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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 8 months

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Day 1: Impalement

(Disclaimer: the main character of this story, as well as the concept this story is based on, does not belong to me. That honor goes to the amazing @sammys-magical-au, who wrote an intriguing snippet inspired by Lixian’s latest game, Sinking Iron. I highly recommend you take a look at Sammy’s story before reading this one; not only is Sammy just an awesome writer, but it’ll help the plot elements here make more sense.)

(As for the characters that DO belong to me: while I don’t see them as complete fan-egos, I still took inspiration from what Sammy did with the character that Lixian voiced in the game. They named him Lucas, and seeing how similar that name is to Luis—Lixian’s actual name—it shouldn’t be difficult to figure out who the other characters here are based off of.)

(Trigger Warnings: water/the ocean/thalassophobia, pain/suffering, panic, violence, torture, death, drowning, gore, blood, tentacles, scopophobia, feelings of survivor's guilt, nightmares, flashbacks, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

Could’a, should’a, would’a. . .

Lucas hadn’t been superstitious enough.

Very ironic, considering the career he’d chosen.

He couldn’t have been blamed for assuming that his crewmates wouldn’t believe him.

There was a chance that he was right, that mentioning what he’d heard would’ve been answered with laughter, or teasing questions about how much time he’d spent in the sun earlier, or creepy anecdotes and short ghost stories being narrated by sarcastic voices.

But. . .there was no way they couldn’t have heard what he’d heard.

Which meant there was also a chance that he would’ve been taken somewhat seriously, that his crewmates would’ve glanced at the dark clouds through the sleeping quarter’s windows, that they all might’ve even attempted to convince Fletcher to briefly start the ship’s engine back up and sail at least a little closer to land.

Would any of those routes have made a difference?

Lucas wasn’t sure—he’d never be sure.

And that was torture.

He should’ve talked about what he’d heard in the rain.

It was impossible for his crewmates to have not heard what he’d heard.

Life at sea required Morse Code, after all.

It didn’t matter how one went about living at sea; whether they were heading off to war on a destroyer, bringing scraps of wreckage up to a salvaging ship, or collecting samples for study on a research vessel like this one. . .Morse Code was important and efficient enough to be the thing that all types of ocean work had in common.

So, Lucas had obviously learned the language during those months of training and studying. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d still managed to become as fluent in it as he was in Portuguese and English.

He still hadn’t really needed to use it. Much time had passed since he’d officially been welcomed into Nori’s crew, and of course it’d been a bit of a bumpy ride, but there just hadn’t been any emergency situations onboard.

That didn’t mean Lucas hadn’t found himself subconsciously using Morse Code. Whenever he heard rhythmic tapping or clicking, whenever he saw flashes of light, a little voice in the back of his head would translate. In those cases, what he gleaned was typically just gibberish, considering the language wasn’t actually being used. He’d occasionally decipher a random, coherent word or two, but that was also just a rare, amusing coincidence.

(Now, Lucas wouldn’t put it past Mars to silently tell Matteo to GO SUCK AN EGG! via drumming his fingernails, but Mars also wasn’t shy about speaking with his whole chest.)

That fateful case had been. . .

Different. Foreboding. Unnatural.

It’d been the very first time Lucas had experienced a storm on the ship. The storm in question hadn’t been strong enough to evolve into a hurricane; even so, oceanic weather was always more violent than weather that occurred on land. He’d watched the sky become dark while the waves grew larger and choppier than usual. He’d felt the wind tugging at his hair as the air got colder and heavier.

Adrenaline had been charging through Lucas’ brain as he and the rest of the crew raced to secure the ship’s more fragile equipment. They’d been halfway through the last-minute routine when the rain started falling; hell, they’d all been half-soaked by the time they were finally able to retire to the bunks.

But as they all laughed and threw towels at one another. . .sooner or later, Lucas found himself focusing on the way the rain had been pounding against one of Nori’s windows.

The instinctual translation had almost been automatic.

Due to the constant noise, the translation was insistent.

And the rain had been telling Lucas to RUN.

The rain had kept repeating that word.

RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN. . .

The fact that he’d eventually managed to drift off, even as the inhuman message kept echoing, had been nothing short of miraculous.

He should’ve told the others about this.

That would’ve at least been some kind of warning.

It could’ve given them all a better chance.

Could’a, should’a, would’a. . .

___

Lucas doesn’t remember leaving his bunk. He doesn’t remember glancing around at his crewmates as they rose from their beds, one by one.

He can just barely hear them somewhere behind him, their muffled voices slithering up from the sleeping quarters and into the air. He should remember the morning routine (it definitely would’ve been hard to miss the usual lighthearted squabbling over who got to use the showers first), but he doesn’t.

Instead, the vast waters surrounding Nori are the first things he sees when he opens his eyes.

Lucas knows that he couldn’t have sleepwalked. Or, sleepwalking couldn’t have been the entire case. If it was, then he certainly wouldn’t have woken up in a standing position. It doesn’t matter that he’s developed his sea-legs by now: sleepwalking while onboard a ship would be embarrassing at best and outright deadly at worst.

No, something else is responsible for this.

Something else has called him out and onto the deck, all without waking him until now.

His instincts insist on that, and he isn’t in the mind to look for logic.

His focus is being consumed by the environment around him.

The air isn’t cold, but he still feels a chill race down his spine, as well as goosebumps prickling all over his arms.

There is no wind, but he still feels some kind of force rushing past him, pushing against him.

Sunlight is obviously trying (and failing) to shine down from above, but the waves are dark; not the deep sapphire hue they usually are, but almost as murky as oil.

In fact, the only reason the water isn’t completely pitch-black is simply because. . .it’s tinged with red.

For the few long, slow minutes that have passed since he awoke, Lucas’ hands have been coiled around the railing in a white-knuckled grip. A twitch runs through his fingers, and as he finally releases his hold, Lucas immediately cranes his neck up toward the sky.

Fog has swallowed up the sky as far as the eye can see. It glows with a grotesque shade of crimson. It resembles the clouds of blood that spill out and spread just below the surface during a feeding-frenzy.

“Rookie?” Calls a familiar voice, set in a Portuguese accent so similar to the one Lucas speaks with. “Wake-up call isn’t for another hour. What’re you doing out so early?”

Lucas startles badly as he turns his head to face Fletcher, who is leaning through the crack in the door to the Captain’s quarters.

For a moment, Lucas’ mouth opens and closes with no words coming out.

And as soon as he’s finally able to stutter, “Captain, we’re in danger. . !”

THRRRUUM-KRAAAUUGH

Nori’s stern is violently shoved out of the water, only to come crashing right back down with an enormous splash. Both Lucas and Fletcher are thrown off-balance, hitting the deck with dull thuds and twin screams. Neither of them have to see what just happened to know that the ship’s engines and propulsion systems are now beyond repair. More shouts of panic echo up from elsewhere, accompanied by a chorus of frantic, stampeding footsteps.

As he and Fletcher pick themselves up, Lucas immediately looks over the railing.

