Since I’m using MerMay as an excuse to make a whole side-AU for The Pentas Family, I obviously need to go into depth (I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE) with the details surrounding it. (I'll probably wind up adding more details to this later on. And as always, I'm very much open to asks/discussion/brainstorming on these headcanons!)
(Side-note: I am totally willing to share these headcanons/lore with other writers/artists. I'm sure I'm not the first person to have ideas like this for a merfolk-centered setting, so I wouldn't feel right just claiming them to be completely original, even though I would also appreciate credit.)
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On Merfolk:
All merfolk species have human-level intelligence/capabilities (even higher, a lot of the time). Therefore, it’s absolutely possible for them to learn human languages and speak them fluently if they so choose. In fact, it’s a common thing for young merfolk to hang around close to shore whenever humans are present; it’s basically a type of submersion learning.
And as for merfolk language that’s used underwater: it’s called Thalassic, and humans see it as somewhat similar to how Morse Code is used with light. All species of merfolk have patterns of stripes or spots (which tend to resemble birthmarks or abstract tattoos) all over their bodies (faces, arms, torsos, tails). These are bioluminescent, but the light they emit is under the merperson’s control; they can essentially turn them off and on. So, underwater dialogue consists of flashes and flickers set in certain patterns with certain speeds/intervals in-between. (Plus, certain movements/gestures with limbs are often involved with conversation.)
I know I kinda already mentioned this in the main Shoal post, but size/weight in most merfolk species is somewhat complex. Seeing as they're not actually human, it'd be logical for them to grow somewhat larger or smaller than the average human. I guess it helps that they'd have to be measured in length instead of height most of the time. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that merfolk counterparts of smaller fish would be petite compared to the average human, and merfolk counterparts of larger fish would be bigger/heavier than the average human. For example: I personally imagine species such as mer-seahorses, mer-clownfish, or the mer-equivalents of smaller octopi or jellyfish to be a little over four feet in height/length compared to humans. Mercrustaceans (crabs, lobsters, etc.) would be about the same size as average humans, as would the counterparts of normal fish that are similarly sized to said crustaceans. Meanwhile, species such as merwhales would probably grow to be about fifteen to twenty feet in length/height. So, various species of merfolk would be smaller and/or larger than their more animalistic counterparts, but still somewhat simultaneously different and similar to humans.
The vast majority of merfolk are semi-feral; they can interact with humans and participate in human-stuff if they want, but they’re also very aware of the fact that they don’t have to. (For example: they can hunt their own food and have everything they need underwater, so it’s not like they need to make money to survive.) Still, it’s not too uncommon for them to socialize with humans and vice-versa, although certain accommodations obviously need to be made for that to work. Things just depend on either party being smart. (So, obviously, there’s a wide range of shenanigans every year. Some more serious than others.)
Much like normal fish, some species of merfolk lay eggs while others give live birth. In either case, infant/juvenile merfolk are called “pups.” (Yes, some humans see this as being offensive even though it has nothing to do with them. It’s just one more casual term for underwater communities.)
Although most merfolk species have evolved specifically to somewhat resemble humans (the ability to grow hair, for instance), it’s not to the point of things like breasts or nipples being included in their anatomy. Not even for the ones that are technically mammals, like whales or dolphins. (Selkies are obviously a different story, since their human-forms are…well, actually human.) The vast majority of merfolk pups, regardless of species, are born/hatched with their teeth and hunting instincts, so they don’t really need to be fed/nursed in a traditional sense (and even for the few who do, it doesn’t take very long for them to be weaned off in favor of solid food). Pups do still need to be taught how to properly hunt, although they tend to catch on fast because, again, instinct.
It’s possible for merfolk to wear clothing, but that can only work if said clothing doesn’t obstruct their gills. And the gills are pretty much always located on the chest region, so… (If you couldn’t already tell, I’m very tired of all the seashell bras in mermaid media. No offense to those who draw merfolk that way, but the part of my brain obsessed with realistic/scientifically-accurate details just won’t shut up.)
While plenty of merfolk will shelter their pups as they grow, that unfortunately doesn’t stop some individuals from occasionally abandoning their pups right from the get-go. This doesn’t always doom the pups, but it certainly makes things a bit harder for their development.
Certain species of merfolk are more social than others. Sometimes they’ll stick together in close, bio-family units. Sometimes they set out on their own, maybe making an exception to find a partner if they want. Sometimes shoals will form similar to human friend-groups, and the members of said shoals typically don’t care about differences in species as long as they can work well together. (Unless they feel like they’re in legitimate danger, but that’s a more complicated scenario…).
Merfolk courtship is a bit of a grab-bag. There’s a number of rituals/gestures that can be used (it just depends on preference and the like). A sort-of staple among them are fin-piercings. They’re exactly what they sound like: small pieces of jewelry attached to the preferred fin (dorsal, pectoral, or tail). As for the jewelry part, that’s often fulfilled by things ranging from pretty shells to pearls and other ocean-forming gems (or, if the proposing merperson is lucky, a nice shard of seaglass). Though it’s not technically a traditional/expected custom like engagement rings are with humans, it’s become a popular option. In fact, it’s one of the bigger forms of business between humans and merfolk. If merfolk partners decide they want to go the extra mile, then they can contract human jewelers to prepare the ring (polishing and setting the stone) and then help with piercing the fin to attach it. (Ironically enough, fishing wire is often used in the process, since it’s just a strong, practical material.)
Certain species of merfolk are under just as much scrutiny (if not more so) as their more animalistic counterparts. Primarily mersharks, even though the vast majority of attacks are either due to misunderstanding or self-defense. Thankfully, a good number of humans actually know better and work to defend them in a way not unlike conservation groups. JAWS and similar movies aren’t exactly a big help, though some mersharks have come around to “recclaiming” stuff like that for the memes. (Pretty ironic how I’m explaining this when I specifically went out of my way to make Caliban a mershark in this AU. I guess it helps that mako sharks tend to be just as aggressive as they are smart.)
And on the topic of mersharks: yes, they do need to move a lot to keep water flowing to their gills. However, they don’t necessarily have to move constantly; they can hold still for limited amounts of time. Because of this, they usually reserve those times for when they sleep and treat movement rather casually when they’re awake. (For example: although circling is often used for stalking/hunting, it's also seen by them in a similar way to how humans see pacing or general fidgeting.)
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On Selkies:
Selkies can easily be mistaken for normal seals when in their true forms—they grow to about the same sizes and weights of normal seals, if only slightly larger sometimes. However, the identifying trait that all selkies possess is a fleshy seam that runs the length of the selkie’s tail and underbelly, ending just at the tip of the selkie’s lower jaw. These seams can appear similar to scars, branching veins, or even stretch-marks. Whenever a selkie is ready to shift into human-form, they’ll simply use this seam to literally open up their pelt and climb out of it; the pelt’s fur/skin and blubber will stretch out in order to potentially cover the selkie’s entire body if they choose to wear it like a robe/dress/etc., though it can also be worn as a large scarf/shawl.
Selkies on land usually have no problem blending in with normal humans. However, their human forms still have some distinct traits that would probably take a lot of experience to identify without getting all up in said selkie’s business. For one thing, the vast majority of selkies have very dark brown eyes, to the point of almost looking black at times (although they also tend to have wider pupils than the average human); blue eyes aren’t entirely impossible, but they’re still very rare. For another thing, the teeth of a selkie’s human-form are much thicker and stronger than those of a normal human, and often form with a slightly curved structure. And for a final thing, selkies tend to have some subtle webbing in-between their fingers and toes. You’d have to look very closely to notice it, but it’s there. (Yes, merfolk have webbing between their own fingers, as well as claws, but it's way more obvious.)
Similarly to how merfolk use Thalassic, selkies have their own language specifically to communicate underwater: Pelagic. In layman’s terms, it’s based on internal vocalization. Humming, whistling, trilling, clicking, and low-frequency growling set in certain patterns for certain words. Along with this, selkies can clap their flippers, as well as make certain gestures with their heads and tails.
Even in human-form, selkies maintain the capabilities of their seal-form. They remain exceptional swimmers/divers, able to reach higher speeds and withstand higher pressures than most humans can (to be fair, for most selkies, learning to swim comes earlier than learning to walk). They’re able to hold their breath underwater for up to an hour-and-a-half, though most have a habit of diving down and staying submerged for three-to-five minutes before resurfacing. It’s virtually impossible for a selkie to drown unless they sustain severe injuries while in the water. Alongside all this, selkies have very hardy stomachs, able to digest materials such as scales and bones; it’s not at all uncommon for selkies to casually eat raw fish and the like while in their human-forms.
Much like merfolk, young selkies are called pups. Female selkies gestate for ten months—they always try to be in their seal-froms when it’s time to give birth, as the pups are always born in their own seal-forms. Their pelt will start to loosen about five weeks after birth, but any transformation they go through will have to be performed manually by the parents. Pups typically cannot shift between forms on their own until they’re at least three years old; mid-transformation injuries are not uncommon during a selkie’s growth.
A selkie’s pelt is inextricably bonded to the selkie. Even after being completely removed from the selkie’s body, the pelt is warm to the touch, and a slight pulse can be felt within it when it’s handled by someone else. Selkies are able to feel whatever happens to their pelt. For example: if a selkie leaves their pelt in a one room and moves to a separate room, they will receive both physical and mental twinges if another person touches or picks up the pelt. These twinges can increase in severity depending on how the pelt is handled; if the pelt is handled gently, the selkie will either express pleasure or not pay it much mind. If the pelt is scratched or struck, the selkie will feel pain. If the pelt is exposed to different temperatures, the selkie will incur sensations of heat or coolness.
If a selkie’s pelt were to be destroyed (being burned to ash, ripped completely apart, etc.), the damage would not actually kill the selkie, despite feeling severe pain. A selkie can survive just fine without their pelt, but losing it will cause them serious depression and anxiety for a time. If a selkie were to die outside of their pelt while the pelt is still intact, then it’s customary to simply wrap their human-form in the pelt and sink the bundle into the ocean. A selkie can technically use the pelt of a different selkie for themself, but this is viewed as an extreme taboo in their community, and those who violate it are heavily scrutinized.
Selkies don’t consider themselves above seeking relationships with creatures of differing species. If said relationship goes very well, then the selkie will most likely use their pelt as part of a marriage proposal/engagement gift; this is a symbol of the selkie’s trust in their partner to return the pelt whenever it is needed. Unfortunately, there have been several incidents around the world involving selkie pelts being stolen and held hostage, thus leading to harassment/assault/coercion.
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On Coastal Harpies:
First of all, I know that plenty of other creators portray harpies with only wings and legs. I know there’s realism/logic in a design like that, and I’m not trying to shame or discourage anyone for designing them that way. However, this is for MY personal story-universe, and I make the rules. So in here, harpies have a total of six limbs: two wings, two arms, two legs. (Yes, that could potentially bring about arguments as to whether or not they technically count as insects, and no, I would personally do nothing to stop it.) We already deal with so many real animals that make even less anatomical sense and still exist just fine, so please just let me have this.
A harpy’s hands possess five fingers (including opposable thumbs). Their feet, however, are much more bird-like, having only four toes each. Of course, these toes are all equipped with long, sharp talons for hunting and gripping. However, the hands have similarly structured claws at the base of each finger instead of typical nails. (Yes, I’m imagining Freddy Krueger’s glove, too.) And the similarities don’t end there: where the skin of a harpy’s face looks relatively similar to that of a human, the skin of the harpy’s lower arms and legs feature a tough, featherless, almost scaly epidermis to protect against abrasion (Podotheca, if my sources are correct).
The vast majority of harpies have even better sight-distance than most normal birds of prey. Ironically enough, this often causes them to have trouble focusing their vision on nearby objects (very similar to close-vision in humans). For example: this could make learning to read/write very difficult for young harpies. Because of this, a huge business between harpies and humans centers on creating special prescription goggles for harpies to use when they’re not flying or hunting. (Yes, already alluded to this in my other post with Harpy!Murdock, but the whole purpose of this post is to give more clarity/detail. Also, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get this trait from a childhood book; Claws by Mike and Rachel Grinti, if you’re interested.)
A harpy’s wingspan is usually about twice the length of their body. I know this is an extremely watered-down explanation, but I will say that those types of measurements would be very dependent on several factors. Their wings’ bone structure would have to be much more complex than their humanoid appearance would lead you to believe, and despite having feathers, I personally believe it would make sense for them to be a bit more similar to bats than birds. (So, a decent amount of membrane would be included, too.) Along with this, harpies also possess short tails covered in a dense layer of feathers. Much like normal birds, harpies use their tails and the features on them for steering/maneuvering, balancing and essentially braking in flight. Injuries to the tail wouldn’t necessarily kill a harpy, but it would still NOT take all that much to paralyze the tail and keep the harpy from flying at all. Some prosthetics have been shown to work, but we do not live in a perfect world, and so results are extremely varied.
Harpies semi-regularly molt their feathers. Most harpies will experience their first major molt as teenagers; it’s essentially the start of puberty for them, since they’ll be shedding their down in favor of stronger feathers/plumage to support flying. After that, adult harpies will go through molting periods once or twice per year, and the process usually takes a month. Since it’s so gradual, it doesn’t keep the harpies from flying, and while it doesn’t cause any real physical damage, it still feels very uncomfortable, both itchy and sweaty in sensation. Fortunately for the harpies, plenty of brushes/combs have been designed to help them gently remove the loose feathers from their wings rather than just plucking them. But of course, harpy wings are huge/long and sometimes even the harpies just can’t reach that ONE DAMN SPOT, so it’s not uncommon for them to ask for help with it. (Keep in mind, they’ll only allow friends/family to do this. If a stranger touches a harpy’s wings without permission, if they don’t get scratched up, they’re gonna get their eardrums abused.)
You know how some stories give harpies a supernatural singing ability like sirens? Well, in this universe, that’s cited as an early misconception. Harpies have a much more enhanced vocal-range than humans, and they can easily project/throw their voices as well as shift through various tones/pitches. This would make harpies very adept at singing, but specifically singing wouldn’t be part of any hunting strategy. On top of all this, harpies can also mimic the calls of normal birds. This trait can sometimes depend on specific species; for example, some species can let out piercing shrieks like hawks/falcons/owls, while others can caw, chirp, or tweet. Still, all harpy species can do this, and no matter what the noise is, it sounds scarily similar to whatever normal bird is being mimicked.
Despite evolving specifically to somewhat resemble humans, harpies cannot be classified as mammals; therefore, much like merfolk, they are very much flat-chested. (They still tend to cover their torsos simply because their humanoid evolution caused them to not grow many layers of feathers on their chests, and flying so fast/so often can make them cold and irritate their skin.) They lay/are hatched from eggs, although the gestation process for said eggs can look uncannily similar to human pregnancy. It usually takes three months for the egg to develop before being laid (most normal birds only take five days before laying); after that, the egg needs to be incubated for another four months before hatching. Harpy young are called fledglings until they go through their first major molt.
Like merfolk and selkies, harpies can do just fine living semi-feral. And while many of them do just that, plenty others have somewhat integrated into human society. Again, thanks to hunting instinct and the like, they don’t really have a need for jobs/money, but they’re very intelligent and curious creatures. So, while some human areas have to make obvious accommodations for harpies, the balance can still work out nicely.
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The Unnecessarily Dark Stuff:
Some things are the same on land or sea; the Black Market (and the criminal underground in general) is one of those things.
Merfolk anatomy is considered even more valuable than that of humans—organs, blood, teeth, bones, even hair or tears. The components of some species can have incredible medicinal purposes (and as such, plenty of merfolk willingly donate blood samples and the like to legitimate research groups), while the components of others are devastatingly lethal.
Shark teeth are a very common thing to be found in the underwater sand. With basic economic logic, that means they aren’t too valuable. Mersharks on the other hand…well, they can regrow several rows of teeth at a similar rate, but considering their humanoid status, their teeth are seen as luxury items in some cases. Some mersharks have made a sort-of business out of selling their own teeth, as removing them is much easier and less painful than human teeth. And while these businesses can technically be legal in some settings, many other mersharks have been victimized for it, being abducted and held against their will for their teeth to be harvested over and over and over again.
