(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on Cruz, go here. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sol, go here. For more information on Moses and ColosSeptic, go here. EldritchPlier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)
(This story, along with Day 6, is a continuation of a sneak-peek I included at the end of Day 2. Originally, this was going to be a sneak-peek itself, but plans have changed, and I'm on a bit of time-crunch, so...)
(As usual, I got tons of help developing these characters from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)
(One more thing: if you’d like to use the distorted fonts you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, body horror, knives/blades, murder/death, torture, descriptions of ritual, occultism, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6
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As attached as he was to his gut-hook skinner knife, Cruz knew that he couldn’t realistically rely on it for everything.
Sure, he took care to keep it nice and sharp and ready, but that didn’t change the fact that its three-and-a-half inch blade was simply too small for this particular task.
Besides, it was still very satisfying to hear a wet, dull thunk as he brought a borrowed kitchen knife down, followed by a slick, puply sigh as he pushed the blade deeper and deeper into flesh until the handle was all that could be seen.
Cruz felt his eyes widen in time with the grin that etched its way over his features. Readjusting his grip, he began a pushing-and-pulling pattern, slowly-but-surely carving a thick line. The table slightly wobbled beneath the weight and the movement, but he used his free hand to keep his current project in place.
The flesh produced a soft, squelchy rhythm that was close to a growl as the knife continued sawing through.
…Though, after a moment or two, Cruz had to pause, releasing his grasp to try and shake off the sudden cramp that had manifested in his wrist.
A wry chuckle kept silence at bay. He glanced over at the figure sitting across the table from him, who had already finished carving.
“These guys are always tougher than you expect, huh?” Sol—as he’d learned during awkward introductions about ten-or-so minutes ago—commented.
Strings of wet pulp glistened in the pendant light that hung overhead, easily snapping as Sol pulled a decent chunk from the top-half of their own victim.
A strong smell filtered into the air: fresh and ripe and earthy and…maybe tinged with just a smidge of something acidic?
“Yeah, they really are,” Cruz nodded. “Still pretty fun, though.”
He wrapped his hand around the knife and resumed his cutting, this time a bit of an easier angle. Once he convinced his subject to finally open up, he twisted the top off with a stiff criiick. “...Hey, thanks for taking the time to get these. I would’ve picked some up myself, but the drive over here didn’t seem to take me past any patches.”
To be frank, the drive to The Oozing Crown had been even stranger than the one Cruz had taken when Plier had guided him to make a new home at The Drowned Moon.
It’d started raining an hour in, and the way those droplets had tapped against his windshield was far too specific to not be some kind of code.
The edges of the road he’d maneuvered his car along had set themselves on fire once or twice—in the middle of that rainstorm, mind you—flames ignited in between the asphalt and his tires, only to snuff themselves out after a few seconds.
At some point, blurry deer-shaped figures had clambered out of the vacant fields to gallop alongside his vehicle, giving more than enough time for him to see how they had no actual heads; just pairs of glassy eyes, floating in the air above neck-stumps, that seemed to glint with humor once the creatures had eventually veered off the road and faded away in the distance.
(Not like he hadn’t expected that kind of stuff, to be clear. Outer monstrosities like his boss-and-kind-of-weird-friend basically sweated horror, so of course that would eventually graft itself onto the places they claimed for their territory.)
“Oh, of course! Don’t worry about it,” Sol beamed as they reached into the chasm they’d just sliced open, ripping out a handful of slimy tissue to deposit into the decorative bowl that sat in the center of the table, covered in various glyphs. They then got up from their chair, holding their hands up like a surgeon as they moved to lean over said bowl.
“There’s actually a sort of botany section back at my boss’ hideout,” they explained, carefully picking out all the white, oval-shaped seeds and put them in a smaller, less impressive tupperware container off to the side. “It’s not much; just one greenhouse across the entrance walkway from my apartment. But it’s been doing pretty well.”
“Wait, really? I thought that museum was all about medical oddities and the like,” Cruz replied as he grabbed a serrated scoop and began raking it over the gourd’s inner-walls.
“It’s all about oddities in general. Stuff relating to human anatomy just happens to be one of the biggest parts of that category.” Sol shrugged, their face temporarily twisting as one seed managed to land in the ginger hair that tickled their shoulders. They tugged it out and flicked it over to the garbage can that stood at attention by the head of the table.
“As long as it looks creepy, it can be added to the collections. So, weird plants and fungi have just enough game. Like a little preview before the real meat and potatoes.”
“Nice. I can totally see that working well,” Cruz assured, visions of bat orchid and pitcher-plants and doll’s eyes and corpse blossoms flickering through his brain. “But…pumpkins? They really have enough weirdness to count?”
Sol raised a joking eyebrow, glancing back and forth between the gourds on the table.
The one they were hollowing out was covered in puffy, dry-looking, wart-esque growths. The one he was focusing on, meanwhile, was a dark shade of green rather than orange, boasting wrinkled-looking skin despite how obviously fresh it was, along with a shape like a clumsily-sculpted cube rather than an apple-like sphere.
“...Yeah, okay. Fair point,” Cruz admitted with a chuckle.
Twin yips! and mmrrowhs! echoed from a few feet away, prompting the two of them to look over in almost perfect unison.
A long, wide bar-counter stood at the center of The Oozing Crown, separating the brewery’s main floor from a set of nearly floor-to-ceiling shelves, each one full to bursting with various bottles. It also came equipped with a pair of thin, sliding doors that could be locked up in order to shield said bottles.
This was extremely fortunate, as two vaguely cat-like creatures had apparently deemed the counter a perfect space for wrestling. They both shifted in-and-out of their glamors as they leapt and swatted and scampered after one another.
Crimson spikes shuffled through Macaroon’s veil of cream-colored fluff.
The black feline he was facing off with (Sol had introduced him as Charcoal) pounced away; a shudder ran through his front-legs, his paws and claws and toe-beans all stretching out into a pair of bat-like wings the second he was in the air.
He fluttered in circles overhead, undoubtedly soaking up the way Macaroon stared at him.
Sol tilted their head at the display, eyes practically sparkling. “Y’know, I really didn’t think Char would get along with another cat-monster so well. I mean, he was a stray when I first found him.”