Despite the water’s new darkness, he can see something.

It’s circular, wider than he is tall, surrounded by layers of scarred, fleshy membrane—

An eye.

Lucas is being stared at by a gigantic eye with a shuddering pinprick pupil adorned by an iris the color of blood.

Aforementioned pupil slightly dilates as it stares at him, and Lucas feels his stomach start to churn and roil in response.

This dread isn’t newfound; he’s been feeling it since he woke up. But then, it was only prodding at the back of his mind. Now it’s flooding through each and every one of his veins, coiling around his bones, starting to rip his brain apart from the inside.

Lucas can’t know what the owner of that hideous eye actually is.

And yet, somehow, he’s acutely aware that it wants to kill him.

He staggers back, trying to get as far away from it as possible, but it still manages to keep watching him. The eye is only obscured when a blurry shape erupts from the water in a fountain of white spray.

By some miracle, Lucas is able to duck-and-roll off to the side. The shape slams into the lower half of Nori’s funnel with enough force to make the entire ship quake. Had he moved even a second slower, he would’ve been reduced to a splatter on the main deck.

Lucas crawls further away, trembling violently. As the shape pries itself free from the new chasm it’s just created, he realizes just how sinuous it is, how it’s covered in oily-looking gray flesh, how it comes to an almost whip-thin end.

The tentacle reels back into the water. Lucas can’t stop gaping at it, not even as he hears a chorus of more splashing and hissing from further below and around Nori. He can only tear his own eyes away from it when the screams all around him suddenly become louder, longer, less-human. Like the sounds are transforming into solid matter as they flow through the air.

Lucas is suddenly on his feet again, turning around just in time to watch another huge tentacle materialize by the stern. It coils around the ship’s crane—the same one that’s been used countless times to either haul heavier samples onboard or keep live specimens still long enough to be tagged—and wrenches it out of its platform as though it’s a cheap plastic toy.

Wayne and Brom appear. They both lock horrified eyes with Lucas and begin sprinting toward him.

It’s almost like a magic trick: the two of them disappear as the tentacle hurls the dismantled crane on top of them, leaving it halfway lodged through that section of the main deck. Brom’s howls of pain are abruptly cut off, but Wayne’s screaming, albeit now slower and longer, doesn’t stop. In fact, it’s still loud enough that Lucas doesn’t even realize how he’s finally started shrieking until weight comes down on one of his shoulders.

Now Mars is beside him, with Matteo right on his heels. Tears are already pouring from both of their eyes, but neither of them collapse or even become sluggish. Rather, they corral Lucas to keep moving with them, trying to push him in front of them before the pilothouse’s door.

Despite their shouts blurring as soon as they reach Lucas’ ears, he still knows what they’re saying. They’re begging him to take cover, to get somewhere further inside the ship, to try and hide so he won’t be targeted next.

And Lucas obviously wants to comply with those orders. He’s halfway inside the pilothouse when he turns, wanting to grab Mars and Matteo’s arms in order to pull them closer, to ensure that they have shelter alongside him.

He doesn’t even get a chance.

Two more tentacles stretch over the side of the ship: one twists around Matteo’s waist while the other snags Mars by one of his legs. They both writhe as they’re lifted into the air.

Matteo manages to grab hold of the upper railing, wrapping his arms around it like some kind of tree-dwelling animal on a branch. Even as he shrieks, Matteo still aggressively shakes his head, kicking at his organic bindings. The tentacle tries to tug him off. . .and, miraculously, it fails. Lucas leaps up, trying to snatch one of Matteo’s hands, wanting to pull him back down onto the deck.

Matteo sees this, and instinctively reaches out to Lucas.

But that seems to give the tentacle the leeway it needs, as it wrenches Matteo away from the railing just as his fingers brush Lucas’. Then, as if its owner appreciates cruel irony, the tentacle hauls back and bludgeons Matteo against the pilothouse’s outer wall. Not with enough force to drive him though it—just enough to make his body crumple with a chorus of sickening snaps and pops and crunches. Matteo’s eyes bulge from their now bleeding sockets as he goes limp, staring at nothing at all while the tentacle drags him over the side of the ship.

Lucas cries out as he watches Matteo vanish. And he keeps screaming, seemingly not needing to pause for breath, as the tentacle holding Mars forcibly takes his attention.

For a brief, horrible second, Lucas is sure that the monster is going to give Mars the same treatment as Matteo.

That’s not the case.

Mars is manhandled away from Nori, being dangled over the waves. The tentacle ever-so-slightly dips closer to the water, but it doesn’t pull him down. Instead, it lunges upward in one swift, fluid movement, catapulting Mars so high that for a brief second or two, Lucas can’t even see him anymore. Of course, that doesn’t stop Mars from careening back down, hitting the ocean with a deafening CRACK.

Mars automatically floats up to the surface. Lucas can see that he’s still alive, that he’s trying to swim. But he can also see the awful twitches that are now wracking Mars’ body, that the pain he’s feeling is almost paralyzing. And he can see the tentacle ensnare Mars again, hoist him up again, toss him into the air again. . .

When Mars lands and resurfaces for a second time, even with the distance, Lucas can still see blood streaming along his skin. That blood smears on the tip of the tentacle as it sends him flying. . .over. . .and over. . .and over. . .and over. . .

It reminds Lucas of the few days he’d spent studying orcas. Primarily the tactic orcas used when hunting seals, to ensure that the blubbery skin would be rendered loose enough to give better access to the seal’s internal organs.

Yet another tentacle jettisons out of the water, aiming for Lucas once again.

And once again, Lucas is able to sprint away from it by the skin of his teeth.

He runs to the other side of the pilothouse to collide with Evan, who immediately takes hold of Lucas’ wrist. Just like the others, he’s trying to help Lucas hide, to lead him to some other area of the ship where they might be better protected.

To his never-ending credit, as a tentacle appears to coil around his neck, Evan is somehow still logical enough to release Lucas and shove him back. He screws his eyes shut as he’s lifted off of the ship. Four more tentacles emerge from the water beneath him: two snake along his arms, and two give his legs the same treatment.

Then, they each start tugging this way and that, all moving in unison, gradually pulling harder and harder and harder. . .until. . .

Lucas ducks his head and resumes running in the nick of time. He can barely hear himself wailing over the sound of Evan’s skin being torn, of Evan’s bones breaking away from their sockets, of Evan’s intestines spilling out.

Brom is dead, Wayne is dead, Matteo is dead, Mars is dead, Evan is dead.

The entire crew is dead.

The entire crew has been tortured in various horrific ways.

Lucas watched the crew die.

Lucas is going to die; he’s going to be maimed and mauled in a manner that will somehow be even more gruesome than what he’s already watched.

This is all Lucas’ fault.

If he’d actually thought to raise the alarm when he’d woken up. . .if he’d taken control of Nori himself and tried steering her away from the eye. . .then his crewmates—his friends—might still be alive.

Lucas is halfway across Nori’s bow when he finally discovers Fletcher again. It’s all Lucas can do to keep from collapsing at his Captain’s feet.

