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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 2 years ago

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God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting

(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, decapitation, gore, light mentions of violence, implied mutilation, implied cannibalism, mentions of organs, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(One of the characters in this story does not belong to me. That honor goes to the amazing @sammys-magical-au. I highly recommend giving them a follow, because the stories and headcanons they post are always, always worth reading. Also, this fic is actually kinda-sorta connected to one of theirs, which you can read here. It should clarify some of the plot points you’ll be seeing soon. As for the character that does belong to me, you can find more information about him here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob he and Murdock work for, go here. Murdock/Murderplier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’re interested in my personal headcanons on him, go here.)

Sam considered xerself someone who was open to surprises.

When you owed a favor to a literal hitman—and, by extension, the mob that hitman just so happened to work for—not being adaptable could be very hazardous to your health.

Earlier that day, the hitman in question had contacted xer. Apparently he’d taken on a last-minute job, his other accomplices were busy with their own errands, and he was gonna make it xer problem.

(To be fair, Murdock had later explained that The Pentas Family was preparing for a particularly important, unnecessarily macabre auction. It would be taking place at midnight, and would require all hands on deck in order to be kept quiet and hidden.)

Sam never appreciated being dragged into something that didn’t directly involve xer. Regardless, Murdock loved reminding xer that xe had pushed for the alliance between xer organization and his. Not to mention how incredibly generous it’d been of him to accept xer offer, to convince his peers to work with xers, and to have vouched for xer to The Boss.

So, for the sake of personal safety and integrity, Sam had agreed to help with the job.

Xe’d accompanied Murdock to track down his target.

Xe’d assisted him in capturing, interrogating, torturing, and eventually killing his target.

And then. . .

“See?” Murdock asked. A patented smug grin was on his face as he wiped his knife clean with a silk handkerchief before returning it to one of the many pockets in his black overcoat. “I told you that wouldn’t take too long.”

Sam rolled xer eyes, quickly putting on the neutral mask xe’d learned to wear when interacting with him. “You sure did. Must’ve been hard to keep your usual commentary short.”

“Hey, you weren’t exactly just spectating back there,” Murdock retorted. “So don’t preach to me.”

“Who said I was preaching?” Sam folded xer arms across xer chest. “You just tend to make things. . .dramatic.”

Murdock was right; Sam had partaken in mocking the target before he’d died. Sam was more sensible (read: sane) than Murdock, but xe was still human. And with the knowledge that the target was profiting off of a dog-fighting ring, Sam had been all too happy to let him know how much of a pathetic, worthless, disgusting waste of space he was while Murdock did what he did best.

Murdock shrugged. “Say what you will, but at least I appreciate theater. Not enough people do these days, y’know?”

Sam hummed nonchalantly. On one hand, Murdock did have a valid point. On the other hand, Murdock had used a pair of slip-joint pliers to pull out the target’s teeth one by one, and Sam, while definitely not being a prude, wasn’t sure if that could be compared to theater.

Murdock tapped at his cellphone’s screen. The device emitted a few beeps, and he smiled as he put it away. “The cleanup crew is on their way; they’ll take this guy to the crematorium. Once they’re here, we’re free to go.”

Sam nodded, relieved that she’d be taken back to the hotel soon. “Sounds fine to me.”

Murdock dug around in his leather “toolkit,” which was always full to bursting with an honestly comedic amount of gadgets that boasted their own unique ways of making someone wish they hadn’t pissed off the wrong person. He unfolded a clean body bag, laid it on the floor, and held it halfway open like a trick-or-treater would a pillow case.

Sam got the message. She ventured closer, loosening the ropes that attached the target to a folding chair, then maneuvered the corpse into the person-sized tote. She stepped back and watched as Murdock began zipping the bag up. It was halfway closed when he suddenly stopped.

A few seconds of total silence came and went.

Sam blinked at the hitman, immediately tense. Even with his glasses on, it was somewhat easy to read Murdock’s expression. The current expression was one of realization. . .and panic.

And when a contract-killer panicked, anyone with two brain cells to rub together knew that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“Shit,” Murdock said quite eloquently. “Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit, fucking damn it—!” He stood up from his kneeling position and began pacing the floor, raising both hands to grasp at his head as though his brain was trying to crawl out of his skull.

“What?” Sam asked cautiously. “What’s the matter?”

“I must’ve mixed up some things on the agenda,” Murdock groaned. “One of my buddies is expecting a carcass this month, and I have to wait at least a week before I can take on another job.”

Sam immediately felt obligated to ask why in the fresh hell someone would want or need a dead body delivered, but then she remembered who Murdock was and the types of people his “buddies” usually were.

“You’ve. . .already got this guy,” Sam said, awkwardly gesturing to the target’s corpse. “Why not just cancel with the crematorium and give him to your friend?”

Murdock peered at Sam over his tinted glasses, the look on his face suggesting that Sam had just asked him if water was wet.

“We can’t afford to dispose of bodies in just one way! If we did, we’d risk having concentrated amounts of evidence on our hands.” He looked back at the target. “This guy was a big name in the underground. We need to erase him entirely! His cronies will come looking for him, and the sooner we can lead them astray, the easier it’ll be for us to pick them off!”

Sam held up her hands in defense. “Alright, alright! I get it! Don’t bite my head off just for asking a question!”

Murdock was about to counter, but he suddenly froze in place. His mouth hung open, as he’d been mid-rant, and his eyes grew so wide that Sam could nearly see his scleras through his glasses. His expression slowly but surely shifted from panicked to contemplative; if you listened closely enough, you would’ve been able to hear the gears turning in his head.

“There’s a cooler in my trunk,” Murdock announced. “Go get it.”

“How’s that gonna help anything?”

Murdock’s only response was to frantically wave at Sam with one arm as he dug through his toolkit. “Just go get it! Now! Hurry up!”

Sam flinched at his tone, then jogged down the corridor and up a concrete staircase. She made her way outside the old factory that, according to Murdock, the target had used to host his matches. She cursed under her breath as gravel loudly crunched under her boots; she never thought she’d be grateful for a job-site to be in the middle of nowhere, but now would’ve been the absolute worst time for a potential witness to pop up.