Cruz shrugged, scratching at his thin beard and resisting the urge to walk over and scoop his pet up. “Well, when I got Macaroon, I was told that about sixty-percent of his brain is a ragdoll’s. So, he loves to play when he gets the chance.”
(Granted, that playing also extended to shredding sacrificial victims into ribbons if they tried to cause any problems during a ritual, but still. So long as he wasn’t directly threatened, Macaroon was a total sweetheart.)
Sol nodded, and it wouldn’t have taken a mind-reader to guess that they were thinking about all the not-so-cute-and-cuddley things Charcoal had done in order to help them out with their own projects.
Unseen hinges creaked, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps and claws clicking against hardwood.
A brunette man, seemingly around Sol’s age (so, younger than Cruz, but still obviously an adult) traipsed out the brewery’s kitchen with glistening, dark red stains on his hands.
Moses paused to wash them off at a sink behind the bar (if you asked Cruz, the blood really wouldn’t have been too noticeable against the deep maroon fabric of the button-down he wore…then again, that button-down was open and draped over a white-as-snow tank-top). He then sidled around the corner of the bar.
A small, vaguely dog-esque creature skittered by his side. Judging by the splotches of gray and black and tan that decorated his fluffy fur, his glamour seemed to be a hybrid of Australian cattle dog and German shepherd.
Just like the cats, however, things were not as they seemed.
As Moses’ pet panted like any canine would, his mouth seemed to stretch just a bit too wide at the corners; his pendant ears and little button nose almost seemed to wither in place before snapping back into form. His big, warm eyes flickered, looking much more hollow for half a second. The poof of his wagging tail was a blur, but if you looked at it just long enough, you’d see several stands of something scaly and sinuous…
Both Macaroon and Charcoal paused their antics, regarding him with curiosity and suspicion. Mincer, meanwhile, simply sat and stared back at the felines, tilting his head just a little too far.
“How goes the gutting?” Moses announced, taking a chair away one of the other tables and dragging it over to the one his guests were occupying.
“Good,” Sol reported, lifting up her pumpkin to show how (relatively) clean it was on the inside.
“We’re almost done here; just gotta get one more pumpkin’s worth.” She gestured to the glyph-covered bowl, which was now almost piled high with fruit-masquerading-as-vegetable guts.
“Alright, then. I can take care of that,” Moses grinned, approaching the group of just-in-case-spares that Sol and her boss had brought along. He loomed over them, eyes wandering back and forth, trying to decide which one would be best.
“And what about the set-up down there?” Cruz asked. He’d only caught a glimpse of The Oozing Crown’s basement, but he’d have a chance to get a better look once Plier returned, along with the monsters Sol and Moses were working with.
“Oh, yeah, everything’s pretty much ready,” Moses replied. “Getting bodies into the spare tanks is always a little tricky, but I managed. Helps that there’s only two for tonight. And the live one definitely won’t be going anywhere.”
“He’d better not be,” Cruz replied with a grim chuckle. “Because the hypnosis is definitely gonna wear off sooner or later.”
As if to prove his point, muffled screaming began to echo up through the floor, alongside a chorus of desperate thumps.
An instinctive shiver ran down his spine at recent memories.
How Plier had apparently singled one of the theater’s patrons out from the crowd.
How Plier had instructed Cruz to lead said patron into Screen Nine, and then lock the doors and put up a maintenance sign to all other customers.
How Cruz had used the Employees Only room to slither into Screen Nine’s projection booth and watch the trapping process.
How the movie that the patron had chosen to watch began normally…only for the enormous screen to turn a dark shade of gray, still glowing from within, giving ample opportunity to see hundreds of tiny lines all writhed and rippled along, like raindrops violently colliding with a pool of deep, murky water.
All the while, character dialogue had transitioned into something else. The sound had been reminiscent of rubber being stretched…only at a much lower pitch that carried on far, far past its welcome.
Just one of many tricks at Plier’s dispense when he either wanted or needed to make sure that a customer wouldn’t be leaving The Drowned Moon…
“Oh!” Moses suddenly blurted as he glanced at the pumpkin-gut bowl. “Before I forget—!”
He raced past Mincer and the cats, hovering behind the bar. He fished a small, glinting key from one of his pockets, opened up the shelf-door, then quickly shut and re-locked them after taking a grabbing a rectangular, teal-tinted bottle.
“This is one of my favorites,” Moses mentioned, snickering as he carried said bottle over to the table. He raised it to his face, expertly using his teeth to dislodge the cork with a loud, shrill sqquueeak!
The sharp scent of tequila seeped into the air.
Cruz blinked, exchanging a look with Sol.
“What’re you—” Sol began to ask, but Moses cut her off via resting the bottle’s neck on the rim of the bowl, allowing at least five shot glasses worth of booze to pour on in.
Once he was satisfied, Moses re-corked the bottle, set it off to the side, and grabbed one of the scoops to stir the alcohol into the pumpkin guts.
“Voila!” Moses proclaimed with a triumphant smirk.
“...Why?” Cruz wondered aloud, brow furrowing in confusion.
In response, Moses raised an eyebrow as though Cruz had just asked him whether or not water made things wet. “The whole point of this ritual is to keep some mindless, starving primeval monster disguised as an asteroid from eating the moon. So, that means the offering should be as filling as possible to keep him from trying that stunt again for at least another couple centuries.”
“I mean, yeah,” Sol acknowledged. “But…things like Ah’Mung-Stus can only process alcohol in impossible ways. Nothing like how humans can. The offering’s already gonna involve blood, and we have no idea how it could mix with that drink.”
“Exactly! It’ll be a fifty-fifty chance: the tequila could make the offering delicious…or it could make the offering completely appalling. Either way, it’ll just be one more thing to stop Ah’Mung-Stus,” Moses insisted, putting a hand on his hip as he took the bottle and returned it to the shelves. “No matter how it tastes, in the end, he’ll be too full and too drunk to be a threat,”
As he went back to scrutinizing the pile of pumpkins, he added, “Besides, we’re in a brewery that has to be closed on Halloween. You have any idea how much of an impact that’ll put on business after this? I might as well make use of some of the supply tonight, one way or another.”