Fletcher reaches toward Lucas, the fear in his eyes struggling against his instincts as a leader. Lucas flinches away, shaking his head as he sobs and screams and tries to explain everything as though Fletcher might have an answer.

His head is swimming: The Captain can’t be near me—everyone who’s come close to me has been killed! How is the Captain still alive? Where has he been all this time? The Captain might know something about the monster! Maybe he knows why it’s attacking us!

Lucas can’t even register the sound of splashing, or the shadow that is growing longer and darker behind him.

But even if he could, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Time seems to slow down as Fletcher surges forward and pushes Lucas down onto the deck.

A yelp dashes Lucas’ cries, but it’s short-lived. For the first time this morning, Lucas goes completely silent as he listens to the sound of his Captain’s agonized shriek.

Lucas feels his heart actively stop as he looks up at Fletcher, at the bloodsoaked tip of the tentacle now protruding through his chest.

That could’ve been Lucas. It should’ve been Lucas.

But it seems Fletcher hadn’t wanted to allow that.

Lucas can’t scream anymore. There’s barely any air left in his lungs.

Even as he watches Fletcher’s expression turn blank, watches Fletcher’s eyes drift shut, watches Fletcher being carried off into the water. . .Lucas can’t scream.

Lucas wants to scream.

Lucas NEEDS to scream.

But he can’t.

___

A wave of vertigo came crashing down on Lucas’ skull as he nearly threw himself out of his bed. His breathing was desperate, raspy. The sensation of cold sweat on his skin had never felt so awful. The scar that ran along his left cheek almost felt like it was burning.

Lucas’ movement elicited a small chirp from the foot of his bed, where a bundle of white-and-gray fur rolled over to face him, bright blue eyes drilling into his dark brown ones.

At first, Crumbs seemed aggravated at being woken up. But it took no time at all for him to seemingly register the distraught on his owner’s face. After a second of sprawling, the cat got to his paws and practically pounced into Lucas’ lap.

Lucas hunched over as he wrapped his arms around his pet. Crumbs sat up on his haunches to rub his head against Lucas’ jaw, not seeming to care how tears were actively cascading onto his little face.

Even as Crumbs’ purring reverberated through his chest, slowly but surely easing the tension, Lucas still had to bite his tongue hard enough to draw blood. It wouldn’t do for his apprentice to be drawn to his quarters and see him like this, let alone be woken up at this horrible hour.

There would be no more sleep tonight.

@sammys-magical-au @mostlyghostly42

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 year

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If Caliban was desperate enough… would he attack a loved one? Aza? Murdock? Sam? Miguel?

Nope.

It might very well seem like his cravings can bring out a feral side of him, but he honestly isn't that far-gone.

Like I've said before, even when Caliban is famished and panicking, he's still able to be logical/rational. He's adjusted to only eating people who are specific targets of The Pentas Family. Now, in a really bad situation where, say, a total stranger was involved, he'd have an internal struggle and just might come close to snapping.

For one thing, he knows that the people he works with have instilled actual trust in him. Especially Azalea. (HOW DARE YOU THINK I'D LET MY TWO PRECIOUS MURDER-SIBLINGS TURN ON EACH OTHER?!)

For another thing, he's professional. You don't just betray your allies in the underground and get away with it, after all.

Let's say Caliban is struggling with his cravings while in the company of one of the characters you mentioned. Since these are people he knows and trusts, he'd be honest, quietly giving hints. (He'd be embarrassed that they have to see him panic.)

Azalea is definitely the person Caliban would be most comfortable with, as he knows for an absolute fact that she isn't afraid of him. Murdock is a close second, since he's also not at all fearful; and, y'know, he's one of the people who delivers fresh corpses to Caliban on a semi-regular basis.

As for Sam and Miguel. . .well, they'd also be safe, but I'm sure the sight of Caliban pacing and shaking and murmuring to himself would probably make them a wee bit nervous. What do you think, @sammys-magical-au?

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 year

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What’s That Saying About Cinnamon Rolls. . ?

(Disclaimer: only two of the characters in this story belong to me. I’ve recently made a sister for my dear cannibal boi, and this is my first story involving her, so go here for context. If you’ve read my stuff, then you’ve probably gotten to know the aforementioned cannibal boi by now, but just in case, go here to learn more about him. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob that these two work for, go here. )

(Much appreciation to @sammys-magical-au for not only allowing me to have their very own Louise Editor—go here and here for more information about her—make a cameo, but also for helping me come up with a name for the mob that I plan to grow and write much, much more about in the future!)

(Also, just to clarify: I don’t really have a timeline set up, but this story takes place before my other stories involving Caliban.)

(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, poisoning/descriptions of toxic chemicals, blood, descriptions of illegal business, implied animal abuse, descriptions of eating, slight mentions of cravings/hunger pangs, implied cannibalism, mentions of past abuse, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

The chatter of patrons and the miscellaneous clinks of silverware greeted Azalea like old friends as she pushed the kitchen’s aluminum door open. She maneuvered around tables, nodding to the waitstaff as she passed by. The customers paid her no mind; after all, she was just another employee going about the daily grind, wasn’t she?

Aftertaste was by no means a cramped establishment. Despite this, it wasn’t at all uncommon for the restaurant to get very crowded, considering how good the food was. Fortunately, the building had come equipped with two staircases.

Azalea soon found herself ascending the first, which was located in the main dining room. (The second one was in the kitchen, leading down to one of many old subway office-platforms, hidden behind a false wall that only she and a select few other staff members knew about.)

The second floor boasted a smaller-scale room (which, admittedly, hadn’t been used at all before the building fell into The Boss’ possession). Shortly after she’d been put in charge of this restaurant, Azalea had tidied up the second floor and included it in advertisements; since it was sequestered from Aftertaste’s typical hustle and bustle, it could be reserved for private parties and the like.

On certain occasions, it could also be used for more. . .important matters.

At the top of the stairs, a door was waiting patiently for her. Azalea gave a foreshadowing knock, then slipped across the threshold and closed the door as quickly as she’d opened it.

A lone figure sat at a table in the corner; a bit of a local superstar, to be more precise, with a head of perfectly-gelled black hair and eyeliner sharp enough to rival some of the knives in the kitchen. Azalea had seen this person’s photograph on posters around the city, advertising drag races at the clubs downtown and queen storytimes at the bookstores uptown. She gazed at Azalea with wide, dark eyes, clearly startled by her sudden entrance.

“Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Azalea offered a small wave as she approached the table. “Have you been enjoying your order?”

The drag queen shook off her surprise with impressive speed.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, revealing a thick Portuguese accent. The wine she’d requested earlier swirled as she gently shifted the glass in her hand. Less than half of a serving of tiramisu remained on the plate in front of her. “I think I’ll need your catering for one of my events sometime.”

“You’re too kind,” Azalea replied. Slyness crept into her calm smile as she took a seat on the opposite end of the queen’s table. “But I was told you have some different business to discuss. So, for now, let’s focus on that.”

