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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

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Day 13: Bloodbath

(Note: the characters you’ll be reading about here are more fan-egos that belong to me. None of them will be referred to by actual names; instead, they will be organized by the same number system as the one in ISWM. This story is NOT related to ISWM Lore at all, the numbers are literally just inspiration easter-eggs. If you know your lore, then you won’t have any trouble figuring out who each character is based off of. As usual, the amazing @sammys-magical-au helped me shape this story, and the character L7181 is a nod to one of their lovely Lixian Egos!)

(Disclaimer: the horror game IRON LUNG is the property of David Szymanski. While I did create the characters in this story—except for The Convict/Mark’s Character/M2702, technically—the story itself is obviously inspired by the game’s elements. I STARTED WRITING THIS IN SEPTEMBER, AND AS OF RIGHT NOW, MARK’S IRON LUNG MOVIE HASN’T COME OUT YET. I HAVE NO WAY OF KNOWING WHAT THE MOVIE’S PLOT IS GOING TO BE LIKE. THIS STORY IS NOT AN ATTEMPT TO PREDICT ANYTHING. THIS IS LITERALLY JUST BASED OFF OF AN IDEA I HAD WHEN THE MOVIE WAS ANNOUNCED. SO PLEASE DON’T TRY BLASTING ME WHEN THE MOVIE INEVITABLY HAS DIFFERENT ELEMENTS THAN MY FANFICTION. AND EVEN IF THE MOVIE GETS RELEASED BEFORE I POST THIS STORY, I’M STILL KEEPING THIS STORY BECAUSE IT TOOK A LOT OF TIME AND EFFORT. IT’S JUST MY PERSONAL IMAGINING OF WHAT THE MOVIE COULD BE LIKE.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, claustrophobic environments, isolation, flashbacks/implied trauma, imprisonment, physical violence, implied self-harm, slight mentions of eating/drinking, thalassophobia, mentions of suffocation, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12

It felt like hours had passed since the Iron Lung was lowered into the bowels of AT-5’s ocean, and yet M2702’s stomach was still being wracked with that instinctual dropping sensation. He shifted in the provided chair, practically leaning on the control panel in order to maneuver the submarine. The bright lights were harsh against his eyes, but they were far easier to handle than the darkness at the rear of the vessel.

He’d already had to retreat back there three times. Three stops aligned with the markings on the map, three photographs collected. That was the whole goddamn point of this voyage, after all. And each time he did, his instincts swore that something in the shadows would pin him to the floor and tear him apart. The brief illumination offered by the camera or terminal’s screen did absolutely nothing to ease that paranoia.

The walls were so rusty that M2702 was pretty sure he’d contracted tetanus just by looking at them.

Not that he’d have enough time to find out.

He found himself recoiling out of nowhere, shaking his head as an oily sensation bloomed under his face to announce that a vein somewhere in his nose had burst. A thin scarlet line slowly but surely seeped down over his lips and chin.

___

Pink.

That was the first thing he saw after his capture.

The space station he’d been dragged off to was a vast expanse of steel platforms and iron tunnels. He’d expected that, of course. It was no secret that iron was the C.O.I.’s pride and fucking joy. What he hadn’t expected was for the station’s interior—or, everything in the section he and the other convicts were being held in, at least—to be tinted the pastel color of candy.

But it most certainly was.

The walls, the floors, the tables lining the commissary, the intercoms in the corners of the ceilings, the plastic tubes containing very tiny amounts of freeze-dried food that were given to him and the others twice per day.

Everything. Pink.

(Even with the way supplies were dwindling, he had to admit: this probably helped enforce the strict policy against alcohol in space. Spending any amount of time here with a hangover would kill you.)

It truly seemed like the only non-rose-colored things in here were A. the headache-inducing fluorescent panels, B. the stainless steel sinks and toilets set up behind privacy screens in the far corners of the holding cells, and C. the almost scrub-like outfits required to be worn by anyone who was here against their will.

That might’ve been the part he hated the most. The goddamn uniforms.

Before he’d been beaten to the ground at the Filament Station, he’d worn a special type of clothing made from hydrophobic materials that also happened to be reinforced and self-cleaning. Now, he had to dress in simple garb that would’ve been found on Earth: a thin, itchy gray shirt with trousers to match, as well as a pair of laceless shoes that were determined to chew blisters into his ankles with every step he took.

To top it all off, his arms had been wrapped in a pair of black bracers, the left one adorned by a white patch that silently announced M2702 in a bold font. They reminded him of the blood-pressure cuffs he always saw in pharmacies as a child. Whatever fabric had been used to make these things, it was tough and tight; the skin hidden underneath felt so damn sore.

But hey, at least he wasn’t alone in that particular suffering.

Hours after he’d been taken prisoner, after those stupid bastards were finished examining him and looking over his vitals, he was practically shoved into one of the station’s excuses for a cafeteria. Other people had been there—more members of Eden whom he just hadn’t worked closely enough with—milling about, all turning their heads in near-perfect unison at the sound of the heavy steel door sliding shut behind him.

He kept his expression neutral, glaring right back as he maneuvered around the tables. By the time he’d collected his meal (a water bottle and a small vacuum-sealed package of what was apparently dehydrated chicken breast), everyone else had resumed either silently eating or having muted discussion. . .except for one.

A woman sporting a head of long, gently-curling chestnut hair. She waved to get his attention, nodded when he gestured toward himself, and beckoned him over to one corner of the area. As he cautiously drew closer, it took little time for him to realize just how petite she was despite obviously being an adult. She also appeared to be ill; her big brown eyes were watery and red around the edges, while her skin was a few shades paler than it probably should’ve been. The white patch on her left-arm-bracer read R1126.

“You’re from Eden, aren’t you?” She asked barely a second after he sat down across from her.

He hesitated before nodding. “Yeah, I am.”

R1126 wrung her hands. “So he was right, then.”

“Who’s ‘he?’” M2702 inquired. “What was he right about?”

“My brother. He said he saw a few people in his sleep a couple weeks earlier. The way he described one of them sounded exactly like the way you look.” She paused, glancing here and there as she drummed her nails on the table. She seemed to be bracing herself for something, like someone who knew from experience that there was a dead animal in the middle of a path they needed to take every day. “He saw the battle at the Filament Station.”

M2702 felt his mouth open and close a few times. He leaned back, blinking and slowly shaking his head. “That’s not possible. The attack only broke out a few days ago.”

“He dreamt about it,” R1126 responded in a very exasperated manner. Her tone became rueful and concerned as she continued. “And you’re right: it shouldn’t be possible. But it’s been years since he started having nightmares. Up until now, they’ve just gotten worse, much more frequent. And the things he remembers happening in them. . .”

The seconds felt painful as they dragged by, jeering at M2702 as he stared at his new conversation partner. If this had taken place decades prior, he probably would’ve rolled his eyes at her, maybe even scoffed. Her claim was outrageous; he couldn’t just believe it.

He never would’ve believed that so many of the stars and planets could just blink out of existence, one after the other, either.

He didn’t want to believe in something like that.

But he had to.

That was the reason for all the tensions between Eden and the C.O.I., the reason he’d wound up here in the first place.

“Where is he now?” M2702 wondered aloud. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked that, of all things. Then again, a person who had regular nightmares laced with a premonition or two was probably someone to look out for. “And why’re you telling me all this?”

“In solitary confinement. He was taken in two days ago, but he’s supposed to be let out sometime today.” R1126 chewed her lip. “I want you to understand. . .when you’re able to meet him. . .”

Her eyes suddenly grew wide, the grim anxiety that’d just wormed its way into them quickly warping into panic. She gasped for air, drawing her arms closer—one hand hovered before her mouth, and the other clutched at her stomach.

“H-He’s not a bad person, I swear. All our time in this place has just made him scared. Desperate. Paranoid. I know he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s just trying. . .”

Her movements were soft as she began to rock back and forth in her seat, visibly swallowing several times as though there was a literal frog trying to climb up her throat, “. . .to find a way o-out of here. . !”

M2702 halfway rose from his chair. He’d learned the warning signs of vomiting at an early age, but his thoughts still seemed to sink through his skull for whatever reason. What was he supposed to do for her? Give her water? Alert someone else and lead them to her?

