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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 6 months

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Bloody Tricks and Even Bloodier Treats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a relief; I think I have to now,” Sam chuckled. They could already feel their teeth start to ache, but that wouldn’t be a problem so long as they stayed focused. “. . .Y’know, it’s been a while since I saw this kind of hospitality. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few seconds of awkward silence came and went.

Azalea fidgeted with her sleeves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was such a strange thing to think about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“. . .in the sAME PLACE AS MY KIDS?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Name?” A low, hushed voice called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But their instructions couldn’t be any more clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam hummed at the sentiment, thinking.

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

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

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

A more confident one.

A more challenging one.

A more determined one.

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he never did.

. . .Of course he never did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cove Port Inlet’s very own nursery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of which. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was staring at an active woodchipper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is he waiting for me? Sam wondered.

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

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

Fine, then.

He wanted a spectacle?

She’d give him a goddamn spectacle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready. . .aim. . .FIRE!

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

SSSHHHHHRRUMM-POW!

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

The vegetable-masquerading ammo soared through the air.

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

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

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

They vanished through a row of black vinyl curtains.

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

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

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

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

That just wasn’t enough, of course.

It needed to be accentuated by something.

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

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

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

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

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

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?!”

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

It wasn’t Murdock’s voice.

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

Finally, she could see his face. . .

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

“Caliban?!” Sam nearly shouted.

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean for that to happen!”

“It sure as hell felt like you did!”

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

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

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

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

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

Caliban tossed a glance at Murdock.

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

“Yeah, but—”

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

He trailed off, leaving Sam to grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something inside the woodchipper jerked with a squishing screech.

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

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

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

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

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

A moment of silence came and went.

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

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

He took a single step forward

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

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

Sam backed up yet again. “Murdock—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other pest Murdock had predicted needing to deal with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THUNK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why the hell couldn’t she. . ?

Before she knew it, everything had gone quiet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which was not something Sam could afford to further trigger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footsteps manifested somewhere just outside the white fence.

Sam felt her shoulders tense for the millionth time.

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

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

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

Caliban immediately relaxed, nodding as he sat back down.

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

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

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

Caliban hummed with appreciation. "Great."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam pursed her lips.

Murdock did have a point there.

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

@sammys-magical-au

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

Text

Day 4: Amputation

(Disclaimer: only four of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Caliban here. For more information about Azalea, go here. For more information about K.O., go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, and if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. To learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here. And last but certainly not least, for more information about R.D., go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: cannibalism/implied cannibalism, torture, blood, gore, dismemberment, exposed bones, mentions of eating/drinking, descriptions of illegal business, knives/blades, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

“Feeling any better, Cal?” Murdock queried, titling his head as he leaned against the wall. This might’ve been an odd thing to hear from a hitman, but Caliban had known him for years now. He knew how to dissect his words, how to tell when he was being at least somewhat genuine.

Sure, there was sadistic mockery in Murdock’s tone right now, but even someone who didn’t know him like Caliban did would be able to tell that it wasn’t being directed at him.

Caliban nodded, offering a semi-positive hum as he carved another piece from the freshly-cooked muscle on his plate.

From one corner of Caliban’s den, a shaking man tried to join the conversation with a choked, gurgling holler. The gunman was still capable of producing sound, but he’d also had to gulp down mouthful after mouthful of his own blood while Caliban put a tried-and-true lengua recipe to good use. (Boiling first, searing second. Ooh, that’d been so good. . .)

“Is tonight the first time you’ve used this thing?” Murdock nodded at the chair he and Caliban had wrestled the gunman into a little while ago.

Caliban paused, thinking as he swallowed the last bite of his dinner.

“. . .I guess so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no actual reason.” Murdock shrugged. “That just makes this kind of special, don’t you think? I get to be here to see you start breaking in my gift.”

Caliban couldn’t help but sputter a laugh. “I thought you said you didn’t put any stock in the niceties.”

“Hey, don’t act like I can’t be fickle.” Murdock preened at his hair, his smile growing even more devilish than before. “That’s how I get my work done.”