Cruz wanted to point out how intoxication generally did NOT make outer monstrosities less dangerous than they already were.
Especially considering all the chaos that had taken place in the theater on Plier’s part due to a horrific hangover from…well, Cruz would never be sure what his boss had consumed that infamous night, but a faint, nearly-radioactive scent still lingered in Screen Ten months later.
But before he could, Sol suddenly stood from her chair in a violent flinch. They rested one hand on her temple, her bright blue eyes flickering in a way that Cruz was all too familiar with.
There was a voice in her head; a voice that was very real because it was being spoken by a creature who could feast on mortal minds professionally or casually. A creature that she’d obviously made a pact with similar to the one he’d made with Plier all those years ago.
“Moses, wait—” Sol tried. “Not that one, NOT—!”
A section on the white pumpkin Moses had selected suddenly bulged from the inside. A muffled chorus of scraping and squelching followed.
Moses’ eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as he, likely acting on panicked instinct, dropped the gourd and backed away several paces.
The pumpkin burst open with a spray of pale orange slime before it even hit the floor. Without even a second of hesitation, its seed-covered guts ripped their way through the organic chasm. The glob floundered on the floor in a clumsy, wobbling slither like a huge slug on bath-salts. It raised its dripping, misshapen, featureless head to the ceiling and let out a high-pitched squeal. It then clambered in Moses’ direction, snarling and spitting.
Mincer leapt in front of his owner, his glamour completely evaporating. His fuzzy head vanished, revealing a set of three canine skulls in its place, the vertebrae from three necks eventually disappearing into the fur that remained on his chest. What was once his tail was now a cluster of live snakes, which all hissed and writhed independently, craning themselves to look around their host’s body.
Mincer’s middle-skull lunged, sinking its teeth into the pumpkin-gut-creature and thrashing it back and forth while his left-skull and right-skull barked and growled.
Macaroon saw this new chaos and realized that one of his new friends had found an odd little plaything. So, he dropped his own glamor and raced into the fray, a coat of spike flaring out over his back, extra eyes blooming under his primary ones. He opened his mouth, allowing a disturbingly long forked tongue to wrap around the opposite end of the pumpkin-gut-creature, making it easier for him clamp his own fangs down.
Charcoal, who had been perching on the ceiling fan that hung just above all of this, quickly realized that someone else was getting more attention than he was. So, he dive-bombed his way into the sudden game of Tug-O-War, wings flapping furiously, veils of smoke pouring through his teeth. A pair of horns sprouted up from his forehead, and the tip of his tail was topped by scorpion-esque barb that had absolutely NOT been there a few seconds ago.
Sol and Cruz abandoned their seats at the same time, their respective shouts mixing into one another as they rushed over to their pets. Moses grabbed at Mincer’s chest (and, by some miracle, avoided getting bitten by any of the tail-snakes) but the monstrous little dog didn’t release his hold.
Sol managed to pin Charcoal’s wings to his chest before he was out of reach, but the cat-dragon-thing proved just as stubborn.
The same went for Macaroon, who didn’t so much as budge when Cruz made to scoop him up.
Thankfully, all the extra friction seemed to be on their side…kind of.
With an energy similar to that of a rubber band being snapped, the pumpkin-gut-creature ended up flying across the room to hit the wall with a solid SPLAT!
It then slid to the floor, still and quiet as the pumpkin guts that waited patiently in the glyph-bowl.
The pets all quieted down, slowly shifting back into the guise of normal animals, their eyes all wide and curious and they stared across the room.
Their respective owners pretty much followed suite, mouths hanging open as they held their pets close and braced for more chaos.
When the chaos failed to come, Sol was the first to move, heaving a sigh of relief. “Okay, okay. It’s dead.”
“Are you sure?” Cruz asked, not wanting to look away from the mess too long.
“Positive.” Sol nodded before she set Charcoal down, crossing the room and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the table they’d been using. She knelt down to scrub at the fresh stain on the wall; once it was cleaned, she gave Moses an apologetic look. “Pat had been holding that pumpkin on the way here. I guess some of his energy grafted onto it.”
“Oh.” Moses murmured, slowly nodding. He blinked, then rolled his shoulders and knelt down to receive some puppy-kisses from Mincer. “...Can we still use those guts, or should I just hollow out a different one?”
Sol’s brow furrowed, their eyes flickering as they listened to the voice of a monster. “...No, he says this should work just fine.”
“More potency, right?” Cruz offered with a weak chuckle.
It took a few long, awkward minutes for the three of them to scrape all the formerly-animate pumpkin guts off the floor and into the bowl. An extra moment to pick out all those seeds.
Even so, it seemed the timing was perfect.
A strong chill spread through the air, right as the hardwood floor took on an abrupt, almost organic heat.
The building shuddered.
A cacophony of twisting, straining metal, of splashing, of warped hissing and growling echoed from the the kitchen doorway.
And then…a voice.
A horrific, distorted voice that implied the air inside the lungs it’d just risen out of had melted.
A voice that Cruz didn’t recognize it…but Moses most certainly did judging by the way his lips quirked into a smile.
“𝗪⃥𝘌̸'⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘈̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥!̸” It called, the words seeming to bounce along the walls and floor and ceiling.
“And we’ll be right down!” Moses responded, balancing the pumpkin-gut-filled bowl on one hand like he was a waiter in a snooty restaurant.
He strode back behind the back, disappearing through the kitchen doorway once again.
Sol and Cruz filed after him, entering the brewery’s little kitchen just in time to see him strapping his personal, protective mask onto his head.
It almost resembled one of those classic gas-masks…almost. But a set of six spindly blades that had been attached to the base of the mouth guard, clutching at the air like the mandibles of an insect, had other ideas. As did the multitude of shiny, deep blue eyes that had been welded to scatter all over the mask’s head, above the primary lenses that Moses was now looking through as he made his way down into the basement.
Two more masks had been left on the counter by the stove.