R1126 must’ve seen the way he glanced at the counters across the cafeteria, because she shook her head. “No, no. Don’t bother; even if they had the right medicine around here, I doubt they’d give it to me.” She straightened her back, gingerly rolling her shoulders as her hands found their way back to the table. “I-I’ll be fine.”

M2702 squinted at her, moving slowly as he sat back down. She sure as hell didn’t seem fine. “What’s wrong? What happened to you?”

R1126 stayed quiet for another moment. She started drumming her nails again, her eyes drilling through him with the exhausted demeanor of someone who’d developed a habit of expecting the worst of people. “I have no idea, honestly. I’ve just been able to. . .taste things in the air. And I’m not even sure what those things are.” She paused, shuddering. “But they’ve been so horrible. Even if I’ve adjusted somewhat, I just can’t seem to go a day without nausea.”

M2702 felt his brow furrow as the information sank in. He’d heard about plenty of sensory disorders in his time, but this was in a weight class of its own. The way she described her condition reminded him of how snakes could taste scents instead of just smelling them.

Again, a voice in his head demanded to know where the logic could possibly be, to which another voice chided it for still trying to find logic in times like this.

“It’s stuck with me for years now. Since before I was taken prisoner,” R1126 continued. Fear integrated itself with the pain and frustration in her expression. Her voice tapered down to a whisper: “I think the Rapture caused it. I think it caused my brother’s nightmares, too.”

More silence festered between the two of them.

Eventually, M2702 thought to ask the million-dollar question: “Were you two part of Eden?”

R1126 flinched, tilting her head at him.

“Sorry, it’s just—” M2702 sighed. “I was limited to working with a specific team, and I can’t recognize your face.”

R1126 fidgeted in place for a long, tense moment. “. . .We were traveling to Eden. Before the Rapture, we’d inherited a small ship, and we were using it to planet-hop for personal research.” Her voice hitched on Rapture, as though the word was a bundle of thorns caught between her lungs.

M2702 knew that feeling all too well.

R1126 took a quick, deep breath. “After we found out how all the things we’d managed to document were just disappearing, we had to keep changing course and sending out distress signals every day. Sooner or later, we remembered hearing about the tree gardens on Mars, so we figured that might be the safest place to land. While we were making our way there, we came across this station. Some of the people here answered our call and welcomed us inside. But once we explained our plans to them. . .”

The tremor in her voice grew worse. Her eyes began to glisten, clearly more out of emotion than sickness. “They got hostile. Wouldn’t let us leave, seized our ship and everything we had left on it.” She lowered her head, furiously scrubbing her tears away before they could start flowing.

Something awful stabbed its way through M2702’s ribcage. One part of him wanted to place a hand on her shoulder, to try and offer some support as she grounded herself. But another part ordered him to stay still, insisting that he was past the point of being able to help.

R1126 briefly ground her jaw as she resumed eye-contact with him. “I’m not sure how long we’ve been trapped here since then. It’s just gotten so hard to keep track of time.”

M2702’s train of thought came crashing to a violent halt. He and his colleagues already had their suspicions of the C.O.I. being corrupt, of its collectivist ideals being more focused on cult-esque control than conservation.

But to hear that this organization had been imprisoning civilians. . . people who had absolutely nothing to do with what was going on at the Filament Station. . .

Without warning, the same booming, metallic hiss he’d heard not too long ago raced through the air. M2702 turned in his seat just in time to watch another man being pushed into the cafeteria.

The new stranger—P0620 was printed on his left-arm-bracer—was the same height as him, fair-skinned with short, chocolate-colored hair that appeared to have been pulled on a regular basis. He gained his bearings quickly enough, fixing whoever was on the other side of that door with a venomous glare. Just as he began venturing further into the room, a blur manifested in M2702’s peripheral vision. That blur turned out to be R1126, who rushed over to P0620, tugging at his arm. P0620 wasted no time embracing her, briefly closing his eyes as his grimace melted into something that managed to be relieved and anxious at the time. Almost as if he thought she’d vanished in his absence the way so many planets and stars had.

It didn’t last.

The duo exchanged a few hushed words, and stress came flooding back to P0620’s expression as he scanned the area. M2702 couldn’t help but slightly recoil when that gaze landed on him. P0620’s eyes were bloodshot, wild, impatient. And when he began stalking toward him, it was all too easy to realize just how calculating they were.

M2702’s instincts told him to get to his feet, to be on-guard. The other man quickened his pace, only stopping once he was a few feet away, hands half-outstretched.

“Which side started firing first? How many casualties have there been so far?” P0620’s tone was sharp, almost searing. Despite never having known him before, M2702 could somehow tell that his voice wasn’t meant to be like that. It alone was damning evidence of trauma. “How exactly did they catch you? Did you kill anyone before that?!”

M2702 narrowed his eyes, holding his hands out in a defensive gesture. But before he could actually respond, R1126 stepped in front of him.

“Stop,” she commanded, her voice becoming solemn in time with the way her eyes hardened. “You’re not doing this again.”

P0620 sputtered, glancing back and forth between his sibling and the new inmate. “Wha—I have to!”

R1126 shook her head. “No, you don’t. And even if you did, I still can’t just let you. Not until you’ve actually calmed down, at the very least.”

P0620 took a few deep breaths. One of his eyes twitched as he began kneading at his temples. “Being calm hardly matters anymore.”

“Not the point. You really think I don’t know how the punishments have been getting worse? It might not be much longer before those bastards start torturing you for no reason!”

“That’s why I need to get a better understanding of the visions!” P0620 threw his hands up as his voice shot through a good few octaves. “I saw the conflict before anyone else did! So, if someone involved with it would actually answer my damn questions, then maybe I could use that info to put more pieces together when the next one comes!”

M2702 cautiously stepped away, moving in order to see both of the sibling’s faces.

“That doesn’t mean—” R1126 tried, only to cut herself off, dipping her head. She cleared her throat, grit her teeth. “You can’t just—”

A low scraping noise seemed to crawl out of her mouth. Her breathing grew more and more ragged. Both her and her brother’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“N-no—not here—I need. . !”

And just like that, R1126 collapsed, clawing at her neck as she dry-heaved on the floor.

All the frustration evaporated from P0620’s features, replaced by panic as he cried out and knelt down beside her, trying to help her stand.

___

It didn’t matter that the front window had to be kept closed due to the pressure down here. It was pointless to have a window at all. Just hearing the gallons upon gallons upon gallons of blood churning and stirring around the Iron Lung would’ve been enough. Even if he hadn’t actually touched any of it yet, he could still tell just how viscous it was.

That wasn’t it, of course.

Relentless heat oozed through the submarine’s framework, making its interior humid even before one of the pipes spat out a plume of steam. This almost made M2702 miss the uncomfortable chill that always seemed to be present in the space stations he’d visited before.

That infamous metallic stench was nearly palpable in the air: to the point that he could taste it with each breath he took. He wondered if this was similar to what R1126 had been suffering through.

___

“Y’know, my training really made me a light sleeper,” M2702 mentioned. “I never had insomnia or any of the typical sleeping problems growing up. But when your job requires you to travel so far and be aware for as long as possible, you just learn to wake up as quickly as you drift off.”

He quietly paced the floor of his cell, which almost could’ve passed for an enormous display case. Three of the walls surrounding him were glass, adorned by uniform rows of holes just barely wide enough to fit his index finger through. The fourth one, the one closest to the mattress he’d been lying on a couple minutes ago, seemed to be made of metal.

They were all tinted that goddamn specific shade of pink, obviously.

“It was tough, but I managed. Can’t really say the same for the others I shared a unit with, though,” M7202 continued as he leaned against the privacy screen in the corner. “So many of them always tossed and turned for hours; that didn’t always keep the rest of the room up, but it could still be so aggravating sometimes. . .”

He peered out from behind the screen, glaring into the glass cell on the right of his.

A woman sporting pale skin and long, straight black hair scrutinized him from behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.

“. . .It’s safe to say you would’ve been a problem back there,” M2702 concluded dryly, ignoring the chill that raced down his spine. “Look at you. You’re not even pretending to sleep.”

“There’s no point in doing that,” C4560 answered. While she too made sure to keep her voice at a whisper, her words still dripped with acid. “I told you: I can’t sleep anymore. No matter what I try, my brain just won’t allow it. I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t even close my eyes for long periods.”