Azalea couldn’t be sure what this queen had heard or where she’d heard it. However, that didn’t matter quite yet. What mattered was that, according to one of her in-the-know employees, she’d carefully used some distinct wording when she’d made the call to reserve the entire second floor, when she’d asked to speak with Azalea in private.

She obviously wasn’t just another customer.

She was a potential client.

The queen stared at Azalea for a long, tense moment. The anxiety in her eyes was clear as crystal, but that didn’t take away from just how determined her expression was. She sighed and nodded, fishing through the purse that was hanging on her chair to produce a small folder. She then reached across the table, offering it to Azalea.

“I’ve tried less extreme options, but nothing has worked. Nobody is willing to take this issue seriously,” she declared as her host opened the folder, uncovering several photographs that came in varying degrees of quality. “Name your price, and I’ll pay it. . .”

___

Azalea parked her car near the entrance of the cul-de-sac, right around the street corner. Not too far from her destination, but not too close, either. True, there were only a couple other houses near the one she needed to enter (this was one of those oddly spacious neighborhoods), but she wasn’t about to test just how nosey her target’s neighbors were. She moved quickly and quietly as she approached one of the larger houses, holding a small black box close to her chest.

There was no such thing as a perfect place. Every city, no matter the population or location, had its issues. The severity of those issues depended on who you asked. When it came to the Cove Port Inlets, basic criminal activity wasn’t too prevalent. But then, that was just on the surface level (figuratively and literally).

Despite its underground reputation, The Pentas Family was well-camouflaged among the more legal aspects of the Inlets. Rumors did trickle through, of course, but they were easy to manage. In fact, sometimes rumors were even welcomed: not only could they alert the mob’s representatives to potential threats, but they could occasionally pave the way for those representatives to take on a job.

As she grew closer, Azalea noticed how blinds had been twisted shut on the other side of the front windows. There was no light peeking through the aforementioned blinds. To the average person, this would’ve been a sign that the house was empty. Azalea, however, was undeterred. She knew someone was home, and she knew that they were expecting a visitor.

She climbed up a small set of concrete stairs, coming to a halt at the front door. She knocked three times, then took a step back and waited, drumming her nails on top of her cargo. A couple moments dragged by before the door creaked open, revealing her latest target on the other side.

“Good timing. I was starting to think your boss was just giving me the runaround,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

Azalea had known who this man was before her current client had hired her. Hell, she (and her associates) probably knew more about him than most of the people he was actually familiar with. But she didn’t bother thinking of his name.

Like the majority of people, he was much taller than Azalea (who, even with heels on, was quite petite). And like so many before him, he immediately made a show of looking down at her.

In the back of her mind, Azalea added this to the pile of mistakes the target had already made.

“We don’t do things halfway around here,” Azalea answered. Though she smiled politely, the look in her eyes made it clear that she was neither intimidated nor amused. “And I know we weren’t giving off the wrong vibes when you first came to see us.”

Calling hit-jobs complex would be an understatement. Although word spread fast along the illicit grapevine, clients could still have some level of control over what information contract killers had on their targets. Disturbingly high salaries (and disregard for morals) aside, one could not simply kill another person without knowing anything about them. If someone was willing to pay for a death, there always had to be a reason or two for it. . .

The target hummed at this, ever-so-slightly furrowing his brow. “Well, your boss didn’t give off the vibe of someone who’d have some half-pint running her deals for her.”

. . .Not that that was a problem right now. There were more than enough reasons for Azalea to complete tonight’s job.

“First of all, I was in the same room as you during your meeting with The Boss; unless it’s for something very personal, she always includes us in decision-making. I can get why you might not have noticed me, but it’s still not my fault if you aren’t as observative as you think you are,” Azalea retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Second of all, we rotate between these kinds of assignments, because that’s how things actually get accomplished. And third of all: who the hell are you calling a half-pint? I’ve been in the business probably five times longer than you have.”

“Well, if part of your ‘assignment’ is to convince me of something, then you aren’t doing a very bang-up job,” the target sneered.

Azalea barked a laugh. “You think I’m the one who needs to be convincing here? You seemed pretty damn desperate during your first elevator pitch with us.”

The target responded to this by leaning forward and glowering in a very unpleasant way. He was dangerously close to getting in Azalea’s face, but she defied yet another one of his expectations by not flinching at all.

“Look,” Azalea said pointedly, signaling just how thin her patience was wearing. “The Boss sent me because she’s thinking of giving this another chance. But if you’d rather just throw that chance away. . .”

The uncomfortable starting contest continued for a few more seconds. Azalea immediately noticed a spark of panic mixing into the target’s anger. He knew he was about to screw himself out of something he wanted a second time. He knew she was right, that she had the upper-hand here, and he was furious about it.

(And knowing that really helped to calm Azalea’s frustration.)

Eventually, the target moved to the side, closing the door behind Azalea as she strolled in. He then quietly led her through the house, and while she followed along, she subtly scanned this new environment. A few lights were on in the nearby rooms, so her eyes adjusted quickly.

This place offered several indicators that the target was rather well-off; plenty of furniture, various expensive-looking knicknacks strewn about, and the size of the house in general. However, none of that changed the fact that this place was also kind of a pigsty.

Stains dotted the carpet here and there (some were at least semi-cleaned, while others had simply been hidden in a way that just made them more obvious). There were also strange indents along the edges of the walls (a few of which were clearly scratch marks that obviously hadn’t been produced by a human).

Soon, the two of them came upon what Azalea assumed was the dining room table. The target took a seat at the end, motioning for Azalea to follow suit. Once she settled down on one of the chairs, she placed the black box on the tabletop and pushed it closer to the target. Getting the message, the target reached out and lifted the lid to reveal a small assembly of cinnamon rolls.

His features were etched with a look of surprise. He glanced at Azalea curiously. “. . .What’s this supposed to be?”

“A peace-offering,” Azalea announced, lying straight through her teeth. “We might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, but that shouldn’t have to affect business.”

The target’s eyes grew wider, tension quickly draining away to be replaced with more ignorant assumptions. “That’s awfully kind of you.” With that, he fished one of the cinnamon rolls out of the box and took a bite.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Azalea had to stifle a laugh as she watched the target make two more mistakes. She leaned back in the chair, a timer starting in her head, careful to keep her expression neutral.

“So,” the target pronounced, his voice semi-muffled by the treat. “You guys are finally opening negotiations?”

“We might be.” Azalea shrugged. “Might. There’s been a lot of stuff on our plate lately, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“I get that,” the target chuckled. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta be picky, right?”

“Right.” Azalea nodded, smirking at the irony.

The Pentas Family wasn’t the only mob the Inlets had to offer (though it often seemed to be the only mob whose members actually knew what they were doing). There were a couple embarrassing street gangs here and there, but they never lasted very long. A few lone thugs wandered into the area, but they tended to have a bad habit of vanishing without a trace.

It was rare for another actual crime family to try and compete.

Rare, but not impossible.