The chair in question—or, The Throne, as Murdock called it—was crafted from iron rather than wood. Thick leather straps complimented by heavy metal buckles were attached to the arm-rests, the front legs, the stiles on the back. Its design was simple, yet a bit more interesting than a mere folding chair as well as far, far more uncomfortable.

And it was, indeed, a gift. One the hitman claimed to have built himself as an apology for a few past fiascos that’d happened down here. Needing to restrain a person wasn’t an uncommon task for mobsters, but sometimes mobsters just couldn’t control where they ended up having to do the restraining. And winding rope around Caliban’s block kitchen island never failed to be awkward and frustrating.

Murdock had really gone the extra mile via sneaking into this den on Caliban’s birthday and presenting him with The Throne when he’d ventured down for some standard butchery. (True, he probably should’ve fired that idea at someone else beforehand, since Caliban nearly threw a steak knife in his face when he leapt out of the storage closet holding The Throne almost like a battering ram, but it was the thought that counted.)

“So, what’s next?” Murdock continued, stepping closer to hover by his accomplice. “Between the cooking and the dining, you’ve had plenty of time to brainstorm.”

“Well. . .” Caliban dragged out the word, a conspiratory glint in his eyes as he set his cutlery and now empty plate down in the utility sink. “We both know I’ve gotta take my time with this, right?”

“Obviously,” Murdock chuckled. “Vengeance is best when it’s dragged out nice and far and slow.”

“That’s the thing, though. I can’t get much out of this,” Caliban turned his head to snarl at the gunman, “unless he’s kept somewhat fresh.”

Murdock pursed his lips in consideration, following the cannibal’s gaze to look the gunman up and down. “I mean, you’re thinking of a piece-by-piece basis, right?”

“Golly-gee willikers, what gave it away?” Caliban confirmed, his voice fluctuating between deadpan and sarcastic curiosity.

“I don’t know. Guess I’m just that good,” Murdock bragged, in on the little act. He paced in a small circle, folding one arm against his chest and slightly raising the other to scratch at the hair growing along his jaw. “I’d put my money on this guy being able to last for about a week. You could just start tonight, then go on a three-day-schedule from here and end it on the third.”

Caliban chewed his lip. Remnants of medium-rare flesh and iron were still in his mouth. He knew they’d have to fade away eventually, but he also knew just how deliciously stubborn those particular flavors could be. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Murdock’s face brightened with unorthodox glee. He aimed finger-guns at his colleague, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

Caliban strolled over to the block-island, searching through its drawers and fishing out a number of tools to set down in a line on its countertop. Metal gleamed against the harsh light beaming down from the ceiling. Though his den hadn’t exactly been silent since Caliban and his guests had entered, a sudden cacophony of dull scraping and squealing still made him flinch. He looked up to see Murdock dragging both the gunman and The Throne over to the opposite side of the block-island.

“I thought this might make things a little more convenient,” the other hitman announced in response to the questioning glance he was given.

“I mean, sure, it will,” Caliban agreed, “but you don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“Who the hell said I didn’t want to? It wasn’t me, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him,” Murdock replied, gesturing to the gunman—or, more accurately, to what was left of the gunman’s tongue in his bloody, gaping, sobbing mouth. “I’m available all night. I don’t have anything scheduled this week. As a matter of fact, none of us did,” he added, momentarily narrowing his eyes as he snatched a handful of the gunman’s hair and gave it a harsh tug.

Caliban raised his eyebrows as something else besides schadenfreude wormed its way into his expression. It was good to be reminded that Murdock was just as angry about what had happened to Azalea. Sure, he didn’t have the same bond with her as Caliban did, but he was still a strong friend.

“Alright, then. Nice of you to keep me company.” Caliban made his way to the other side of the block-island. He knelt down before the gunman, unfastening some of the restraints around his left leg. “Y’know this means you’ll be handing the tools to me.”

Murdock clicked his tongue, rolled his visible eye at the sight of Caliban’s smirk. “Ffffffine,” he eventually relented with a sigh. “But if you try calling me a nurse, I swear to God—”

“Hey, under the right circumstances, I think you’d make a great nurse,” Caliban protested, snickering. “Repo! would have nothing on you.”