He rushed to the car and popped the trunk, which was filled with bags and boxes of spare weapons and the like. It was actually pretty organized—how else would Murdock be able to transport dead bodies? Even so, it took what felt like an hour before Sam managed to find a red n’ white container meant for preserving organs that had been selected for a transplant. It was heavier than it looked, but it didn’t slow him down as he hurried back into the factory. The sound of skin being torn didn’t stop him. . .well, at least not until he returned to the room. Then he was frozen in the doorway.

Until he’d started working with Murdock, Sam hadn’t known what a Gigli saw was. For one thing, it hardly looked like a saw at all. It was a pair of handles connected by a long, flexible steel wire. And unless you got too close to the wire in question, you’d never know that it was covered in hundreds of small, razor-sharp barbs.

It also typically required two people to each take a handle and pull it back and forth. But Murdock was nothing if not a tenacious bastard, so he was keeping one foot on the body’s chest to hold it still as he leaned side-to-side in a pattern, grasping both of the handles. The wire was looped around the target’s neck, forcing his head to shift as blood oozed down his shirt. This method was definitely unplanned and only semi-coordinated, but it actually seemed to be working.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Sam shouted, nearly dropping the cooler in shock.

“What’s it look like?!” Murdock fired back, not looking at them. “Don’t just stand there! Bring the cooler over!”

Sam’s stomach twisted as they approached, coming to stand beside Murdock. The metallic stench of blood practically punched them in the face, and they couldn’t help but gag.

“Oh, don’t get all squeamish on me now!” Murdock snapped.

“Are you fucking kidding?!” Sam barked. They obviously didn’t want to look at what Murdock was doing (the target’s neck almost resembled a chewed-up apple core), but staring at the floor meant staring at the spreading pool of red. “I only agreed to help with neutralizing! I never signed up to be involved with dismembermAAAAAAAHH!”

With a loud, sickening pop, the target’s neck broke, leaving his head to tear away from strands of brutalized flesh and bounce once, twice against the floor with a soft crack. It rolled dangerously close to Sam’s boots, and Sam responded in a very warranted way via kicking it across the room with another scream.

“Hey!” Murdock squawked, running after the head, stooping down to pick it up and tuck it under one arm like it was a football. He glared at Sam as he came jogging back. “What was that for?!”

“Take a wild guess, you psycho!” Sam had to force themself not to back away. They opened up the cooler, holding it aloft for Murdock to deposit the target’s noggin, then slammed it shut before the target’s glassy, unseeing eyes could stare up at them.

Murdock paused, then gave a quick nod before kneeling down to zip up the body bag. And although Sam was grateful to not have to look at a now headless corpse, they were also very confused, very disgusted, and very frustrated.

“Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on now?” Sam growled, just barely able to keep a tremble out of xer voice.

“Change of plans,” Murdock responded. “When the cleanup crew is finished, you’re gonna take this and go with them to the crematorium. You’ll be able to access the tunnels from there; Cal’s place is connected to one of our dens.”

When the subway tunnels were still operating, more than a few above-ground buildings had been connected to the platforms and used as stations. So, of course, after the tunnels were condemned, those buildings had been repurposed; most of them were now relatively small shops and the like, though a precious few had been turned into houses.

The Pentas Family had managed to purchase every single one of those former stations. Its members either lived in or worked out of them. Thanks to this, the public eye was drawn away from the tunnels, which were now a network of hidey-holes that offered discreet movement far beneath the noses of local authorities.

“Why?” Sam inquired, despite already having an idea of where this was going. “Who’s Cal—is he the one expecting a body?” (Sam had heard Murdock mention that name a few times before, but xe’d never had a chance to meet the guy in question. Until now, apparently.)

“Obviously he is!” Murdock answered, sounding incredulous. “I’ll let him know about what’s happened, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to find him once you’re down there.”

For a short moment, Sam’s mouth opened and closed without any words coming out. Xe slowly began shaking xer head, pushing the cooler towards Murdock.

“No,” xe eventually said. “Nononononono, you’ve already dragged me into enough of your schemes for today.”

Murdock threw up his hands. “The auction is happening in two hours, and The Boss needs me to help prepare for it! I can’t be in two places at once!”

“Then maybe you should talk to The Boss about this!” Sam replied. “You’re always bragging about being her right-hand!”

Silence.

Murdock didn’t go on the defensive, didn’t get all offended that Sam had questioned his place in the rankings. He simply gaped like a fish for a couple seconds, then shook his head and stared at the floor.

Sam had only ever met The Boss once, for a very brief time after xe’d offered Torchwood’s deal to Murdock and The Pentas Family. Despite being a new ally, Sam was still an outsider, which meant that xe didn’t even know her name. Only the mob’s representatives got that privilege, and even then, they hardly ever referred to her as anything but. . .well, The Boss.

Sam’s first and only encounter with The Boss had been in a dimly-lit office, so xe could barely remember the woman’s facial features. She’d spoken softly when she explained the terms of a partnership, when she’d revealed to Sam that she’d been looking for another organization to work with and that Torchwood seemed like a good candidate.

Other than her clear Us versus Them mentality (as well as the fact that it took a very, very special type of person to earn the respect of murderers, then corral those murderers and dare their enemies to do something about it), the only thing Sam knew for sure about The Boss was that she was assertive, but not a tyrant. The way Murdock was acting right now proved it.

He always spoke highly of her, but shockingly enough, it wasn’t out of intimidation. He wasn’t panicking because he was afraid of being made into an example; he was panicking because he genuinely didn’t want to disappoint.

It was, honestly, a bit poetic. . .

However, that wasn’t exactly the point of this scenario.

“Murdock.” Sam stated through gritted teeth. “It’s been less than an hour since you had me tag along to kill somebody. And now you think you can just send me on an errand? To take a severed head to one of your pals?!”

The hitman pursed his lips, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Well. . .Cal actually has some of the stuff we need for the auction, so, I was kinda hoping you’d help him move it to the base. . .”

By now, Sam’s grip around the cooler’s handle had become so tight that it was a miracle the container hadn’t fallen apart right there.

“Look,” Murdock said pointedly, trying to shake off the rare bit of vulnerability he’d just shown. “I’m not thrilled about this either. We both know that I’d rather be the one to take care of these things. And that’s for the sake of my reputation, thank you very much.”

Sam scoffed, but still couldn’t think of what else xe could say, so xe let him continue.