One that shone like black porcelain or marble, decorated with sculpted veins a dull shade of reddish-violet. A pair of ram-like horns curled under the sharp spires of what must've been ears. It boasted a mouthful of sharp, gleaming teeth that formed a grin on the left side and a snarl on the right.
Sol took it into their hands, lifting it to rest on their face before shrugging a violet leather jacket over their black-and-yellow striped shirt. Then, they marched on after Moses, quickly disappearing into the darkness.
Cruz picked up his own mask, the one he’d spent nearly an entire week perfecting before he’d ever even met Plier. It was in the vague shape of a bird’s face, almost like those plague doctor costumes that so many people were hot for on Halloween. Streaks of scarlet and gold wound about the beak, ending at the glass eye-lenses.
Even after all the things he’d done, all the things he’d seen and learned thanks to Plier, it was still a little hard to believe that this thing was responsible for shielding Cruz’s mind and brain from all the surreal energy he exposed himself to for projects like this.
Cruz shook his head, then pulled the mask on. Once the straps were secure against his dark hair, he draped his favorite duster-cardigan over his shoulders. Yeah, the fabric was grayish-blue, and that didn’t exactly mix well with bloodstains, but he’d always liked the way its pattern almost looked like clouds of fog. Besides, it had washed well enough before.
The basement door hung open before him; it’d been built into the floor, much like a storm cellar. The beginning of a metallic staircase waited at the edge, only visible a few steps down.
Taking a deep breath, Cruz descended, pulling the floor-door shut behind him.
He found himself standing on an iron catwalk, overlooking a truly enormous lair built with an industrial aesthetic.
Out of all the machinery Cruz could see, a set of huge tanks stood out. It seemed they’d been constructed from copper and lined with a more silvery material.
There were seven of them in total—six of them stood in two rows of three near the walls. The ones in the center of those rows were both full; gallons upon gallons of liquid churned within, glowing just enough to show off the silhouettes of a floating body.
The seventh tank stood at the head of the basement, much larger and more imposing than all the others. It glowed even brighter, its light tinted a sinister shade of green.
This one also wasn’t quite so empty; it shuddered and twitched and groaned in place as a trio of blurry shapes writhed for purchase inside.
The tank’s hatch was pushed open with a keening screech, and a mass of horrific, abyssal flesh flooded out and down the side.
A set of four arms sprouted from the monster’s sides, helping him steady himself just as he touched down on the concrete floor. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, slinging droplets everywhere like a dog shaking water out of its fur.
Sol trotted over to stand by the abomination’s side. He gazed down at her and bared his long, glinting teeth in a knowing grin.
This must have been the Pat that Sol had mentioned earlier.
And his grin died a quick-yet-brutal death as another hideous figure pushed its way out through the tank’s hatch, a clutch of claws landing on one of the tendrils coiling from Pat’s back.
Pat let out a short cry of pain that evolved into a furious HSSSSS, a forked tongue flicking between his rows and rows and rows of teeth like a party favor.
The emerging monster glowered right back, offering a low snarl before he clambered over to the opposite side of the room.
Plier’s skin was the color of fleshy rust, almost every inch covered by organic thorns. It seemed to flicker on its own accord, like he was standing in the light of an invisible fire. Eight long, jagged, insectoid legs curved out of his torso, clutching at the floor and walls as he regained his balance.
Cruz felt a grin spread under his mask.
He jogged down the catwalk’s stairs, metal shaking with each step until he got to the basement floor. He raced past the rows of tank, having to jump over the live sacrifice—a sobbing, writhing man who lay on the floor, having been gagged and hogtied—like he was a hurdle that had been set up on a gym track to avoid tripping.
Plier barked a laugh at the sight, the sound buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps in a blender. He reached with one claw to clap Cruz on the back. His eyes never failed to remind Cruz of burning embers, and they took on a somewhat softer glow with his humor. All sixteen of them.
“You’re late,” Cruz joked, drumming his fingers on one side of his mask.
A long, chittering sigh drifted through Plier’s teeth—both his upper and lower canines were always longer than the rest, curving out of his mouth like tusks.
“Ỷea͞h͍,̅ w̶̎e̽l̨l͠,̜ͮ̆ w̶̳e W̟O̻UĽ͙ͭD'̿V̢ͫͪE b̡_ȩ̃̓e͑n͉ he̹̦r͗̄̑e a̅ l̠͢i̜̅̐t̴̆ṯlͣ͟e͖ ea̬̾́ȓ̴͖l̦̾iͧe̟̿r̨̀̇,̍ Plier replied, his tone reeking with salt, “if̞̏͒ SO̜̼MÉ̲͖O̢͆NE͙̠ h̘̿a͛̔d̩̃͛ņ͓̓'͊t̓ taken̫̐ h̠́ịͦś S͝W̷̺ͧEE̅T̹ͯ DA̾M̈́̕N͌ͩ̅ T̒͗I̬͌̇M̯̚͟È t͉ͦ͂oͨ cͦat̤ͥ̍ch̗ â̬̕ st͍ȧr͑.”
Nine of his eyes rolled in their sockets, sending little daggers in Pat’s direction.
Pat glared, pinprick pupils shuddering in the sickly-pale orbs that were trapped in his cavernous eye sockets.
“¥ðµ'rê †ålkïñg ßïg gåmê £ðr †hê gµ¥ whð håÐ †ð kêêþ ¢ïr¢lïñg ßå¢k †ð gê† RÈþLÄÇÈMÈñ†§,” he snapped, pushing an accusatory talon at Plier. He glanced back at Sol, his sneer morphing into a smirk. “Hê jµ§† ¢ðµlÐñ'† §êêm †ð §†ðþ Ðrðþþïñg hï§ ðwñ §†år§ ïñ†ð †µmðr §lµï¢ê; †ððk åß𵆠£ïvê †rïê§ ßê£ðrê hê måñågêÐ †ð hðlÐ ðñ†ð ðñê.”
Cruz’s eyes widened. He felt his heart skip a beat.
Stars? The monsters had captured actual stars for this ritual?!
He stared at Pat, eyes searching frantically until he finally caught it: a large maw was taking up space on the abomination’s stomach, rows of sharp, crooked teeth having sprouted from his flesh and locked themselves together.