“. . .I mean, of course it wouldn’t,” Murdock snidely agreed as he leaned forward, resting his arms on The Throne’s top back, the perfect combination of casual lounging and looming.

After tossing the gunman’s shoe away, Caliban used a pair of Metz scissors to cut through the top half of the gunman’s pant leg. He then wrapped his hands around the gunman’s calf, digging his nails into bruised, goosebump-covered skin.

In response, the gunman writhed, attempting to kick Caliban in the chest. It wasn’t like all this movement would stop Caliban from doing what he was about to do, but it was still incredibly annoying.

Murdock seemed to have read Caliban’s mind, because he reached over to pluck up his accomplice’s Satterlee saw. He shifted it in his hand so that it was upside-down, then hauled off and slammed the blunt end against the gunman’s temple.

The gunman’s head snapped back. His eyes practically rolled in their sockets, pupils dilating. His mouth gaped like that of a fish. His leg fell limp, still shaking. Blood didn’t start trickling from the side of his head. His breathing didn’t grow quieter.

“. . .That’s not what the saw is meant for,” Caliban mentioned. And he was correct: blunt force trauma was a hell of a thing, but it would still take several more blows for the saw’s metal handle to kill.

Murdock offered a snarky hum. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Caliban couldn’t really deny that. He half-shrugged-half-nodded, then held out one expectant hand. “Scalpel, please.”

“That’s what I thought,” Murdock murmured as he set the saw back down and exchanged it for the requested tool.

Caliban took the thin blade and held it similarly to a pencil. It glided along as though the gunman’s skin was warm butter. The gunman whimpered and convulsed, but he couldn’t be aggressive about it. The pain now thrumming through his skull was probably too overpowering to allow that.

In less than a minute, the middle of the gunman’s thigh was fully encircled by a deep red line. “Boning knife,” Caliban called as he let his bloody scalpel clatter. He was just barely in time to add, “No, that’s not permission to joke about it for the twentieth time.”

“Wha—no, c’mon, I haven’t made nineteen jokes about it,” Murdock scoffed, though he still handed the blade over.

“Yes,” Caliban argued, pausing to look the other mobster dead in the eyes. “Yes, you have.”

Murdock glanced away for a second or two, probably recounting all the times he’d sprinkled innuendos into torture sessions. He then remembered the task at hand and simply shook his head. “Oh, whatever.”

Caliban made sure to hold the blade equal to the diameter of the first incision, then slid it underneath the first layer of flesh.

He coaxed the knife back and forth, back and forth.

Blood came gushing out. It coated his hands in a matter of seconds—though it didn’t seep through his gloves, he could still feel the heat oozing off of it. The scent of iron drifted into the air, almost as warm as dryer exhaust.

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

Although Caliban didn’t put an excessive amount of force behind the knife, droplets of blood were still sent flying to splatter against his apron

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

Even if the gunman hadn’t been screaming in agony, it still would’ve been difficult to hear the soft, slick noises his flesh made as Caliban’s knife moved farther and deeper.

Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik, Ssshhluk-ssshik

Caliban turned his wrist as he carved, guiding the knife toward skin that hadn’t been massacred yet. At the same time, he leaned to the side and craned his neck as he lifted the gunman’s leg a bit higher, giving himself easier access to the other side. It shuddered violently, but that wasn’t too disruptive. Caliban could tell that the act was more instinctual than intentional. It was hard for one to move their limb when something was actively slicing into it. And when the natural desire to survive clashed against that. . .well, the psychology of it all was probably better off not being looked into.

Sooner or later, flesh was hanging in thick tatters. Blood had now formed a small pool, which didn’t wait to start trickling down The Throne's seat and legs. Caliban moved back and released his grip on the gunman’s popliteal fossa. As the mangled leg limply collapsed against the chair, he reached over to pinch the top half of his handiwork, pulling it up and over.

Muscles and tissues shone in a horrible way.

Red and raw and oh-so appetizing.

For a normal amputation, the semi-attached wedges of skin would’ve been stitched up to convince the amputee’s skin to knit itself back together, scarring over and healing into a relatively smooth stump.