M2702 snorted as quietly as he could. “Yeah, well, I’m struggling to see the merit in taking that out on me.”

Out of all the other prisoners he’d come across so far, C4560 was undoubtedly the most tense.

Much like R1126 and many others, he hadn’t been able to recognize her. The first evening he’d been locked into his holding pen, he’d asked her a few questions; her replies had been terse, as well as a little too infuriatingly cryptic for his taste. (It sort of made him sympathize with P0620.)

He’d only learned three things only about her: she’d never been a member of Eden, she’d apparently been kept captive here much, much, much longer than anyone else in this particular branch of the station, and. . .right, the whole loss-of-ability-to-rest-and-not-be-such-a-damn-creep thing.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Even if science still hadn’t learned exactly how long a human could survive without sleep, M2702 was certain that his next-door neighbor should’ve been dead by now, with the limited explanation she’d given him.

And yet, here she was: breathing, speaking, watching.

Not that she looked healthy at all.

Her cold brown eyes almost looked sunken thanks to the bags that had long-since formed right beneath them. The skin in that area seemed like it held so much more pain than any bruise he’d ever witnessed before. Of course, that did nothing to change the fact that it felt like she was stabbing M2702 every time she glanced at him.

“What did the Rapture do to you?” C4560 asked for. . .what was it, the thirteenth time in just five days?

M2702 scowled at this, marching closer to place his hands against the glass. “Where the fuck do you get off? It didn’t do anything to me.”

She hummed, stepping forward to touch the barrier of her own cell. “No, it did. You just aren’t aware of your symptoms yet. Maybe they’ve been slow to develop for you.”

“Even if that was true, it’d be none of your damn business.”

“Oh, you mean, just like you didn’t have to try and ask about my business when you got here?”

M2702 could feel his knuckles turning white. He then heaved a guttural sigh, lightly shaking his head. “Fine. Let’s say there’s a modicum of truth to that. How exactly can you tell that there’s something wrong with me? And how are you so sure that it’s because of the Rapture? What, were you there to see it happen? Were you the one to accidentally flip the wrong goddamn switch and set it all off?”

Other than the way she raised an eyebrow to such blatant sarcasm, C4560’s face barely moved. Sure, it was dark in this area right now, but M2702 had seen her under those obscenely bright fluorescents elsewhere in the station. And in broad light, she still gave the impression that a dozen or so vipers were coiled up together inside her head, looking at the world through her exhausted yet piercing eyes, patiently waiting for someone else to make a wrong move. . .

“I think I’ve just learned to tell,” she eventually declared. “That’s the only thing you can do when you have so much time and nowhere to go: you learn. One way or another. The process isn’t pleasant—or, it isn’t anymore, at least. But that’s all we have left.”

M2702 felt his face soften by just a smidge. He’d only known C4560 for a few days, and he already knew that he’d never understand her or what her damage was.

But there was absolutely no denying just how real that last statement was.

C4560 studied him, then carefully slanted her head to the side.

“Well, I hope you manage to learn something before your symptom is ready to start working. I get the feeling that it’s gonna turn you inside-out,” she mused. “Yeah, it’ll just drag all your blood and bones and sinew out for everyone to see. You’ll survive, but you’ll have to be so much more careful with doing anything after that, won’t you?”

It was everything M2702 could do not start shaking. “Oh, go to hell,” he hissed as he tore himself away from the glass. “Go straight to hell’s fucking boiler room.”

There was a pause.

And then. . .C4560’s lips twitched before slowly, ever-so-slowly, curling into a grin. “Hell?” She repeated. She dipped her head as a strange, quiet chuckle seeped through her lips. “Saying that makes it sound like there’s an alternative.”

The words had barely slithered into the air before a chorus of terrified gibbering erupted from across the room. For the first time all night, C4560 took her eyes off of M2702.

M2702, meanwhile, crept over to the front and foremost wall.

“DON’T LISTEN TO THEM! THEY’RE LYING TO YOU!” P0620 shrieked. He seemed to be clawing at his head. “THEY’LL JUST TAKE YOUR LUNGS AND DRAIN THEM INTO THE ENGINES!”

It wasn’t hard to see the other row of glass cages opposite of his and the two flanking it. Through the darkness, however, it probably shouldn’t have been so easy for him to make out the form of P0620 as he thrashed and quaked on his own mattress in his own cell.

“THEY’LL TAKE YOUR EYES FIRST! THEY’LL CHOOSE ONE SET AND KEEP THE OTHER SET TO BOIL!” P0620 howled again. In the cell next to his, the outline of R1126 was very clearly shivering, digging her nails into her ears as she rocked back and forth.

“IT’LL SET THE BLOOD ON FIRE! YOU’LL BE PART OF THE OCEAN! YOU’RE NOT HIM!”

It took a couple minutes for the screaming to taper down a notch. P0620 didn’t go silent; he was still murmuring, still yelping, still trying to escape whatever was attacking him from inside his eyelids.

M2702 backed away, skulking over to his mattress before C4560 could return her focus to him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered.

He could tell that she was still watching him through the obstacles between them.

___

The long, droning bellow felt like icy needles stabbing into M2702’s skull.

It made his intestines burn.

It was trying to persuade his spine to tear itself out of his skin, to slither out between the rusted walls and into the ocean of gore.

If that were to happen, he supposed his vertebrae would be right at home.

He’d already taken so many pictures of enormous carcasses that had sunk down to the very bottom. They were just piles of bones; he couldn’t tell whether flesh had eroded away or been picked clean by smaller creatures that worked themselves into a frenzy once their meal’s original killer swam far enough away.

It was almost a surprise that he flinched at the feeling of a droplet plopping down on his head.

Another crimson tear fell from the ceiling, landing against the control panel with a tiny splat.

And another. . .and another. . .

___

M2702 would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t proud of himself for keeping track of the days. He knew his internal clock was suffering, and he knew that suffering would only get worse the longer he was kept here. But for now, he made an effort to go along with his new, enforced schedule.

He’d watched more and more convicted people manifest into the space station. Most were severely wounded in one way or another. About half had been unconscious upon their arrival, and half had been awake and struggling much like he’d been.

Of the ones he’d seen being brought in, he only recognized two. He hadn’t worked with them directly, but he could remember seeing their faces, passing them in hallways back on Mars. One of them had black hair almost as long as his own, the bangs of which sometimes covered one of his warm amber eyes. The other was an adult, but still clearly younger than the majority of people around him, lean yet muscular, boasting stark-white hair and grayish-blue eyes.

They’d quickly been labeled L7181 and E9342, respectively.

L7181 had been the only new prisoner to not outwardly fight. Oh sure, he’d snarled at the people who’d flanked him—if looks could kill, both of those bastards would’ve been reduced to decorative splatters on the pink floors—but he’d still walked in time with them, his face shifting between bitter resignation and very obvious resentment at being guided along as though he couldn’t move for himself.

And after that, L7181 barely spoke at all. He made a clear effort to keep some amount of distance between himself and everyone else, his expression always cold, frustrated, disinterested. (Not that he could be blamed for that behavior, of course.) Even when M2702 saw that same spark of recognition in the other man’s eyes once they’d eventually settled on him. . .well, nothing really came of it, unless you counted a curt nod.

It took what M2702 estimated to be a month before that disposition ripped itself apart.

He’d been pacing up and down the precious few corridors he had access to—it was in between meal times right now, but the cafeteria was just too goddamn crowded for him to think—when he heard the distant screaming.

“UUUUUAAAAGGH!”

Now, screams weren’t at all uncommon in this place, but when the source grew closer and closer to where M2702 had paused, he realized just how. . .different these ones were.

“AAAAIIIEEAAAAAH!”

They were horrified, desperate, almost completely unhinged.

They were nearly on-par with the way P0620 shrieked in his sleep.

And they were all coming from L7181.

M2702 was just barely in time to duck around one shadowy corner.

“NO! NO, NO, NONONONONOOO!” L7181 careened down the hall, not even seeming to gasp for air in between his cries. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

A few of the station’s researchers were in hot pursuit. They shouted after him, but their words were almost totally drowned out by all the noise he was making.

