife were a bit too late to remember that there was still fresh blood on his clothes. Yeah, it blended in pretty well with the red leather of his jacket and the black fabric of his hoodie, but it was still wet. Just like the splatters on his face and hands.

“...and machine-washable, I hope?” Caliban asked, his features uncharacteristically sheepish as he pulled the gift back, revealing that there were, indeed, a few dark stains that hadn’t been there a few seconds ago.

“Yeah, you'd better hope,” R.D. remarked, smirking as she reached up to give him a light flick on the side of the head.

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @the-matpat-ever @im-a-weird0 @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks @lotusp0nd @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph @bloodyhound12345 @lisathecake @im-a-snakey

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 5 months ago

Text

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.

“𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 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.

“𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸��⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗢⃥.” 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...]

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@sammys-magical-au

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