“I’m man enough to admit when I’ve fucked up. And trust me, you’re not the only person who’s gonna give me hell for this. Just help me out one more time today, and I swear that I’ll come through in spades the next time you need a favor.”

Sam narrowed their eyes, chewing their lip. While Murdock was the type who treated threats and promises as the same thing, there was still some odd degree of honor among killers (just ask anyone who owed a killer something). He’d fulfilled debts before—although that depended heavily on who he was working with. And he knew damn well that he had Sam to thank for The Pentas Family becoming stronger than it already was.

“You know you’ll be owing me an actual favor, right?” Sam asked. “On top of what you’ve already promised. . ?”

Murdock, who had agreed to give Sam a cut of this job’s payment for her trouble, rolled his eyes and nodded petulantly. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Another moment of silence dragged on, but Sam eventually sighed. “Fine. But if you try to spring something else on me at the last-minute, you will be sorry.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Murdock deadpanned, offering a stressed, sardonic half-smile. His phone buzzed again, and he fished it out of his pocket, the blue glow reflecting off his glasses.

“Cleanup’s here,” he muttered. As if on cue, the muffled-yet-unmistakable sound of car doors slamming shut sounded from somewhere outside.

Sam hummed in response, slowly turning on their heel to head outside. They paused in the doorway, glancing over their shoulder.

“Is there anything I should know about Cal?” They asked. “What do I need to look out for?”

Murdock considered this for a few seconds. “He’s got some screws loose, but he’s not unreasonable. As long as you’re smart and polite, you’ll be on his good side.”

Sam raised an annoyed eyebrow. Murdock’s profession required him to be careful about who he worked with, but it still wasn’t promising for him—a serial killer who basically took commissions—to vaguely hint at someone else having issues.

“Hey, if you associate with my crowd, then you’ll end up working with Cal sooner or later,” Murdock remarked, shrugging. “Might as well have you two get to know each other.”

___

Sam trudged along an old, decaying railway. Caged lights lined the walls every ten feet or so, which distorted the shadow Sam was currently casting as she walked. The illumination was dim, but that was much, much better than the tunnels being pitch black.

“‘iT sHoUlDn’T bE tOo HaRd To FiNd HiM oNcE yOu’Re DoWn ThErE,’” she muttered to herself in a mocking tone. Murdock had said he would let whoever Cal was know to expect her, but she’d been venturing through the tunnels for what felt like thirty minutes.

And it wasn’t like she’d assumed this place to be small. She just hadn’t expected the tunnels to be so unnecessarily labyrinthine. She was sure she’d already taken a wrong turn or two by now. She didn’t bother texting Murdock; even if he wasn’t too busy with whatever preparations he was needed for, the directions he’d potentially give would be cryptic at best.

Unsurprisingly, the concrete walls weren’t clean. There wasn’t as much graffiti as one would’ve expected, but Sam had already passed a few colorful paintings here and there. Sam hadn’t been working with The Pentas Family long enough to know if it had some kind of special code, but she had a feeling that these pictures were an equivalent to street signs down here.

(She supposed they could just be the work of some random artist, but even though the mob kept its business nicely hidden, anyone with a shred of self-preservation would instinctively know to avoid this place. Sam chose to just ignore what that said about her right now.)

After yet another turn, Sam halted, having discovered an intersection. The mouths of three tunnels yawned open before her. The railway she’d been walking alongside up until now stretched down the middle as far as the eye could see. Two more branched out from it, slightly curving as they led into the shadows.

Not only that, but there was yet another work of graffiti adorning the wall of the tunnel to Sam’s right. It resembled a small animal, while all the other pictures Sam had seen so far were abstract shapes—

Wait, no. It turned its head when Sam approached, causing xer to stop once again. Now that xe was closer to it, xe could tell that it was a real creature, but it’d been standing so still a moment ago. . .

The animal’s fur was the color of a thin veil of snow on the sidewalk. It sported four thin legs, with hind paws that were longer and wider than the front ones. A pair of oval-shaped ears protruded from the top of its head. A Y-shaped nose decorated its little muzzle, twitching in a way that would’ve been quite adorable if not for its eyes. They were a deep, dark shade of amber, almost seeming to glow against pale fur.

Sam’s vast knowledge of lapins began and ended with the fact that they didn’t eat carrots nearly as much as television suggested. Even so, it didn’t take long for xer to realize that the creature xe was looking at couldn’t be a rabbit. Its ears were longer and wider than those of any bunny xe’d seen. Plus, its body was just too large and wiry; rabbits were round creatures, small and soft around the edges.

This thing had to be a hare, right?

It shuffled closer to Sam, amber eyes still wide, curious, and maybe a little cold. Sam took an experimental step forward, and it didn’t scurry away as xe’d expected. Instead, it chose to rear up on its hind legs, its front paws hovering in the air as though it wanted to T-pose but just didn’t have the shoulders to do so. Its nose fluttered in an oddly distinct manner. Like it was smug about using such a cute gesture to smell rising paranoia.

Sam blinked. The animal did not.

Yep, definitely a hare.

The impromptu staring contest lasted about ten more seconds. Then, the hare lowered itself back onto all fours and turned away. It tossed one last glance at Sam over its shoulder, then raced down the tunnel and out of sight.

Sam listened as the hare’s footsteps got more and more quiet until they disappeared altogether. Xe wasn’t the type to make something deeper than it needed to be, but xe’d already heard plenty of cautionary symbolism about following a rabbit down a hole. Following a hare down a hole would probably be even riskier, since xe was already below the surface, and hares had no business stalking a network of abandoned subway tunnels.

Lightly shaking xer head, Sam went back to looking between the three tunnels.

Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. . .

Sam had just barely heard a new, louder set of footsteps approach before an unfamiliar voice called out, “Hey!”

Sam flinched, then turned xer head to find a man trekking out of the shadows within the tunnel to xer left.

Both of his arms were adorned by patches of hastily-wrapped bandages. The adhesive was stained red around the edges, but that was nothing compared to the man’s right hand. Layers of gauze were wound about his palm, simultaneously succeeding and failing to hide the stump where his right pinkie should’ve been.