M2702 watched from his impromptu hiding spot as one of them finally caught up to L7181, hands slamming into his back, throwing him to the floor and pinning him down. L7181 didn’t stop screaming, thrashing with more energy and strength than M2702 had ever seen in him before.

The rest of the scientists circled around him, helping the original one keep their hold. Then, as a unit, they half-carried-half-dragged L7181 further down the passage, over to the door that led to one of the cell rooms.

M2702 didn’t know why he decided to follow them. It wasn’t even a concrete decision; from deep within his guts, a quiet voice just demanded that he take advantage of this chaos in some way.

So, he crept along after the group, managing to slip past them all without being seen once that door slid open. He retreated around the now empty glass cages, pressing himself against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible.

L7181 was hauled over to the cell he’d been assigned to—one right next to P0620’s, on the opposite side of R1126’s. Still shrieking. Still fighting. One of the researchers typed a code into the keypad on the cage’s sliding door, then shoved the panicking man through.

The extra force wasn’t even needed; L7181 sprinted into his cell the second its door was opened. He lost his balance, tripping at the center as the threshold was sealed once again, but it was obvious that he didn’t care. The only thing he seemed to be focused on was movement. So, he crawled. Crawled as fast as he possibly could until he reached one corner, where he pressed himself into that space where glass connected to metal.

He didn’t go limp there. No, he clawed at the walls, squirming with such violence that he could’ve very well been mistaken for having a seizure.

The researchers watched him for what felt like an hour, shaking their heads and murmuring amongst themselves. Then, they finally filed out of the cell room, one by one, none of them even glancing in M2702’s direction.

M2702 stayed down, stayed hidden for another moment. Once the sound of footsteps truly disappeared from the other side of the wall, he slunk out, trudging along the space in between the rows of cages until he was hovering near L7181’s.

The convict in question was rambling now, a mess of terrified phrases set in Portuguese leaking through his teeth. His screams had gotten a bit shorter with a few more seconds between each one. “I-I can hear them! I can hear them! I CAN HEAR THEM!”

“Hear. . .what?” M2702 called with more hesitation than he’d care to admit.

L7181’s head shot up, his frantic eyes now fixed on the man outside of his cage. He didn’t stop spasming.

“The things on AT-5,” he eventually rasped. It truly seemed like he had to force the words out. “The monsters living in its ocean!”

M2702 felt his heart skip a beat. The ship that’d transported him from the Filament Station to this one. . .through one of its few, pressurized windows, he’d gotten to take a brief look at the enormous pool of scarlet.

It would’ve been impossible for anyone to not know about the sea of blood that resided on the moon nearest to this station.

Just as it was impossible for anyone to doubt that there were lifeforms inside that sea. . .

“He means The Gongoozler,” another voice suddenly called from across the room, wracked with manic giggles. “He’s gotten a chance to listen to The Gongoozler and all the other screamy-scaley-squishies swimming around in the plasma.”

M2702 startled, glancing over his shoulder. It took an embarrassingly long few seconds for him to remember how E9342 had essentially been put in a timeout earlier.

The young man leaned against the door in his cell; one of his eyes was swollen shut, a fresh bruise still blooming around it. His grin seemed to stretch quite literally from ear-to-ear as he surveyed his fellow inmates. “You should be grateful, y’know. I’ve always wanted to hear The Gongoozler’s call for myself! Quick, what’s it sound like? Please, please tell me!”

M2702 chewed his lip, now fluctuating between dread and irritation.

Back at Eden, E9342 had made a bit of a reputation for managing to stay positive and productive in such bleak scenarios. It was a bit odd, yes, but it’d been pretty damn refreshing at times.

But ever since he’d been brought here, that trait had changed in an awful way. His smiles were now twisted and eerie. The jokes he insisted on constantly making were dark and morbid. And the giggles that he apparently couldn’t go five minutes without emitting sounded. . .poisonous.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” L7181 stammered, screwing his eyes shut. He held one trembling fist close to his mouth, biting at the knuckle of his index finger. It hardly took any time at all for him to draw his own blood. “I’ve just gotten their attention. Th-they know I can hear them. And now they’ll NEVER. STOP. MAKING. ME. LISTEN!”

C9342 snickered and nodded along, dragging his nails down the length of his forearm over and over and over again, leaving harsh red lines in his skin. It wouldn’t be longer before he started bleeding as well.

“People have ALREADY DIED DOWN THERE! I heard a HUMAN screaming and drowning! I-I-I heard metal being torn to shreds and scattered!” L7181 lurched forward, curling further into himself. Even his eyes seemed to be shaking, all the way down to the pupils, which had shrunk to pinpricks. “Someday I’m going to wake up outside the station! I’ll be falling as soon as I open my eyes and the blood will reach up and wrap around me and drag me all the way down to the deepest pits it has! Oh no, oh no, oh no, n-n-no!”

M2702 felt his hands tangle themselves in his hair. He reeled back from the other cell.

The world seemed to be moving without his consent.

His vision was growing blurry around the edges.

“I’m gonna die,” L7181 choked out. He covered his face in both hands, his screams having transformed into sobs. “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. . .”

“Yeah, but not exactly,” C9342 mused, his face almost thoughtful as he chortled. “We all will, but it shouldn’t be too bad. We’ll get to see each other again in six years, nine months, four days, twenty hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds. The time will go faster than you think, I promise! Then we’ll all be together.” He cackled, seeming to choke on his own saliva. “With The Gongoozler, of course.”

“Will you shUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING GONGOOZLER?!” M2702 raged, halfway closing the distance as he stormed over to E9342’s cell.

E9342 flinched, but he remained standing. His sanity-breaking smile grew even wider. “You think I DON’T WANT TO?!” He practically howled with glee as he punched and kicked at the glass in front of him. “You think I’m CHOOSING THIS?!”

He started ramming his head against the barrier with a chorus of dull, heavy thuds. Along with a loud, sickening CRACK as blood started gushing from his nose. More and more bruises were already forming on his face. But he just kept on laughing, struggling to speak or breathe. “YOU JUST DON’T FUCKING GE-HEHEHE-ET IT!”

___

With all the weight it had gained, it was no surprise that the Iron Lung was now dragging along the ocean floor rather than gliding above it.

M2702 was up to his waist in blood. He could feel it dripping from his hair, trickling along his face. His chest heaved in and out as he waded through it.

The air had become so thin, so rancid. He could barely even take in a full breath anymore.

He was completely enveloped by a horrific gurgling sound from the outside.

When the submarine had first started leaking. . .the blood had been cold. Cold enough to feel like thousands of tiny knives against his skin as it seeped through his clothing.

But now. . .now the blood was warm.

So warm.

Too warm.

Nearly scalding.

M2702 knew that he couldn’t think anymore. There was no point.

His brain was well-past not receiving enough oxygen. He knew he wasn’t going to resurface.

Even so, he knew that the blood needed to be as hot as it was.

After all, the ocean itself was alive.

It didn’t just house the individual organisms that’d been taunting him for so long, that’d been swimming closer and closer to him and ramming the Iron Lung's outer walls with their tails or fins or teeth.

This ocean was a living creature.

And soon, very soon, M2702 would get to join that life.

@sammys-magical-au @altegos

17 notes · View notes

wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 year

Text

The Pentas Family Encyclopedia

So, if you’ve been reading my more recent fics, then you’ve probably noticed how I can’t seem to shut up about [The Future Mob Project]. Although this project is going to take a very, very, VERY long time to actually complete, that’s not going to stop me from fleshing out its characters, environment, and lore piece-by-piece. I’ve already written a few stories for this, and plenty more stories are on the way.

(Except for Murdock—and, to an extent, Two-Toes Johnny—every character/ego on this list is MY creation. If any art or other stories happen to be inspired by them, PLEASE make sure to tag/credit me as the creator. I haven’t been this motivated to write in a long time, and I put a lot of time, thought, and effort into my work. If you have questions about the characters or lore, feel free to send me an ask or a DM. I love talking about creative stuff!)

This mob has a lot of growing/developing to do, and I will ABSOLUTELY be making updates/reblogs to this post as new characters are introduced and new ideas are implemented. Please keep in mind that updates may be sporadic, because adult life is complicated and exhausting and I’m ScaredTM.