“This is delicious, by the way,” the target admitted, having gone through more than half of the cinnamon roll in his hand. “Did you make these?”

“Yeah, I did. They were fresh out of the oven before I made my way over here, ” Azalea beamed. “When The Boss organized her turf, she ended up assigning me to Aftertaste. So, I had to act accordingly.”

(For the record, she knew the target was only being more polite because of the deal he thought was at stake. But she also knew that she was one of the best chefs in town, and there was no shame in taking praise for that.)

“Well, I hope you know that baked goods won’t be the most sufficient payment.” Surprise soon left the target’s expression. After he swallowed the last bite of the cinnamon roll, his smile became condescending once again. “If your family actually gets around to starting this partnership, that is.”

“You and your guys weren’t exactly invited to this area,” Azalea deadpanned. “You can’t blame us for not accepting your offers right off the bat.”

The target rolled his eyes. “Rumor has it that your crew has already entered an alliance with someone else. So we figured asking you to work with us would be doing you a favor on top of that.”

Azalea folded her arms across her chest. “Whether or not we’ve already got allies isn’t the point. The point is that our business doesn’t correlate with yours, and if that’s not enough of a hint, then nothing is. The only reason The Boss is considering changing her mind is because she’s a lot more mature than most people with power.”

“Since when does correlation matter?” The target pressed. “There’s strength in numbers, and our respective trades are both lucrative as all hell. Shouldn’t that be what matters here?”

Azalea raised her eyebrows at him. The target was acting just as entitled as he had been during that last-minute meeting a few weeks ago. Azalea had been sure that The Boss would’ve just assigned her or Murdock or one of The Pentas Family’s other representatives to bump him off. The fact that Azalea’s client had come complaining about the target’s business practices so soon afterwards was just a lucky coincidence.

“You’ve said so before,” Azalea eventually sighed. “That your little hustle is worth all the risks it comes with. You’ve said it, but you haven’t really done much to prove it.”

She reminded herself that the timer was still ticking. She’d only have to deal with this guy for five more minutes or so. She just had to keep an eye out for the signs.

“You think I’d be so insistent on negotiating if I didn’t have the goods to show for it?” The target scoffed, clearly frustrated at how Azalea had called him out so blatantly. He was probably trying to convince himself that, somehow, she still didn’t actually know what she was talking about. “I’m not like the dumbass wannabes you’re used to. I’ve got more than enough proof of what my deal could do for your posse.”

Azalea leaned forward, tilting her head to the side in a challenging manner. “Then let’s see that proof.”

The target pursed his lips before nodding. He rose from his seat, breaking eye-contact so quickly that it was obviously on purpose. Azalea got up, once again trailing him as he retreated further into the house.

He led her down one hallway to a door that boasted a comical number of locks. After the target disengaged said locks, he pulled the door open to unveil a staircase, which he and Azalea quietly descended (Azalea made sure to stay behind him).

It took no time at all for the stench to punch Azalea in the face. She didn’t stop moving forward. At least, not until she and the target reached the foot of the stairs.

There was no carpeting to cover the concrete floor, and many of the walls were bare and without insulation. Despite being so unfinished, the target’s basement was roomy. Almost as roomy as The Pentas Family’s dens in the abandoned subway tunnels. And the target had definitely taken advantage of that space.

Several cages were scattered about, coming in a variety of sizes, materials. . .and contents. Many of the creatures being contained obviously hadn’t been born in the States. The noise they made wasn’t so cacophonous as it was depressing.They shuffled behind bars, cowering back, attempting to cover their eyes. They were all obviously cramped and in pain.

“Well?” The target asked smugly. “How’s all this for proof?”

“It’s. . .more than I expected,” Azalea answered honestly. She took a few subtle deep breaths, feeling her fingernails dig into her palms.

Among the many types of illegal business, exotic animal trafficking had never been very respected. Oh sure, you could make a fortune off of selling something that should either be out in the wild or in a zoo, but it was never as simple as that. It caused too many problems for the payoff to really be worth it. Especially since the clientele for that particular trade was frequently composed of rich assholes who wouldn’t know responsibility if it jumped up and went for their jugulars.

Azalea glanced at the target. Her anger cooled down a bit as she noticed beads of sweat collecting on his brow at a suspiciously fast rate.

“How exactly is this going to work?” Azalea inquired, gesturing towards the cages. She didn’t need (or want) to know, but now that the target was officially where she wanted him, she had to keep him distracted.

“That depends on my clients, really.” The target shrugged. The movement seemed casual, but Azalea could instantly tell that he was a bit shakier than he had been before. “Most of ‘em typically want a pelt, though I have gotten orders for complete taxidermy before. And that’s not even mentioning the crackpots who think blood or feathers or bone marrow or what-the-fuck-ever can cure diseases.”

“Oh, really? I always thought some people just wanted a special pet to brag about.”

“No, I do occasionally sell live specimens,” the target explained. He paused to clear his throat before continuing. “But it’s uncommon for most animals to actually make it this far. I guess some of the ones in this batch are just tougher than what I’m used to.”

His lip curled into a cruel smile, though it was wavering. His eyes glistened, suddenly looking very puffy and red around the edges. Confusion briefly crossed his features, along with anxiety that he attempted to hide.

Azalea blinked innocently, acting as though she hadn’t been carefully watching the target up until now. “Is everything alright? It looks like something’s bothering you.”

“Ah, no. I-I’m fine,” the target stammered, raising a hand to knead at his forehead. “Business just. . .takes a lot out of you, right?”

Azalea hummed, nodding in a way that was understanding but not at all sympathetic. “Well, I appreciate you taking the time for this little visit. But I still don’t think we’ll be able to open negotiations.”

The target did a neck-snapping double-take. “W-what?”

“You heard me. I’m not convinced that my family should start working with you. And if The Boss were here, I doubt she’d be convinced, either.”

“Why?” The target’s voice was louder than he’d probably wanted it to be. Azalea wasn’t sure if that’d been caused by his arrogant temper or the side-effects. “I’ve already told your boss about the prices that can be expected! You literally just asked to see what I had in store! How the fuck can you not see the benefits here?”

“Like I said before: our businesses aren’t compatible,” Azalea replied tersely. “We made that very clear the first time you tried making a deal. But apparently you thought screwing around in The Boss’ territory would somehow sway her opinion.”

The target sputtered at this, grinding his teeth as his face contorted into a furious scowl. He made to say something else—well, he was probably just going to start spewing insults—but Azalea cut him off via shaking her head.

“See, that’s another reason why my family doesn’t want anything from your group. You just can’t be professional.” Azalea paused, glancing at the cages again. “Besides, you guys only specialize in your trade, and the performance is sloppy at best. My family is all about variety; no two of us carry out business the same way.”

The target blinked, then barked a mirthless, disbelieving laugh. “Your boss just took ‘expect the unexpected’ and ran with it? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Azalea grinned. The target must’ve gotten so worked up that he didn’t even realize how hoarse his voice had gotten, how close he was to slurring his words. “I really don’t understand why so many people don’t have faith in that kind of work. I mean, you didn’t hesitate to eat from that little box I brought. . .”