Sam had to keep herself from staring. When it came to stuff like interrogation, mutilation was pretty common in the underground. She couldn’t be sure what had happened to this guy, but she still knew for a fact that it’d been gruesome. Especially since it was probably a measured tactic in comparison to more permanent alternatives.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bandages snarled. “You got business here?” He stood on the middle railway; he might’ve wanted to get in Sam’s face, but now that he’d gotten closer, he could see just how tall and well-built she was. I.e., clearly not someone who would take much shit from him.

“Yeah, I do,” Sam answered flatly. “So why don’t you mind your own?”

Bandages rolled his eyes. “No such thing as having your own business in places like this.”

“There is, actually. But if you really think otherwise, then it’s no wonder someone got sick of you.” Sam nodded to Bandages’ arms and missing finger, the lack of pity evident in her tone.

Bandages scowled in a very unpleasant way. He seemed to be trying to make himself look bigger. His efforts were unsuccessful.

Sam’s instincts told her that Bandages wasn’t part of The Pentas Family. Though she’d only seen a couple affiliates other than Murdock, she got the impression that there was a bit of a dress code. (Specific clothing wasn’t required, but various shades of red seemed to be. Murdock always wore that currant-colored turtleneck when on the job.) Bandages was wearing a simple gray T-shirt with a pair of jeans. Both articles were grimy, which meant he either got into quite a few scrapes or just didn’t care about his appearance.

“What’s in the box?” Bandages interrogated, pointing to the cooler in Sam’s hand.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Sam replied.

One part of her felt annoyed, since it was be pretty easy to figure out that her cargo was a transplant container and do the math from there. Another part of her felt a little proud at how Bandages ever-so-slightly faltered; she knew she’d been getting better and better at intimidation. And yet another part of her was desperately clinging to her stone-faced demeanor in order to hide the nausea creeping around her teeth.

If Murdock were here, he’d probably take the cooler from Sam’s hands, open it, and show the target’s head to Bandages. Sam wasn’t about to do that, but she couldn’t deny that it certainly would’ve gotten Bandages to back off. (Unless it somehow didn’t, in which case Sam would have a whole new problem. . .)

Sam was about to just try her luck with the middle tunnel, but she hadn’t even started walking when she felt a hand come down on one of her arms. She retaliated by shoving Bandages back with the aforementioned arm.

“Don’t touch me!” She nearly shouted, her voice just loud enough to slightly echo along the walls.

Bandages tripped over the railway, landing on his back against rusty metal. He was quick to pick himself up, though it took him a bit longer to wipe the shock off his face.

“I’ve never seen you around town before—above or below,” he spat, folding his arms across his chest. Sam snorted, as this guy was desperately pretending that he hadn’t been knocked flat by the person he’d been trying and failing to belittle.

“I can say the exact same thing about you, dumbass. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Bandages said jeeringly, “is that you’re not supposed to be snooping around unless you want trouble.”

Sam narrowed her eyes. “Just because I’m not looking for trouble doesn’t mean I won’t put someone out of commission if they try to give me any. Besides. . .”

She trailed off, subtly gesturing to the enamel pin attached to her shirt. Not that said pin would’ve been hard to notice; it’d been designed in the shape of a poison dart frog with an appropriately neon color palette.

Murdock had given it to her at the beginning of this arrangement—according to him, The Boss mandated that pins like this one were always provided to Pentas associates. That way, if Murdock or any of his peers were somehow unaware of a new alliance, they’d still be able to tell that the allies in question were A. not intruders despite still technically being outsiders, and B. strictly off limits (to both Pentas representatives and other outsiders. Unless they did something to change that, at least. . .).

Bandages scoffed, though his eyes turned slightly wary. “Just because you’re under protection doesn’t mean you get to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Good thing I’m not sticking my nose anywhere, then,” Sam shot back tersely. “I was specifically sent here as part of a favor that I owe.” A millisecond passed before she clarified, “To Murdock.” She made sure to put emphasis on the name. He was one of the higher-ranking killers in this organization, so it was only fair.

Bandages’ face fell. He lightly shook his head, forcing his mug back into the scowling mask he’d been aiming at Sam. The movement was quick, but Sam, ever observant Sam, had already noticed sudden panic on Bandages’ expression.

Though they only felt annoyance towards him, they also couldn’t help but emphasize a bit. Murdock was a cold-blooded maniac, after all. Even—perhaps especially—those in his good graces wouldn’t be spared from his demented two-cents. (Which, in hindsight, made the calm-cool-collected demeanor he boasted seem less arrogant and more fucking terrifying.)

“Yeah, well,” Bandages snarked, “Murdock isn’t in charge around here. What’s more, these tunnels aren’t his turf.”

“Eh, you’re half-right,” a new voice interjected from somewhere up ahead. “This territory belongs to The Boss, but as of late, I’m one of the people in charge of it.”

Sam ever-so-slightly startled, turning xer head to discover a man walking along the tracks towards xer and Bandages. Like most people, he was shorter than Sam (xe estimated he was 5’11), sporting fair skin and a head of neatly-kempt, chocolate-colored hair that nearly matched his eyes. The crimson leather of his racer jacket complimented the black hoodie and gray jeans he was wearing it over.

A sharp gasp erupted from Bandages’ direction. Sam glanced back at him, and was surprised to see just how pale his complexion had become. Not only that, but his eyes were practically bulging from their sockets. His stoic facade might as well never have been witnessed, because if he didn’t resemble a deer in headlights right now, nothing would.

As he grew closer, Jacket-Hoodie-Combo continued. “I’m usually willing to let people pass through here. As long as they’re not wasting any time or space, of course.” He halted a couple feet away from Sam and Bandages, taking a second to peer at the former.

Sam peered right back, making sure to keep her expression neutral. Now that Jacket-Hoodie-Combo was closer, it was easier to see exactly how calculating his eyes were, regardless of his relaxed disposition. Sam knew damn well that she was being analyzed, being put into a category. Plenty of people had looked at her the way Jacket-Hoodie-Combo was right now.

Sam raised their eyebrows, trying to send a silent message along the lines of, I’m not afraid of you.

Jacket-Hoodie-Combo responded by smiling in a way that all but screamed, Maybe not right now. . .

He then tilted his head to look at Bandages. “Care to tell me what’s going on here?”

Bandages faltered, swallowing a visible lump in his throat. He looked in the opposite direction, as though he was hoping, praying that another person would suddenly pop up and volunteer to be a meat-shield for him.

“Nothing’s going on,” he finally answered, lowering his head.