And there, through the crevices of all those teeth…light. A bright, beautiful light that was flickering and shaking, so obviously struggling.
Cruz craned his neck toward Plier and eventually found something similar. A group of his thorns had grown longer and thicker than all the rest, creating a makeshift cage on the upper half of his back. Desperate light seeped through the thin cracks.
Plier sputtered at this, veils of steam pouring out through his skin. “O̢ͩͮh̾,̢̐ͯ p̫̾̒l̝ẻ͎as̿e͋̐!̽ Iͩt̊'̫́s̫͞ n̳o̿́t̚_̓ M̷̬̕Ỳ f̵̺͖a̮̾u͑͋l̟͘͢t͐ͧͤ th̫͛̆e̮ͮy strͦu͑ggl̨͑̚eͮ s̙̼̒õ m̥̀͜u̹ͣc͡h͔͆́!ͬ̀̚”
A snide hum seared into the air through Pat’s teeth. He tilted his head until it was angled upside-down. “Wåï† å §ê¢ðñÐ…wh¥ ÐÌÐ †hê¥ §†rµgglê §ð mµ¢h? Ì mêåñ, ï£ ¥ðµ'rê §µ¢h åñ È×þÈR† ðñ h¥þñð§ï§ åñÐ gµïlê—”
He cut himself off as Plier snarled and lunged, ducking in just the nick of time to leave the other monster’s talons swiping at empty air. His torso stretched with a chorus of awful pops and cracks as he glided along the floor, baring his fangs to retaliate.
…Or, he was about to when a ragged, piercing howl swept through the basement. The sound truly seemed to turn the air poisonous; both Plier and Pat flinched badly, lowering their heads and wrenching all of their hideous eyes shut.
Cruz’s head swam. It took an embarrassingly long few seconds for him to realize that he’d fallen to his knees. He glanced over at Sol—they were still standing, though they had to lean against one of the tanks for support.
As Cruz picked himself up, that green glow quickly grew brighter and deeper. He looked over at the seventh tank, just in time to see a third abomination floating in the center.
Like Plier and Pat, this one was vaguely human-shaped for the most part (though, really, you’d have to be on some serious drugs for that to make any sense). The flesh stretching from his wide, hollow eye-sockets seemed to flutter in the tank's liquid. His dark hair was even longer than Plier’s, strands swaying and swirling like drunken eels.
All the eyes on his chest, neck and arms blinked and rolled, pupils of all shapes dilating and constricting with no rhyme or reason. He even seemed to be somewhat propelled by the remains of his torso; like a cluster of ghostly jellyfish had taken nest inside of the cavity.
The toxic light was vibrant enough to essentially burn through the copper, allowing everyone to see him for what he truly was.
“𝗜⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘞̸𝗢⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥,̸” the eyeless-and-yet-also-eyeful abomination announced, glancing back and forth between Plier and Pat.
Plier scoffed, fixing the floor with a withering glare.
Pat folded each of his arms across his chest, softly clicking his teeth together.
“𝗨⃥𝘏̸-⃥𝘏̸𝗨⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥,̸ 𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘗̸𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥!” A sardonic chuckle seeped through the eyeless abomination’s teeth. He glided closer to the front wall of the tank, the copper vibrating as he drummed his talons against it. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸?⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸!⃥”
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Cruz turned his head to discover that Moses had been placing the pumpkin guts in a rather decorative circle around the live sacrifice.
“Thanks, Septic,” Moses replied, his tone implying a huge, crooked grin on his face. Once the bowl was empty, he set it off to the side and trotted over to stand by the eyele—er, Septic’s tank.
Septic cleared his throat, diving back down and out of sight for a few seconds before surging back up again. The misplaced eyes on his arms rolled in different directions, some staring at Sol while others scrutinized Cruz.
Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding to signal cautious respect.
“Absolutely!” Sol chimed, stepping forward and rocking back and forth on their heels.
“Of course,” Cruz reassured, moving a bit closer himself.
“𝗚⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸,⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘋̸.⃥” Septic nodded. He then craned his neck, fixing his focus on the live sacrifice.
Despite his position on the floor, the trapped victim seemed to immediately feel the monster’s gaze, as he started violently trembling and gibbering, though he already looked exhausted from all the useless struggling he’d done earlier.
“𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸?⃥” Septic asked, glancing at Plier.
“Oͫ̍h̍,̘ͣͩ ń̩͞ö́̅͌-ͦ͞o̗͋ͤn͎ͩ̿è͌ sp̝̖̌eͬͥc̔̔i̶al̜̄̓.͟..̈” A dangerous smile swept through Plier’s face. He lifted his chin, subtly puffing out his chest before slamming one of his claws down beside the victim, who recoiled with a shriek. “.̳̥ͤ.̞.ͬ̎̂j̶͊ü̮̹st̀ s̮o̜̽ṁ̹eͯͥ́ po̠̊ͩm̢̘p̎u͜sͣ̾ͬ l̘͂̑ȋ͕ͥt͜tle͢͞ bi̛̖ͬg-͑ͅs͎͇̄hͯot̗̔ f̬́̾r__om s͉o͕͍me C̫ͮ-̢Ḻ̞ͮi_̩͛s̢̙ͅṫ̞ s̕͜ṱ̹͆r̷e̿a͈͕̗mi̻n͌g͐̍ c̥o̦m̼ͤͤp̓a̤̋nÿ́́̅.”
Pat squinted down at the victim, shaking his head and offering a little tsk-tsk.
Septic hummed, a vague look of disgust crossing his features. “𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘌̸𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘠̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥.̸ 𝘋̸𝗜⃥𝘋̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗜⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥?̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘠̸'⃥𝘋̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗠⃥?̸”
Instantly, the other two occupied tanks began to tremble and hum. The corpses floating inside them seemed to twitch, their heads snapping up and forcing their lifeless eyes to stare at the metallic ceilings of their makeshift tombs.
The fluid all around them seemed to begin stirring on itself, creating a soft, slow whirlpool with them in the center.
Dark red clouds began to billow off of them, their silhouettes getting fainter and blurrier until they completely vanished into the new haze. After that, the movement stopped.