In a similar vein, venomous/poisonous merfolk species have made a solid racket out of selling or donating their toxins to science. But that isn’t going to stop many others from selling said toxins to people wanting to make weapons out of them. (Yeah, plenty cases like this can see the merperson just going ahead with killing the victim themself, but sometimes that just doesn’t work out.)
When it comes to merfolk-to-merfolk interactions in this shade: many merfolk have willingly traded certain biological assets to other merfolk in exchange for protection, shelter, or for certain tasks to be carried out. In this universe, The Pentas Shoal has developed a reputation for doing this kind of business, having allowed many traveling merfolk-outsiders (poaching victims, fugitives on the run, etc.) to stay in their underwater territory for certain fees depending on the circumstance.
Harpy bones, feathers, and even eggshells have also been noted to have incredible scientific potential, and plenty of harpies have been willing donors/sellers (especially with their feathers after molting, since it’s not like they’re using those feathers anymore). But of course, some sickos out there like the idea of collecting without consent. Why have a fancy silk blanket/pillow be filled with goose down when you could stuff it with the feathers of an incredible humanoid bird, right? (WRONG, ASSHOLE.) So, unfortunately, a few too many harpies have essentially been poached; first being stalked, then being grounded (either by having their wings clipped/broken or their tails paralyzed), and then being abducted and forcibly plucked, if not just outright skinned and killed. You know how some hunters will preserve the wings of game-birds to train puppies? Well, entire harpy wings have been listed on the Black Market, only for the sole purpose of being hung up like decorations.
It’s not at all uncommon for victimized selkies to order hits on those who have stolen their pelts. Especially considering that pelt-trafficking is, unfortunately, an industry unto itself in the criminal underground. (This is one of the few businesses that The Pentas Family will NOT participate in. Some outsiders have come to them to try and sell them on it, but those outsiders have a bad habit of disappearing without a trace.)
(Since it’s MerMay, most of my fanegos have gotten a special little shift for the occasion! I’ve organized a new, temporary list of headcanons for The Pentas Family—each member’s species, vague lore-bits, etc.—which can be found here for context.)
(Disclaimer: most of the characters in this story are fanegos created by me. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons for him, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on The Newcomer—or on the mob they work for in general—go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: body horror, the ocean, implied blood/gore, descriptions of illegal business, slight mentions of death/murder, implied mutilation, implied teeth-pulling, mentions of eating/drinking, technical cannibalism, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Stereotyping was never the mature or correct thing to do, and thousands of mersharks out there—regardless of exact species—had gone above and beyond to prove just how articulate and complex they truly were. (Although there was most definitely an underlying point to making their detractors look stupid, because really, who could resist that?)
Despite the conflict of ignorance, much like their more primitive counterparts, the vast majority of attacks by mersharks were out of self-defense or severe misunderstanding. Likewise, the concept of a mershark actively developing a taste for human flesh and blood was practically unheard of.
Practically.
“Rookie!” A deep, smooth baritone rang out through the halls. “Get over here—we’ve got some company!”
The Newcomer’s fingers froze over the keyboard, swiveling their focus away from their laptop’s screen.
They recognized the voice, of course; they’d listened to and talked with Murdock just about every day for years now. They’d had more than enough time to learn his mannerisms when it came to speaking.
The tone he’d just used was outwardly light, casual, as though he’d found a very confused lizard crawling by his nest and now wanted someone else to help him corral it toward Val’s nest for some shits and giggles.
But that was just on the surface of his words.
He’d put some extra emphasis on the end of his call, lowered his pitch ever-so-slightly. His voice had always been laced with a type of natural velvet…but then he went out on jobs and his attitude grew shadowy, his smiles grew sharper. At that point, aforementioned velvet became less like a luxury jacket and more like something that would encase you in a coffin. Still towing some very questionable charm, but wracked with rot and secrets and the worst kind of patience.
The tone he’d just used was a bit like the one he used for active jobs. Only a bit, since while it was laced with sadism, it lacked adrenaline.
It was calm for the most part.
It was the tone he used when he was playing mind-games, when negotiations were getting out of hand and he planned to watch the chaos like a vulture before swooping into it himself.
…The fact that a chorus of less-familiar screaming and babbling was overlapping his voice also offered a couple clues.
“Coming!” The Newcomer called back, signing out and hiding their laptop between the mattress and box-spring they’d set up in one corner.
What had once served as a gift shop for Codfather’s was now serving as The Newcomer’s bedroom, and honestly, it hadn’t been that difficult of a transition. (The bright turquoise paint covering every surface wasn’t always easy on the eyes, but The Newcomer usually handled post-job hazes via pacing around the rest of the building, so it worked out).
Shelves were built into every wall, giving ample space for the books and trinkets they’d collected over time. Old display racks were natural for hanging up their clothes, and the former register-stand included a nifty little internal safe that helped them hide a plethora of weapons, payments, and gruesome bargaining chips they’d been entrusted with until the time came to bring them out.
The Newcomer strode out and down the hall.
As they walked, they continued hearing Murdock’s voice, though they could tell it wasn’t directed at them this time. Another voice—the one that had been screaming a few minutes ago—was also bouncing along the floors and walls, a little wobbly around the edges.
“I’m just saying–ow!–I shouldn’t have to keep up with this part of the contract.” The voice was a bit muffled, but the speaker either didn’t know how to adjust his volume or just didn’t think he needed to because everyone might as well listen to him, since they apparently had nothing better to do.
“Oh? I don’t remember Phoenix setting up any contract for you,” Murdock responded, emphasizing the words in a way that made it clear he was very apathetic to the opinion. “So, what makes you think that?”
Much like the flooded half, this dryer half boasted a plethora of large exhibits. Just behind the old desk at the main entrance, hollow spaces had been bored out of walls to set up habitats behind glass. The majority of that glass had broken, shards having been cleaned up and pried from the edges to make extra room for equipment or “guests.”
From there, another hallway opened up into an aviary that essentially took up the rest of the building.
Most of the flooring here had been knocked out, leaving just a wide ramp that spiraled nearly all the way to the ceiling, a waist-high wall on either side. Nearly, because there was still plenty of space between the top of the ramp and the enormous skylight that adorned the ceiling, put there with the purpose of bathing everything below it in healthy, natural light. It was still doing its job in that sense.
Hell, it had even come with a mounted hatch installed on the far side; it opened wide enough for entering harpies to not have to scrunch up their wings, and its hinges weren’t nearly as rusted as the frames around the main doors. (Which had been locked up tight and shuttered ever since Codfather’s closure, and as far as The Newcomer knew, they’d be staying that way.)
“You and the others know me! We’ve worked together before!” The other voice contended, now dripping with indignation. “I still don’t understand why you haven’t made me an ally yet!”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t understand,” Murdock’s voice countered pleasantly. “The allies we choose need to have substance and awareness at the very least. Trusting other people already isn’t The Boss’ favorite hobby, so she expects hard work before making allowances.”
“Ow! Well, I think I’ve shown plenty of substance; I’ve respected our bargains and followed instructions.”
Murdock snorted. “Fine, you’ve got me there…even if you have a very loose definition of ‘follow.’”
Huge sheets of metallic mesh had once been installed around that ramp, with the excess material being used to make walls between the screen-cages without breaking up the supposed harmony. That mesh had been torn away, of course, though some of the things discovered behind it had been spared.
Primarily a small forest of real, sturdy trees and vibrant flowers. They’d been planted to give the former specimens on display a sense of enrichment, and despite years of abandonment, the soil they grew from had remained shockingly fertile when The Pentas Shoal took control of Codfather’s.
Tables and cabinets, among other things, had been set up here and there around the foliage. Murdock and the other harpies had built their nests along the strongest branches they could find. (Miles was only partially in that camp, since his roosting always saw him hanging upside down, although he did weave soft materials around his preferred limb, just to be a bit easier on his talons.) The Newcomer always thought said nests resembled hammocks in a way, compiled of stolen pillows and scraps of fabric that were usually torn from the clothes of certain targets.
The Newcomer found their mentor just as he was strolling to the bottom of the ramp, and he wasn’t alone.
The human at his side, like many targets or un-allied outsiders before him, had his head obscured by burlap bag adorned with strips of duct tape that formed a frowny face with Xs for eyes. Everything below the mask, however, was very…noticeable. He’d topped off his fluorescent red shorts with a floral patterned shirt full of greens and yellows and pinks that The Newcomer couldn’t help but mentally compare to the technicolor mulch of freshly-vomitted Trix cereal.
They couldn’t help but give pause, staring as slight recognition weaved through the back of their mind.
Axel Rentnik; they’d seen and heard him a few times before, but that had always been in the background, always before they were called elsewhere for a task or an update.
Murdock was leading him, keeping his wings half-spread behind the two of them just in case he sensed any funny business. He planted one hand on top Axel’s shrouded head rather than either of his shoulders. Much like his feet, he had a clutch of gleaming talons jutting out from the base of each knuckle. He could’ve easily scalped this visitor through the burlap if he wanted, but for now, he was content to deliver periodic taps to the forehead and temples.
Murdock glanced away from his cargo, squinting in The Newcomer’s direction.
His free hand reached down to a pair of bulky goggles that rested around his neck. He tugged them up and onto his face, forcing his eyes to let him properly focus on anything that wasn’t five miles away. The Newcomer only had about two seconds to peer at his dark brown irises, which seemed a smidge too flat, and pupils, which seemed just a smidge too small. Then, they were hidden behind lenses tinted just as black as the hair on his head and the feathers shrouding his wings.
“Ah, there you are,” he greeted, tilting his head to the side in a manner that was quick and very bird-like.
“Here I am,” The Newcomer replied. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing too special; just a minor business proposal.” Murdock smirked at the offended scoff emanating from under Axel’s hood. “But I thought you might be interested. Maybe you’ll have some ideas about the bargain?”
The Newcomer hummed. “I might. But that depends: what’s this bargain about?”
Murdock chuckled, the sound oily and cold as it seeped into the air. “I guess you’ll just have to find out…”
The Newcomer offered a fond roll of their eyes, then approached as Murdock shuffled one wing to beckon them closer. They stood on the opposite side of their mentor, clamping a firm hand on the guest’s shoulder.
Axel flinched, then huffed as the three of them started walking, back-tracking the route The Newcomer had just taken.
“I don’t get it. They’re human, just like me, and they can walk around here like it’s nothing,” Axel muttered, apparently having recognized The Newcomer’s voice as they had his.
“It’s not that they’re human,” Murdock mused. “It’s more that they’ve given us a reason to actually like their company.”
The Newcomer ducked their head, smiling to themself.
That smile, unfortunately, died a quick, brutal death.
“What reason? Whenever I’ve seen them, they’re always doing the small stuff,” Axel challenged, speaking as though they weren’t right beside him. “Just fetching things or dog-paddling around the cove. You don’t even know how much space their boat takes up by the boardwalk. I bet they haven’t even killed anyone for you yet—”
His critiques devolved into a guttural yelp as The Newcomer halted, slamming the heel of their boot onto one of his tennis shoes to keep him in place as they drove their knuckles into his sternum.
“You don’t know anything about me!” The Newcomer snapped as Axel doubled over in a coughing fit. “You’ve only seen a tenth of all the things I do in this family! I’m always ‘fetching things’ because I don’t drag my damn feet everywhere I go.”
They leaned closer to him. “And don’t act like you’ve got any room to talk about killing. The only thing you could kill is a fucking tuna roll, because you’re the type to microwave sushi. With ketchup.”
They straightened back up and resumed walking, tugging Axel along. Murdock kept pace, giving his mentee an appraising look. While they appreciated it, they chewed their lip, trying to bring neutrality back to their features.
Confidence was key in an industry like this; they knew they had to stand up for themself, to not let any insult or backhanded gesture fly with impunity.
But Axel was the type to be desperate for attention. Any type of attention, really. And the fact they’d technically fed into that soured what should’ve been a satisfying Take No Shit moment.
Axel didn’t have the biggest reputation in the underground circles. He knew how to navigate the Black Market, but he was in no way a professional criminal; he was just a dude who’d gone through a very bad, very embarrassing stint in local speed-boating events.
The Newcomer hadn’t gotten the full story, but they did know that Axel, after being discharged from his posse due to mistakes involving jet-skis and exotic parrots, had spiraled down a path of things that weren’t much better. He clearly had a whole bag of egregiously greasy chips on his shoulder, and those chips just couldn’t stop spilling into his hands.
He’d made a few macabre sales here and there—nothing on the same level as the organs Caliban semi-regularly harvested from targets, though.
(Except for that one time when Two-Fins Johnny had decided to throw him a freshly-dispatched target just to see what would happen. Short answer: nothing good, since Johnny had also offhandedly mentioned a dead porpoise washing up nearby. Fiji mermaids had already been obvious failures way back in the 1800s, and that was when they’d just been mummified monkeys. The following week had been ugly, as Axel had no talent for hiding any type of body, and since he was the whiny type, The Pentas Shoal technically couldn’t let him be arrested without a sudden, violent case of speech impairment. And even after everything had finally more or less settled down, Caliban still gave Johnny a few stress-bites and verbal jabs for wasting a perfectly good corpse.)
So far, Axel had to contend with smaller bits, like shed scales or dead jellyfish or salt-encrusted bones that the waves occasionally pushed onto the sand.
Through much wheedling, he’d even been able to collect feathers from Murdock, Val, Phoenix and Howie after their respective molting periods. He’d tried to sweet-talk his way into a similar arrangement with Mercury and his downy pelt, only to wind up stumbling away with a broken wrist and a thousand-yard stare.
Whatever proposal had brought him here tonight, it was bound to be as half-baked as it was grandiose.
In no time at all, the three of them reached the main floor connecting Codfather’s flooded half to its dryer half. Murdock paused, giving a quick, short leap that left his lower talons clutching the guardrail at the top of the double-staircase. The Newcomer leaned close to the rail as well, gazing down and spotting a familiar figure circling about the water below.
His skin was a mix of deep blue and pale gray; it was also littered with scars, some bigger than others, some fresher than others. A particularly nasty one stretched around the base of the slightly-curved, triangular fin that protruded from his back. Despite the damage, his form boasted a sheen that honestly could have left you wondering if there was any liquefied silver in his blood.
This was only amplified by the pattern of stripes that branched and curved almost like marble as they adorned his face, torso, and tail. Whether he was speaking in Thalassic or simply adjusting to the environment, they glowed with a light like pearls coated in a thin layer of ashes.
Those stripes had been a bit dim at first, but they started flickering brighter as he glanced up and noticed them. He tilted his head, smiling and raising one arm out of the water to wave.
The Newcomer waved back, smiled back as they used their free hand to point at the hooded figure at their side.
Caliban squinted at the gesture, his expression growing sharper as realization washed over his face.
Murdock stretched one wing to gently tap The Newcomer on the back, and they were promptly marching Axel down the staircase on the right side, all the way to the submerged steps at the very bottom. A muffled, indignant yelp broke the relative silence as he continued to be led further along, only allowed to stop once the water was up to his waist.
(The same went for The Newcomer, obviously, but unlike the guest, they were wearing a wetsuit, so they didn’t have to worry about sudden pinching and clinging in uncomfortable areas.)
Caliban watched this, then slithered over to tread water right in front of the duo as The Newcomer pulled the burlap mask away, revealing Axel’s head of stringy brown hair, as well as the wire-rimmed glasses perched before a pair of moss-colored eyes.
Axel took a few seconds to gain his bearings, still visibly shuddering at the cool water that was now soaking his shoes and socks and unmentionables, but he froze in place soon enough, his eyes widening and his already fair skin turning pale.
Caliban’s features stretched into a dark, knowing grin, revealing a set of triangular, serrated teeth. They, along with the extra rows crowded just behind them, all glinted in the dim light. “Hey there.”
“...Caliban?” Axel mumbled in a wavering voice, glancing all around as though desperately wishing his analysis was somehow wrong, that someone else with fewer teeth would materialize in the room.
The mako raised a brow, not dropping his smile. “Who’d you expect—Ivan Sharkovski?” He barked a sarcastic laugh.
His eyes, yellow-tinged with pitch-black pupils that were just a bit too wide for comfort, eventually settled back on The Newcomer; his grin softened somewhat, and he gave them a small nod.
Getting the signal, The Newcomer nodded in turn and waded back, taking a seat on the display-dais between the staircases and bracing their hands against the edge.