(Also: @sammys-magical-au, I can’t thank you enough for all the help/advice you’ve given me with certain plot-points so far. You’re an amazing friend, and I’m so excited to brainstorm about upcoming characters/stories with you.)

Now, without further adieu, let’s get on with the infodumping. . .

__________

🆃🅷🅴 🅿🅴🅽🆃🅰🆂 🅵🅰🅼🅸🅻🆈

This mob consists of several contract-killers, spies/informants, and Black Market merchants. The Boss will often assign the mob’s members to dispatch specific targets, but the aforementioned members are still able to take on hit-jobs if they’re approached by outside clients.

🅲🅷🅰🆁🅰🅲🆃🅴🆁🅸🆂🆃🅸🅲🆂

They’ve long-since claimed the Cove Port Inlets (a quaint seaside city) as their territory. The Inlets used to have an expansive subway system, but those underground tunnels were abandoned due to a bad flood; thus, the above-ground stations were repurposed into varying shops/houses. However, each of those former stations are still connected to the subway tunnels via concrete staircases (which are now carefully hidden). The former stations have all been purchased by The Pentas Family—now, the mob’s representatives either live in or work out of them. As a bonus, the abandoned security offices/subway platforms are used as underground dens/hidey-holes, and the tunnels offer discreet movement beneath the city.

There’s no enforced dress-code, but it’s still advised that Pentas representatives wear red. The red garments in question can be any type of clothing so long as it’s visible, and they can vary from shade to shade.

In the event that the mob gains an ally (not a new member), that ally will be provided with an enamel pin designed to look like a poison dart frog. This dart frog pin will act as an identification device for Pentas members who somehow may be unaware of the new alliance; that way, the ally won’t be mistaken for an intruder. (The dart frog pin can also be used as a warning sign for unallied outsiders—basically, This person is under Pentas protection; screw around with them and YOU WILL REGRET IT.)

__________

🅻🅴🅰🅳🅴🆁

The Boss [NAME TBA]

Who She’s Bases Off Of: Pamela Horton (PamelaHorton13)

Red Attire: Collarbone tattoo of Egyptian star flowers, aka Pentas lanceolata

Notes:

[INFORMATION TBA]

Current Stories: [TBA]

__________

🅼🅴🅼🅱🅴🆁🆂

Murdock Mallory

Who He’s Based Off Of: Mark Fischbach (Markiplier)

His Method of Work: Honestly, he’s a jack-of-all-trades. Oh sure, he has an unhealthy amount of knowledge on different types of blades, but that’s just the beginning. Pretty much anything can be a weapon, depending on how creative (read: insane) you are. He also knows his way around firearms, but for...personal reasons, he only uses them when there are no other options available.

Red Attire: Turtleneck sweater (Currant)

Notes:

He has a rare case of eye-misalignment. Specifically speaking, his right eye is turned to the right (as though he’s looking at something sideways). His left eye can move around in its socket as intended, but his right eye never follows along with that movement. According to him, the misalignment was caused by a traumatic accident he experienced before he’d joined The Pentas Family (apparently, it’s a miracle he wasn’t rendered half-blind). When he’s working on underground business, he wears his sunglasses. But when he’s keeping up appearances in normal society, he wears a white medical eyepatch.

Both his black-tinted sunglasses and brass necklace are trophies from his earliest kills. (Yes, I will try to go more in-depth with this idea in the future.)

He was the first official member of The Pentas Family, and has since earned a reputation for being The Boss’ right-hand-man. (Notice: I don’t have the backstory/relationship between the two of them completely nailed down yet. But what I do know for sure is that THEY ARE NOT ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WHATSOEVER. NOBODY IN THIS MOB IS.)

He's a legit bird-whisperer. I’ve seen plenty other people post about him chilling with crows or ravens, and that’s already perfect, but I think adding more birds in general to the mix would make it even better. Chickens, ducks, sparrows, cockatiels, parakeets, pigeons, etc. Even GEESE tend to be calm around him (which could count as a sign of something being wrong with him). It’s not uncommon for him to spend his off-time at the park feeding the birds he claims to have technically adopted.

He lives out of a houseboat docked near the quiet part of the beach. He’s not above driving it long distances across the water when he needs to travel for his work.

If his scene in ISWM Part 2 was anything to go by, he enjoys making morbid jokes/puns. Ironically, he tends to get dissapointed or annoyed whenever other people make morbid jokes/puns. He and Caliban have gotten into arguments (with varying degrees of violence) over puns on at least three separate occasions.

He’s currently acting as a mentor to The Newcomer. It’s his responsibility to teach them and introduce them to the other Pentas members.

Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Running on Empty, God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting, Update the Letter Board!, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

The Newcomer

Who They’re Based Off Of: The Reader (Y/N)

Their Method of Work: They haven’t developed a personal signature quite yet. As of right now, they’re content with just assisting Murdock and the rest of The Pentas Family. They’ve got a surprising/disturbing amount of competence, but they’re still a rookie; therefore, they still have some things to learn.

Red Attire: Leather gloves (Scarlet)

Notes:

[INFORMATION TBA]

Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Toxic Tutorials

Caliban Crawford

Who He’s Based Off Of: Matthew Patrick/MatPat (Game/Film/Food/Style Theory)

His Method of Work: He acts as one of The Pentas Family’s many body-disposal resources (if they disposed of bodies in just one way, they’d risk gathering concentrated amounts of evidence). His particular technique for disposal is good ol’ fashioned cannibalism.

Red Attire: Leather jacket (Crimson)

Notes:

Aside from the body-disposal stuff, he’ll often help other Pentas members navigate the Black Market. He’s also invaluable when it comes to organizing certain trading events. He’s a cannibal, sure, but he also knows just how much of a pretty penny human organs can make. (Besides, not all body parts are safe for consumption; brains, eyeballs, intestines, and bones for example.)

Cannibal puns 24/7. The subtlety—or lack thereof—with which he delivers these puns can vary, depending on the situation he’s in. (“I’ve been told I have a great taste in people.” “If anyone’s a humanitarian, it’s me!” “I am what I eat, after all. . .” etc.)

He has a pet leucistic hare named Snare (somewhat inspired by Matt’s childhood pet bunny, Sunny). As hares are proven omnivores/scavengers, it just makes sense for Caliban to spoil Snare by feeding him human fingers as treats (highly inspired by Monty Python’s Killer Rabbit).

He has an ENORMOUS collection of butcher knives and medical blades, because of course he does. His favorite of them all is a damascus steel cleaver, which he frequently carries in his jacket pocket as his primary weapon.

There’s a silver tooth cap in the place of his upper left canine. He lost said canine when one of his victims surprised him by grabbing his tenderizing hammer and hitting him in the mouth with it as they tried to escape (this also left a small, jagged scar on the left side of his upper lip). Obviously, Caliban recovered from this. But the person who knocked his tooth out? Not so much. . .

His house is located in the downtown area, and is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. He’s basically turned the old security office into a basement-kitchen setup.

(If you’d like to see some awesome artwork of this character, please go here and show the artist some appreciation!)

Current Stories: (Goretober 2022) Day 2: Cannibalism, Running on Empty, God, Being an Accessory to Murder is Exhausting, What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 4: Amputation, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

Azalea Crawford

Who She’s Based Off Of: Rosanna Pansino (Nerdy Nummies)

Her Method of Work: She knows pretty much everything there is to know about poison. Toxic plants, venomous animals, man-made chemicals, you name it. The collection she keeps for hit-jobs and the like goes way, way beyond your typical arsenic. She even has a greenhouse full of deadly plants (including her namesake, obviously) in her backyard. When she’s on the clock, she’ll usually take care of targets by slipping poisons into a nice little baked goodie. Azalea’s not squeamish about needles, but this is easier and more discreet.

Red Attire: Headband (Cherry)

Notes:

This lovely lady is Caliban’s sister, and shares a strong sibling bond with him. (In fact, she actually taught Caliban a lot of what he knows about cooking. Sure, it took a bit of trial-and-error for some recipes to work with human flesh, but it just be like that sometimes.)

She has a pet scarlet kingsnake named Cuddles. Scarlet kingsnakes are harmless, but they specifically evolved to mimic the coloration of coral snakes, which are infamously venomous. Azalea understands the irony of this perfectly. She also understands how easy it is for people to mix up the color patterns, so, of course, she’ll occasionally handle Cuddles purely for confusion/intimidation.