However, this was anything but a normal amputation.

Caliban was efficient, severing those chunks of meat and setting them on the block-island’s counter. They would’ve just gotten in the way otherwise. He stabbed the boning knife into one of them and left it there, like some strange amateur recreation of Excalibur and The Stone.

A thick, glistening white shape was finally on display in the center of the gore.

The gunman’s femur.

Caliban smirked as he prodded the bone with his index finger, eliciting a dull, porcelain tap-tap-tap.

“I bet that’s what most people think a bone-deep needle feels like,” Murdock proclaimed. “Not that I’ve felt one myself, but still.”

“Maybe,” Caliban mused. “Now’s the time for the saw.”

“Right, right.” Murdock grabbed the saw once again, presenting it with a bit more of a flourish this time.

Caliban could see his reflection in the wide blade; he knew from experience that he’d still be able to see himself when it was soaked in red. The first few strokes were a bit tricky, but it still took little time for Caliban to ease the saw into a grating rhythm.

Ssshhh-Rrrr-shhhrrrr-shrrr-shrrrrr

(Technically speaking, Caliban could’ve used it for this entire process, but that would’ve led to strands of flesh getting pulled up and tangled on the tool’s teeth, and he already had a big enough mess to clean up soon.)

Back and forth, back and forth. . .

A chorus of miserable, wretched cries crawled along the mutilated remains of the gunman’s tongue and up into the air. They were very much unintelligible, but Caliban could still guess at what his victim was trying to say.

Still working the saw, he looked up just in time to discover how Murdock was grasping either side of the gunman’s head, forcing him to watch everything that was happening to him. Caliban tilted his head a bit, nodding at his accomplice, then bared his teeth in a snarl, letting his narrowed eyes drill into the gunman’s horrified, watery ones.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought twice,” Caliban growled, “before you tried to take…pot-shots…at…my…SISTER!”

Ssrrrruuuuh-CaRrA-A-ACk!

Finally, the femur gave way under the tool’s weight, snapping in two—not cleanly, but well and truly. Either of the severed ends boasted jagged splinters, sort of like a broken stick. (Then again, broken sticks weren’t typically slathered with blood or dripping with marrow. They also weren’t known for making awful, organic popping sounds when they snapped.)

Caliban dropped the saw, then reluctantly grabbed a few rolls of cloth bandages. He wrapped them in tight layers around the gunman’s new stump; he wouldn’t be surviving long enough to properly heal, but just letting him bleed to death would have defeated the whole purpose of this venture.

Red spots were already spreading underneath the fresh gauze, but Caliban’s focus had already shifted to the eight-to-twelve pounds of fresh meat he’d just cut. Unlike those of the frog legs in many a middle-school science lab, the toes failed to twitch. The severed end wasn’t actively bleeding, just leaking. Not enough to be a problem in the face of a few sheets of butcher paper.

Caliban shrouded the leg before giving the stray chunks the same treatment. He then gathered them all up to carry across the den. He pried open the chest freezer in the corner, which was already stocked with similar, unassuming bundles. To the eye of an untrained outsider, this would look like something you’d see at the butchery section of the local grocery store.

Murdock snapped his fingers for a long few seconds. “Hell of a show.”

“I try my best.” Caliban couldn’t help but give a slight bow as he turned away from the chest freezer. “And that might as well be it for tonight.”

“Sure thing. We need to get a move-on anyway.” Murdock took hold of The Throne’s back post, hauling it and the freshly-made amputee back over to that one corner of the den. He harshly boxed the gunman's ear, then wiped his hands and glanced at his accomplice. “I need to go get my car from The WormRoll’s lot; I can pick you and Aza up from Aftertaste? So we can head to the base together?”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” Caliban answered as he carried his blood-soaked tools over to the utility sink. There, he shed his apron and gloves before turning the water on. “I just need to clean up and grab Snare.”

“Alright, see you then.” Murdock’s words seemed to linger in the air for a few more seconds after he disappeared through the den’s door.

___

Two days later. . .