The unmistakable sound of fluttering feathers caught their ear as Murdock swept down from the guardrail to perch a little ways beside them. He stood for a few seconds, hands adjusting his goggles yet again, then dropped to all fours, adapting a pose usually reserved for gargoyles.
Apparently satisfied with his audience, Caliban ever-so-slightly ducked forward, craning his neck above the surface as he began swimming in lazy circles around his potential prey.
“A medium-sized birdie told me you just came up with a new scheme,” he commented. He aimed a cheeky smirk at Murdock, who stuck his tongue out in response. But then Caliban’s focus returned to Axel, and the casual tone of his voice did not meet his eyes. Not even close.
Axel shifted in place, visibly shivering from both the cool water and something deeper. “...Yes, that’s right.”
Caliban gave a theatrical hum topped off with an over-exaggerated nod. “And it sounds like you need my help for it?”
“Yes,” Axel repeated, seemingly having to force the word out.
“Well, lucky for you, my latest client had to cancel; apparently, the target wound up having a little accident with their hair and a boat propeller…” Caliban trailed off, trying to feign a frown but not succeeding very well thanks to the nausea worming over Axel’s face.
(To be completely fair, The Newcomer’s stomach lurched at the sound of such news, even if that target had it coming.)
“Too bad, but she’s considerate enough to try dropping off a sample for me later tonight.” The mershark shook his head and rolled his shoulders. “But hey, I guess I’m free for more work now. So, lay it on me! What’s cookin’?”
Axel hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, his now pleading, bloodshot eyes locking with The Newcomer’s (relatively) calm gray ones.
In response, they furrowed their brow, shoulders popping up in an incredulous shrug.
Did he really expect them to vouch for him? Had he forgotten how he’d insulted them, to their face, just a few minutes ago?
Even if he hadn’t, this was still out of their hands. Whatever this venture was, he’d come up with it, and that meant he couldn’t just go around blaming others for his lack of foresight.
Caliban glanced between the two of them as he completed another lap. He tossed a wink in The Newcomer’s direction, then lashed his tail forward, sending a small wave directly into Axel’s face.
Axel sputtered at the sea water, fingers pushing behind his glasses to rub at his eyes.
“Yoo-hoo,” Caliban called as he passed by again. “C’mon, the suspense is killing me here!”
Axel folded his arms across his chest, scowling as cool droplets continued sliding down his face.
“Could you stop with the circling?” He blurted as he kept turning around, trying to keep an eye on the mako at all times. Trying to square his jaw and put on a cold expression, like he was judging rather than worrying. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“And you’re making me hungry, but you don’t see me complaining,” Caliban replied, taking the time to look Axel up and down, obviously relishing how he grew even more tense. “Besides, with the week I’ve had, I’m not gonna waste any of my still-time on some last-minute deal that you still haven’t spit out yet.”
The Newcomer felt something brush against their calf. They froze, trying to remember the specific creatures they’d seen the last time they’d swam through the deeper sections of Codfather’s. It’d always been relatively safe for anyone who wasn’t a target, but there wasn’t really anything to stop feral fish from wandering in.
Since, y’know, that would’ve kept the merfolk members of this whole operation out, and that would’ve defeated the purpose of using this place as the mob’s main base.
They glanced down; the creature now circling their legs was about as long as a laptop, with a cigar-shaped body that ended in a vertical crescent tail just like Caliban’s.
It briefly poked its head above the surface, showing off a mouth that was open in a near-perfect circle, revealing the halves of a fleshy suction-cup attached to its face. (Or lips, if you’d prefer. But really, batfish and blobbies were the only sea creatures who had any business having lips.)
And just behind those lips—teeth. The lower ones were much broader than the upper ones, interlocked to form a cutting-edge like that of a saw. Despite their size, they were obviously sharper than most kitchen knives.
But The Newcomer's panic evaporated as quickly as it’d appeared. They recognized this cookiecutter shark, mainly thanks to his pale coloration: not quite enough to be compared to snow, but still a huge departure from the vast majority of his species with light brown skin and a darker shade forming a collar around the gills.
Snare bumped his pointed nose into their calf again, prompting them to reach down and brush their fingers against his dorsal fin.
It wasn’t at all uncommon for merfolk to keep more primitive sea creatures as pets (no matter all the awkward looks humans gave them about this practice, since…well, didn’t said sea creatures technically count as less-developed cousins?), and Caliban had hopped on that bandwagon quite a while ago.
With Azalea’s help during a fateful job, he’d found Snare on a boat full of animals with similar mutations or deformities. Unsurprisingly, that boat had been en-route to some type of research compound in a territory where the cruelty laws were a lot more lax.
Also unsurprisingly, the people who’d been piloting that boat never made it to their destination, leaving one more job completed and one mershark a bit less hungry (though he’d made sure to share some pieces with his new buddy).
Since then, Snare could pretty much always be seen swimming with Caliban, wherever he went. Sometimes he’d drift around his head to share snacks, other times he’d steadily glide just below his torso, not unlike a whale calf with its parent.
And in scenarios like this, he’d dart back and forth between his owner and whoever his owner deemed a friend (as long as they also happened to be in the water), demanding attention or playfully snapping his little jaws because he sometimes seemed to forget just how his species had gotten its name. (Another valid reason for The Newcomer to wear their protective wetsuits most of the time.)
Now that they knew he was here, The Newcomer could more easily see Snare’s pale shape as he ducked below the surface and glided back over to Caliban for a few minutes. Caliban held one hand still on the water, his smile turning genuine as Snare pushed at it for a pet.
Even so, the menace rushed back to his expression as he kept circling, briefly lurking closer to Axel.
Axel took a deep breath. “I wanted to—to get some of your teeth. For the market.”
“Some of my teeth,” Caliban echoed, his smile twitching at the edges. He raised a hand, webbed, clawed fingers fidgeting with the necklace he wouldn’t be caught dead without.
It draped in layers, almost enough to be mistaken for a thin lei from a distance. The string hidden beneath was so long that he’d wrapped it over his head and around his neck at least three times, and it still wasn’t flush to his skin. There was still room to spare…in both aspects.
The charms lined up on it were small and shiny, eager to glint with whatever light was around them. It would’ve been easy to assume that they were just pearls. Each came in a slightly different shape; plenty pearls out there formed with irregularity rather than being perfectly spherical.
But then you got closer. Close enough to see how some of those charms were off-white, if not stained an odd yellow. How a few here and there were adorned with strange, dark pits in the center. How some of them boasted a thin, chisel-like edge, while others were broader with a more square, ridged surface, but they all had a somewhat conical shape around the middle. How the end of each one tapered into a short, awkward, vaguely root-esque shape…
“I mean the ones in your mouth!” Axel snapped, though he shrank back for the fourth consecutive time as Caliban glanced at him again.
“I know that,” Caliban huffed. He dropped his hand back into the water, seeming to mull this over for the next moment as he swam.
The Newcomer couldn’t help but fidget in place, feeling their eyes widen.
The teeth of regular sharks were a dime-a-dozen, both literally and figuratively. But the teeth of mersharks, on the other hand…they could fetch quite a pretty penny. Even in the more legal scenes.
“Well, how many of my teeth were you thinking about?” Caliban wondered aloud.
“Uh—maybe about six or so?” Axel replied.
“‘Or so?’”
“I mean, I…I kinda already have someone lined up, and they…they said they’d prefer a minimum of six, so…” He trailed off, eyes dropping to the water in an attempt to ignore the scrutiny being aimed at him.
“...Alright, then.” Caliban slithered closer, hovering for a bit. “We might be able to make that happen—
Axel raised his head, a wave of shock and hope crashing over his face.
“—but that really depends on what you’re gonna give me in exchange.”
Axel’s jaw dropped, his mouth now gaping like a goldfish.
Caliban clicked his tongue at this. “What? I can’t just give any teeth to you, can I? Not in this economy. You think I’m MADE of teeth?”
Axel’s face twisted as he had an internal debate on whether or not to answer that.
The Newcomer, having known Caliban for quite a while, knew he used lines that like specifically as traps.
Sooner or later, Axel realized how pregnant the pause was getting, so he sputtered. “You guys lose at least one tooth per week! You can grow more teeth every single day! How could you ever miss them?”
“Don’t talk about what I may or may not miss,” Caliban snarked. “And even if I didn’t miss them, they still wouldn’t be free. You’re lucky I don’t need money, ‘cause otherwise they’d be at least twenty bucks apiece.”
“How the hell would that be fair?!”
“It’d be EXTREMELY fair. You humans get charged at least—” Caliban cut himself off, the calculation in his eyes momentarily becoming more curious than menacing. He swam a bit closer to the dais. “Hey, New Stuff! You can help with this; how much does the average dentist visit cost?”
The Newcomer tilted their head to the side. “I guess it depends, but usually about three-hundred dollars without insurance. And that’s just for routine check-ups and cleanings; major surgeries and fillings are waaaaaay worse.”
A brief cringe wormed its way around Caliban’s face, but he was smiling again in no time, giving them a nod. “Thanks.”
The Newcomer smirked. “No problem.”
Caliban turned back to Axel. “See? That’s how much you’d have to cough up just to care for your own little nub-teeth.” He shook his head with a mirthless chuckle. “Damn, here’s a human trying to talk about the benefits of currency…”
He paused, ducked below under until he was fully submerged, then re-surfaced to drift right behind Axel. “So, whatever price I’m willing to negotiate has to be better than that.”
“Well, I already had an offer in mind. Obviously,” Axel snipped in an attempt to cover up a violent flinch.
“Then why didn’t you lead with it?” Murdock called, eliciting a snicker from Caliban and a scowl from his half-client-half-potential-victim.
“Tribute,” Axel declared. “I’ve been working part-time as a helmsman down at the boardwalk, and I’ve seen the anglers bringing in a lot of prize fish lately. Mahi-mahi, snooks, pompanos—there was even one swordfish the other day!” He fidgeted with his glasses, licking his lips. “I’ve been watching them; I know when they call off for the day and when they come back in the morning. I could smuggle those hauls over here to you for…let’s say five weeks straight.”
For the first time all night, the smile faded from Caliban’s features. His pearly-white razors were still exposed, but now they were set in a light snarl. He snaked around Axel again. “You’re gonna need a bigger quote.”
Axel’s arms fell to his sides. “What? But I said five weeks! You heard that part, right? You wouldn’t have to hunt for a little over a whole month! That’s more than a hundred pounds of—!”
With only so much space between them, Caliban easily cut him off with a thwack to the face with his tail-fin. “For one thing, I like hunting. And for another thing, I’ve been eating plenty of different fish all week. I even caught a squid for breakfast this morning.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about that?” Axel demanded, clutching his face to try and dull out the aches that were no doubt streaming along his jaw by now.
And just like that, the smile was twisting along Caliban’s face yet again, even darker this time. His mouth didn’t seem to be stretching wider; the grin appeared deeper. His teeth seemed to be actively lengthening alongside that deepness as the seconds ticked by.
“I’m just fine with getting paid in food,” he hissed. “But I want it to be…unique. Something different from fish or turtles or seagulls.”
His eyes roamed over Axel again, pupils growing even wider than they already were. Like they’d been actual, hollow pits drilled into his head, and now they were sinking, as though they might drag both of his eyes down, down, down.
Axel’s eyes, meanwhile, bulged from their sockets. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out. His shudders turned much more visible, much more violent. The air of false authority he’d been tugging on, the aloof energy that he’d been using as a cover-up…it all went crashing right out the window.
This only made Caliban’s smile even deeper. The extra rows of teeth behind his current front row seemed to be jostling, as though they wanted to peer out of his mouth to gaze at the human’s face, too.
“I’d settle for a small shank,” Caliban continued, reaching over to prod at Axel’s forearm, claws just barely held back from pressing hard enough to draw blood. “Oh, and maybe you could give Snare a little bite from your calf; he’s been deserving a special treat lately.”
Axel flinched back, a short cry tearing through the air as he vigorously shook his head. “You—you can’t do that!”
“Why not?” Caliban tilted his head with a chuckle that sounded so jagged, like it’d been solid enough to get caught on his teeth on the way out. “Your skin would repair itself after a while. You’ll never even miss whatever pieces I take…”
“How do you know?!” Axel shouted. “If you cut too far down—the infection I cold get just from being in here—!”
He turned on his heel, trying to wade over to the stairs. Whether the waves had grown a bit more heavy over time or his legs were just too shaky underneath, he didn’t make it far.
Caliban darted past, now swimming so fast that his tail was stirring up foam on the water.
He turned just in time to halfway-lunge at Axel, his teeth snapping on empty air.
Axel cried out again, immediately back-pedaling.
“Oh, please! We both know you could clean out your wound in no time,” Caliban jeered.
Axel tried to protest, but Caliban interjected with a melodramatic sigh.
“What were you expecting? You laid out your terms, and if you really wanna make a deal with me, then you’re gonna have to listen to mine.”
Caliban’s tail lashed back and forth. The scars all across his form seemed to be rippling in-time with the water. “But fine. FINE. If you really can’t give up any cuts…I’d be happy with one of your teeth instead.”
He fidgeted with the oral gems strung around his neck, and with the mania boiling in his eyes, he seemed even more excited about that prospect than getting a fresh, bloody snack.
Axel kept shaking his head, kept babbling.
The mako kept swimming, but he moved in a straight line this time, effectively herding the human further and further back until the water got deep enough to lift his feet off the floor. He floundered there, desperate to keep his head above water—by the time he finally glanced over his shoulder, he’d been backed all the way to the far side of the room, where the threshold to a downward-sloping hallway now resembled a half-full glass.
There was nowhere left to go but down, where water would soon waste no time reaching the ceilings of the old aquarium.
Axel was forced to tread water, to just hover as Caliban swam in close, tight circles around him.
“I’m being generous right now, Rentnik,” Caliban growled, the gills that arched along his chest and under his arms flaring. “REAL damn generous. Think about it: I’m willing to bet that you didn’t tell anyone where you were going tonight. So no-one would bat an eye if you didn’t come back to wherever you’ve been hiding so far.”
Axel was in a panic now, his breath coming in and out in shallow, hitching gasps. And yet, he still flinched at the statement, more or less confirming it.
“There’s NOTHING to stop me from just dragging you under, eating my damn fill, and then just taking all your damn teeth as a bonus prize! But I’m willing to avoid all that. Really, I am!” Caliban clicked his teeth together, the stripes on his tail flashing with their pale light. “It’ll just cost you one little thing. And then, I’ll fulfill my part of this whole side-act. Tell you what, I’ll even throw in an extra tooth on top of the six you’re trying to pinch!”
He loomed ever closer, no doubt pouring the smell of salt and old blood into his victim’s face. “That’s the best deal you’re gonna get now. So I suggest you shut up and take it.”
Murdock leaned forward, tapping his talons against the dais in a thoughtful manner, obviously fighting the urge to swoop over there for a better vantage point. The Newcomer shuffled in place, feeling a strange chill race along their spine, a hearty mix of fear and anticipation.
In the grand scheme of things, though, they weren’t surprised. Caliban’s tenacity had always rivaled his gruesome cravings.
Makos had a reputation for being insanely clever, often using cunning to get what they wanted or needed. But just like many other creatures—dogs, crows, scorned lovers, social media moderators—they could be pretty damn vicious if you gave them a reason.
After what felt like an hour, Axel finally lowered his in head in a small, weak nod.
“Okay, okay,” he blubbered. “Just let me go, and I’ll set something up at the dental office—”
“Nope.” Caliban let out a laugh that was equal parts harsh and genuinely amused. “You think I’m stupid enough to just let you run off and out of town, if not send any cops down here? No, you’re giving me that tooth tonight. Right here, right now.”
Tears slipped down Axel’s face; he clenched his jaw in an effort to keep any sobs trapped in his chest. But he didn’t protest. He peered over at The Newcomer again.
The Newcomer chewed their lip and gave him another shrug.
“We can make it quick,” Murdock mused. “I’ll go clean off some of Howie’s tools. He’s got way too many pliers anyway.” He tapped The Newcomer’s shoulder with his wing. “And you’ve still got that first-aid kit in your diving bag, right?”
The Newcomer nodded. “I haven’t needed it for a while. There’s still plenty of gauze and cotton balls and gloves in there.”
“Great! I’ll grab that, too.” The words had barely left Murdock’s mouth before he was in the air, a shadowy blur as he soared up and out of sight through the hallway upstairs.