“Really?” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo asked. “Because it looks like you were trying to instigate something with this visitor.” He nodded to Sam, or rather, to the dart frog pin. (So, this guy was part of Murdock’s “family.” Sam couldn’t be sure if that was a good thing yet.) His voice was light and positive, set in a bit of a Midwestern accent with that edge you could expect to hear from some kind of announcer. Even so, his tone was mischievous, sarcastic, conniving.

“What? You think I was starting something?” Bandages’ eyes were still filled with fear, but now a tiny bit of hope had been thrown into the mix. He shook his head and pointed at Sam. “She was the one who came up to me.”

Sam snarled. “That’s bullshit!” Despite xer desire to handle this carefully, Sam’s current levels of adrenaline made it pretty easy for a nerve to be struck. Especially considering how a complete stranger was trying to lie about xer.

Jacket-Hoodie-Combo’s smile gradually faded. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Bandages, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Oh, come on. I could hear you from all the way down the tunnel.”

That tiny bit of hope vanished. Bandages glowered at Sam, but his expression quickly shifted back to a pleading one at Jacket-Hoodie-Combo’s comment. He tried to say something else, but Jacket-Hoodie-Combo cut him off.

“Stirring the pot with a protected colleague is already a punishable offense, y’know. And that would only be so much to worry about if this was your very first mistake with us.” He took a step forward. “But I distinctly remember The Boss telling you to stay out of here.”

Bandages was visibly shaking as he took a few steps back. “I-I heard that you’d all be busy today! Didn’t think I’d be in the way of anything—!”

Meanwhile, Sam glanced back and forth between the two of them, quietly edging away. Bandages had been trying his damnedest to toss his weight around just a few minutes ago, but now he was clearly making an attempt to not piss himself.

And Jacket-Hoodie-Combo hadn’t even tried anything yet. If he had a muscular build or any questionable injuries, then they were well-hidden by his clothing. There was a small, jagged scar on the left side of his upper lip, but other than that, he didn’t seem too intimidating.

Don’t judge a book by its cover, a voice in Sam’s head chided. By now, she knew that phrase all too well, and for all the wrong reasons. Hell, Murdock was able to come off as pretty unassuming—charismatic, even—when he needed to. And even when the real Murdock came out, he was still so disturbingly casual about it. So, if someone fell for that act, it was already too late for them.

“Oh, we’re busy alright,” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo agreed. “And that gives you even less of an excuse to be sneaking around right now.”

The smile was back on his face, but it was a different smile than before. It wasn’t calm. It was unnecessarily wide and crooked, revealing two rows of pearly whites. Save for a silver canine-cap directly beneath his scar, that is.

Sam chewed at the inside of her cheek. Yep, there was definitely something wrong with this guy, and he’d most certainly made a reputation out of it.

Jacket-Hoodie-Combo moved closer to Bandages; just a few more steps and he would’ve been able to pin him against the wall. As Sam watched, she realized that Jacket-Hoodie-Combo wasn’t making eye-contact with Bandages. Instead, he was staring at Bandages’ arms, at the injuries hidden beneath patches of gauze. It was then that she finally realized what really made his grin seem so wrong.

It didn’t just look unhinged.

It looked. . .hungry.

“Wanna try again? Or should I just go straight to disciplinary measures like The Boss said I could?” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo’s hand was a blur as he spoke, reaching into a pocket to produce a wicked damascus-steel cleaver. (Sam couldn’t help but wonder exactly how the hell a tool like that had fit so perfectly inside the man’s coat.)

“N-no, NO!” Bandages nearly shrieked. “I’ll leave and I won’t come back, I swear! You won’t have to deal with me again!”

Jacket-Hoodie-Combo hummed at this. “There’s more than one way to make sure I don’t have to deal with you again.”

He paused, then side-eyed Sam, probably remembering that she was still here. He pursed his lips in thought for a few long seconds before stepping away from Bandages with a melodramatic sigh.

“Move it,” he snapped, pointing toward the opposite tunnel. “Go back to your stupid gang. I’ve got more important things to focus on.”

Bandages began turning on his heel, presumably to bolt like a greyhound. But not before Jacket-Hoodie-Combo’s free hand lashed out and cuffed him on the neck, fingernails digging into skin. Bandages let out a cry of despair, screwing his eyes shut.

“The next time you feel like trying to pull a fast one on us,” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo hissed, holding his cleaver about an inch from Bandages’ face, “just remember that you have nine more fingers. . .and two legs. . .and a whole smorgasbord of things that, should you lose them, would leave you in much worse shape than what you’ve already lost.”

With that, Jacket-Hoodie-Combo shoved the other man away. Bandages quickly regained his balance and fled down the tunnel, the sound of his terrified footsteps still bouncing off the walls even after the shadows swallowed him up.

Jacket-Hoodie-Combo stared after him before rolling his eyes. He then straightened his back as he returned his focus to Sam. “Sorry you had to wait through all that. I’m just so fed up with people; I really thought he’d gotten the hint last time.”

Sam blinked at him, then cleared xer throat. “What exactly happened last time?”

“It’s not really a story worth telling. Just a bunch of wannabes trying to be competitors. They seem to think random street violence makes them look cool.” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo shook his head dismissively. “No tact at all, but they somehow managed to jeopardize one of our more recent plans. So, a message had to be sent. And I was assigned to do the sending.”

Sam tilted their head to the side. “One less person on their roster would probably be a more effective message. Isn’t that what this family specializes in?”

“Yes to both of those things, but The Boss wants certain problems handled more delicately.” Jacket-Hoodie-Combo slipped his cleaver back into his pocket. “I’m Caliban, but most people just call me Cal for short.” He then extended his hand, offering it to Sam.

Sam hesitated, but still reached out to shake. Ja—Caliban may have put away his blade, but she’d seen how quickly he’d been able to fish it out. Even so, he was the person she’d been looking for, and being polite was typically an easy way to stay safe.

That particular sentiment promptly threw itself out the window as an unnatural shape suddenly started moving inside Caliban’s hoodie.

Warning bells rang throughout Sam’s head as she remembered all the strange yet elaborate weapons that’d nearly cost her an eye, a few teeth, or varying amounts of blood in the past. She immediately took a couple steps back, but before she could draw The Lion’s Breath, something popped up through the hoodie’s collar.