The target froze in place. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth gaped open like a suffocating fish.

Then, as if on cue, he doubled over, clearly not having expected whatever pain he was now feeling. His breathing became ragged, his body as a whole shuddered in an odd way. He let out a strangled gasp; when he tried to straighten his posture, he went sprawling to the floor, his hands not instinctively flying out to break his fall like they should have.

The convulsions grew steadily stronger. The target’s efforts to regain his balance were obvious, but it seemed like some invisible force was pinning him down.

“No one would ever expect batrachotoxin to have a sweet flavor,” Azalea pronounced. “I mean, I certainly didn’t at first, but research proves otherwise.”

She took a few steps closer, now looming over the man who’d towered over her just a moment ago. The target was coughing and choking now, blood-tinged mucus leaking out of his mouth. The veins in his neck were now distended in an awful way, more or less threatening to literally pop out of his skin.

“What was that you said earlier?” She asked. “Something about being a dumbass wannabe?”

Her tone wasn’t low or dangerous. Rather, it remained as chipper and casual as it had been for most of this interaction. And that automatically made her more terrifying than she’d been given credit for.

As he was no longer capable of speaking coherently, the target could do nothing but gawk in total horror. For good measure, Azalea didn’t stop staring down at him until his watery eyes eventually rolled back into his head. He still had yet to go completely limp—some of his joints kept twitching—but there was no saving him now.

Azalea lightly shook her head, fished her cellphone out of her pocket. She tapped at the screen, making sure for probably the thousandth time now that her conversations, whether by text or call, were shielded. The Boss had pulled a helluva lot of strings to ensure that those working for her wouldn’t have to worry about being recorded, but it never hurt to double-check.

Once she was satisfied, Azalea dialed a certain number, then held the device to her ear.

The phone had barely started ringing when someone on the other end picked up, though there was silence for a good five seconds or so.

“. . .Is it done?” Inquired a familiar voice.

“Sure is,” Azalea stated, figuring her client had just been bracing herself. She couldn’t really blame said client for needing to do so, considering what she was calling about.

“Good.” The client sighed. Surprisingly enough, her apparent nervousness didn’t seem to overshadow the relief in her tone. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so quickly.”

Azalea chuckled. “We try our best to be efficient.”

“Are there any animals in the house?”

“Yes, quite a few. I had to bide my time to make sure the poison properly took effect. So, I goaded him into showing me where he’s been keeping them,” Azalea explained. “Why do you ask?”

“You said that some of your colleagues would come by once the job was done. Would they be adverse to. . .picking up those animals?”

“Well, that depends: what exactly do you expect the cleanup crew to do with them?” Azalea asked, both curious and suspicious.

“I was hoping they could be taken to Wild Things Rescue. I have connections to that place.” The client explained, meaning the endangered species sanctuary on the northside of town. Then, probably having remembered how she’d been sworn to secrecy, she hurriedly added, “A-and I can make sure that the employees won’t find out about my deal with you! All I’m asking is for the animals to be dropped off at the shelter; I’ll take care of the rest from there. I’m willing to pay more if I need to.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Azalea announced. “I don’t think an extra charge will be necessary.”

“You won’t have—wait, what?” The client had obviously been caught off guard. “Are—are you serious. . ?”

“I am.” Azalea paced around the dead man on the floor. “This guy already had a price on his head; your patronage just sweetened that deal. Besides, you didn’t skimp on the original fee. So, I might as well help you out one more time.” She looked over the caged creatures and felt her face drop. There were a couple panda cubs, a few wolf pups, a pangolin, and even a tiny white tiger. And that was just what the cages immediately in front of her had to offer. “Just because your heart’s in the right place.”

“Oh.” The client stayed quiet for a long moment.

Though Azalea didn’t have a problem with the client’s confused relief, she was still on the clock. Plus, awkward silences weren’t really her thing. “Cleanup’s already on their way, but I’ll bring ‘em up to speed once they’re here. They know this city inside-out, so they won’t have trouble getting to the sanctuary. Can you meet them there?”

The client cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I absolutely can.”

“Perfect. It’ll take them some time to erase everything here. You should be able to expect them within an hour or so.”

“I’ll be ready,” the client promised. And, despite being able to tell so much just from her voice, Azalea still couldn’t imagine the look in the client’s eyes when she said, “. . .Thank you. For everything.”

With that, a loud click sounded on the other end before the call went completely silent.

After Azalea returned her phone to her pocket, her eyes landed on a cage at the end of the row. Unlike all the others, it was empty, and its wire door hung open. Azalea took a closer look and quickly realized that the latch on the cage’s door was somewhat bent, as well as covered in scratches and grooves.

Something must have gnawed on that latch until it finally gave way. . .

Out of nowhere, the silence was broken by a series of shuffling noises. Automatically tense, Azalea gazed around the basement. She carefully reached into one of the pockets in her vest, wrapping her hand around a small syringe.

(An emergency dose of bullet ant venom. It was one of the very few things in her collection that wasn’t actually lethal, but having it in your system was agonizing enough to make you wish it was.)

She soon discovered a large hole in the wall to her left: an empty, unfinished door frame. Azalea chewed her lip, then maneuvered herself around the cages. The shuffling grew louder and louder as she came to hover in the frame.

This sideroom wasn’t much better than the rest of the basement. A desk had been positioned there, supporting a laptop and cluttered stacks of paper and folders. Beside it stood a tripod, complete with a large camera that was aimed at a white sheet on the floor. (This must have been how the target advertised the animals he trafficked. Once you had some quality photos of your wares, all you had to do was post them somewhere online and start taking bids.)

Across the room from this setup, a refrigerator stood in the corner. Its door hung ever-so-slightly ajar, allowing a strip of bright, artificial light to peek out. The sounds of something scratching against plastic echoed from within.

Azalea paused, chewing her lip. Now sure that she wouldn’t have to deal with one of the target’s cronies, she released her hold on the syringe

She inched towards the fridge, moving slowly and quietly. She didn’t plan on opening it all the way—her instincts just demanded that she get a look at whatever was inside.

Once the device was within touching distance, Azalea leaned down, craning her neck to peer through the crack in the door. She soon came to the conclusion that maybe her instincts should’ve just screwed off this one time.

A pale blur erupted out of the fridge, accompanied by a loud, gravelly hiss. Azalea let out a small scream and staggered back, nearly losing her balance. While catching her breath, she watched the creature dart away from her, soon backing into the opposite corner, still hissing as it thumped one of its hind legs against the floor.

Now that it was standing still, Azalea could see this thing for what it was: a hare (admittedly, she’d thought it was a rabbit at first, but then she remembered the differences between them).

Its fur was white. Azalea immediately thought it had to be one of those arctic species, but as she continued examining it, she realized that wasn’t the case. The tips of the hare’s long ears lacked black spots. Azalea’s mind went to albinism, but that couldn’t be right either. The hare’s eyes weren’t pink—their hue looked like a combination of hazel and gold. Like deep, dark amber.