Caliban swam over to the dais. He hovered before The Newcomer, close enough for them to see the small, gold ring that had been pierced into his right pectoral fin.
He opened wide, raising his hands to his mouth. He curled one around his lower jaw, using his index finger as an anchor to hold it steady.
With that, his free hand zeroed in on his first row of upper-teeth. Two claws hooked around one in the spot where a human’s canine would be…and plucked it out. It took a tug at first, but then it slipped from the gums with a soft, fleshy sigh.
Caliban tucked the tooth into his palm, then repeated the process six more times, taking two more of those gleaming blades from the top of his mouth, then sourced the rest from the bottom.
The entire process only took about two minutes.
Once he was done, he pushed his macabre poker chips toward The Newcomer.
The Newcomer cupped their own hands in front of them, accepting the deposit. The seven freshly-excavated teeth tumbled against their gloves. They weren’t even streaked with blood; if anything, they almost appeared polished.
The same went for Caliban’s gums. They weren’t dripping, weren’t swelling, weren’t showing any signs of distress. Caliban leaned back, gnawing the air as he awkwardly flexed his jaws.
The Newcomer couldn’t help but stare as some of the teeth in his second row slid into place, shuffling into the spots that had just been emptied. The slick, scratching noises that followed nearly drowned out the crashing water all throughout the room.
Caliban gave a few small, experimental snaps, then aimed a wide smile at The Newcomer, his eyes expectant and curious.
The Newcomer blinked, then gave him a thumbs-up. The change had gone so quickly, so smoothly. His grin was full again, just like it was at the start of all this, as though he hadn’t removed any teeth in the first place.
And even if they couldn’t see it, they knew that yet another row was already forming further inside their peer’s maw, as well as a still-developing row after that.
All patiently waiting for the day they were needed.
Axel dragged himself over as well, the waves pushing him forward more than anything. He peered at Caliban and The Newcomer with haunted, astounded eyes.
Caliban pushed him up and onto the dais, where he promptly smacked one side of his face into the display case, leaving a smear on the glass.
Thinking fast, The Newcomer stood, placing the coveted teeth on top of the case. They’d stay there until all was said and done.
They felt Axel still staring after them. They turned, kneeling down to push him flat on his back and hold him steady. Murdock would be back any minute—they’d have to cover up his shirt, just to avoid letting him leave with any suspicious stains. (Then again, the Trix-vomit pattern he’d chosen to wear might just solve that problem for them.)
They looked directly into his bloodshot, red-tinged, desperate eyes...and merely raised their brows.
You couldn’t be given anything without having something taken from you first. That was how it worked everywhere, not just in this industry. Even when it really shouldn’t have been like that…
Caliban, meanwhile, was drifting back and forth between the staircases, gnashing his teeth, never taking his eyes off his new “client.”
He wasn’t just swimming out of instinct. Now, he was acting with excitement.
Anticipation for the loud, sickening pop that would soon tear through the salty air, for the sopping-wet screams that would follow it.
For the inevitability of blood pouring out of a fresh wound, for the infamous metallic smell to seep out.
For that smell to be amplified when at least a few crimson droplets plopped down into the water, leaving dark, misty trails.
(Disclaimer: one of the characters in this story does not belong to me. Sam Ryder was created by my dear friend, @sammys-magical-au . Please go follow their blog and support their work.)
(Since it’s MerMay, most of my fanegos have gotten a special little shift for the occasion! I’ve organized a new, temporary list of headcanons for The Pentas Family—each member’s species, vague lore-bits, etc.—which can be found here for context.)
(Now, as for the characters who do belong to me: For more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on The Newcomer—or on the mob they work for in general—go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: body horror, the ocean, descriptions of illegal business, mentions of poisoning, mentions of death/murder, slight blood/gore, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
The water was, as usual, a sapphire-tinted void.
Even with their dive-boots and scarlet leather gloves and favorite wetsuit on, The Newcomer still felt goosebumps continuously prickle along their skin. They knew the chill would get uncomfortable after a while, but right now, it was a massive relief from just how hot the sun had shone up on the surface earlier.
Bubbles billowed around either side of their face in thin clouds. Their dive-mask clung to their skin almost like it was suctioned on, but that was much better than having salt stabbing into their eyes every passing second.
They gnawed at their regulator out of habit, momentarily chopping up the whirr and hiss that followed each breath they took. The very first time they’d worked with one of these, they’d hated it; the buzz of oxygen had felt like a drill plunging into their skull.
Nowadays, however, they’d adjusted enough for that drone to actually be comforting. Same for the tank strapped to their back. Yeah, it was heavy, and yeah, its main valve never failed to poke at the nape of their neck every few minutes. But it helped them stay in the water as long as they wanted or needed to.
It, much like them, was there for a reason.
…Although, to be completely fair, The Newcomer’s personal reasons for doing most of the things they did were often pretty damn suspect.
Like right now, for instance: they’d swam down here with the assignment of looking out for an incoming guest, and instead, they found themself at the center of a massive, makeshift cage. Well, in their defense, they were technically still following instruction. They just happened to have a hard time holding still while they did so.
They paddled around in tight circles, reaching one hand out to run their gloved fingers along the bars around them. Said bars were more like pillars—slender yet huge. They were pale, too, arched in a manner that was equal parts graceful and eerie.
It wasn’t the first time a swim had led to them hovering in this very spot, and it wouldn’t be the last time, either.
They honestly weren’t quite sure why; it’d been a good few years since they’d been welcomed into The Pentas Shoal, since they’d began living out of the mob’s hidden-in-plain-sight base.
And yet, any time they dove down into said base’s pre-packaged secret entrance, they still just couldn’t help but pause and stare for a moment or two. Even when they were on a time-crunch and just passing by, the sight of it dug invisible hooks into their legs and back.
The grim thrill of it retained a steady grip around the back of their mind.
So, on evenings like this, they appreciated having a little extra spare time to just…aimlessly glide. To get close to the collection of ivory, to trace the deep, jagged indents and scrapes left all over it by countless sets of teeth and time itself.
To just float in here in the cage, imagining that they were a few feet away from a massive heart, surrounded by a pulsing drumbeat pitch so much louder and deeper than any other voice could ever reach. That heart would be shuffling between a pair of lungs longer than The Newcomer was tall, full of life and uncanny stillness whenever their host was under the waves…
And to be completely clear, they knew they weren’t the only one to indulge in this weirdness. Their more aquatically-inclined peers had their own grottos all throughout the reef, but they’d come linger around the tomb from time to time.
It wasn’t uncommon for Caliban to glide between the toothless lower mandibles and curl up right below the humpback’s rostrum if he had some spare still-time for a quick nap.
Sometimes Azalea would crawl further inside the huge skull, its orbital socket just the right size for an unconventional doorway. Garret and K.O. had somewhat adapted this habit, seeing as the brain’s former dwelling was snug and an extremely cool spot to be, no matter how macabre, and of course, that had led to some minor spats here and there.
Parker would occasionally slither around the remains of flippers that spread out in a way that genuinely looked like the corpse’s last act was to embrace the sandy bed, careful to keep just enough space between his striped coils and the ancient phalanges.
Alcohol-drenched escapades took Two-Fins Johnny many different places, but he always seemed to swim down here in the aftermath—back and forth, up and down the spine in slow, hazy laps, always taking a second to grip at each vertebrae with shaking hands. It seemed to sober him up in an odd way.
The muffled, waterlogged sccrrp of old concrete under The Newcomer’s boots snapped them out of the familiar trance. They rolled their shoulders, moving slowly and carefully as they slipped out through one of the wider gaps at the center. Despite these efforts, deep down, they knew they couldn’t do much damage, whether by accident or not.
This makeshift tomb, just like the building above it, had been here long before the mob had officially claimed these waters as their territory.
When dead whales sank all the way to the freezing, crushing darkness at the bottom of the ocean, their bodies could linger for decades. When their fall only brought them to the sandy grounds of more shallow, tropical spots, however, their flesh and organs would only last months. Sometimes even just weeks.
So, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to assume that this humpback had been picked clean even before the original business had been forced to close its doors, unable to recover from the experience that a single death had destroyed.
And even after all that time had passed, its ribs still had yet to crack. The ends of each one were still thoroughly burrowed in the thick sand.
Although it did help that the huge platform it’d come to rest on was just as hardy; hell, there were even a few shards of glass still clinging to the edges of it here and there. (They’d probably snap off at some point, but the fact they’d lasted so long after the rest of that dome had been crushed was nothing short of miraculous.)
Various types of coral had taken root near that glass, their stiff, colorful branches pointing up to the surface. Most sections of the concrete were now hidden beneath layers of algae and anemones.
The Newcomer had just begun floating over the humpback’s skull when they glanced up, right on time to catch a shape moving in the distance. It was blurry against the blue backdrop at first, but as they squinted, they saw how it was drifting closer, its outline becoming more defined bit-by-bit.
Whatever it was, it was larger than they were. Hell, it looked just a smidge smaller than Two-Fins Johnny, and mer-groupers were in usually in a weightclass only dwarfed by mer-whales…
Acting on cautious practice, The Newcomer ducked down closer to the bones, never taking their eyes away.
As they watched, they could soon make out a pattern of distinctive dark maroon stripes that bloomed against white scales, comparable to the patterns found on zebras or tigers. This bio-template continued onto a humanoid torso, as well as the fins at its sides and the end of its tail, all of which flared and wavered to-and-fro like huge, tattered fans as they stirred up the water. The stripes grew a bit wider when they reached the lengthy spines that protruded from the creature’s back, ever-so-slightly wavering in place.
It seemed the only part that wasn’t so adorned was their hair, and even then, the tips of said hair were the same shade of red, despite how the rest of it was a hollow shade of gold.
Something clicked in the back of The Newcomer’s head—they’d been given a very specific description before being sent out here to watch and wait…
They reached into one of the thigh-compartments attached to the neoprene belt wrapped snugly around their waist. The familiar shape of an ironically-named dive torch slid into their hand, and after taking a few seconds to toggle its settings, they kicked off.
They swam up beside the guest, stretching one arm out to wave and keeping plenty of distance from those spines.
The mer-lion noticed this and paused, tilting her head.
The Newcomer couldn’t help but tense up as they were regarded; much like their more animalistic counterparts, mer-lion eyes tended to come in shades of yellow or brown so dark that they almost looked black against the intricate red-and-white stripes adorning their faces. This one’s eyes had that darkness nearly hiding her pupils, but it was paired with a deep green hue.
They blinked, and then carefully maneuvered themself to float in front. They shifted the flashlight in their hands, fingers moving over the buttons on its side.
Hello, they announced in a short sequence of flickers.
…Hey? the mer-lion replied, the stripes curling around her broad, flat chest flashing in a way that made her look like she had white-hot embers trapped under her scales.
You’re Sam, right? The Newcomer glinted. You’re here—for Azalea?
The mer-lion’s eyes widened, her focus darting to the side as she fluttered back a bit.
It took a few painfully-long seconds for The Newcomer to comprehend just how bad the awkwardness had turned.
The Newcomer internally themself as they fumbled with the flashlight. I’m—with—The Pentas Shoal.
They’d made a point to take up Thalassic as a second language even before Murdock had found them on that fateful night, crashed out on the coastal rocks, head spinning and water lapping at their ankles. Their inclusion in this mob had helped amplify that knowledge, even if they’d been accommodated at times.
…Still, Thalassic was a language built on multiple luminescent spots or stripes adorning the arms and chests and faces and tails of merfolk. Speaking it with just one flashlight could technically work, but it would always be a bit tricky, always take a bit more time no matter how much practice you had.
Thankfully, the anxiety seemed to waft off the mer-lion as quickly as it had set in; her shoulders relaxed as she nodded, shifting closer to slowly circle around her conversation partner, keeping her spines carefully canted away. Well, that makes more sense.
Sorry about that, The Newcomer blurted.
No trouble. I should’ve put it together myself, Sam replied with a shrug. Despite this, her eyes were still a bit wide, still looking The Newcomer over with mild surprise.
The Newcomer had been a captive audience for many stories of past jobs on the parts of their peers; they remembered hearing some anecdotes involving the visitor before them, but they’d never had a chance to meet her until now. They supposed they couldn’t blame her for being confused that a human was working in Pentas affairs.
Did something happen? Sam asked, the stripes along her tail gleaming and dimming and gleaming again. Does Aza need to cancel?
The Newcomer shook their head. No, she’s still expecting you.
They glanced over their shoulder, then started swimming back over to the whale’s skeleton, waving to Sam again. Please, follow me.
And so, the two of them swam along opposite sides of the whale’s spine, following its vertebrae up to where the remains of its tail lay draped over more concrete that had once formed a narrow walkway. The surviving glass shards jutting around the bones were a bit larger here, just barely maintaining the curved, tunnel-esque shape they’d been part of.
Aformentioned walkway didn’t take very long to arch upward, connecting to a huge, craggy wall of underwater stone sitting just below one edge of the local coast. The outer walls of the basement above had been built close enough for the waves to lap at.
I peeked out of the surface few times earlier, Sam flashed conversationally. They raised a brow, features stretching into a bemused smirk. I saw that sign on top of the place. Did you guys do that as a joke, or…?
The Newcomer shook their head with a fond roll of the eyes.
Irony was a beautiful thing: it worked in such strange, mysterious, and sometimes unnecessarily disturbing ways.
Codfather’s had held its name ever since its glory days, when it’d been the basis of much more legal operations.
Following the disaster, it’d spent so many days and nights simply sitting, abandoned and ruined and giving off all sorts of creepy vibes (not that it spent its time much differently now, but hey, it was serving an actual purpose again). That very sign on the roof seemed to have been the last part of it to decay, once vivid paint chipping and peeling around the letters, the name itself somehow never becoming obscured by the elements.
It’d been there, silently announcing itself, when The Pentas Shoal had officially taken shape in the first place. When The Boss had found a reason to claw the old property under her jurisdiction, pulling strings and spreading careful rumors in order to keep it from being demolished and replaced by some other business.
Sooner or later, a wide hole yawned own of the rock, forcing the rest of the old pathway to ascend into darkness. Long, thick strands of kelp had grown around that hole almost like wreath, all gently twisting in the currents; Sam wasn’t swimming all that fast, and yet the swaying of her tail caused many of them to weave down. One of them slid around The Newcomer’s leg as they paddled inside.
The old hallway-turned tunnel was dark, but The Newcomer adjusted their flashlight’s brightness. At the same time, they caught warmer light in their peripheral vision and turned their head to see Sam’s stripes all glowing as one.
Right—merfolk were already quite adept at seeing in darkness, but they didn’t just use their bioluminescence for communicating.
A pair of long, winding handrails flanked the walls around them—well, one of them was. The other had called it quits a while ago, laying jagged and dejected on the floor. Either way, rusty metal was swallowed up by a sheath of more algae and twining seaweed.
It took a couple minutes of upward swimming, but the hallway eventually opened up into a much larger space.
The walls were adorned by huge tanks; some of them had shattered like the former dome and tube down in the open waters, but others remained shockingly whole. That didn’t stop intruding creatures from swimming in and out as they pleased. Especially the schools of tiny fish that fled up, over, and behind the glass as The Newcomer and Sam passed by.
A few raised pools were scattered about the floor, simultaneously empty and full, just like the displays around them. More anemones swayed in the corners here and there; a few lobsters were burrowing through the beds of sand at the bottom.
Yet another wide hall opened up at the far end of the room; The Newcomer led the way into it, winding past more tanks and moldering signs with bold text proclaiming FUN FACT barely legible anymore.
Finally, they reached the main floor; the flood had reached its peak up here, content to form a churning lake rather than allow the water to rise and touch the ceiling.
The Newcomer touched down on the floor, then launched themself up, their head breaking the surface.
A curving double staircase stood at the head of the room, positioned against either side of the far wall. A tall, wide dais sat between them, supporting a glass case that housed an array of antique diving equipment, including the same creepy uniform and helmet that many a child had seen in certain Saturday morning cartoons.
Water lapped at the very bottom steps—The Newcomer paddled over to them, then turned over and sat down, flashlight resting on their lap. They let the regulator fall away from their mouth as they shrugged their tank off, leaning over to set it down by the display. They then shook their head, sending droplets flying from their hair, before pulling the mask from their eyes and settling it atop their head.