She’s the owner/head chef of Aftertaste, a popular restaurant/bar, in order to help keep up appearances for The Pentas Family. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels.

If any Pentas members decide to use poison for a hit-job, then they need to go to Azalea for help. She’s one of very, very few people who can be trusted to use such dangerous substances properly. (But sometimes, even mobsters aren’t immune to hubris. So, Azalea keeps a stockpile of antidotes/painkillers in order to fix certain mistakes.)

She’s the reason Caliban was able to adopt Snare. She found the hare in the basement of one of her past targets (who was the leader of an exotic animal trafficking ring); he reminded her of her brother, so she ended up giving him to Caliban as a present.

(If you’d like to see some awesome artwork of this character, please go here and show the artist some appreciation!)

Current Stories: What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?, Update the Letter Board!, Toxic Tutorials, (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

K.O. [Kaiser Oasis]

Who He’s Based Off Of: Ethan Nestor (CrankGamePlays)

His Method of Work: Whether he’s in the arena, defending himself and his peers, or extracting information from enemies, K.O. packs a major wallop. Not only that, but his stamina is roughly on-par with that of a mongoose fueled by a few too many Pixie Sticks. . . He was discovered by The Pentas Family shortly after The Boss decided to branch out into the underground fighting business.

Red Attire: Fluctuates between jeans for when he’s out of the arena, and boxing shorts for when he’s in the arena (Amaranth)

Notes:

Despite being a mobster, he’s a surprisingly courteous fighter. Yeah, he pummels his opponents, but that’s literally what career-fighting is all about. Now, on the other hand: if you’ve personally wronged him or someone he cares about, or if he catches wind that you’re going to try and cheat your way through a match with him. . .well, I wouldn’t count on him having too much self-restraint.

Ironically, K.O. also serves as a medic for The Pentas Family. It took some time and practice, of course, but he’s gotten pretty damn good at patching up stab/bullet wounds and resetting broken bones. (It’s not uncommon to get bumps and bruises in the underground business, and going to a normal hospital is typically a big no-no, since the staff there would likely ask too many questions about certain injuries.)

While he only wraps his hands for his fighting matches, he’s still not above occasionally using brass knuckles—which he has affectionately named Francis and J.P.—for interrogation or message-sending assignments.

Though he’ll sometimes travel for certain assignments, K.O. usually represents The Pentas Family at a place called The WormRoll: roller skating rink by day, hidden-in-plain-sight fighting arena by night. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and K.O. has made his personal platform-office-den into a training room.

Before and after his matches, he wears a black robe with a picture of a peacock mantis shrimp embroidered on the back. (When K.O. first joined The Pentas Family, Murdock commissioned a sewing artist to make said robe as a welcoming gift for him. Yes, Francis and J.P. were included in that gift.)

He’s multilingual; he can speak English, French, Portuguese, and Italian on a conversational level. This obviously means a lot of foreign swearing when he’s frustrated/angry. He has no trace of an accent from any of those languages, and none of his peers know why or how he picked them up in the first place. K.O., being the gremlin he is, doesn’t plan to explain anytime soon. (Plus, he can’t not be a little smug about being the only Italian-speaking member of a mob. Just like how he can't not use that to tease Murdock.)

Y’know creepy-crawly lollipops? Yes, the ones that have a cricket or some other insect frozen inside. Those are K.O.’s favorite candy. Unless he’s in the ring, he’s almost always got one in his pocket. (On a slightly more humorous note: sometimes he’ll make a small show of pretending that the lollipop sticks are cigarettes.)

Current Stories: (Goretober 2023) Day 3: Broken Bones, (Goretober 2023) Day 7: Needles, Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

Garret Wyre

Who He’s Based Off Of: Mick Lauer

His Method of Work: If there’s two things to be said about Garret, it’s that he has a pair of big, strong hands, and he knows how to use them. You could argue that “Everyone knows how to use their hands, idiot.” To which I say. . .first of all, chill out. Words can hurt. Second of all, not everyone can make a career out of strangling people. But Garret most certainly has. That being said, he knows when to use other tools (ropes, scarves, cords, stuff like that) to get the job done. He knows he can’t realistically rely on his hands for each and every one of his assignments. In any case, the day his grip isn’t firm is the day he’s not Garret.

Red Attire: Scarf (Maroon)

Notes:

Garret brings a complex vibe to The Pentas Family. His disposition is stern, but he knows to be patient with the other members. Despite this, he’s always a bit. . .fidgety. Restless. He has a hard time sitting still, and an even harder time not giving people the side-eye or glancing over his shoulder. In fact, the only times he seems genuinely calm and self-assured is when he’s choking the life out of his targets. Sure, still acts aggressively toward said targets, but there’s no denying just how soft and quiet his voice becomes when he taunts them.

However, Garret does have his hobbies outside of mob work. Such as knitting and sewing. It just seems to ease his nerves a bit. He even made the very scarf he wears whenever he’s working on Pentas business. (Of course, aforementioned scarf had to be made with much stronger material than you’d think, since he’s used it to strangle his targets on more than one occasion.) Hell, this even bleeds into the fact that Garret is on the more superstitious side of the spectrum. Half of his sewing/knitting projects involve making voodoo dolls of those who screw around with The Pentas Family. He treats said dolls a lot like stress toys, often patching them up after bashing their stuffing out only to do it all over again sooner or later.

Now, Garret doesn’t necessarily believe in the concept of good or bad karma. He’s not delusional enough to deny the fact that he’s a bad person, but he’s also aware of how bad things happen to perfectly good people all the time. That’s literally just life. But he absolutely believes in luck. Very ironic, considering he was born on a Tuesday The 13th (look it up; apparently those are supposed to be even worse than Friday The 13ths). He may not buy into all the chakra-crystal-incense stuff, but he does still keep a glass Evil Eye charm in one pocket, as well a miniature horseshoe in the other. He never goes directly home right after taking care of a target. He avoids the number four like the plague. He makes sure his right foot is leading whenever he enters a room. Et cetera, et cetera.

One of the few superstitions he doesn’t believe in is black cats being harbingers of doom. In fact, he adores black cats. Particularly Juju, a stray black kitten he adopted after a very last-minute, impromptu hit-job.

He’s the manager of Itchy Palms, a popular casino on the edge of The Cove Port Inlet’s uptown area. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. (Considering the sketchy reputation casinos already have, Garret made damn well sure that the entrance to his subway-office-den is thoroughly hidden and difficult for anyone else to access.) And it’s safe to say that Garret knows. His. Business. He knows how to play each and every game. . .as well as several ways to cheat at each and every game without giving said cheating away. His outlook on fairness is. . .unconventional. (I’ll go more in-depth with this later.)

Current Stories: [TBA]

Parker Thenope

Who He’s Based Off Of: Nathan Sharp (NateWantsToBattle/Give Heart Records)

His Method of Work: There are several ways to be adept in water. Such as holding a person under it until they stop moving, or drenching a person over and over again until they give up the information you need. Which is exactly how Parker earns his keep. His assignments often involve haunting the local beach—or, more precisely, the cluster of shallow sea-caves along the beach’s edges. But in a pinch, he’s willing to use pools/hot tubs/etc. to his advantage (it just means he’ll have to be clever with how he goes about the job).

Red Attire: Face-mask (Carmine)

Notes:

Parker is the personification of “it’s always the quiet ones who snap the loudest.” Sure, he’s cooperative and understanding toward his peers in The Pentas Family, but underneath his chill, humorous, nonchalant veil lurks a bit of a ticking time-tomb. As a child, it was constantly drilled into him to camouflage his real emotions, to always appear calm and collected on the outside. He’s learned how to manage his anger whenever it flares up, but if you’ve done something to majorly piss him off, then really, your only chance is to hide and hope he doesn’t find you.

Fittingly enough, his hobbies include swimming. He learned at a very young age, so, it’s safe to say that he’s excellent at following the flow of water, holding his breath for generous periods of time, etc. And who can blame him? It’s a lot of fun, it’s great exercise, and it allows him to have the upper hand whenever he happens to also be in the water while taking care of a target.