Somehow, the art fair had resumed its activity, and the detours that’d been set up at the ends of certain streets made Caliban’s typical route take a bit longer. He soon came upon a thin two-story structure that boasted narrow windows and a yellow paint job. A garage filled out the dwelling’s bottom right half, next to a steep set of concrete steps that led to the front door.

It was on the front corner of the neighborhood, slightly distanced from the other houses and right across the street from downtown’s entryway.

Caliban pushed a button to open the garage, then reached over to detach a leash from the harness that had been fastened around Snare’s neck and belly. A pinstripe pattern made said harness as distinguished as it was adorable; that wasn’t really a surprise, considering Azalea had sewn it herself.

Yes, there was plenty of space in the hare’s hutch (Caliban had constructed it himself, so he’d made damn sure of that), along with a comically large hamster-wheel. But all pets required enrichment to be healthy. So what if he got a few weird looks when he took Snare out for walks?

Speaking of Snare: he’d been riding shotgun because he deserved it, but he quickly abandoned his curled-up position in favor of bracing his paws against the passenger dashboard. And for good reason. As Caliban pulled into the garage, it would’ve been impossible not to notice another car waiting inside, leaving just enough room for him to park. . .

Caliban’s eyes widened. His mouth stretched into an excited smile as his vehicle’s engine stopped rumbling. As he unbuckled his seatbelt, Snare bolted over the center console and across his lap to scratch at the door further inside the garage.

Caliban raced to open that door, just barely remembering to close it behind him as he and his pet all but burst into the kitchen. (The main kitchen, mind you.)

He made his way through the living room, into his bedroom, and there she was: the brilliant, sarcastic, gorgeous woman with the softest head of brown hair who had helped his sister find her footing in underground business. The same woman who’d chosen to be with Caliban in spite of how obvious it was that he’d never have a chance at deserving someone like her.

R.D. took her focus off of the half-emptied suitcase on the bed and approached, laughing as Caliban met her halfway, wrapped his arms around her, pressed a kiss to her cheek. Snare, meanwhile, ran in circles around both of their ankles.

“You’re home!” Caliban proclaimed.

“I’m home!” R.D. agreed, playfully ruffling her partner’s hair before leading him to sit down with her. Snare hopped onto the mattress and sidled up to her, prompting her to gently chuck him under the chin.

“What happened to your latest plan?” Caliban inquired. “Didn’t you say it would probably take weeks?”

R.D. clicked her tongue, her excitement briefly shifting to annoyance. “Ah, the deal just didn’t work out. The people who’d contacted my team in the first place tried to short-change us. It took a good while for us to gather the right chemical samples, and we’d assumed that they’d gotten everything else together on their end.”

Caliban hummed with sympathy. “The joys of group projects, huh?”

“You have no idea,” R.D. groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s not even the worst part.”

While his joy was strong, Caliban felt his face fall at that statement. R.D. was one of the smartest, most capable people he knew, but it still wasn’t promising to hear someone in the illegal experimentation business gripe about their work.

“What was the worst part, then?”

“Apparently, the other group decided that a test subject was the only thing they needed to provide.” A mixture of sadness and anger seeped into R.D.’s eyes. “And they had the gall to try convincing me to conduct the experiment on a bunch of kittens they’d gotten from a shelter in their area.”

“Oh. . ! R.D., I’m so sorry!” Caliban took one of her hands in his. R.D. obviously wasn’t much better than him or any of his peers in The Pentas Family, but she still knew to be compassionate about certain things (read: things that were actually important). “Do you want me to help take care of those guys? I’m sure I could convince The Boss to send a hunting party—”

R.D. shook her head. “No, you don’t have to worry about that.” A shrewd smile slithered onto her features, chasing away her distress. “The team and I used our samples to cause a little reaction at their hideout. Cop cars were swarming by the time we left. Plus, my assistant managed to steal all those kittens before we took action; he said he knows some people who’ve been looking for new pets.”

Caliban gave pause, but it didn’t take long for him to start snickering, proud and impressed. “God, it’s good to have you back.”

R.D. hummed as her partner pulled her into yet another hug.