The air in here was just as tinged with salt as it was outside the building, but it didn’t make their lungs burn or their eyes sting as much as when they were younger.
Sam had tapered down her glow, but only by a bit. This brought about caustic patterns that shimmered and writhed beneath the water, though it didn’t take too long for them to start creeping up the walls as well. The spines on her back twitched as they met the air, glistening as droplets slid down, almost making her stripes look like they were melting. She spread her pectoral fins, letting them bob along with the water as she drifted around the surface, craning her neck to peer at the ceiling.
The Newcomer couldn’t blame them—a plethora of woven fishing nets had been hung up there, ever-so-slightly billowing in place. They created an odd type of canopy; the ropes were roughly knotted and gnarled, but they’d also been dyed to fit the whole color spectrum
“I’ll let Azalea know you’re here,” The Newcomer coughed, standing up and firmly ignoring the familiar ache that was coiling around their legs. “Be right back.”
They turned on their heel, hurrying up the steps, unable to help but cringe each time their still-soaked boots squeaked or squelched.
At the top of the stairs, they were met with three different hallways. The one at the center led to the next floor, complete with its own array of dryer-yet-just-as-vacant exhibits.
(Way back when, Codfather’s had been primarily known for the aquarium in the lower levels, but whoever had originally been running it still made sure to fill the higher floors with animals that, while not very aquatic, were still plenty exotic to draw in patrons.)
The hall on the right side of the room…well, they admittedly weren’t sure what its original purpose had been, but now it was using as a storage center. Plenty of equipment and contraband was hidden throughout the flooded floors, but it never hurt to have some backup.
And the hall on the left side was the one they found themself strolling through. It’d served as a sort-of laboratory, mainly for veterinary objectives, as well as medical treatment in the event that a former employee had been pushed into an accident by an unruly guest or an unruly guest had decided they just didn’t value life when faced with a dare from their friends to take a random dip.
Stainless steel tables had been positioned throughout the floor, each one supporting jars, vials, and syringes, as well as various boxes and bags. Cabinets flanked them, stuffed to the brim with notes for jobs or casual documentation. Much like the ones in the lower levels, the tanks in here took up the majority of space on three of four walls, the larger among them divided by a thin inner-barrier that you could only see if you really squinted for it. Unlike the flooded ones, these ones could actually still keep their tenants inside.
The divided tanks were all occupied by jellyfish—box, Portuguese Man o’ Wars, and Irukandji, the works. Tangles of sinuous tendrils slowly trailed behind as they floated without a care in the world.
A cluster of rocks scattered about the sandy floor of a no-neighbor tank…well, what looked like rocks. But if you knew where to look, you’d eventually see the outline of plump lips on one end, as well as beady, glaring eyes right above them. Then again, a lot of people wouldn’t even think about looking that closely at a stonefish until they had a blade-like spine impaling their foot.
The smallest tank was home to a group of little cone snails, which were always inching along the glass walls or grazing among the healthy moss that clung to a decorative branch of coral. The display was oddly calm enough to make the fact that they had the potential to kill in the same amount of time it took for a single cigarette to be smoked all the more terrifying.
The largest and most furnished tank of them all, though, belonged to a group of blowfish, which were a well-needed source of cuteness and reprieve, despite exceeding all expectations when it came to jobs that had to be handled discreetly. Chefs all over the world wound up with manslaughter charges every year just for missing one crucial half-inch of Fugu during the cleaning process.
The following headlines were never pretty, what with the foamy drooling and the swelling and collapsing…but it would always be chalked up to an accident.
No-one would ever suspect that blowfish poison would be planted in a restaurant, courtesy of a cecaelia who just happened to have a special agreement with certain employees or certain patrons.
But unlike many of the specimens Azalea sought out for her work, there was simply no way to humanely extract the poison from these little guys. And it was that exact reason why she doted on them, giving them all the space and enrichment and food they could possibly ever want.
From her perspective, it was the least she could do to provide them with a good life before the time came for them to help take out a target or two.
Case in point…
“Aza?” The Newcomer called, eyes wandering around the room.
A splash from the Blowfish Bubble Bath caught their attention.
“Yeah? What’s up?” Azalea replied, peering through the gap between the top of the tank and the wall, her long, damp dark hair spilling over the glass from either side of her face.
Before The Newcomer could elaborate, Azalea let out a gasp. “Oh wait—she’s here, isn’t she? Right, right, hold on—”
With that, she abandoned her spot on the ceiling right above the water and crawled on out, using her technically boneless nature to her advantage. She braced her hands around the tank’s edge, then shifted onto the wall above the glass, all eight of her tentacles curling and weaving along as she shifted down to the floor. A pattern of rings adorned those tentacles, as well as her torso, arms and face, each of them glowing a deep blue that stood out against the grayish-yellow hue of the rest of her skin.
She slithered across the lab, tentacles reaching and grabbing to help along the way, to check over the compact freezer that resided in one corner. As it hummed and growled with the chill, she turned to The Newcomer. “Grab a scraper, some cups and cling-wrap; be ready to move fast, okay?”
“Got it.” The Newcomer jogged around the tables and cabinets, gathering up the requested tools in their arms while their peer clambered out the door.
They returned to the landing just in time to see Azalea hoist herself onto the guardrail and dive into the makeshift lake below. For the most petite member of The Pentas Shoal, she made quite a splash.
A peal of surprised laughter echoed off the walls as Sam swept around in a wide circle “Jesus—!”
“Not exactly,” Azalea replied as she popped back up to the surface, her once-sealed gills now flaring below the water. She waded closer to the mer-lion, leaving just enough distance between the two of them. The pigments in her skin shifted, the grey fading into something warmer as the rings turned from cobalt to a bright beaming cyan. “So glad you could make it! How’ve things been? Was the trip okay?”
Sam offered a combination of nod and shrug. “I guess so. Some boat tried tailing me for a while when I was halfway here, but I managed to ditch them.”
Azalea tilted her head with an empathetic hum. “Well, maybe later you can give me a description of that boat…if you’re free, I mean. I know you’re here for more than just this.”
Her features stretched into a sly grin, showing off two rows of teeth that…honestly, didn’t look all that special compared to those of a human. They had curvatures and points, but they definitely weren’t on the same level as, say, her adoptive brother’s serrated conveyor belt.
But underestimating them would be a grave mistaken. Literally; one bite and she could have you paralyzed with your diaphragm turning itself inside-out in as little as twenty minutes.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” Sam proclaimed, grinning right back.
The Newcomer trotted back down the stairs, soon waist-deep in the water as they set the tools down on the dais. Azalea and Sam drifted over to meet them there, careful to keep their gills submerged in the shallows.
Sam leaned as low as she could, trying her best to hold still as she presented her back-spines.
Azalea sidled over to The Newcomer, who didn’t hesitate to prepare a milking cup before offering it to her. She smiled at them, one tentacle coiling around a silvery scraper.
With that, she returned her focus to Sam.
She passed the cup over to another tentacle, which raised it above the top of one of the more prominent spines. Experienced hands reached down around it, using the scraper for some leverage. She carefully prodded at the sheath of skin at the spine’s base, carefully peeling it back, causing the stripes to bunch up on top of one another as a dark, slender needle was revealed near the top.
Then, in a swift blur of movement, she slammed the cup over that needle, forcing it to puncture the wrap that otherwise covered it. Practically on-cue, a thick, murky liquid poured out and had the cup about half-full in under a minute.
Lionfish venom was infamous for not being particularly lethal. That said, it was also infamous for the sting hurting like an absolute bitch for so long that most people who just had to find out would probably wish it was lethal.
Azalea twisted the cup so it was rightside-up, then extending it to The Newcomer. “Hurry, take this to the freezer. And when you get back, it’s your turn.”
The Newcomer couldn’t help but freeze, their eyes growing wide. “...Really?”
Azalea nodded. “Sure; you’ve had practice with smaller things. She paused, glancing at Sam. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Admittedly, Sam spent a few long seconds squinting at The Newcomer, dark green eyes a bit apprehensive. But peered back and forth between them and Azalea, and her gaze softened. “Hey, if she can trust you, then I’m sure I can.”
She then pursed her lips, brow furrowed with a different kind of anxiety. “Just make sure those gloves are on tight.”
The Newcomer nodded firmly, energy instantly doubling as their smile went from shy to excited. “Will do.”
In lieu of an actual Pride-themed story (that might change, but for now I'm more focused on other projects), I'm celebrating with memes!
And of course, said memes are being focused on The Pentas Family! Not only because my hiatus has kept me away from them for so long, but...well, our community is already called The Alphabet Mafia, isn't it?
I know this is probably me overthinking things for the millionth time, but please don't come at me about demonizing queer people. This is FICTION. Yes, these characters are based on real people, but I've always made a point to never direct stuff like this at the actual people. These are harmless headcanons that aren't even set in stone. Whatever I imply here is just a small idea, and I want to be flexible with reader-interpretation for certain subjects. My ask-box is always open for discussion.
(Disclaimer: three of the characters here do not belong to me; they belong to three of my extremely talented friends. Casey Clowes belongs to @insane4fandoms . Sam Ryder belongs to @sammys-magical-au . And Nic Loughty belongs to @the-matpat-ever .)
(As for the characters who DO belong to me: for more information on The Newcomer—or on the mob in general—go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons for him, go here. For more information on Parker, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on K.O., go here. For more information on Garret, go here. For more information on Val, go here. For more information on Miles and Howie, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Mercury, go here. Two-Toes Johnny is technically kinda in the same boat as Murdock, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here.)
___
Mercury: Fuck coming out, just keep acting gay until someone has the guts to call you out about it
___
The Newcomer: I’m genderless. I’m full of gender. I’m a malewife. I’m a biblically accurate angel. I’m a pop idol. I’m the fourth incarnation of God. I’m a convicted criminal. I’m never gonna die—
___
[Casey is having yet another run-in with Caliban and Murdock. It’s right in the middle of an investigation for him, and right in the middle of a hit-job for them. As usual, snark infests the scene.]
Casey: Nope, I’ve already looked the other way enough!
Caliban: What’s one more time? C’mon, we have standards! We respect boundaries!
Casey: Oh really?! You could’ve fooled me! Name one line you guys won’t cross!
Murdock: Well, we don't accept jobs that involve taking the target on dates or advancing up the bases until it’s killing-time. That’s fucking gross!
Casey: …Alright, fine, that’s pretty valid.
Murdock: Damn right it is. And even if we didn’t have those standards, I’d still hate it. You have any idea how hard it is to come up with pick-up lines that are actually good without making things weird?
Casey: I mean, to that end, it sounds like you just don’t try hard enough.
Murdock: Oh yeah? You go ahead and come up with a clever, non-committal pick-up line right now—
Casey: “Hey, are you a firework? Because you’re breathtakingly beautiful, but I still don’t want you anywhere near my crotch.”
Caliban: …
Murdock: …Holy SHIT.
Caliban: *falls to the floor, cackling so hard he’s struggling to breathe*
___
[A typical day at Ear Caffeine]
Nic: *showing his boyfriend around the studio before he clocks out*
Parker: *notices this while working on the recording equipment* My fucking God, these bitches GAY.
Parker: …Good for them. Good for them.
___
Murdock: Some idiot wrote a fucking article about how men might be absorbing estrogen through their dicks whenever they have sex with their girlfriends.
Garret: *sarcastic but also dumbfounded* “Fellas, is it GAY to have sex with a WOMAN?”
Mercury: Absolutely. Feel free to come over to my place and get an extra dose of testosterone.
Two-Toes Johnny: *taking a swig of whiskey and not looking up from his book* The ancient Greeks be like—
___
“I think I’m falling for you.”
Azalea: …Look, that’s nice, but you can go ahead and get up.
___
K.O.: The fact that straight people have convinced themselves that wrestling isn’t gay erotic foreplay is truly one of the greatest mysteries known to mankind.
Mercury: And show wrestling is basically just theater. So it’s even GAYER!
___
Val: My pronouns of choice are they/them.
Howie: *jokingly* But you’re only one person.
Murdock: Lmao at the person who doesn’t know that nonbinary people are just swarms of bees in disguise.
Caliban: RELEASE THE NONBEENARIES.
___
Phoenix: My very religious but supportive elderly neighbor asked me what I’m giving up for Pride, because I think she thinks it’s like Lent and Pride parades are like Mardi Gras?
Val: *nodding along* …
Phoenix: Anyway, I panicked and said “oatmeal.”
___
K.O.: Shout-out to the twink at this year’s Pride festival who brought his own megaphone to counteract the evangelical protestors by shouting out the entirety of a recipe for mac-n-cheese
___
Val: Asking for straight Pride is like asking for able-bodied parking spaces
Mercury: That’s a really good comparison, because there are about seventy able-bodied parking spaces to one disabled parking space, and able-bodied people still insist on using the ones that aren’t theirs.
Phoenix: This is seriously a great allegory.
Murdock: “Cemeteries for LIVING people”
___
Val: One of my favorite things about Pride month is celebrating the many achievements of the LGBTQIA+ community, like when we collectively stole the rainbow from God
___
Mercury: If there’s a sassy gay friend, then there’s gotta be some sarcastic ace-spectrum and aro-spectrum friends
Caliban: *finger-gunning*
Azalea: *applauding*
Murdock: *politely nodding*
Parker: *raises his hand* Brutally honest bisexual friend
Sam: *raises their hand* Pissed off pansexual friend
___
Two-Toes Johnny: *tipsy but genuine* Reblog if you ARE queer, or if you SUPPORT queer people, or if you like to BREAK people’s WINDOWS in the middle of the NIGHT and toss DOZENS of GEESE in their BEDROOMS—
___
The Newcomer: I pirated my gender online
___
Caliban: So, you identify as bisexual?
Parker: I think so.
Caliban: And that means you could have a male partner…
Parker: Yep.
Caliban: Or a female partner…
Parker: *Not sure where this is going, since Caliban is married and Caliban knows he isn’t Parker’s type* Yeah?
Caliban: So, if you don’t have any partner at all, does that mean you’re on standbi?
Parker: …
Caliban: … *grinning in SUCH A SMUG WAY*
Parker: *internally screaming and furiously trying not to smile under his face-mask*
___
Val: So, I’m nonbinary, but I’m technically a woman
Murdock: Okay—I mean, I already knew that, but you still have a man’s body
Val: Oh damn, you’re right, we should probably bury this target instead of talking about gender
Murdock: Yeah, I’ll get the shovels
___
Miles: Last night, I had a dream where gay people could only walk backwards
Garret: By extension, straight people can only walk forward. Bisexuals can go forwards and backwards, and pansexuals can go any direction.
Murdock: Asexuals and aromantics just stand there. WATCHING.
Caliban: So…with demisexuals or demiromantics, I’m guessing they just stand there like asexuals until someone pulls them along. Sounds about right.
Azalea: Aha, demi-inclusive stuff!
K.O.: And polysexuals can walk in some directions, but not all of ‘em. Will vary from poly to poly
Casey: …I mean, this is a really good explanation and all, but when did the queer community become a game of Chess?
___
Howie: Those moments where straight people assume a queer person is one of them, and the queer person gets to feel like a queer secret agent.
Mercury: Secret gaygent or lesbionage
Parker: Bi-spy
Sam: Pan with a plan
The Newcomer: Queer with gear
___
Val: The F on my birth certificate was the doctor paying respect when I was born
___
Garret: Hey everyone, I think I might be omni
Murdock: Yeah, no shit
Miles: Easy, Murdock. Thanks for telling us, Garret. We’re proud of you.
Howie: I just hit someone with one of my cars—
___
K.O.: I've only been able to see so many of Penelope's drag races...but I gotta say, the absolute best had one of the queens introduce the show with, “Ladies, gentlemen, and those of us who know better...”
(Disclaimer: only one of the fanegos here belongs to me. I created Cruz as a gift for @sammys-magical-au ; if you’d like to learn more about him, go here. EldritchPlier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)
(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, knives/blades, descriptions of cult activity, technical aquaphobia/thalassophobia, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
(Note: Cruz, much like irl Lixian, is Portuguese. That’s reflected in a bit of his dialogue in this story, which I personally used DeepL for. Pay the site a visit if you’d like to translate that dialogue for yourself. As of right now I can only speak English and a bit of Spanish, so I do apologize if the phrasing is a bit off, but this still seems much better than Google Translate.)
