My Toy - Piranha Stan Mini Story
[+18 for violence/gore. 2K character study drabble]
He finds him after trashing the circus. It was a fun mission, handed down by the big boss, to remove the carnies from this dimension. Sure, the boss wasn’t specific on the how, but Piranha was only good at one thing.
Carnage. Ruin. Death.
It had been frighteningly simple to sneak in and watch the acts play out. The tittering hushed excitement of the crowd and the death defying stunts of the workers. It made him feel young again but in a good way he had forgotten existed.
Had their mother taken them to the circus? He couldn’t remember. He was scared to reach that far back. That's where the monsters lurked.
Despite the cheering and thunderous applause, the only show stopping act was Piranha himself. The explosives littered throughout the big top activated at the peak of the trapeze. The two trapeze artists had been mid-air, hands grasping onto each other as they tumbled to the ground. They smashed viscerally into the ground and kicked off all the screaming. The flames ate everything else. Anyone who got too close or bumped him trying to escape got the edge of his blade.
Stalking through the crazed crowd had hampered his good mood. Didn’t they know there was nowhere to run? A force field around the big top would keep everyone here until Piranha said so. If the flames and smoke didn’t kill everyone then he would clean house as always.
The ringmaster was easy to find, huddled behind the heavy curtain with his hands clasped and praying. Seven letters over and over. The reason the boss had sent him here all along.
Another aquatic worshiper. It was like they never learned. This corner of the multiverse belonged to them.
The man’s head jumped from his body with a strong swipe. It rolled somewhere under the curtain. It didn't matter. The fountain of orange blood and slumped motionless body were proof enough for Piranha to conclude that the job was finished.
Now it was time for the fun part.
People were interesting in the fact that they never quite believed things in front of their face before it was too late. Shocked expressions and shrieks cut off before they could grow into something grating as Piranha chased and mowed down anyone in his path. The blood was warm, different colors painting his torso, face, and knife.
An interdimensional circus. A cute idea. A fun one.
Though he grew bored of the same screams and cries once the stragglers realized their fate. To speed the process up he imagined them wearing thick sunglasses. Time passed in his fog of singled minded concentration. Coming back to himself was jarring.
Bodies were scattered all around the circus playground. Multicolored blood soaking into the red sand and blending into a weird shade of black. Almost like the stars. Almost like the boss's portals. Piranha only spares it a few seconds of interest before he turns away and deactivates his force field.
The crackle of fire erupts in full force once the energy field compresses back into its mobile version. Piranha’s eye twitches and he does a slow turn to observe the destruction of his attack. The big top is folding in on itself and a plume of tar black smoke rises from the striped tarp. It’s ugly.
He scoffs and walks away from the mess. Though his mind tingles and jabs at him, images flash of two boys sharing cotton candy, running down a boardwalk, and chattering with a woman in a blood red dress. With the images comes a migraine, proof to Piranha that these flashes of happiness are memories. A life long past. Distance between what he was and what he is now.
It used to hurt to remember things. Now it just makes him pissed.
He doesn’t want these clips of cheer or moments of softness. It’s not real. It was never real. Everyone took that away from him. Ford took that away from him.
Pa took that away from them.
The knife goes flying out of Piranha’s hand before he can comprehend his own actions. A hoarse scream rips itself from the depths of his chest. His migraine ebbs and pusles but recedes like the tide. That’s all he is now. An ocean of unremembered moments. Surfacing only to wreak havoc and bathe in blood, eventually dragged back under the vicious waves of his own mind.
A muffled voice cuts off his scream as it reaches his ears. The silence after Piranha’s mouth snaps closed is harsh and makes his eye twitch. Another quiet call. Piranha creeps forward, not making a sound as his feet shuffle across the red sand. He picks up his knife without stopping.
The voice starts to form words the closer he gets. “...there? I heard screaming. Are you hurt?”
A man. Piranha bares his teeth unconsciously and slinks around the dinghy tent on the outskirts of the circus property. What he finds is surprising.
The man is curled in on himself, hands tucked into his chest and his knees drawn up to protect his front. His clothes are dirty and stained, torn and hanging off his body unnaturally. His hair is patchy, dark brown with clumps of gray mixed in. Scars crisscross the visible skin and Piranha would bet there’s more and worse ones under the man’s clothes.
He approaches quietly, taking his time studying the man. He’s been locked in some display case. The bars of the cage are rusted and flakey. The box around the bars is a faded yellow. It’s in the odd shape of a triangle, explaining the man’s squashed state.
“Is – Is someone there?” The man asks, his own voice dying down as he seems to sense Piranha’s presence.
Something about his voice is annoying. It’s scratching at the walls of Piranha’s brain in a way he doesn’t like. So he lashes out and slams his knife into the bar to make a horrid metal screech. The man flinches, knocking his head on the side of the box, but lifts his face to be visible through the bars.
It’s Ford.
The world warps and the ground isn’t red but tan. Piranha can hear the ocean somewhere behind him. Two boys laugher drifts around like smoke. The stomach turning scent of taffy sinks into the air. Everything filters through like he’s trapped underwater.