Something with white fur. . .and long ears. . .and a pair of amber eyes above a twitching nose.

“And this is Snare,” Caliban chortled with a warm, knowing smile. “Don’t worry, he’s only dangerous when he needs to protect himself. Just treat him nicely and he’ll return the favor.”

This might’ve been the part where someone let their guard down due to a small animal entering the scene in an admittedly adorable way. To Sam, however, the fact that the hare had just been curled up in his owner’s hoodie while said owner threatened someone else with a knife wasn’t reassuring. Plus, despite Caliban’s cheerful tone, something in Sam’s gut told xer that he wasn’t actually joking about Snare being more deadly than he appeared.

“Nice to meet you,” xe coughed. “Thanks for intervening back there.”

Caliban nodded. “No problem. You must be Sam, yeah?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That depends: how do you know?” (She decided to play along and just ignore how Murdock had obviously followed through with alerting his accomplice.)

“You’re kind of the whole reason this family’s been working with Torchwood. Besides. . .” Caliban shrugged cheekily. “Well, ‘Doc has a couple stories about you.”

“Murdock is the kind of guy to have a couple stories about everybody,” Sam pointed out.

Excepting the typical violence and death, xer interactions with Murdock had been pretty offhand, if not ominous. So, at the sound of this, Sam was unsure whether to feel complimented, insulted, threatened, or some vague combination of the three.

“True, true. But apparently you’re the only person with green eyes he’s ever met.” Caliban then tilted his head, taking a second to seemingly regard those same eyes. “Very pretty, I’ve gotta say.”

It wasn’t the first time Sam had heard this; having such a rare eye color was a solid bragging right. And despite validation being one helluva drug, unfortunately, when you worked in underground businesses, flattery was often a display of ass-kissing at best and downright slimy at worst. Then again, Sam could tell that Caliban wasn’t trying to flirt or kowtow—

“I’ve never had green eyes before,” Caliban stated, hunger creeping back into his grin. “Wonder if they taste any different from brown or blue.”

. . .Well, then.

Sam’s throat suddenly felt very dry. Not surprising, since it would’ve been a miracle for their jaw to not have hit the ground. They could practically feel their tan skin turn a shade that was roughly on-par with Snare’s fur. They only realized they’d backed away several paces when Caliban started cackling.

“Oh my God, that was perfect!” Caliban wheezed, shoulders bouncing, barely able to speak through his laughter. “And I thought I’d never get a chance to use that one!”

Sam stared at him, trying and failing to stop shaking. She was no stranger to morbid humor, and thanks to her arrangement with Murdock, she’d thought she’d gotten used to those kinds of jokes being aimed at her.

But the way Caliban had said that. . .his voice had barely changed. He’d sounded so calm and casual about implying that he wouldn’t mind eating her fucking eyeballs.

Caliban eventually calmed down enough to form coherent sentences once again, heaving a sigh.

“Ah, don’t worry. Eyes are an acquired taste, and I honestly don’t want to acquire it. They combine the texture of grapes with the flavor of fish.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Pretty damn unpleasant unless they’re cooked in a special way. And I just don’t have the time or patience for that. Not when the body has plenty of other parts that are so much better.”

Sam instantly remembered the complete and total horror that had been on Bandages’ face, as well as his missing finger and all that gauze he’d been wearing. . .

The words hung in the air for an uncomfortable moment until Sam finally found her voice again. “Let me guess: those ‘other parts’ include chunks of skin out of someone’s arms?”

It took almost everything she had to keep from stammering. She’d already shown fear when she really shouldn’t have. Even though she was taller and clearly stronger, she couldn’t let him think that she was some shrinking violet.

“More or less,” Caliban answered with a shrug. “It had to be done, so what do you care?”

“I care because nobody bothered to tell me that I’d be working with a cannibal today!” Sam exclaimed, understandably incredulous. “Near-death experiences may have become the norm for me, but that doesn’t mean I can just deal with someone who might want to chop me into butcher’s parts!”

Caliban blinked at Sam, then rolled his eyes in an exasperated manner. “I already told you that you have nothing to worry about.”

“You only said that about my eyes!”

“Do you really think I would’ve scared that guy off if I wanted you dead?”

“I didn’t need anyone to scare that guy off for me. And if I’ve learned anything from Murdock, it’s that killers tend to get pissy when they don’t get to take someone off the census. So what assurance do I have that you won’t try something?”

Caliban mulled this over, then leaned against the wall behind him, looking Sam up and down again.

“First of all, you’re wearing that pin. If The Boss decides to protect you, then we all need to protect you, and I’m not looking to be reprimanded anytime soon. Second of all, I can’t afford to butcher anyone who the family hasn’t decided needs to disappear. And third of all. . .”

Something distant and unreadable manifested in his eyes.

“. . .Anyone who’s a friend of ‘Doc is a friend of mine.”

Sam furrowed xer brow. On one hand, Caliban was being pretty logical about this; he also hadn’t made any moves to try and harm xer, which was already a lot more than xe would’ve expected from a cannibal. On the other hand, however, having a conversation with a man who was a body-disposal resource for a mob, whose signature method for disposing of the bodies in question was to make meals out of them. . .

It was quite difficult to process. Especially considering how he thought taunting others with this fact was FUNNY.

(Plus, Sam couldn’t help but notice how Caliban had said “friend” in a snide tone, and that he clearly knew damn well how dangerous it was to associate with him or Murdock.)

“I’m not saying you have to trust me,” Caliban continued, “and I’m not much better than Murdock. But the options are always limited. So, you might as well take what you can get.”

Sam would’ve very much liked to call BS, but she couldn’t. Despite all the voices clamoring in her head, she knew that Caliban had a legitimate point. Besides, she couldn’t exactly ignore the sole purpose of managing to get Torchwood to partner with The Pentas Family. There were some unbelievably fucked-up people in the world; people who made Murdock look like a regular saint. And since those people would never be a big loss to society. . .well. . .

If Sam had been able to convince Murdock and his peers to target those who actually deserved all the terrifying things this mob specialized in, then that meant Caliban had been cannibalizing those same targets.

So, in the grand scheme of things, Caliban really was one of the better options of people to work with in an environment like this.

Sam sighed, straightening her back. “You left out how I’d knock you into next month if you gave me a reason to.”