And then, a low chorus of bubbling and gurgling filled the air, almost like a bathtub being drained.
Cruz glanced down just in time to see a thick line of blood oozing out through the crevices in the metal. It moved like it was magnetized, like it was a sentient being; it slithered across the floor, just barely trickling against the soles of his shoes.
The other tank copied this gesture, and two viscous carmine threads spilled their way around and beneath the live sacrifice until he was lying in a shallow, perfectly circular pool.
The metallic stench of iron meeting the rich, earthy scent of pumpkin guts…it was certainly an interesting smell.
Cruz glanced back at the tanks; save for a few thin, stubborn layers of blood still clinging to the inner walls, as well as assortments of gleaming, picked-clean bones sitting at the bottoms in piles, they were now completely empty.
The live sacrifice kept squirming, kept sobbing as the vital fluid licked at his skin.
“...Why do pumpkin guts have to be included, again?” Moses asked, sounding genuinely curious as he gazed at the mess.
Pat raised a brow, idly stretching his back and arms in a way that would’ve made even the toughest contortionist on Earth pass out.
“ßê墵§ê þµmþkïñ ï§ Ðêlï¢ïðµ§,” he answered, voice dripping with incredulousness. He then gestured toward Plier. “̆'§ ðñê 𣠆hê ðñl¥ †hïñg§ HÈ åñÐ Ì ¢åñ ågrêê ðñ.”
Plier, much to Cruz’s surprise, nodded vigorously. “Yͤeaͧ̉h̖̤ͬ.͕̇ Ȁ͎ͥre̩̭͝n̿͞'͆ţ̐ hͣu̬̐̍m̸̧ͬḁn͂͝͞s̎̓ o̔ḃ̕se͇s̴͔ͅsͫ́e̙d̝ wit̀̅h̥ p̛u̧m̫͐p̃͞k͕̟iͬ̌n͓-͚ͫ͊s̝͑͝p͘i̲̼c̈́̔ed̾̐ s̡̆t̡̬̻u̢͝f̲fͯ arou̬nd̦͚̃ t̼͠h̞̑ͬḯ͢s s͎̓̑ea͆s̞̳̔o͍n͗?”
“Ah, I mean…” Sol replied, a cringe more than evident in their voice. “There’s never really been a straightforward answer to that question.”
Cruz, feeling the same inexplicable pain, cleared his throat. “So, I’m guessing that even all this blood still isn’t enough?”
“'̨ͣ̿F͡r̊a͙̍͢id̬͉͚ no͛̐͡t,” Plier replied, a knowing smirk on his face.
Cruz nodded.
He, Sol, and Moses all stepped closer to the huge puddle of gore.
Cruz fished his gut-hook skinner blade from his pocket. He watched as Sol slipped a flint-striker knife from somewhere inside their jacket. Moses, meanwhile, produced a long corkscrew topped by a duck-shaped handle from his breast-pocket.
“Oh, god…” Sol murmured, an exasperated chuckle floating up from their lungs.
The way Moses hummed indicated that there was a smug smirk spreading across his features. Somehow, he must’ve guessed that Cruz’s face was lined with confusion under his mask.
“...What? What’s so funny about a duck corkscrew?” Cruz blurted.
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Moses shook his head in a pitying manner. “It’s not for me to tell. But if you really wanna know, just look up ‘The Truth About Ducks’ when you get home.”
Plier sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, suddenly avoiding Cruz’s gaze.
“Öðh, †hå†'§ ñð† gðññå gð wêll.” Pat muttered, shaking his head.
Cruz sputtered a bit before deciding that he could simply put a pin in whatever mess he apparently wasn’t up to date about and come back to it later.
He got back to business, gliding the blade of his weapon over the skin of his palm. Cold steel bit into flesh easily, leaving a bright, stinging sensation in its wake.
Sol did pretty much the same with their striker-knife.
Moses took a deep breath before pushing the tip of his corkscrew deep into the pad of his thumb.
The three of them held their injured hands out, letting a few fat, rich droplets of their blood fall into the shallow pool below them with a few anticlimactic plops.
“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗗⃥,” Septic announced with a nod. He then reached up toward the surface of his tank. With a chorus of organic snaps, his arm was suddenly stretching out through the hatch, the luminescent bones inside all bent and twisted in horrible ways. He held malformed hand directly over the live sacrifice, claws bent, ready to strike. “𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥?̸”
“Ì Ððñ'† §êê wh¥ ñð†,” Pat replied. The skin of his forehead twitched, and an eye bloomed out, almost like a flower. It was larger than his primaries, even darker than his void-esque complexion, with a tiny pale iris floating about its center.
“Mì̥͔ght̂ a̐s w͈̖ͣe̵lͤl,” Plier admitted. All sixteen of his eyes turned pitch-black, now oozing with oily tears that painted little rivers along the angles of his face.
The two monsters each outstretched their palms, using their free talons to draw a deep, bloody X into their skin. Septic, meanwhile, pushed his claws into a fist so tight that little steaming droplets eventually squeezed out from between his fingers.
Once it seemed that enough abomination-juice had been added to the mix, they all retracted their arms.
Pat slid back and nudged Sol’s shoulder. “†hï§ ï§ whêrê ï† gꆧ ïñ†êr꧆ïñg.”
And indeed it was.
The blood started to fester and steam and bubble. That bubbling quickly evolved into a rolling boil as the red started moving, churning in a circle that slowly grew faster.
Even with his mask on, Cruz’s eyes watered as a smell like volcanic ash, acid, salt, and horror all mixed into some kind of surreal smoothie quickly filled the air.
Whatever the pool was made of…it wasn’t blood anymore.
It was now a substance that shouldn’t exist.
The live sacrifice let out a truly horrific scream. More depserate and unhinged and feral than any of his earlier cries. The fluid ate into his flesh as it splashed around him, leaving awful lacerations that quickly began melting.
Sol backed away, obviously struggling to not look at what was unfolding as Pat raised one of his arms to shield them.
Cruz barely even registered the weight on his shoulder before he was stumbling back into the wall, well out of reach of the pool of gore. And there he sat, transfixed, watching as Plier’s back-thorns twitch and shrank back to reveal a mass of light that seemed to pulse, singing in a language he’d never be able to understand.