(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the ones you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)
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January 30th, 2026
The Bleeding has reached Earth.
It never has before, and this instance is only due to a very strange technicality.
It’s not enough to bathe the planet, not enough to raise the ocean’s levels, not enough for all the rich red to turn the water from blue to the color of an oozing bruise, not enough to metamorphose the salty foam into veils of sinew that would writhe and pulse and spread every time the waves they rode crashed down and then rose back up again.
There won’t even be enough for a crimson river to wind its churning coils around any part of the planet like a thin, simple, breathing ribbon.
There are only going to be a few droplets seeping into this mortal plane here and there, and the ripples that flee from them when they land are only going to last a few minutes, only going to spread so far until they’re forced to settle down into nothingness again.
But that’s just fine.
The droplets can only be considered droplets by the things who cause The Bleeding.
The same things who are so impossible, so enormous in the sense of both flesh and influence that they can hold an entire galaxy between their teeth the same way humans can with a single grain of salt.
And, just like those humans and those grains of salt, no matter how vast those things are, no matter how indifferent they are, they still have the precision in their jaws to not crush all those tiny, insignificant, spinning spheres covered in even tinier and even more insignificant populations.
All those communities of beings who are none-the-fucking-wiser as they go about with their religions and politics and hobbies and whatever else compels them to just keep pretending that existence has actual meaning, or that anything they do honestly matters.
Of course, those things don’t hold so much life between their teeth all the time. They’ve got other stuff to deal with. (Not that it’s any of your damn business, since your head would probably explode if they so much as breathed on you the wrong way.)
Most of the time, those things simply exist all around the barriers.
They brush up against those barriers as they swim or soar or fight or dance—and that causes vague outlines to stretch and ripple across the other sides.
Sometimes that causes a few stars here and there to move, blurring the details of certain constellations.
Sometimes that causes dark clouds to suddenly swell and then rupture with rain and lightning in a brilliant, horrible type of birth.
And sometimes…sometimes the edges of those sheathes that get to be called “skies” just so happen to catch along the things living just behind them, just behind reality.
Sometimes those edges are sharp enough to slice through flesh. The resulting cuts are minor, and they’ll heal themselves, but they still opened up in the first place, and they’ll still be there for a little while.
They’ll be pulsing.
They’ll be causing floods in some dimensions; they’ll barely stain others.
But in the latter case, it’s still happening. And that means it’s still just enough to matter.
Cruz keeps a quick step as he stalks past the velvet seats. He’s up on the very back row, having just climbed one of the narrow staircases that flank either side. He has a bucket tucked awkwardly under one arm.
He’s already set up a few others at different points of Screen Six—some on the steps, some between the lower seats. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes. The one he has now is the tallest, so, not quite as wide as some of the others. But he double-checked each of them a little while ago, and none of them have any cracks or holes.
None of them pose a risk of leaking; it doesn’t matter how much any of them wind up catching. Hell, they could all just catch enough for a single handful, and that’ll be just fine.
Once he reaches the opposite side of the back row, he sets the final bucket down at the top of the second staircase before trotting down.
The Drowned Moon follows a strictly nocturnal schedule. If the sun is out, then no movies will be played, no customers served. The theater is only ever open for business when the sky finally becomes dotted with hundreds of thousands of tiny, glinting pits that somehow manage to keep the regular darkness from completely swallowing everything up.
Out of habit, Cruz fishes his phone from one of the pockets in his black jeans. Like a soldier called to attention, the device immediately sparks to life, beaming too bright in the darkness of the theater; the digital clock at the top of the screen reads 1:13 AM.
Alright, fine, maybe nighttime is technically the wrong word here, but it’s still plenty dark outside. In fact, this theater has a reputation for operating right until the break of dawn, and that shifts in-time with how the seasons can shorten or lengthen the days.
And yet, tonight is a rare exception to that rule. Cruz is the only one present in the theater right now. All the other screens apart from Screen Six are vacant for the most part.
The only human present, at least.
(The thralls used to count as humans, and they do still look the part, but ever since Plier lured them into his clutches…They’re usually roaming the halls, performing menial tasks to help keep this place up, but not tonight. Last Cruz saw, they were cramming themselves into one of the storage closets to cower, the ever-present smiles on their faces only twitching at the corners while oily tears leaked from their dull, staring eyes.)
There’s a small blur of movement in his peripheral vision, and then a small, red dot is staining his phone’s screen, having landed with a barely-audible plop.
The dot quivers, then starts running down along the glass, leaving a wet smear in its wake, just like a raindrop on a car window.
Cruz raises his head to see more little droplets falling from the ceiling. He can hear more plops and plicks around the theater. He can feel some splash onto his mask—a lucky one even manages to land right on one of the little protective lenses wedged into the eyeholes, somewhat obscuring his vision on the left side.
He imagines the other droplets seeping down along the curves of the black, bird-esque beak that shields his mouth, staining the ribbons of gold paint on one side until they match the scarlet paint on the other.
He glances down at his robe. The grayish-blue fabric is slowly but surely being speckled and splotched with red, like his arms and shoulders are littered with cuts. He’s not worried; he’s had enough experience with it, he knows it’ll wash out when the time comes.
The pattern of the droplets is uneven—few and far between, closer to a light drizzle than a storm. Even if it wasn’t, even if it was coming down enough to form macabre puddles in between the rows of seats and wash over the tops of his shoes, his robe isn’t long enough to touch the floor.
But if it was, he can already imagine how the hem would get soaked in red, how the stains would appear to be creeping up to his waist, maybe even all the way to his chest, as the fabric absorbed the thick, rich liquid.
He can hear a soft rumble working its way through Screen Six—that’s something you’d find at every movie theater, of course. The difference here is that there’s no movie to be played, no reason for the hidden speakers to buzz with quiet roars that send vibrations all through the seats.
The screens in The Drowned Moon have all sorts of weird quirks, even when Plier isn’t around to manipulate them to his liking.
Cruz reaches the last step, then makes his way over to the very first row, checking on the mirrors that have been strategically wedged along the seats. Like the buckets, he bought them with variety in mind.
Although he has to admit: he’s not quite sure why Plier had encouraged him to set them up for this. He knows that glass is an excellent conductor for certain rituals, and mirrors can be quite versatile tools as long as you know what you’re doing.
He knows he’ll want to collect some of the blood tonight, to have a stash for future projects. He already knows a few tricks that involve certain types of blood and mirrors, but Plier just hadn’t given him a specific reason.
“Ỉ̛͖͙ͦ gu̫̤ͤ͊͘e̎s͗s̾ͯ̂ y͜͞o͟ű̷̬͓͢'_̸ͭll̨̯̤͆͟͢ s͇ȇ͆ȩ̷̛͕͂͂ f̡̣̿o͝ṟ̶̢̺̀̆̍ y̬̓ͪ͝o̱u͈̾_͈͆͂͜r̿s͖͊e̡̺̥ͨl͉̖̔͋fͨ,” he’d chuckled, wicked tusks gleaming as his maw stretched into a sly, excited grin.
Plier isn’t here tonight—not fully here, at least.
Glancing up, up, up, Cruz can see a strange light beaming through the projection port.
It's blistering and sulfurous in color, like an ember taken from the firepit to be nestled into the fresh cavity of a cadaver’s chest.
Cruz recognizes the eye. He’s seen it so many times before, though he’s used to seeing alongside all fifteen of the others. Just a few hours ago, he’d watched as Plier plucked that eye from one of the several sockets lining his face, watched as that eye had melted into the wall at Plier’s silent command. Then, the abomination had given him a wink, along with a sarcastic warning to be on his best behavior, before vanishing into the crushing darkness of his lair in Screen Zero.
And now, Plier is somewhere that Cruz, despite all his practice and tenacity, could simply never follow.
Whatever route he’d taken, Plier is now in the same area as one of the original wounds, close enough to touch, close enough to tear at it. He’s been able to feel the first few drops, to watch as the leaking red transitions from a stream to a river to a tsunami.
He gets to dive right into the heart of it, and now he’s celebrating. Swimming and writhing and laughing and screaming alongside whatever other creatures were able to travel to the same place.
He’ll probably let himself float or sink into the flood a few times here and there, if he finds himself needing some grounding from all the excitement.
He’ll probably get into some good ritual fights, depending on whoever is brave or stupid enough to approach him with a challenge.
(And even when those fights settle down, Cruz knows there’ll still be a few participants lining up specifically to get Plier’s jaws clamped around them, or get raked by his talons. Contributing your own blood is just another part of this event, after all. Besides, Plier is a big name in certain dimensions, commanding terror in most, but earning excited admiration in others)
Cruz lightly shakes his head, smirking under his mask as he offers a wave. The eye flickers in return.
See for himself? Sure, he’ll bite.
He shrugs off his robe, draping it over one of the nearby seats. He kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and tucks them under that same seat. He reaches up to fidget with the straps of his mask. When it comes to rituals like this, the mask has to stay on at all times.
Despite the anxiety crawling along his spine, he knows it won’t slip off, won’t be damaged beyond repair, if at all. The mask just has a way of staying with him, only ever budging when he decides to remove it himself.
Cruz turns on his heel, now facing the screen. Similarly to how the ceiling is dripping, he can just make out something glistening and wet around the thin crevices between the screen and the walls. He can see it bubbling in the corners, but the screen isn’t moving.
Not yet, anyway.
He reaches down to the leather holster strapped to his thigh. He fishes out his old reliable: a gut-hook skinner knife with the handle stained a lovely shade of blue. The blade itself is small, but it’s been freshly sharpened.
So sharp, in fact, that it takes a few long seconds for Cruz to actually feel anything as he drives the tip into the lower half of his palm.
A small hiss of pain seeps out through clenched teeth, but it’s fine. It's rare for rituals, even the smaller ones, to not require any blood from whoever is running said ritual. He’s done this so many times before; his hands are almost always cloaked in gauze and bandages, and changing out those dressings has just become another part of his morning routine.
Cruz wipes down his knife, slips it back into its holster with a mental note to wash it later. He stares at the fresh cut, watching as his blood starts welling up and oozing out. The cut isn’t deep enough for it to spray, to leave Cruz in any kind of danger.
His other hand reaches over, gently prodding and squeezing around the wound to coax more out.
Soon enough, Cruz is tapping his fingers against the wound, making sure each one is sufficiently smeared with red. By now, a small puddle is starting to form in his palm, and he knows he’s as ready as can be.
“Sou um livro de sangue, não sou?” He murmurs to himself, letting out a dark chuckle as he presses his hands against the screen.
He takes a deep breath, holds it firmly in his chest until it starts to burn, then exhales.
He lowers his head to signal cautious respect, and begins chanting in a hushed voice.
The incantation is a specific one, meant just for extra-special occasions like The Bleeding. Despite all his practice and experience, his brain refuses to let him comprehend most of the words. His lungs burn as they cycle out air for the words to be carried on, almost like they're repulsed to be supporting him while he does this.
But he still goes through the script, again and again and again.
Plier had spent a lot of time last week helping him memorize this formula, ensuring that his mind would be properly prepared for the worst of it when the time was right.
He drums his fingers against the vinyl, smearing his blood in curling splotches.
It takes a moment or two, but he blinks, and those splotches look larger than before.
They keep growing from there.
A low, warm, wet gurgling sound mixes itself into the screen’s rumble.
Soon enough, the stain is spreading all the way to either side, lapping at the metallic frame, filling up the display as though it’s an enormous canvas.
Cruz watches, heart racing as he feels his fingers slip—no. He feels his fingers sink.
He experimentally pushes his hands forward, equal amounts of dread and awe weaving through his head as the red rises around the base of his knuckles.
Moments ago, the screen was stiff and unyielding as ever. The vinyl is old, sure, but it’s well-maintained.
The vinyl isn’t there anymore…
Without thinking, Cruz takes a small step back. He pulls his hands out—they’re both shrouded in glistening, dripping red. Think strings are hanging between each of his fingers, almost resembling the webs of some amphibious creature.
The gurgling sound is getting so much louder now. Cruz glances around the screen, realizing that the blood is now starting to churn in on itself, stirring up small, twisting waves.
All this time, his drenched hands have only been hovering a few inches away from the screen. That’s apparently close enough for some of the blood to surge out, splashing the front of Cruz’s body.
And as it reaches to coat his hands once again, he quickly notices how it isn’t dripping off this time. Instead, it hides his digits entirely, spreading over his knuckles, his bandages, soon coiling around his wrists. He doesn’t feel pressure or any dull pain, not in the way he would if another person had grabbed him like this.
But the blood is warm, and it’s soaking his hands in that strange, wavering weight that all liquids seem to carry.
The unmistakable stench of copper and iron has been filtering through the air of Screen Six since the drizzle began, but now it’s rolling over Cruz in invisible clouds, nearly hot as dryer exhaust.
Cruz’s breathing is shaky now, coming out in rapid, hitching gasps. He’s trying to rein it in, trying to remind himself of all the other horrific little things he’s done in his career, but this is still just so different. This is so profoundly wrong, even if unhinged excitement and morbid fascination are putting up a decent fight against his natural, human fear.
Then, the viscous bindings around his hands quiver, and they retreat back into the screen, tugging him closer. Now he’s in up to his elbows, feeling his fingers wriggle and spasm, desperate to hold onto something.
But he can’t find anything solid under the surface. He just feels more and more blood.
He feels another tug around his arms, and he has just enough time to draw one more deep breath.
By some miracle, he doesn’t immediately waste that breath on a scream when he’s yanked off his feet, engulfed head-first. For a second or two, he’s vaguely aware of the air rushing past his waist and legs as he kicks frantically. But all the heat and liquid weight surround him in no time at all, and his thin frame is swallowed up in its entirety.
Beneath the surface, wild currents are fighting over Cruz like children fighting over a toy. He’s being tossed and lashed all around, back and forth, up and down, forbidden from finding any sort of balance.
Despite it all, some part of his mind is aware of how the skin on his face is staying dry. He feels his black hair twisting around his head, inviting the blood to grope at his scalp. He feels some of it work its way into his ears. The smell is all but palpable right now—he can feel it clogging his nostrils, coating his mouth with the taste of salt and copper and iron and life and death.
And yet, the blood is pointedly avoiding any section of him that’s under his mask.
At some point, when his lungs feel like a pair of oil-soaked paper bags on the verge of popping, his head manages to break the surface. He doesn’t find any balance here, though—the screen has shifted into a violent whirlpool by now, and Cruz is still being spun, caught in the waves that shove him along in their swirling, crashing path.
One of his hands catches along the screen’s frame, and his grip is vice-like as he pulls himself forward. When he’s close enough, he raises his other hand out of the blood and locks it onto the frame as well, leaning over it, huffing and puffing as his head spins.
He’s not sure how long he stays like this, but the current keeps tugging at him, still excited to play with him. And it’s not like he’s even opposed to this—his adrenaline is reaching heights it never has before. He’s happy to be experiencing this, to be welcomed into an event like this. But right now, with how his head and his chest are flaring with aches and vertigo, he knows there’s an all-too serious risk of him either passing out at best, or vomiting anything he’s eaten since yesterday at worst. And he really, really would rather not drown or contaminate the blood with bile, so he just needs a quick break.
When the nausea finally seems to die down in his system, he braces himself and releases his grip, getting dragged and splashed and borderline waterboarded all over again.
His head dips below the surface a few more times, and despite how the blood muffles everything around him like water…he still starts to hear things each time.
He hears voices, some singing and laughing and raving with frenzied prayers, some screaming and crying and begging for it all just to stop. He can make out a few words, but most of them are set in very much non-English (or non-Portuguese, for that matter) languages.
One voice stands out among the clamor—even if its words are still foreign, Cruz can recognize it. Deep and jagged around the edges, lined with fangs and tusks sharp and strong enough to slice through the very air. It’s set in a tone that makes one part of Cruz feel grounded and praised, makes him want to just smile and laugh never stop listening, while another part of him wants to pluck out his eyeballs and bash his head against a wall until there’s nothing left but a bloody pulp dotted with bits of skull and teeth and brains.
Plier sounds like he’s in a similar boat. His voice is laced with ecstasy and agony, accentuated by a chorus of splashing and roaring and gurgling.