Caliban offered a calm smile. “Probably, but I wouldn’t make it easy for you. Plus, you’d still have to worry about this guy avenging me.” He scratched Snare’s ears, to which the hare purred in an odd-yet-cute way.

Sam felt obligated to ask what exactly Snare was capable of, but Caliban gestured to the container in her hand.

“I’m assuming that’s for me?” He asked.

“. . .Yes,” Same answered, awkwardly lifting the cooler a bit.

“What is it? That thing’s too big to be transporting just one organ.” Caliban’s expression was curious and excited, like that of a child trying to guess what was hidden beneath Christmas wrapping paper.

Sam cringed. True, xe’d had to kill before, but dismemberment was a very different story, even though Murdock had been the one to divorce the target’s head from his body. Xe drew a line in the air around xer noggin, then made the slit-throat gesture.

Caliban chewed his lip. “A head? Really? That’s odd.”

“The rest had to be disposed of quickly,” Sam replied. “And I get the impression you don’t appreciate char-grilled stuff, so it’s this or nothing.” (The target’s corpse was probably a big pile of ashes by now, and it wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that no one, cannibal or not, would appreciate being given ashes to eat.)

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Caliban retorted. “Decapitations are just hard to pull off, so it’s pretty rare for ‘Doc or any of the others to do it.”

For whatever reason, Sam couldn’t really respond in any way other than shrugging. Eventually, they pronounced, “Aside from this delivery, I was told you needed help taking some. . .other things to the auction.”

“It’s not something I can’t do myself, but I wouldn’t say no to some extra help.” Caliban looked briefly surprised, but understanding returned to his features quickly enough. “‘Doc really needs to start using a planner, huh?”

“No kidding.” Sam glared at him before sighing. “Might as well happen, if I’m gonna be working with you guys.”

“Thaaaaat’s the spirit!” Caliban beamed in a very unconventional way. He turned away from Sam, then beckoned for her to follow as he started strolling into the tunnel on the right. Sam glanced at the other tunnels, then padded along, though she made sure to stay on the opposite side of the railway.

The cannibal walked at a quick pace, keeping both hands in his pockets. Snare didn’t budge from his owner’s hoodie; Sam couldn’t help but wonder if said hoodie had been modified to have a special interior pocket for the hare to ride in.

“So,” Caliban pronounced. “How did ‘Doc kill this guy? If he actually managed to take the head off before he died, I’m gonna be really impressed.”

“Why do you want to know?” Sam inquired. She realized too late that there had to be more than one reason, and that she would have approved of exactly none of them.

“Because if the head hasn’t been too damaged, then I might be able to sell some of the less-than-edible parts.”

Sam bit her tongue, barely able to keep repulsion out of her face. “Stabbing. Multiple times in the stomach.”

“Yeah, that sounds like ‘Doc.” Caliban glanced around Sam to analyze the cooler. “So, that’s a brain, two eyes, one tongue, at least twenty-seven teeth or so. . .”

“Uh—no, actually,” Sam piped up, cringing. “Murdock pulled all the teeth out during the first phase.”

Caliban quirked an eyebrow. “Probably should’ve expected something like that,” he admitted, sounding vaguely disappointed. “Oh, well. There’s no way the cleanup crew didn’t pick up the teeth themselves. Maybe they’ll drop ‘em off at the base.”

“And they would do that because. . ?”

“Because of the auction,” Caliban stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Teeth are easy to clean, and a whole mouthful can fit into the smallest jars. They’re probably the only pieces that can be sold on the same day as a job.”

Sam remembered that one time in her youth: when she’d been unable to sleep because she’d gotten so nervous about what a fairy could possibly want with the baby teeth she’d lost.

She shuddered at the thought of some suspicious character drilling tiny holes into a handful of teeth in order to line them up on a thin chain, and then wearing them as some awful necklace or bracelet. (Then again, a person would have to be pretty damn stupid to slip on a piece of evidence and show it off, but Sam supposed there wasn’t anything stopping that person from only wearing said evidence around places where they wouldn’t be questioned.)

“How do events like this work?” Sam blurted. She nearly froze in place, unsure whether to keep talking or to clamp a hand over her mouth.

Caliban tilted his head at her, smirking in a way that suggested he’d been waiting for her to say something she really didn’t mean to.

“Why do you want to know?” He questioned, making sure to mimic the tone she’d used just a couple minutes ago.

Sam suddenly couldn’t look at anything but the ground. The cooler felt like it was holding a few bricks. “. . .Just in case I ever have to deal with one of them for a mission.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason?” Caliban pressed. “There’s nothing wrong with morbid curiosity.”

“That’s a load coming from you,” Sam snarked. It wasn’t like she was afraid of silence, and she already knew that she wouldn’t like the answers Caliban would give. “If information is important enough, then I might as well ask questions.”

This was actually true. Sam may not have been inexperienced, but the underground was constantly changing and expanding.

(Assassinations and organ-trafficking were the pies The Pentas Family had its thumbs in. They most certainly wouldn’t guarantee anyone a spot in heaven, but Sam was still aware that, somehow, other illicit businesses managed to be much, much, much worse. . .)

Working with The Pentas Family would mean eventually having to face even more shady groups.

So, if xe had an opportunity to learn more, then xe needed to take it. For xer sake as well as the sake of xer peers at Torchwood.

“Well, for the most part, it’s pretty much just a simple market,” Caliban explained. “Plenty of customers make their offers ahead of time and come to collect, though they might browse if they have the time. Unsold items are displayed and open for bargaining. The auction itself starts near the end, and it’s only used for the most valuable stock.”

“Is part of that value the fact that you’ve managed not to eat it?” There was a generous amount of sarcasm in Sam’s tone, which xe used to distract xerself from how Caliban called human body parts items and stock.

“I feel like you’re trying to say I couldn’t pass the Marshmallow Test,” Caliban replied. “Which kinda stings, not gonna lie.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sam rolled xer eyes. “Last I checked, human organs are not at all similar to marshmallows.”

“You’re right: they’re a thousand times better than marshmallows, and that’s not my fault. Besides, they turn a nice enough profit to make it worth having to wait for another delivery.”

Sam stared at him, slowly shaking xer head in shock. Another moment passed before xe glanced between him and the cooler. “What kind of profit are you talking about?”