But something isn’t right.
Ford doesn’t scream or cry out at his appearance. If anything his facial expression hasn’t changed at all since Piranha has been staring at him. Like he doesn’t know who he’s looking at.
“H-Hello? Is – Is there a fire or something? I can hear crackling. Are you okay?”
The concern is what puts Piranha off. His spiral melts away as quickly as it had overtaken him. A stupid Ford it seems. One ready to play dumb. Those weren’t nearly as satisfying as the ones who spit and swore.
“I blew up your circus.” Piranha provides instead of a real answer. He watches Ford’s face flicker through shock, horror, before something impossible happens. He smiles.
It’s timid and sits oddly on his dirty face but that’s what it is. A smile. Piranha inches closer to get a better look. It’s been so long since he’s seen a Ford smile.
“Did you kill them?” Ford is breathless, his lips stretching wider as the grin takes over his mouth. He sounds excited. Piranha finds himself automatically mimicking his brother. Old habits die hard.
“Yeah, I got all of them!” He giggles and taps his knife to one of the bars. The sound is awful. Tinking and echoing. “Well, all but you.”
“Oh,” Ford seems to realize the gravity of the situation because his beam dies down into something more human. “Are you…going to get rid of me too?”
Piranha squints through the bars, mind racing. This Ford hadn’t recognized him at all. Is it because he was without his glasses? Was his brother’s eyesight really that shitty without them?
“Do you know who I am?”
Ford's face screws up. One of his hands scrunches up the front of his shirt as he clenches it into a fist. “I…I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming because…because you sound like Stanley.”
Stanley.
It’s a name he hasn’t heard in a decade. The name of someone long dead and murdered. At his brother’s hands. At Ford’s doing.
“Stanley is dead.” Piranha informs, empty and passive. Stanley had been dead long before he was even aware of it. The moment that mask dropped over his face he was dead.
Ford sniffles and that’s what finally draws Piranha’s attention to the man’s eyes. And the very obvious fact that he doesn’t have them. Two black voids greet him where brown should be.
“Did they do this to you?” Rage, primal and instinctive erupts in his chest. It bleeds through his body like lava and suddenly he wishes he had taken his time with the ringmaster. “Are you their little pet?”
The last word is spit with venom that has the Ford flinching and sliding his eyelids closed again, hiding the empty sockets from view. He nods limply and brings his hand up to wipe at his face. There are tears leaking out from under the closed eyelids.
“Why…” Piranha’s anger dribbles out into confusion. Sure, he’d made Ford’s cry before but he hadn’t said anything to cause a reaction like this. Not yet. “Why are you crying?”
“My – My brother is dead.”
What?
Out of everything that’s happened in the past few minutes, that’s what this Ford is focussed on? Not the fact that his torturers are dead? Not that the assassin is in front of him now? Not the very real possibility of being left to starve to death or worse?
Piranha slams his fists into the bars and snarls, not quite anger fueling him, “Why do you care?”
Ford sniffles and a weird choked whine breaks past his teeth. It’s familiar in its ugliness. It’s the impossible process of holding back tears, of trying not to break under the world crashing down.
It’s the same way his Ford used to cry too. Back when he still knew how.
“He’s – He’s dead and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. My – My brother!” He blubbers and sobs, snot starting to run down his chin. It’s pathetic. It’s weak.
It’s his brother.
It’s the brother he remembers. The brother that needed his protection. The brother that ran to him the second bullies tried anything. The brother that loved him before their father ever laid a hand on them.
An idea forms then as Piranha lets the memories wash over him. He tastes salt on his lips and it seems like a sign. “I’m a Stan. Are you from this dimension?”
Ford croaks and gasps, still stuck crying and struggling to forms words out of the heaving breaths. Instead of being annoying Piranha finds himself feeling…fond.
“Wha– What? You’re…Stanley?”
“Yes but no. That’s not my name anymore.” He eyes over the box. It’s solid oak but not anything that should be too difficult to break. “Are you from here, Ford?”
The use of his name seems to snap the nerd out of it. His eyes slit open again and he stares emptily at the space between the bars. “N-No. This isn’t my home.”
Piranha hums and bumps his foot against the base of the box. It rocks slightly. Ford doesn’t flinch this time around. The tears are drying over his red cheeks. They’ve left a single clear line down his face.
Timidly, like he’s aware of the answer but can’t stop himself from asking, Ford whispers out, “Are you…my brother?”
“I’m not your anything,” Piranha says. He circles the box before a grin grows across his face. It wraps his features hauntingly. Something that had been twisted too far and snapped but was never been repaired. “But you…”
He kicks into the edge of the box and it practically explodes from the force of his boot. Wood splinters fly everywhere and the Ford jerks in on himself with a whimper. Piranha stomps over the remains of the wall to loom over the other man.
Ford doesn't see him reaching his hand out, the shadow of his five fingers spanning the man’s entire face. Ford doesn't see the horrible smile cutting Piranha’s face in half, or the promises that lurk in the pointed teeth.
Ford doesn’t see what is to come.
“You’re mine.”