Azalea knew there was another mutation that made animals white when they probably weren’t meant to be, but she couldn’t start racking her brain for the exact term.

Because by now, she’d finally noticed how the fur around the hare’s mouth and forepaws was stained red.

She glanced back at the fridge. Now that the door was wide open, she had a perfect view of all the packages lining the shelves. They each contained varying cuts of raw meat; probably what the target had been using to feed those animals. One of them was laying on the floor—it must have fallen out when Azalea startled the hare. The plastic wrap had clearly been torn open by small teeth, leaving the ground beef inside partially uncovered.

“I didn’t know you guys could eat meat,” Azalea said as she put two and two together. She had no idea why she’d just decided to start talking to the hare. It wasn’t like it could answer her. “. . .Are you hungry?”

And what kind of question was that? Of course the hare was hungry. Why else would it have climbed into a refrigerator to eat some raw meat?

Azalea lightly shook her head, attempting to calm those nagging questions. She worked for a mob full of contract-killers. This was pretty normal compared to some of the stuff she’d done before.

She stooped down to pick up the package. She saw how the hare’s eyes followed the ground beef, wide and hopeful. But as she took a step forward, its ears flattened as it let out a strange, high-pitched growl.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Azalea called softly. She held out her free hand in a calm gesture. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” After that, she plucked a piece of meat from the package and lightly tossed it forward. It landed in front of the hare, who hesitated before wolfing it down.

The hare immediately went back to staring and hissing at Azalea, but that didn’t deter her. She kept sending little bits of ground beef the hare’s way, slowly moving towards it all the while.

Sooner or later, she slowly lowered herself into a sitting position beside the hare. She took yet another chunk of ground beef into the palm of her hand, and then rested that hand on the floor.

The hare warily looked back and forth between her and the offering. Eventually, it claimed the treat—its little teeth nicked the skin of Azalea’s palm, but she stayed still. The hare probably hadn’t meant to bite her; now that she was so much closer to it, Azalea could see just how badly it was shaking.

It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that a person who trafficked animals wouldn’t care enough about said animals to treat them properly, but watching the hare shiver and hesitate. . .

It wasn’t just malnourished. It was afraid.

It hadn’t just been underfed. It had been abused.

And just like that, Azalea finally realized why this seemingly random animal had struck such a chord with her. Oh sure, she’d always been an animal-lover, but the hare specifically reminded her of someone.

Someone who she’d grown up with.

Someone who, like her, had been the subject of cruelty for the majority of his childhood.

Someone whose developing appetite had made the neglect he’d experienced so much worse.

Someone she’d smuggled food to whenever she’d gotten the chance. . .

Azalea felt her eyes start to burn. She swallowed a lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she quietly set the package down in front of the hare. This time, the hare didn’t hold back. It attacked the ground beef with newfound vigor, its little teeth audibly snapping.

Despite the painful memories now circulating through her head, Azalea chortled at the sight. “You’re kind of like a little snare-trap, huh?”

Another couple minutes dragged by before Azalea raised a hand and cautiously pushed it toward the hare.

The hare froze mid-bite, jerking its head to stare up at her, its amber eyes still full of stress. Azalea kept her movement even as her fingertips brushed the hare’s soft, white fur.

The hare flinched, but it didn’t try to run off like she’d expected.

Azalea repeated that action, slowly but surely stroking the hare’s back. Sooner or later, the hare went back to eating. It didn’t resist the petting, didn’t hiss, didn’t try to bite Azalea.

Time just seemed to slow down as Azalea sat there, watching the hare, hoping that comforting it would make the horrible ache in her heart go away.

She was so busy calming herself down that she almost didn’t notice how the hare had suddenly abandoned its meal in favor of sidling up to her, leaning into her touch.

It reared back on its hind legs and braced its paws against her shoulder, then proceeded to push its muzzle against her neck. It wasn’t shaking anymore.

With her eyebrows now on a collision course for Mars, Azalea gently gathered the hare up in her arms, being as delicate as humanly possible. The hare didn’t resist this, and she felt a delighted smile materialize on her face.

She knew she couldn’t keep the hare. It wasn’t like The Boss prohibited her associates from having pets, but Azalea already owned Cuddles. She simply didn’t have enough time or space for another animal.

And in spite of that, Azalea had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter how accidental this encounter was. It didn’t matter how ridiculous it was for her to adopt an animal that just so happened to be in the place where she’d killed a person no more than ten minutes ago.

“I think I might have a friend for you,” Azalea told the hare, her smile growing wider.

The hare, of course, didn’t respond. But the way it tilted its head at Azalea’s words was encouraging enough.

___

Azalea may have loved decorating as much as the next gal, but after she’d cleaned all the old junk out of her secret underground den, she just hadn’t really felt the need to embellish it beyond the necessities.

To the right of the concrete passageway, a huge storage cabinet took up space against the wall. Similarly to one or two of the cupboards in Aftertaste’s kitchen, it was full to bursting with bottles and jars that came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.

The only difference was that the stuff in these containers couldn’t be used in cooking unless Azalea planned to kill someone. (Which, to be fair, was a scenario she found herself in quite regularly.) A few boxes could be found at the bottom of the cabinet; they stored things like syringes and transportation vials.

Right next to the poison cabinet was a mahogany bookcase. Its shelves were inhabited by various chronicles about cooking, baking, hazardous chemicals and how they affected the human body, stuff like that.

She’d also brought a couple tables down here. One was in the corner, currently supporting Cuddles’ terrarium and heat-lamp. The other was in the center of the room (along with a couple chairs), a base for harvesting, or experimenting, or whatever Azalea found herself needing to do when it came to working with poisons.

Right now that table would’ve been completely vacant, if not for the hare, who was currently trying to pace around on it in order to get a better view of this new environment.

“Hey, c’mon. Can’t you hold still for a few more seconds?” Azalea asked, gently keeping the hare in place.

She’d taken one of the hand towels from the restaurant’s kitchen and soaked it in warm water. She was now using it to carefully scrub at the hare’s fur, cleaning off the blood that had been caked around his mouth and paws. For the most part, the red stains had disappeared. There were just a few more specks left, but the hare apparently thought he’d stayed in one spot long enough.

Cuddles, who was loosely coiled around Azalea’s neck, ever-so-slightly leaned toward the hare, angling her head curiously. Her forked tongue flicked in and out of her mouth like a party favor. The hare returned Cuddles’ gaze, his twitching nose somehow adding to the strangely thoughtful look in his eyes.

Azalea knew it usually wasn’t the best idea to have a snake in the same room with a small mammal. However, that didn’t change the fact that scarlet kingsnakes only grew big enough to be a danger to things like mice and rats. And, since the hare was definitely much larger than either of those things, Cuddles couldn’t really do anything to harm him. Besides, she wasn’t nearly as aggressive as most people with ophidiophobia would probably suggest

“You must be pretty excited, huh?” Azalea asked the hare. “I don’t blame you—just wait until you see your actual new home.”