Caliban seemed genuinely excited to inform. “Prices can always fluctuate if the product has seen any damage. For example: let’s say I’m trying to sell a human skull. If the skull is in perfect condition, then I’d be able to expect three-thousand dollars or so. But if it’s missing teeth or has any cracks, then the most reasonable price would be about eight-hundred.”

“But why would someone even need a spare skull?” Sam interjected. “Even if it was possible to replace bones like organs, it’d still be way too late for someone who needed a skull donation!”

Caliban snickered. “‘Skull donation.’ I wouldn’t put it past some people to try making that a reality. . .” He then shrugged. “Maybe they’re running hidden experiments that require bone marrow. Maybe they’re testing out different types of weapons. Or maybe they just know something about art deco that you don’t.”

Sam, who always saw fake skulls in stores around Halloween season, couldn’t really argue with that last option. Xe wanted to, but xe couldn’t.

“I’m assuming someone would buy a femur just to give their dog an authentic chew toy?”

“Sure! Snare would know all about that. Just one phalange is enough to keep his teeth from getting too long.” Caliban raised a hand to chuck Snare under the chin. “Your bite’s already bad enough, isn’t it, buddy? Yes, it is!”

The hare responded by craning his neck to nuzzle against his owner’s cheek, his amber eyes practically sparkling. . .until he glanced over at Sam, that is. Then he contrived to look smug and a tad evil.

“A single kidney can sell for ten thousand,” Caliban continued, “and a matching pair can be worth up to two hundred-thousand.”

“‘Matching?’” Sam echoed, somehow having been caught even more off guard.

“. . .Okay, matching might not always be the right word. Especially if you’re harvesting from multiple bodies at a time.”

Sam’s stomach roiled at the thought. It was shocking that bile hadn’t started creeping into xer throat by now. Caliban kept going, and it was genuinely impossible to tell whether he was toying with Sam’s disgust or was just in Infodump Mode.

“Blood can sell from three-hundred-thirty-seven per pint to one-thousand per gallon. Livers go for five-hundred-thousand on average, but you’d be lucky to get three-hundred for intestines, large or small, since they’re naturally so contaminated. Eyes can be about thirty-thousand each, as long as they still have corneas.” Caliban paused, then grinned at Sam. “But that price can be even higher depending on how rare the color is.”

Sam listened before taking a subtle deep breath. Then she inquired, “. . .What about hearts?”

“Oh, a heart is worth a cool million! Even one with minor damage, let alone a perfect, untouched one.” Caliban chuckled. “Ah, maybe not quite untouched, but you get the idea.”

Sam imagined organs being organized into rows on a small table, each sealed inside a glass jar full of ethanol or isopropyl (xe supposed that could be one way of keeping Caliban from snacking on them). Xe imagined bones being displayed in a similar manner, albeit polished and maybe hung on metal racks. Xe imagined any number of people—probably way more than xer mental health was prepared for—peering at all those specimens, inspecting them, commenting on them.

Xe wondered what it was like from their end; it would be impossible for them to not ask questions, but those questions would likely be about quality that they’d learned to look for via fuck-knows-what. They could certainly try to ask about how the organic wares ended up for sale, but The Pentas Family couldn’t afford to give out that information for several reasons.

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Sam declared. “Human skin is typically ten dollars per square inch?”

Caliban did a doubletake that was almost neck-snapping. “Wow. You got it right on the nose!”

Sam blinked. Then blinked again. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not!” Caliban insisted. “An entire body’s worth of skin can go for up to thirty-thousand, but it’s rare for someone to buy it in bulk. Especially when you consider how difficult it is to remove it all in one piece.”

Goosebumps prickled on Sam’s arms; it almost felt like bugs were crawling all over her.

Sam knew that skin grafts could be used for perfectly kosher reasons. They were essential to a person’s recovery when severely burned, infected, or even cancerous tissues had to be removed. Plenty of dental offices used them for gum repair procedures.

But that was in normal society.

In the criminal underground, Sam had to assume that human skin could find its place as a watch strap, or a handbag, or seat covers for cars, or even an entire fucking sofa for whatever godforsaken reason. . .

Sam became extremely worried about what that meant for Caliban’s leather jacket.

“Wait.” Caliban suddenly halted in his tracks. “Waitwaitwaitwaitwait, hold on.”

“The first couple ‘waits’ didn’t tip me off,” Sam remarked, though they stopped walking in suit.

“Since we’re on the subject of skin. . .was that guy crying before he died?” Caliban’s eyes were fixated on the cooler.

Sam raised an eyebrow. She’d literally just told him about Murdock’s back alley-esque dental procedure. “Crying? He was bawling like a CEO who’s been told he can’t buy a tenth yacht to sink.”

Caliban’s eyes bulged from their sockets. His grin grew wider than Sam thought possible, to the point that he almost seemed to have too many teeth. His body language wasn’t violent, but the vibes he was giving off were now even more unsettling than they already had been.

Sam, who was debating on whether or not to draw The Lion’s breath, nervously asked, “Is that a prob—”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Caliban interjected. “ If a target cries, then lead with that when you make the delivery!”

Sam squinted at him, silently motioning for an elaboration. The cannibal didn’t seem angry; he didn’t even seem disappointed. If anything, he was practically bouncing up and down like an excited child.

“The skin on a person’s face usually isn’t worth cooking. There’s only enough of it for one sitting, and I always have to worry about acne and other nasty stuff like that. But tears have so much more of a kick than regular table salt!”

And just like that, Caliban was walking again, faster than before, making a clear effort to not break into a sprint. “C’mon, c’mon! We’re close to my basement! If I hurry, I can take the skin off and prepare it before we leave for the auction! Then it’ll be ready for me once I get back!”

Sam reluctantly quickened her pace. Even before she’d decided to follow a vegetarian diet, Sam had been thoroughly grossed out by the concept of eating chicken skin. And now her guts were turning to water because Caliban was chattering about how human skin compared to chicken skin.

At least her assumption about his jacket had been incorrect. . .

@that-bat @sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @ayoreneehere @callmegkiddo @anxious-ace @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp @overemotional-cactus @congratscat @neons-trash-blog @butterboyfly @echoing-night @sw33tst4rs @cmaniac123 @i-dont-like-it-here-please-help @xyzkiss @fluidfluxsomeone

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