When it comes to anything music-related, he’s incredibly skilled. Not only does he have a lovely singing voice, but he’s an expert on playing guitar, drums, and even the piano on occasion. Music is a very effective form of stress-relief, and he’s been using it as such long before he entered the underground business.

He’s very familiar with Ear Caffeine, a music studio in the Cove Port Inlets. He works there as a songwriter/lyricist, as well as a session musician, though he’s now basically in charge of the place ever since its former owners disappeared into thin air. (The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and Parker was instrumental—pun vERY MUCH INTENDED—to The Pentas Family claiming it as part of their territory. I’ll elaborate on how this worked sometime in the future.)

On top of that, Parker also owns Chord Craft, a combination of record store and instrument-repair shop on the side. He was the head-honcho over there before he was welcomed into the mob, and while he’s since hired more people to run it, he still cares for it.

Even before he joined The Pentas Family, he made a point to wear a face mask every day (he sees the red one he wears now as an upgrade). He only ever takes it off when he’s swimming or sleeping. He doesn’t have any scars to cover up; he just finds comfort in personal anonymity.

He’s learned to consider all the different ways decomposition can work in water (or watery areas in general). Just because his signature is to drown targets doesn’t mean he can always afford to just leave their bodies in the water. It’s not uncommon for him to seek out Murdock, arranging to take a ride on the hitman’s houseboat in order to dump certain bodies far out from the Inlets’ boundaries.

Current Stories: [TBA]

Val Ocitie

Who They’re Based Off Of: Lio Tipton

Their Method of Work: Tommy guns may be rare nowadays, but that isn’t a problem for Val. Their hidden arsenal is already impressive enough; you could say they have many, many neutral specials. Sure, they can see the appeal of blades and other deadly stuff, but guns are fast, efficient, and most importantly of all, devastating. (Especially if a silencer is involved. Ooh, does that help thicken the plot.) Don’t screw around with them or their family unless you want to cosplay as swiss cheese.

Red Attire: Chainmail bracelet (Vermillion)

Notes:

Val has long-since learned to thrive in chaos, to the point of outright craving it (so long as said chaos benefits them). Sometimes they see underground business as a game, though they do have control over their impulses. While their attitude is usually excitable around those they trust, their energy can turn aggressive in a heartbeat. They’re the type to get up in an enemy’s face, wearing a false, icy grin all the while.

Along with the hit-jobs they're assigned, Val is responsible for supplying The Pentas Family's firepower. Similar to how Caliban is an expert in organ-trafficking, Val knows the ins and outs of the illegal weapons trade. They've rearranged their personal gun collection several times now, selling and exchanging certain models to avoid leaving any patterns in their work.

Once upon a time, Val worked for a different mob; one that wasn’t exactly on good terms with The Pentas Family. Well, things ended up falling apart, and Val found themself at the mercy of Murdock and his peers. Of course, things were rocky at first. . .but somehow, Val eventually realized that they felt some kind of kinship with them. It took some time, but they were welcomed in, and are now following Pentas operations with strong loyalty.

They grew up somewhat rural, learning how to handle guns at a pretty young age. Though their family wasn’t poor, hunting game animals for food was still a big tradition that they helped to carry on. They don’t really do that kind of hunting anymore, but they still take monthly trips to shooting ranges in order to practice with clay pigeons.

They’re the only Pentas member who doesn’t live in/work out of a building that’s connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. Instead, they live in a tidy cabin located in Reilpi Woods, a huge forest that’s about a fifteen-minute drive from the Cove Port Inlet’s city limits. Not that Val minds, though; the area gives them nostalgia. While they can appreciate all the conveniences of more urban environments, they’ve always enjoyed being surrounded by trees. Besides, it’s not like they don’t know where all the secret entrances to the underground dens are.

They’re a natural when it comes to evaluating another person’s character. It’s an important skill to have in this line of work, especially considering how the work is question is very much illegal. Despite their uncertain start in The Pentas Family, it hasn’t taken much time at all for Val to learn each of the other members inside and out. . .well, except for The Newcomer. (For now, at least.)

Current Stories: [TBA]

Two-Toes Johnny [Johnathan Shine]

Who He’s Based Off Of: Bob Muyskens (Muyskerm)

His Method of Work: Though he’s not really a hitman, he still knows his way around interrogation and message-sending. His weapon/tool of choice is a baseball bat that was apparently an heirloom he just so happened to inherit as a teenager. It might not look like much, but neither will those who anger The Pentas Family (or their clients) after Johnny uses it to beat them black and blue.

Red Attire: Belt (Tawny Port)

Notes:

Now, to address the elephant in the room: yes, he actually does only have two toes. The right big-toe and the left middle-toe, to be specific. All that’s left of the other eight are scars, and exactly how he lost them is a total mystery. Sure, he might vaguely rant about the incident(. . .s?) from time to time—usually after he’s had a few too many drinks—but it just seems impossible for anyone to figure out what the hell happened, as well as why the hell it happened.

While he’s able to get tipsy or wasted, Two-Toes Johnny is nothing if not an experienced drinker. Working in the illegal alcohol trade will do that to you. When he’s not overseeing illicit spirits, he’s The Pentas Family’s primary bookkeeper, organizing all the money he and his peers rake in. He also has a keen set of eyes and ears, which he puts to good use each and every day. When you know what to look/listen for, it’s amazing how many details strangers can spill without meaning to.

He’s the owner/manager of Liquorty Splitz, a (what else?) popular liquor store in the Cove Port Inlets. It currently supplies alcohol to Aftertaste, Itchy Palms, and several other joints. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels. (He also has a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend type link to a place called The Robe. It doesn't fall under Pentas control—it’s basically an open secret in the criminal underground as a whole—but ever since Johnny entered the mob, he’s sort of paved the way for Murdock and the others to occasionally use their free-time to pay it a visit.)

He carries a very rough-around-the-edges demeanor. Sarcastic, moody, blunt, quick to make snappy remarks or roll his eyes. It’s one of many survival mechanisms he’s learned over the years. Despite this, he still knows how respect and basic decency work. Earn his trust, and you’ll have an invaluable friend for life. (In such cases, the term “aggressive motivation/positivity” is an understatement.)

He’s a bookworm. His collection of novels is almost constantly threatening to grow bigger than his collection of vintage alcohol. He appreciates a lot of modern stuff, but he’s always had a soft spot for the classics. In fact, he always keeps a few books in his desk at Liquorty Splitz to read on slower nights.

He has two tattoos on his face: a silvery little star just below his right temple, and the branch of a cherry blossom tree stretching along his jawline and ending near his left eyebrow. It’s not uncommon for him to trace the linework of either of them with his fingertips while he’s thinking. He claims that there’s no symbolism behind either of them, that they were the results of a couple drunken nights that took place a long time ago. (There’s a decent chance that’s true. . .but then, why does his expression occasionally turn soft and unreadable when he looks at these tattoos in the mirror?)

Standing at 6’4, Johnny is the biggest/tallest member of The Pentas Family. And he obviously knows how to use this to his advantage. As in, if he and his peers are in a violent situation, he’ll barely hesitate to pick said peers up by the waist/collar/legs and just. . .swing them in the direction of the enemy. Since the peers in question often have weapons on-hand, this method is shockingly efficient. (It’s typically not appreciated, of course.)

Current Stories: [TBA]

Phoenix Rhong

Who She’s Based Off Of: Safiya Nygaard

Her Method of Work: Playing with fire can be hard (depending on your perspective, at least), but getting burned is quite easy. Not so for someone who’s had as much practice as Phoenix. Where there’s smoke, there’s her. Pretty much a pro-gamer when it comes to plotting and coordinating, she’s the one to look for when riskier jobs need to be taken. After all, find an empty building in a very specific part of town, and voila! Instant Distraction—Just Add Fuel and Sparks!

Red Attire: Ring (Garnet)

Notes:

Phoenix serves as a semi-dirty lawyer. As thorough and calculating as The Pentas Family is, mistakes can still be made. Bad timing and unlucky coincidences are still a factor. In such cases, Phoenix is invaluable for keeping her peers safe and their work hidden. On top of that, it never hurts to frame or expose an enemy or two; that just means less attention on her family, as well as less competition to deal with. She knows how to discreetly sow discord among enemies, how to tamper with evidence (whether planting it elsewhere or outright destroying it).