And all at once, Plier’s voice and the voices of the many are fading away, sinking back into silence.
After that, the blood all around Cruz begins to slow, its current unwinding until he’s left to just float, arms and legs trailing along, just bobbing on the surface as he stares at nothing until the blood realizes he’s still there and spits him out.
He collapses onto the floor just below the screen with a heavy, slippery thud—he knows he’ll be feeling that the next day, but he can’t register it right now.
Every inch of muscle in his body is softly screaming, wracked with a dull, burning ache that almost feels like it’s buzzing along his spine and his ribs.
He lies on his side for a few long minutes, a red puddle spreading below him, unable to focus on anything but his breathing. Eventually, he props himself up on his elbows, and his arms are shaking under his weight, like his bones have melted down into a mass of jelly.
A gnawing, pinching sensation is groping around deep in his stomach, eliciting groans and growls so loud that they seem to be shaking him up from the inside.
He crawls over to the seat where he left his shoes and robe, dragging his phone out from one of the pockets. The glowing screen greets him with a clock that reads 3:52 AM.
His mouth drops open behind his mask. He knows he tends to get really caught up in certain projects, but it honestly felt like he’d gotten a near-reverse-baptism for only five or ten minutes.
Then again, that would certainly explain just how raw his current exhaustion is.
Setting the device down, he heaves himself up to sit on his haunches, pulling his arms over his head to stretch. He fidgets with the soaked mess of his hair, wringing it out into the bucket he’d left below the screen, adding to the decent amount of blood it’s already holding.
Cruz leans against the screen’s bottom frame. He’s finally caught his breath by now, but he’s still working up the energy to get to his feet and head to the hallway outside, to the shower hidden away behind a false wall in the men’s restroom. (He knows he’s already collected enough blood, so he’s not worried about scrubbing the crimson from his skin.) Then he’ll have to get some breakfast and clean up the gory puddles left in his wake if the thralls are still too scared to come out of hiding…
His train of thought screeches to a halt as his focus lands on the mirrors.
They’re all dripping and stained, courtesy of all his splashing and thrashing earlier.
He watches, suddenly transfixed, as those stains shimmer and ripple against the glass. Despite the dim lighting, he can still see his red-tinted reflection.
He sees his reflection warp and waver and stretch…until he’s not looking at himself anymore.
Instead, he’s looking at someone else. He doesn’t recognize them as a past patron of the theater, nor as any of the marks that somehow managed to slip through his plans for past rituals.
Just a complete and total stranger.
Like him, they’re wearing a mask, although it only covers their mouth in draping fabric, leaving their eyes exposed. They’re pacing around a garden, the blades of grass around their feet sparkling with evening dew. They get on their knees, reaching out to start digging through a flower bed. After a few handfuls of dark, rich soil have been tossed to their side, they pause, visibly shivering as a scarlet ichor starts bubbling up from the pit they’ve dug like discharge from an ulcer.
The stranger leans from side to side as they start drawing lines throughout the rest of the soil. The blood keeps rising and soon starts flowing into the little finger-carved pathways. Sooner or later, the blood begins to soak back into the dirt, turning it darker and richer and even seeming to make the flowers looming over it twitch…but not without leaving any of the dug-out sections lined with clusters of crystals like oozy geodes.
Cruz glances at one of the other mirrors, and he’s treated to a similar sight: another stranger—this one rushing through amalgamations of rusted metal and discolored paint that was probably once neon. This stranger has their eyes covered with some kind of layered veil wrapped around their head.
They leap onto the striped platform of a derelict carousel, shuffling past the suspended horses and halting before the pillar at the center, tinkering with a control panel that’s barely hanging on by a thread. But it seems the red seeping out around the corners of the switches and buttons is helping out with that right now.
As the minutes tick by, more and more red can be seen throughout the dead ride, dripping from the canopy, slithering down the metallic rods that impale the horses, sliding all the way down to their hooves, painting their manes and leaking through their eyes and bared teeth.
An awful grinding noise rattles through the air, and the carousel shakes and jerks as its main platform starts to move for what has to be the first time in a decade (at least).
It’s slow and unsteady at first, but now more blood is pouring from the canopy, making some of the old light bulbs strewn about pop and shatter in an imitation of how they were once programmed to blink and twinkle.
Hell, the blood seems to be acting as oil or some other lubricant, because the carousel is suddenly getting faster and faster. It’s almost a blur of motion, widening the red ribbons into veils as they gush. Cruz is sure he catches at least one of the horses moving its legs with a chorus of cracks and snaps as the paint flakes away and the blood replaces it and outlines start to writhe along its arched neck.
Yet another mirror, yet another peek into someone else’s Bleeding celebration. Cruz actually can’t see this particular stranger’s face—the mirror is smaller than the others around it, and so the stranger’s head is obscured in one section where the frame meets the glass. As if to make up for that, the focus is centered on a huge, ornate harp they’re sitting behind.
The stranger starts playing, and Cruz can only imagine the music. But he’s only had the chance to hear a harp a few times in his life, and harps just seem incapable of ever sounding bad.
And as he stares, he sees how thin streaks of viscera are sent flying from the musician’s fingers as they twang at the strings. Some droplets slide down the strings and gather at the harp’s base, where they begin to spread, encouraging the glossy wooden material to take on a colder, paler shade.
Not only that, but now wisps of steam are leaking from the fresh wounds around the musician’s fingers. They shiver through the air, and as the musician keeps playing, those wisps grow into rather large clouds that orbit around the harp like a slow-moving hurricane.
It makes him think about the violin stowed away under his bed in the projection booth.
At that moment, Cruz feels something sharp drag against the back of his mind, soon plummeting down through his neck, then behind his chest, and finally into his stomach.
He glances back and forth between the mirrors, then turns his head to look up at the screen. The churning pool is gone now; the blood has evaporated, and the vinyl has returned. Like nothing supernatural has happened in the first place.
Cruz shuffles in place as he looks at the mirrors again.
Eventually, his eyes drop to the floor, and there’s an odd, prickly feeling at the corners.
He’s not sure what to make of this feeling right now; he’ll get a clue in the future, though.
(Disclaimer: one of the characters in this story does not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my extremely talented friend, @insane4fandoms . Please go follow their blog and support their work.)
(Since it’s MerMay, my fanegos have gotten a special little shift for the occasion! I’ve organized a new, temporary list of headcanons for The Pentas Family—each member’s species, vague lore-bits, etc.—which can be found here for context.)
(As for the characters who do belong to me: For more information on The Boss—or on the mob in general—go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons for him, go here. For more information on Val, go here. )
One more thing: the beginning sequence of this story takes heavy inspiration from SILT, a deep-sea horror game that came out a few years ago. I highly recommend playing it or checking out Let’s Plays of it, because it has an amazing art style and very intriguing lore.)
(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of the ocean, blood/gore, body horror, teeth horror, eye horror, physical violence, slight mentions of illegal business, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Windows glinted, telephone poles and street-lamps cast long, thin shadows.
The sun was just starting to set, but its light still reached over and around the city. Its rays were in layers that shifted slowly and smoothly as they trickled down. The heat attached to them didn’t reach quite so far, but that was better than the dark chill that would shroud anything and everything in a few more hours.
Casey tried to remember all the times he’d watched the sun sinking into the horizon, how it always looked like that enormous star was really just…right there, rather than hundreds of millions of miles away.
Back when he was still a kid, that idea never failed to be exciting: the sun itself was being actively swallowed up by the ocean, signalling the stars to spill up and out themselves, and then going on some kind of journey below the surface until the next morning, when it was ready to be birthed into the sky again.
He tried to think about the waves that foamed and crashed all around the sun, like they were alive and celebrating the fact that they got to be so close to it.
He tried to think about how sunsets always made the sky look like an abstract oil painting, and how all those beautiful shades of orange and red and pink and yellow reflected onto the water, bobbing in time with the current like they were melting into it.
But that didn’t help.
This wasn’t the first time Casey had attempted to distract himself with those nicer images, and it wouldn’t be the last, either.
But it never kept the shivers from racing down his spine and then dripping through his ribcage.
His whiskers twitched, sending soft vibrations into his skull, helping him feel a current before he even got close to it. He followed those shudders through the water, and then he was riding aforementioned current, shifting his tail to stay balanced as he was carried, just like his parents had taught him way back when. (He’d always be a strong swimmer, but he wasn’t enough of an idiot to turn down some extra assistance.)
His heart ached as he drifted through what used to be downtown. There were only a few swathes of shingles on the roofs anymore; it wouldn’t be long before they eroded enough to be swept away and left huge holes behind, just like those before them. Old traffic lights lay down in the sand, half-buried just like the crosswalks themselves, having snapped loose from their cables, which drifted limply to and fro above them.
The city’s ruins had formed a veritable undersea island.
It would’ve felt so miraculous if no-one had gotten hurt for that to happen.
If no-one had drowned, had been flung into walls or impaled on public machinery by the sheer force of the tsunami, had been driven into their homes only to be trapped as the water kept rising and rising and rising until…
Casey shook his head, clicking and whistling to himself out of frustration.
He couldn’t afford to dwell right now; he had a job to do. It didn’t matter that he’d been doing said job for days now with very little to show for it.
There could still be some air-pockets here and there around the city’s bones.
Some of those people could still be alive—alive and stranded, unable to find their way up to the surface, to the ships piloted by other survivors, unless someone more aquatically-inclined found them and helped them.
And if they were, then they only had so much time left to wait. A few days at best, a few hours at worst.
So, the selkie kept going.
Casey swam from building to building, slipping through jagged glass to check around whatever flooded rooms he found. He’d use his claws or teeth to pry doors open, fighting the urge to scream whenever they were revealed to already be full of water and devoid of people.
(Well. In reality, it was much better to find a long-since-flooded room without any occupants, because the alternative meant having to find cloudy eyes and gray skin that sagged and bloated at the same time. And that was only the case when swarms of crabs hadn’t discovered it earlier…)
Time dragged by.
Up on the surface, the sun sank lower and lower.
Light began fading, slowly but surely.
That didn’t do Casey’s mood any favors.
He hated seeing these ruins at any time of day, but darkness made it so much worse.
It made everything look even more bleached and rotten than it already was. Horrifically ironic, considering those photos of decaying reefs that used to pop up alongside warnings and pleading campaigns every year.
That was one of the worst parts of all this: there wasn’t even any growth around the ruins. There was moss and mold, but no swaying polyps or glowing colors. As though the ocean itself didn’t want to reclaim anything, despite having dragged it down here in the first place.
Without that growth, without any semblance of natural recycling, the city’s remains were gloomy and frightening, covered in mottled browns and grays that could only ever be seen in death.
As if to really drive the point home, all those dark shades kept Casey from noticing the looming shape that slithered below him…until it was too late.
Huge, dense weight slammed into his side, sending him spiraling through the water.
Bright spots danced in his eyes as the shock thrummed along his bones, burning and stinging as though he’d been stabbed.
The selkie shook his head, catching his balance just in time to dart away as the shape lunged for him again.
On instinct, he circled it at a distance. The thing stared after him, still swimming, trying to stay behind him, to stay in his blindspot.
This wasn’t territorial behavior.
This was hunting behavior.
Whatever this thing was, it clearly wasn’t going to just leave Casey alone if he swam far enough away. He had to get a brief understanding of it, had to make guesses for its weak-spots.
The monster was massive, its form both bulky and elongated. As though some insane, godforsaken scientist had combined the attributes of a hippo and an anaconda and combined them into an abomination that should’ve only existed in the deepest, darkest, most crushing layer of the ocean’s bowels.
There were reasons humanity had never been able to safely navigate those waters, why the creatures evolved to live in them always had to look so soulless; the floor down there was probably just a thin veil between the living world and the mouth of Hell.
Its head was broad and flat, topped with a pair of beady eyes that rolled in their sockets like oil-coated marbles. Not too far from those eyes, long, sinuous barbels writhed through the water. Eight of them, four on each side of its face. They acted almost like curtains, helping to unveil rows of short, interlocking teeth that looked far too similar to those of a human whenever its maw gaped open.
Two dorsal spines ran the length of its back, flaring in a way that made them resemble fleshy triggers. Just like its pectoral fins, they jutted out from a coat of stout, rough scales.
It lunged at him again, shockingly fast for how heavy it was.
Casey darted beneath the monster—its underbelly was just as armored as its back, but he hurled his full weight against it. While this didn’t exactly send it flying through the water, it still seemed to momentarily stun it. Casey kept swimming, moving in fast, tight circles around his opponent, using his tail to knock it upside the head.
Unfortunately, this put him in the crosshairs of its whiskers. Two of them whipped at his head while the other lashed near his back-flippers, eliciting a yelp of pain among two muffled CRACKs!
Casey felt skin breaking—thanks to his pelt’s blubber, the fresh lacerations were nowhere near deep enough to draw blood.
But if the monster managed to catch the seam running along his chest…
NO. That was NOT going to happen.
Casey surged over the monster’s head, snapping at its spines before ripping into the fin at the end of its tail. The membrane tore somewhat easily, and little streams of blood seeped out.
Tails were crucial to swimming, the same way they were to birds for flying. If Casey could concentrate on the tail, then he could destroy the monster’s sense of balance, could keep it from swimming, could force it to sink down, down, down.
But the monster was already twisting to snap at him again, and he was forced to flee. He found himself hovering by its side
There—a row of long, raking slits, positioned just after its jaw and just before its pectoral fin. They flared in and out, sending small ripples through the beast’s neck. A bony-looking arch bordered them, but Casey knew he was close enough to avoid wasting any time on it.
So, without hesitation, he lunged forward.
Some of his teeth scraped against scales, but other found themselves sinking into cold, slippery skin. He maneuvered his head along the length of the gills, allowed his teeth to catch the edge and rip a wider hole open.
(Casey had never been a stranger to eating raw fish, but the metallic taste that greeted him with this one was just rancid. Like it’d been rotting from the inside.)
The monster thrashed and bucked, its whiskers lashing through the water like snakes on fire. One of them managed to strike at Casey again, but he held firm. In response, he raised one of his front flippers and reached over to rake it against the monster’s face. Sure, selkie claws were infamous for being blunt, but he was putting plenty of force behind his right now.
He felt his claws slide onto the base of those tendrils on this side. First he gave it a vicious scratching, and then he gripped at it. It took a few harsh tugs, but soon enough, a deep, fleshy pop gurgled through the water.
The monster let out a murky wail, then surged to the side. Casey’s back met jagged rock, and he finally had to let go, just barely managing to swim up and over before the monster could bite him.
Blood was bubbling all around the two of them, creating dark, misty clouds that were thick enough to almost hide the monster in the haze.
And yet, as Casey darted back, he spotted something through those clouds: a long strand of skin that was sinking, its own gore forming a thin trail both behind and above as it touched down on the sand, limp and continuing to leak.
The fresh, gory chasm now marring one side of he monster’s face gave him all the confirmation he needed.
But then, he’d only ripped out one of those barbels—the monster still had seven left, and he was already having to dodge them again. The damage he’d wrought on one gill-set was effective; the monster was always floundering, its movements clumsier than before. But that wasn’t enough to kill it. It was losing blood, yes, but not enough to force it to retreat.
It could still keep chasing him after this.
It could still find ways to crash into him, to pin him down, and it would only have to do so much before his ribs cracked or his skull fractured.
It could force him to keep swimming until he had to go up to the surface for air—and then it could grab onto him and drag him all the way back down before he even got that breath in.
Casey’s mind raced as he turned tail and swam, shooting around the corner of the city’s old church.
Sure enough, the monster came surging after him, just past the tall cross that adorned the building’s roof—its tail thumped against it, snapping it like a twig, sending it sinking and kicking up clouds of sand. And yet, that barely put a dent in its stride.
The longer Casey took to kill it, the worse his chances would get. But he just didn’t have the time or preparation to keep fighting, to just wear it down bit-by-bit.
He put on more speed, barely noticing the new pain that was spreading over his jaw and around his lungs.
The monster remained in his peripheral vision. It wasn’t getting too much closer yet, but that distance wouldn’t last.
Just then, Casey spotted something particular up ahead: a part of the ruins that he’d once known as a popular restaurant. Ironically enough, it’d originally been built close to the water’s edge, with long, hardy support beams holding it halfway over. Now it was almost comically tilted to one side, sloping against its new, rocky bed. Its main building was broken and crumbling just like so many others.