Make sure you have a Plan B, chided a voice in Azalea’s head. There’s still a chance that this won’t work out the way you’re hoping.

Azalea had to bite back a sigh at the thought. Logically speaking, she knew she couldn’t really expect Caliban to just randomly take a new pet home tonight. Especially since she hadn’t mentioned a potential new pet in the text she’d sent him ten minutes ago.

She knew he was on his way here, and that made her simultaneously eager and anxious.

Even so, she still had a good feeling about her plan. She knew her brother better than anyone on planet Earth; hell, he’d said that himself on more than one occasion.

Almost immediately after Azalea had finally restored the hare’s fur to its pure white hue, the door across the room lightly shook as knuckles rapped against it on the other side.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmured, rising from her chair.

Just to be sure, Azalea took a quick peek through the window at the platform outside. After that, she stood before the door, her hand on the knob. “Who is it?”

“It’s the pizza guy,” replied a voice that was as familiar as it was muffled, both lighthearted and sarcastic. “Who do you think it is?”

Azalea pulled the door less than halfway open, poking her head through the crack. There her brother was, amusedly smiling down at her. The dim, flickering light of the abandoned platform shone against his red leather jacket.

“What’re you doing out so late?” Azalea greeted, smiling right back. “You know there’s crazy people down here, right?”

Caliban’s eyes grew wide as he put a hand on his heart in an elaborate mock gasp. “You’ve seen them, too? Don’t you realize how much danger you’re in?!”

The siblings burst out laughing like only self-aware lunatics who’d made their way in a life where murder was casual business could.

“Anyway, what was with that message?” Caliban asked. “You’re only vague like that when you’re up to something.”

“Exactly.” Azalea hummed. “Would you prefer me telling you or showing you?”

“I mean, both would probably work.” Caliban moved forward, obviously expecting his sister to step aside. When she didn’t, he gave pause. “. . .Can I come in?”

“You can,” Azalea replied, “but you’ve gotta close your eyes first.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Azalea quickly glanced over her shoulder, making sure the hare was still on the table, then returned her focus to Caliban before he could try peeking inside.

Caliban blinked at this, raising an eyebrow. Azalea knew he trusted her, but she was just now remembering how his (and, admittedly, her) concept of surprises had become a bit warped over the recent years.

“Does this have anything to do with that job you were talking about yesterday?” Caliban inquired.

“. . .Kind of,” Azalea admitted before hurriedly clarifying, “Nothing went wrong! The target’s dead, I didn’t get hurt or caught, don’t worry!”

The anxiety that had started forming on her brother’s face was replaced by subtle relief. He gave her one more puzzled look before he nodded.

“Alright, then. Lead the way,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

Azalea snickered, taking one of Caliban’s hands in hers to carefully guide him into her den. Once they were both inside, she lightly kicked the door shut and brought Caliban over to the table. She gently pushed down on his shoulder, having him sit on her chair.

The hare wandered right up to them, peering back and forth between the siblings.

“Can I open my eyes now?” Caliban asked, his tone caught between amusement and concern.

“Almost, almost,” Azalea assured. “Just wait a little longer. . .” She couldn’t help but giggle as she watched the hare crane his neck to push his little face closer to Caliban’s, nose twitching adorably.

Caliban could obviously sense that something had entered his bubble, because he immediately began leaning back in the chair. “If whatever this is makes me fall and crack my head open, I swear to God—”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Azalea interjected. “Open ‘em up.”

Caliban’s eyes snapped open, and he very nearly jumped in his seat. The hare flinched back a bit, but he didn’t start hissing. That was a good sign.

Caliban’s shock was quickly replaced by confusion. He looked at his sister, then back at the hare. “Look, I don’t have a problem with bunnies, but I’m not sure if I want to know how or why this one got here.”

“Well, first of all, he’s a hare, you uncultured swine,” Azalea snorted. “And second of all, I didn’t just pick him up off the street. I found him at the target’s place.”

“. . .Are you saying he played a part in how that job went down?” Caliban asked, starting to chortle at how odd that sounded.

“No, not really. He might’ve wanted to, judging by how scared and hungry he was.”

That made her brother’s laughter come to an abrupt halt. The bewilderment was still very much present in his expression, but his eyes made it clear that a chord had been struck.

He cautiously raised a hand, glancing back at Azalea.

“Is it okay if I. . ?”

“Yeah, go ahead!” Azalea beamed. “He really seems to like pets.”

Caliban nodded and held his palm towards the hare, who responded by taking a few seconds to check this new person’s scent. After that, he rubbed his little head against the offered hand, much like a cat.

Despite knowing the things her brother had done—and would likely continue doing for a long while—Azalea knew there was no denying how delightful it was to see his face light up. Slowly but surely, the hare shuffled closer to Caliban, clearly enjoying his attention.

“Not to be rude,” Caliban eventually pronounced, still petting the hare, “but you still haven’t really told me why you asked me to come over.”

“Right, right,” Azalea coughed. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. But for starters, when I saw this guy, I thought of you.” She reached over to scratch the hare’s ears. “He’s got some strange tastes—”

Caliban sputtered with humor, looking briefly shocked at being called out like that. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“—and he’s feisty when he needs to be. But he’s really nice once you get to know him.”

Her brother hummed at this. One part of his expression showed joking denial, but the other part was clearly touched by the sentiment.

“We both know how I can’t really feed you like the others,” Azalea continued, unable to stop herself from sounding a bit guilty.

Caliban caught onto that quickly, his eyes becoming slightly worried. “It’s not like I hold that against you. You know that, right? I mean, in all fairness, it’s better that you don’t give me any bodies. Because of the whole poison-is-your-trademark thing.”

Azalea softly laughed in agreement, but it didn’t do much to hide the fact that both she and Caliban were most definitely on the same train of thought right now.

Before they’d joined The Pentas Family, before they’d even become adults, she’d been the one to care for him when he needed it the most. She’d been there for him every time he couldn’t sleep or got sick due to malnourishment, every time the end of a day saw him bruised and shaking. . .

Just as he’d been there for her whenever she’d experienced similar abuse.

On one hand, they’d both tried so hard to repress those memories, which they had every damn right to do. On the other hand, however, they both knew that they couldn’t afford to forget how they’d managed to survive.

“Aside from that,” Azalea mentioned, her voice growing softer, “I can imagine how lonely it might get around your place when R.D. has to travel for her projects. And since I’m so busy most of the time, I can only do so much to help with that.”

Caliban slowly nodded, biting his lip.

“So, I thought that maybe Snare could help keep you company. That’s his name, by the way. Snare.”

A few long seconds passed before Caliban echoed, “Snare. Snare the hare.” He paused, then let out a quiet chuckle. “I like that.”

@sammys-magical-au @callmegkiddo @insane4fandoms @inkangeliguess @flamestar456 @forestcouncil @slasher-smash @themarpsimp @neons-trash-blog @ayoreneehere @sw33tst4rs @butterboyfly @i-dont-like-it-here-please-help @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp

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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

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