Despite everything, Phoenix would never use fire against a living person. Yes, she’s dangerous and unhinged behind the mask she wears for keeping up appearances, no doubt about that. Yes, she’s addicted to watching flames dance and hearing them crackle, but she still understands that they’re much more brutal than they are pretty. To be clear, she’s made her peace with reducing the corpses of certain targets to ash, but. . .well, they’re corpses. Like paper or clothing or many other flammable things, they can’t scream or feel pain when they’re being disposed of. (Not anymore, at least.) Whatever her peers do to those targets is just how they earn their own keep.

She’s responsible for the ironically legal parts of underground business. Negotiating prices/terms, relaying important messages, that kind of stuff. She helps form the contracts that the other Pentas representatives use, and she’s almost always in the room when those contracts are being discussed with outsiders (clients, allies, etc.).

She’s very savvy when it comes to flammable chemicals. How exactly they burn, what to mix them with for the best results, how long it takes for them to reach their peak. . .Sure, matches and gasoline can be pretty damn effective, but an inferno often has to be handled very carefully, very specifically. Sometimes the flames have to burn slower or faster. Sometimes they need to snuff themselves out at a quick rate. Sometimes they have to leave burned imprints behind rather than devour everything they touch. It all just depends on the job at hand.

As part of an under-the-table agreement, she’s the owner of Scattered Wishes, the one and only crematorium the Cove Port Inlets has to offer. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and she uses her personal den to hide various forms of evidence until they’re ready to be loaded into one of the ovens.

“Phoenix Rhong” is NOT her original name. It’s not a fake identity, either. How she managed to take the name for herself. . .well, I'll go into more detail about that later.

Current Stories: [TBA]

Miles C. Peyote and Howie Thetaxi

Who They’re Based Off Of: Lewis Dawkins (Dawko) and Ryan (8-BitRyan), respectively

Their Methods of Work: When your reputation precedes you from all the way across the pond, you’ve definitely done something right! (Unless that was never your intent, in which case you’ve done something horribly, horribly wrong.) Remember the board game Mouse Trap? Well, Miles probably played it a few too many times in his youth, if the booby traps he sets up nowadays are anything to go by. Whether the goal is to kill or simply capture someone, his designs never fail to be. . .elaborate. Howie, meanwhile, doubles as a mechanic and driver. From ditching cops to running enemies off the road, he has more than enough skill to make professional racers envious. Never, NEVER forget the importance of seatbelts if you’re getting into a car with him. (Also, never put your feet on the dash. It’s rude.)

Red Attire: For Miles, a pair of leather boots (Oxblood). For Howie, a pair of gauge earrings (Carnelian)

Notes:

These two got their start in The Marble Hummingbirds, a different mob based in the UK that has had a strong alliance with The Pentas Family for years now. As part of standard underground affairs, Miles and Howie volunteered to relocate to the United States and work more closely with Murdock and the others. The adjustment was a bit difficult (especially for Howie), but they both understand that it makes several aspects of business more efficient. They both retain a good balance of loyalty between their original crew and their new one.

Miles is selective when it comes to speaking. He’ll talk freely when he’s among people he trusts or is in a place that he’s deemed safe/comfortable, but when he’s out in public, he’s just. . .very quiet. He’ll still talk a little for the sake of politeness or formality, but only a little. If an area is open or unfamiliar, he’ll usually prefer to use body language and the like. (This does absolutely NOT stop him from cackling like a maniac over his traps, but again, that usually takes place in more secluded, secretive areas.)

Howie has no qualms about reckless driving. Swerving, speeding, staging accidents; he can do it all without batting an eye. Whatever it takes to get himself and his buddies (plus their cargo) from Point A to Point B without getting stopped or caught. Keep in mind, this mindset only applies to his personal driving. When he’s casually out and about, he can’t stand other drivers who tailgate, block lanes, cut others off, etc. If you act rude toward him in traffic, he can and will make a side-quest out of finding a way to get back at you. And yes, this extends to when he’s on the job. It’s not at all uncommon for him to go back and forth between chatting with his passengers and yelling at idiots on the road in the middle of a high-stakes-chase.

Miles has a habit of collecting plushies; especially odd-looking ones. (For example: the creepy-yet-cute stuff you might find on Etsy.) But his plushies aren’t just for aesthetic or decoration—they serve the purpose of secretism. He’s modified each and every one of them to be soft little storage units. Some have well-hidden zippers in their backs, while others have their heads function as the lids to jars stuffed inside their stomachs. Miles uses this strategy to hide valuables, such as varying sums of money or the odd piece of jewelry taken from a target.

Howie is miraculously conscious of animals on the road. That’s one of few exceptions to his typical stance on getaway driving. He will always, ALWAYS make sure to avoid hitting cats, dogs, raccoons, deer. . .or squirrels. As a matter of fact, one squirrel that he managed to spare back in the day seems to have pledged a life-debt to him. Seriously, he avoided hitting it while he was still working in the UK, and by now it’s followed him to the US. Wherever Howie is, the squirrel always seems to be somewhere in the background, just watching and waiting. Howie doesn’t see this squirrel as a pet, but he doesn’t have a problem with its presence (even though he’s somewhat unnerved by it).

Along with all the getaway driving stuff, Howie has helped The Pentas Family to form its very own chop-shop. Whenever cars are stolen from targets or enemies, Howie will be there to dismantle or sabotage said cars. Legitimate parts are sold, and certain jobs involve filling a vehicle with counterfeit parts in order to frame its owner.

Ever since relocating, both Miles and Howie live out of The Five Seasons, a hotel near the Cove Port Inlet’s city entrance. The building is connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and the duo rotates between sharing the hidden den; Miles will use it to build/test his traps, and Howie will use it simply to store/tamper with various car parts. The hotel just so happens to be right across the street from the car repair garage (Oh, for God’s Brake!) that Howie uses for his day-job.

Current Stories: [TBA]

Jay Aienyouess

Who He’s Based Off Of: Thomas Sanders

His Method of Work: The Pentas Family can be thought of as many things. Well, if you were to think of it as, say, an anglerfish, then Jay would play the role of that bright, shiny lure. He can put on a Grammy-worthy act in the blink of an eye, whether to lead a target to their doom or to keep any potential witnesses away from a soon-to-be crime scene.

Red Attire: Nail polish (Cochineal)

Notes:

On top of con-games, Jay can also be quite stealthy if the job calls for it. Sneaking around enemy turf, setting up a sabotage or two, gathering information, spying on those who give off weird vibes during business negotiations. . .

Unlike most of his peers, Jay was raised in a comfortable, pleasant environment. . .or, that environment was comfortable and pleasant while he was a kid. Things changed pretty drastically after he became an adult; more specifically, after he came out. He ended up leaving his hometown behind, hopping from one motel to another. Though he worked various odd-jobs, he also quickly learned to pick pockets in order to survive.

By the time he had a chance-meeting with a few Pentas representatives, Jay had already somewhat dipped his toes into the criminal underground. Mainly via listening to the hurried whispers of passersby, and then trading those memorized details for cash.

Despite what happened to him, Jay has never once questioned himself or felt ashamed of who he is. Even when he was offered a place in The Pentas Family, he was still very much intimidated by them at first. But the support and open-mindedness they showed was quick to seal the deal for him. This in turn led to him (along with Val) having a hand in making sure that any Pentas-owned businesses are clearly marked as safe spaces for queer people.

He is most certainly NOT immune to morbid fascination. True, he doesn’t do any actual killing himself, but. . .well, I wouldn’t put it past him to look over the carnage left after a hit-job, all curious and thoughtful. The cleanup crew has gotten pretty used to him hanging around while they work.

He works at Bullskit, a theater/auditorium that serves as one of the oldest buildings in the Cove Port Inlets (it’s still in business; it was even freshly remodeled when Jay joined the mob). It’s connected to the abandoned subway tunnels, and Jay kinda just lives there after hours. During hours, however, he dabbles in a bit of everything: stagehand, greenroom tech, assistant to the directors, you name it. If a target or enemy happens to get on the stage, Jay isn’t exactly above looking the other way when his peers sneak in to drop sandbags, switch out prop weapons for real ones, rig the special effects, etc.

Current Stories: [TBA]

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