Across the room, Pat did the same; the teeth lining his stomach-mouth finally pulled away from one another, releasing the star he’d personally captured.
As for Septic…well, it was a bit hard to see from his position, but Cruz still managed to watch as Septic plucked the largest eye out from the center of his chest. A third star flew from the now hollow socket, surging out through the tank’s hatch.
As the pool’s churning grew faster and stronger, the air began to thicken and whistle.
The stars all tried to pull away, likely desperate to escape back to wherever they’d been harvested from.
But whatever gravitational pull the pool had just couldn’t be escaped.
One by one, the stars were effectively sucked into the center of the pool, where all that, brilliant, silvery light combined and contorted.
The live sacrifice let out one final, bloodcurdling death-rattle as the light soaked all over his form in a near-blinding cocoon.
As if encouraged by that, the horrific mixture of human blood, eldritch blood, and pumpkin guts was suddenly vacuumed up toward the center, all spiraling around, shrinking as it moved faster and faster and faster and…!
And then it was gone.
Just like that.
Not a single stain was left behind. Not a scrap of gristle remained of the live sacrifice.
(Was it correct to call him live anymore? There was a good chance that he still was, since this stuff always worked in such odd ways. And if he was still breathing, Cruz knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was wishing he couldn’t.)
“𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸.⃥.̸.⃥” Septic announced, cringing as he pushed that eyeball back into its chest-socket, where it blinked and rolled a few times to get readjusted. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥.̸”
Pat hummed assent, his forehead-eye slowly-but-surely sinking back into his flesh.
Plier shook himself, scrubbing the abyssal tears from his face as the hellish glow returned to all of his eyes.
Moses crept out from behind Septic’s tank.
Sol stepped forward, staring at the spot where all the gore used to be “...That went by much faster than I thought it would.”
“†hê ¢l姧 ålw奧 Ðð,” Pat replied, shrugging.
“𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘞̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘏̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥,̸” Septic declared. He nodded to Moses, Sol, and Cruz in turn. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥.̸”
Cruz nodded back, smiling. “Glad to hear it.”
Sol visibly perked up, seeming to have gotten all their energy back in the blink of an eye. “Thank you!”
Moses wiped his hands in an overexaggerated gesture. “All in a night’s work.”
For a few long seconds, there was silence.
As he tucked his gut-hook skinner back into its leather sheath, Cruz decided to break it: “So…is there anything left to do?”
The monster then surged downward, disappearing from his tank and from view entirely. His toxic green glow followed suite, soon casting the basement into shadows.
“CͅoldW͓om͔̉̇b͆̄ Lͅe̝e̱c̬ͤh͎̑͠es̡͍̐?̼̏!̣͖” Plier let out a surprised gasp that seemed to sizzle through the air. “Hey,͠ g̠̽et b̵͖̭a͌͢c̣k̏͑̏ he̥̿́r̺̊e!͚͟ Ỉ̧ͤ ŝ̬aͧ̀w t̶̯͙hẻͨm͊ f̒́̍i̴͇͂r̢̛̊s͇t͆!”
He scuttled across the floor, lunging at the tank…and immediately colliding with Pat, who had just started to climb up its sides himself.
“Lïkê hêll ¥ðµ ÐïÐ!” Pat snarled, shoving Plier away. His form seemed to dissipate into a shroud of ink and eyes and chattering mouths as pushed himself through the hatch and into the liquid below, quickly swimming down in the same path Septic had. “Ì ¢låïmêÐ †hêm! †hê¥'rê MÌñÈ!”
“N̵̼̙o̘ͫ t͇̪ḧ̥ͧey'̯ͩre͢ n̢̾o̬͂t̅!̐ͯ̈́” Plier protested, furious. He shoved his way through the hatch, his body crumpling and bending in all manner of grotesque ways in order to fit. And soon enough, he was swimming too. “D̹oͮ͑̾n͓'̸t͇ y̒͒o̯̔ų̈́ d̶a͍̼̫re t̯̂ő̒u̷cͮͥ̄h̵̘ 'ëm!͐̾̿ I'̏̐m̏́͐ g̷̢on͊na g̮ḛ̅ͨțͤ t̯̟͂h̘͌͋e͙̫̎r̡e f̺į̶ͤrst͙,̱̰ añ̞̾d̑̈ t̢̬h͠en I_'̐m̌ͮ g̖on͖̦̒na̹̓ e̝at̆͠ '̖e̙ͨm̤̠ a͗ͣl̩l i̵͌n fr̀o̽́n͆t o̺ͪ͌f̝ y͔̕ou̒!”
The twisted voices all crawled grew more and more distant, more and more muffled. The shouts, the arguing, all the promises of dismemberment and such eventually grew so faint that they were almost comparable to whispers. But they never faded completely; wherever the monsters were all headed, it was still somewhere beneath The Oozing Crown.
Cruz pursed his lips as he slowly removed his mask. “They’re probably gonna be occupied for a while.”
“Yeah,” Sol agreed, running a hand through their ginger hair as they took their own mask off. They gave Moses an apologetic look. “I could just start driving back to the museum, but…I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right to leave without Pat.”
After a slight pause, they added, “Plus, I’m pretty sure I need him to guide me away from this place. The roads I had to take on the way are all just so…wrong.”
“Same here,” Cruz agreed with a nod, thinking about to the headless deer-things he’d seen beside his car hours earlier.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Moses reassured, lightly shaking his head as he pulled the mask away. He considered the situation for a second, then threw his thumb over his shoulder at the catwalk, that the basement door. “...I’ve got some movies upstairs, if you guys are interested.”
(For a little extra context about these characters, go here.)
My second ever fanmade CrankEgo (yeah, I know his name is a near-complete rip-off, I think it's a funny reference, so leave me alone).
Just like Cruz and Sol, he has himself a very, very rare friendship with a very, very frightening guy. As for who that guy is...well, just keep reading. You'll find out eventually.