For whatever reason, Caliban felt the need to close his eyes as the two of them leaned against the bed’s headboard. Snare clambered around them, holding one of R.D.’s wrists between his paws in order to groom her free hand—kind of like a puppy, but eerily quieter.

Moments like this just seemed impossibly idyllic. . .

“Besides,” R.D. mentioned, “you and your family already have a manhunt on your plate.”

Aaaaannd Caliban’s eyes snapped right back open. He gave his partner a quizzical glance, to which she casually raised her eyebrows.

“What, you think Aza and I don’t talk anymore? If my assumptions are correct, she sent me a few messages about what happened a couple hours after it happened.”

A few seconds of silence passed them by.

“How’s she doing?” R.D. softly asked. “I mean, she was joking about the scar possibilities, but still.”

“Pretty good, all things considered,” Caliban replied, sighing.

Azalea was, indeed, recovering. She had to change out the bandages on her arm and wash the bullet graze once a day. According to K.O., it would take a little over a week for the wounded tissue to repair itself. Azalea wasn’t even close to death.

Things could’ve been much, much worse.

“So, there’s no way you haven’t made a new job out of this,” R.D. declared.

A dry, hollow laugh escaped Caliban’s lips. “Damn right.”

“. . .Well, don’t just leave me hanging like that! I want at least some details,” R.D. admonished in a joking tone. “What’re your plans? Have you tracked the guy down yet?”

Caliban was about to reply, but he was interrupted. Though the underbelly of his home was almost completely soundproof, he and R.D. had learned to pick up on specific noises.

Such as a muffled chorus of thumps shuffling from somewhere beneath them.

R.D. glanced at the floor, then back at Caliban, tilting her head to the side, her face a perfect combination of surprised and unphased.

Caliban shrugged in response, giving her a grin that was an odd mixture of sheepish and menacing.

“Should I take that as a yes?” R.D. wondered aloud.

“Maybe,” Caliban answered. His sinister smirk died a quick death as he groaned, reaching up to knead at his forehead. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

R.D. seemed a bit taken aback. “What’s the matter? You’re already halfway done with this job. Isn’t that something to be happy about?”

“Yeah, but you just got back!” Caliban pouted. “You’re probably gonna have to leave again in a month! I need to spend some time with you while I still can!”

R.D. had been squinting at him, but her soft smile soon returned.

“And you will,” she assured. She gestured to her suitcase, “Look, I’ve still got some unpacking to do. After that, I have to get online,” she then pointed to the ceiling, impling the upstairs room that served as an office, “and organize some stuff with the team; you’ve seen how long that can take. I’m willing to bet I’ll still be busy by the time you’re finished.”

The sourness in Caliban’s expression softened. He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side in that classic You’ve got me there fashion.

R.D. half-shrugged as if to say I know I do. “Do you have any more jobs lined up?”

Caliban shook his head. “Not yet. The Boss said I could focus on this,” he nodded to the floor, “just so long as I’ll be ready to get back to the regular stuff in a few weeks.”

“Alright, then. We can both take tomorrow off and go from there,” R.D. concluded, lightly squeezing one of Caliban’s shoulders.

“. . .That sounds nice,” he responded, carefully leaning against her with a tiny, genuine smile (which may or may not have been dangerously close to flustered).

Another ensemble of dull banging and thudding called up from the floor, as though some amateur percussionist had broken and entered into Caliban’s den.

“Guess that’s my cue.” Caliban announced. He was still a bit annoyed at his and R.D.’s reunion being interrupted like this, but there was no denying the scary sense of excitement that started churning in his stomach. Snare stayed on the bed, still invested in his latest case of zoomies, taking a break every few seconds to demand pets from R.D., who had now resumed unpacking.

“You know the drill: if you do any eating, just brush and floss your teeth when you come back up,” R.D. called over her shoulder.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Caliban promised as he crossed the bedroom and stepped into his and R.D.’s walk-in closet, not bothering to turn the light on.

Even if the entrance to his den hadn’t been so well-camouflaged with the wallpaper in here, he still would’ve been able to find it. . .

@sammys-magical-au

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