As for how he met the aforementioned buddy: years ago, Moses found himself trapped inside a horrific, surreal dimension not unlike The Backrooms (the reason he ended up there in the first place is a story for another day, of course). It took a while of running and hiding for his life, but he eventually stumbled upon one corner of the dimension that had apparently been claimed by something...different from all the monsters he'd faced up until that point.
Shockingly enough, that something didn't just immediately attack him. Instead, he started a snide conversation with Moses, somehow already aware of all the hell he'd already gone through. Turns out, this creature had eyes everywhere...in quite a literal sense. Sooner or later, he decided to be in a bargaining mood: he could help Moses return to the human world, just like that. Only...the creature made it clear that he did NOT work for free. If Moses wanted his help, then he'd have to make it worth. His. While.
Moses' mind was pretty much hanging on by a stubborn thread. So, he agreed. You'd better fucking believe he agreed to the terms in less than ten seconds. With that, he blinked and found himself being shoved through the hatch of a large, copper tank, falling into a heap on cold, concrete floor, coughing and sputtering and soaked to the bone. And after a moment, that same tank was illuminated from the inside-out by a familiar, terrifying figure.
As it turned out, this was the basement of The Oozing Crown, a brewery/distillery built on top of the creature's earthly territory. And now, as part of his new debt, it's where Moses was going to work and live. For quite a long time...(Good thing an apartment was built where the main building's roof would have been.)
Of course, calling this whole arrangement tense in the beginning would've been a serious understatement. And yet, somehow...Moses found himself getting along with the creature. Understanding the creature. Laughing with him about mixing drinks and addiction-fueled (alcohol and caffeine alike) shenanigans and tattoos and how stupid most other humans tend to be. Soon enough, he was learning how to perform rituals and capture offerings and help with harvesting stuff like emotions and souls and minds themselves! So, in summary, way more interesting stuff than his former life. To this day, Moses has no idea how it really happened (and it's fair to bet that the creature isn't sure how it happened himself), but he isn't complaining.
Continuing the little trend I've established, Moses' ceremonial tool is pretty small and unassuming upon first glance. It's a fancy vintage corkscrew that he found soon after being brought to The Oozing Crown. The pointed tip is deceptively sharp, perfect for either pricking little droplets of blood from fingers or leaving deep bore-holes in flesh. Not only that, but the handle can switch from being light as a paperweight to heavy as a cinderblock with a quickness. Pretty handy for breaking bones or knocking victims out. (Plus, since I can't help myself: the handle is crafted in the shape of a duck. If you know, you know. If not, my condolences to your soon-to-be-lost innocence. You can't tell me that irl Ethan wouldn't find that funny.)
You know the good boi Spencer, right? Irl Ethan's dog? Well, Moses has a lil' buddy named Mincer whose disguising glamor looks suspiciously similar to that handsome pile of fluff. His true appearance is basically a miniature Cerberus, only with each of the heads being more skeletal before the vertebrae disappear into his chest-fur. Oh, and his tail is made up of a bunch of snakes. Because of course it is. Despite all I've implied about that dimension Moses was trapped in, there was actually one other monster that wasn't making it his life-mission to kill him in any number of grotesque ways. Well, Mincer eventually managed to follow Moses' scent into the brewery's basement. Moses panicked at first (because duh), but once he realized the lil' guy was actually friendly, he didn't hesitate to adopt him.
I came up with the look of Moses’ mask in a similar way to Sol’s: basically just mashing the designs of this mask and yet another mask together in my head. (Damn, I’m really just showing how much stuff I drool over on Etsy, huh?) The material would be a combination of metal, glass, and maybe a bit of rubber or other softer stuff for the interior. The eyes along the top would be blue—though I wouldn’t say no to the potential of them changing color when certain things happen during rituals. Since toxic fumes are gonna be a big part of C.S.'s nature, I really wanted Moses’ mask to emulate a special kind of gas-mask.
___
Now, for the sake of convenience (and so I can stop calling him "the creature")...
ColosSeptic
My very first fanmade SepticEgo
Yep, he was the thing Moses found in that dimension. He was the thing to bring Moses back to Earth, and he's the thing Moses is currently working with, both in a casual and professional sense.
Now, where EldritchPlier and LeviathanPat are bound by rules that keep them outside of places, C.S. here is bound by rules that keep him inside a place. And that place is...you guessed it! The primary tank in The Oozing Crown's basement. Aforementioned tank is basically a gateway to his corner of that Backrooms-esque dimension I've probably brought up a few too many times now.
The main part of C.S.'s and Moses' deal revolves around his binding. As of right now, Moses is the only human capable of letting C.S. out of the tank without getting killed or having his mind broken for his troubles. Still, the binding is made of some extremely strong stuff; no matter what happens, C.S. is always forced to return to The Oozing Crown and back into his tank sometime after he exits. Depending on how far he wants/needs to travel and how long he wants/needs to be away. C.S. usually has to save up a lot of energy in advance.
He tends to feed on non-corporeal things. Souls, emotions, voices (one of his all-time favorites, actually. Makes it easier to mimic them when needed), thoughts, shadows, etc. He can siphon the stuff off of his victims just by touch if the mood suits him, but he typically prefers to have Moses bring said victims down to the basement and into one of the other tanks. (Yes, they're used for brewing/distilling normal stuff for the business, but come on. You can't just be surrounded by drink-making equipment and not use it for yourself sometimes.)
Remember how I mentioned toxic fumes above? They all but pour out and fill the air whenever the tank's hatch is open. Sometimes they're simply deadly enough to breathe in (trust me, they'd have a much worse effect on your lungs than smoke or any similar, non-oxygen gases). Other times however, they can be even more sinister. Rather than being poisonous, they can cause all sorts of hallucinations for whoever inhales them. Either way, you'll want to wear a very special protective mask in his presence.
His skin is mostly transparent; both his bones and internal organs often move around inside him, almost in a swimming or crawling way. They also glow and shift through a variety of colors (shades of green are the most common) that can change depending on circumstance (outside magic, his emotions, etc.) Very similar to a diaphonized specimen.
...Y'know, I was about to describe all the other aspects of his appearance in detail. But right now, I think I'll just stop here. I am going to be writing about him pretty soon, after all...😈 (Plus, it's not like I can't update this afterwards.)