What was once its outdoor seating section was half-buried in silt and algae, wooden chairs overturned and broken. Large umbrellas had torn away from their posts, now moldering and resembling shrouds as they clung to jagged edges of the chaos around them.
Something sparked in the back of Casey’s head, and he was suddenly diving down. As he did, he forced himself to slow down, despite his heart threatening to explode out of his chest any second now.
Make it think you’re getting tired. Make it think it’s winning.
After few seconds, he was just above the restaurant’s carcass.
He felt all the new currents the monster was producing as its fins and tail beat the water.
He swept past the chairs, his flippers brushing the sand with such speed that it stung.
He could practically hear the monster’s gills flaring and rippling as it got closer.
He raced for one corner of the building, where one of those umbrellas was spread at its full width, almost like it’d been planted that way.
Then, at the very last second, he ducked underneath the ruined cloth.
He heard the fabric ripping apart as the monster hurtled right on after him—and then, the nauseating, unmistakable squelch of flesh as those unnatural currents slowed, and then went still.
Casey wove around one side of one of those old support beams, watching as the opposite end of it was driven right through the monster’s gaping mouth.
A horrible twitch went through the monster’s body. And then another.
And then, before Casey could even think about blinking, the jagged, splintery remains of the beam were stabbing through the top of the monster’s head, visible in the water once again. More clouds of blood spilled out, weaving around it almost like a garland.
The monster’s eyes bulged from heir sockets one final time, then rolled back as its body slumped forward.
Casey stared, warily hovered in place—so many creatures could still move after death. Half a second was still more than enough time for jaws to clamp down if the head was touched too soon.
Once he was sure it was truly dead, he made to surge for the surface. He’d been careful with his breath earlier—by his calculations, he probably had at least fifteen minutes' worth of air left in his lungs. But his chest was screaming to be allowed to heave in and out, and cold, sharp aches were drumming at his skull and ribs and tail. Even if he wasn’t done with his search, he just needed a moment to process this..interruption.
(Plus, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try a different route around the city. Just in case similar creatures were lurking around, attracted to all the noise the monster had made in its fight with him. And that wasn’t even mentioning the scavengers that were probably already on their way to this very spot.)
But just as he began to drift upward…something new caught his attention.
The monster’s eyes—neither of them were moving, but something was happening to them.
Casey couldn’t help but keep hovering, slowly circling around the monster’s head.
As he watched, the veins stretching across those eyes almost seemed to be shriveling and shrinking.
As the seconds ticked by, however, Casey realized that light was flickering around the edges of that flesh.
A bright, warm, pale glow that flooded throughout each of the monster’s eyes until they were were glimmering in earnest, as though twin moons had fallen down to wind up trapped in its skull.
And from there, that light kept growing. But it didn’t reach through the rest of the monster’s boy; instead, it just…it just reached out of the eyes. Thin, graceful wisps of that light seeped into the water like columns of smoke, allowing that glow to spread.
They moved in a swaying, gentle rhythm.
That rhythm was too specific; for the most part, it managed to stay in one place, not dissolving in the water like those trails of blood.
The light was beckoning for Casey.
And Casey, despite his instincts, couldn’t tear his own eyes away.
He didn’t even realize how he was drifting closer and closer until…
___
A small shout caught in Casey’s throat as he jolted awake; something in his head told him to expect water to rush into his mouth, into his lungs.
But as he lunched upward, he felt the blankets, felt his pillow, slowly recognized the walls around him. His corkboard and its strings, the photographs and sketches he’d compiled for work…
Casey sighed through gritted teeth, raising one hand to run through his black hair, to clutch at his head before a migraine could set in.
Even after all these years, he still didn’t like the fact that he had to peer into the mirror across his room, to thoroughly stare at his dark skin just to confirm the suspicion in his gut.
His human skin.
The same form he’d been stuck in ever since the incident, with burn-scars marring specific spots on his chest where the seam was supposed to lay…
It seemed completely unfair and extremely sadistic for nightmares to feel so real. To make his pelt feel to real; to make him think, if only for a few minutes, that he still had that pelt.
…Still, he supposed this disappointing, peltless reality was better than having the entirety of the Cove Port Inlets swamped beneath the water in an end-of-days style.
Thinking of which, his skin felt too dry. Felt too cold (yes, the water was always cold, but that still felt better than the dryness, and even without his pelt, he was still built for water, so shut up).
He trudged out of his bedroom, making his way through the bungalow he’d been able to have custom-built a few years ago.
He froze in his tracks, however, when he caught a shadow through the kitchen window, just out of the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head to get a more thorough look…then furrowed his brow as he recognized a pair of huge black wings, a pair of black-tinted goggles.
No rest for the wicked, huh?
The figure outside obviously saw this realization, because his wings immediately snapped open as he ducked away from the window. Then, as if on-cue, Casey head a series of light-yet-solid thumps from elsewhere on the roof.
Casey charged through the living room, throwing the front door open just in time to hear a chorus of violent fluttering laced with some colorful language that bounced all around the sea-cave’s walls and floor.
Two harpies came swooping around his house in a mad-dash for the cave’s entrance. Though their speed made them blurry, Casey still recognized the black feathers of one, and the silvery-brown feathers of the other.
“Yeah, that’s right!” He shouted after them, trekking down the steps of his porch. “Fly on back to your hideout! You’re not catching me off-guard today!”
Once his feet touched the water, once both of his unwanted guests were well and truly gone, he gave pause.
They’d obviously outnumber him—sure, he could fight and swim and hold his own, even without his pelt, but he’d still be little match for one harpy’s talons, let alone two of them. Not only that, but those specific harpies—as well as their many peers he’d had plenty of encounters with in the past—were usually quite content to try and screw around with him, both in and out of work.
Why did they leave in such a hurry?
Before Casey could start panicking over the idea that something bad had been planted out here, another figure caught his eye:
A seal was draped along the rocks, halfway submerged in the water that trickled in through the cave’s mouth to form a small, churning pool around his home.
Another selkie, Casey knew without a single doubt. He didn’t even need to see the seam on its chest; his instincts just told him, plain and simple.
Besides, the way this selkie stared at him…its dark eyes shone much differently than those of a normal seal. They offered an advanced intelligence and understanding.
Deep, bitter envy wasted no time snarling its greedy fingers around Casey’s brain as he stared.
This selkie’s pelt looked much different from his—where his had been silver and adorned by dozens of darker spots, this one was almost completely black. Almost, because a set of thin, pale stripes wrapped around its neck, its sides, its tail, almost like waterproof body-paint.
The other selkie stared right back, tilting its—or, her head (Casey knew that was presumptuous, but this one just seemed like a her, and that felt a bit less rude that being called an it) in an inquisitive manner. She seemed to be analyzed him, looking him up and down.
And the longer she watched him…the more it felt like she was recognizing him. Knowing him.
Which was very disconcerting, as he was certain he’d never seen a selkie that looked like her in his life.
After a while, he blinked without meaning to, and then the selkie was gone, having slipped under the water.
He waited for a moment to see if she would come back up.
When she didn’t, he found himself walking forward again, not entirely sure why.
But before he could make much progress, his nose caught a familiar scent, and he halted yet again.
A few dead fish had been strewn about a clutch of stalagmites near one wall, well out of the water’s reach. As fresh as a dead fish could be.
Walking closer, Casey soon recognized the whiskers that hung limply from around each one’s mouth.
Catfish—and judging by the size of them, they hadn’t come from the ocean right outside his home. No, they’d likely been sourced from the public butcher market that congregated on the boardwalk every Saturday…
Casey tossed another glance at the sea-cave’s mouth.
The other selkie still failed to materialize—she had to be long-gone by now.
Casey was hungry, and as far as he could tell, nothing had been done to these fish. But he hadn’t survived in his investigative career this long by being gullible. So, he took only one of them into his hands and turned back, intending to thoroughly gut it once he got back to the kitchen.
(Disclaimer: only one of the characters here belongs to me. I created Cruz as a fanego-gift for @sammys-magical-au ; if you’d like to learn more about him, go here. EldritchPlier and Lunky belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)
(Trigger Warnings: body horror, slight blood/gore, descriptions of depression/anxiety, panic/anxiety attack, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.
Happy Birthday, Sammy! 🎁 🎂 🎊 💞
(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the ones you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)
___
A Couple Weeks Later...
Cruz paced around Screen Six’s projection booth—like many projections booths in many theaters, it was more spacious than you would’ve expected.
Sure, the computer, the engine system, and all of the equipment meant for the actual projecting part took up a decent chunk of that space, but it was also kept close to just one of the walls, right up behind the window on the other side.
That left plenty of space for other things to be set up.
Such as, on one side: a full bed pushed up against the wall in the corner, various boxes tucked underneath it (although they were occasionally shoved and stacked somewhere else so certain monsters wouldn’t feel too cramped), and a sturdy dresser standing at the foot of it.
And on the other side: a refrigerator looming by the storage closet, and a desk cluttered with a plethora of pencils, jars, vials, and books (ranging from the old, leather-bound types that most antique shops were simultaneously scared to sell and desperate to get rid of…to perfectly ordinary sketch pads and adult coloring books).
He was no stranger to renting out motel rooms (the degrees of quality were always a gamble, but the staff in those places had a tendency to have seen worse than some light surreal activity, so it was rare for them to disrupt his projects), but he still made a point to search nearby neighborhoods for empty houses. Sure, it was nerve-wracking as all hell to move his equipment around so often, as well as so regularly keep his presence hidden from any pesky real estate agents.
Despite how pretty much every area under The Drowned Moon’s roof was fair game for certain shenaniganery, some rituals just needed something different, just required their organizer to put up as genuine a front as possible. Victims often had to be put through a bit of a long-con; to have their energy and emotions marinated, as Plier had once described it.
Besides, that part of Cruz’s work also came with an undeniable thrill. (Even in the times where things just didn’t quite work out his way, being in cahoots with a creature mostly beyond human comprehension was a great method for wriggling out of unpleasant consequences.)
But at the end of the day, he was grateful to have a place to come back to, a place that was actually set. And the fact that said place housed the same abomination he’d been working with for years now…
Plier had already gotten shockingly friendly (in his own way) with Cruz before that.
This was just stone-cold evidence that he hadn’t been lying about seeing potential in him.
“𝙿༽𝙾༽𝚃༽𝙴༽𝙽༽𝚃༽𝙸༽𝙰༽𝙻༽.༽.༽.” A small, raspy voice whispered, the words rolling out on hot breath that dripped along the back of Cruz’s neck.
Cruz cringed at its sour breath. He usually didn’t mind scents like blood or sulfur; Plier carried that kind of stuff pretty damn often, even when he wasn’t coming back from a hunting session. That was just in the nature of things like him.
Those smells were never exactly pleasant, but they were tolerable. They could even be exciting, depending on your headspace.
The smell of this creature, however, was rot.
And it wasn’t even the type of rot that carried a strange type of sweetness.
No, instead, it was reminiscent of spoiled cheese that had been melted down and combined with long-stale noodles to create an eye-watering, rancid serving of Fettuccine Alfredo.
“༼𝙿༼𝙾༼𝚃༼𝙴༼𝙽༼𝚃༼𝙸༼𝙰༼𝙻༼, ༽𝙿༽𝙾༽𝚃༽𝙴༽𝙽༽𝚃༽𝙸༽𝙰༽𝙻༽,༼𝙿༼𝙾༼𝚃༼𝙴༼𝙽༼𝚃༼𝙸༼𝙰༼𝙻༼.” The voice muttered, squealing out a giggle that seemed to be bouncing back and forth between taut strings.
Cruz grit his teeth. He reached back, wanting to pull the hood of his robe over his head—but then stopped short.
Doing something like that would just let the creature know that it was getting to him.
It would make the creature happy, encourage it to keep bothering him.
So, Cruz merely tugged his hood a bit further on his shoulders.
Plier had returned to the theater soon after The Bleeding had officially wrapped up, and he’d spent the next few days relaxing and recovering. But soon enough, he’d had to leave again. He was involved in several types of business in numerous other dimensions.
Most of the time, he had to take his schedule seriously. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t get the spare time to capture the unfortunate souls that he craved, whether by lurking around the theater or calling out bribes and offers through the doors of a house that was hundreds of miles away.
Most of the time. Even before Cruz had moved in, Plier had already made it clear that his schedule was prone to some psychosis here and there.
Hence the strange weight that Cruz could feel shifting along the walls and the floor—anywhere his shadow happened to fall.
Plier’s latest venture had seen him stalking around a pair of twin suns that orbited around some world whose denizens had to share their voices.
That was apparently a nice way of saying that those people needed to chew through one another’s mouths and throats if they wanted to speak any words, let alone understand those words.
(Upon returning, Plier had, of course, regaled Cruz with explicit description of the act and the result. Cruz had, of course, been a captive audience, listening closely, trying to sketch out the details he heard since he hadn’t been there to see them himself. He understood why he couldn’t have tagged along to see, since just hearing about this was enough to make him dizzy. Still, horror and fascination were just inseparable.)
Somewhere along the way, Plier had circled around a burning chasm, taking in a chorus of scattered words being endlessly repeated without any mouths, echoing and bouncing and crackling and popping.
And then, he’d found something clinging to the edge of that inferno: a small, gibbering sack of pale flesh that was all put torn apart and still determined to keep living for no reason.
He’d watched it struggle for a bit, then promptly snatched it up and brought it back to The Drowned Moon.
Cruz rifled through the storage closet, soon fishing out a familiar case lined in black fabric. He left the closet open as he turned on his heel. His shadow fell along the door, and he felt that strange, translucent weight smack right into the edge of it, strings suddenly stretched around the sharp corner.
Lunky—the same name this minor atrocity had whimpered on its first night in the theater while cowering and groveling under Plier’s vicious gaze—let out a sputtering, indignant squeal that reminded Cruz of a bicycle’s rusty chain snapping away from the gears. He smirked; that would shut it up for a bit.
Cruz crossed the room, taking a seat on his bed. He opened up the black case, revealing the familiar shape of his trusty violin.
The wood still looked nice and glossy in the light, but it’d been a little while since he last played—he’d have to give it a quick check-up. Cruz hefted the instrument out, wiped it down with a silk cloth. The strings weren’t new, but they weren’t too worn out just yet. He adjusted the pegs, then set the violin off to the side and reached back into his case.
He laid his bow across his lap, then fished out his rosin cake. He twisted the lid off of its plastic package; it glistened with a healthy shade of amber, complimented by streaks of deep, dark red.
(The rest of Cruz’s harvest from The Bleeding had already been organized and stocked away in different parts of the theater; he had more than enough for other future projects.)
He squinted into the rosin. Those crimson droplets had seemed to be still at first, but the longer he watched, the easier it was to see that they were moving. It was slow and uncertain, almost like tadpoles in a mud puddle, or baby snakes twitching against the shells of their eggs.
Cruz almost smiled at the sight.
Then, he felt something with jagged edges lapping along his shoulder, dry and leathery. Like a dead alligator rotting in the sun.
“༼𝚂༼𝙻༼𝙾༼𝚆༼, ༽ 𝚂༽𝙻༽𝙾༽𝚆༽,” Lunky hissed.
Cruz huffed a sigh as he checked the hairs of his bow. They felt a bit loose—
“𝙽༽𝙾༽𝚃༽༼𝙻༼𝙸༼𝙺༼𝙴༼𝚃༽𝙷༽𝙴༽༼𝙷༼𝙰༼𝚁༼𝙿.”
Cruz almost froze in place. An oily sensation crept around the pit of his stomach.
Without thinking, he glanced over his shoulder.
A pair of wide eyes stared back, boasting a texture like grapes that withered right after being peeled. Pinprick pupils drilled into him.
His shadow was distorted against the wall and his bed, but Lunky didn’t seem to care one bit. It pushed forward, leaning out—the slight darkness slid away from its face and arms and chest almost like water, like it was sitting up in a bathtub.
Cruz narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the chill that crept down his spine.
Lunky’s skin was sickly gray, just like a corpse before it reached the stage where insects would start flocking to burrow their way inside.
There was a deep crevice in its face, splitting its whole head in half right down the middle. A set of thick, dark cords glanced off either side in a very sloppy sewing job, the only things to keep the halves from just flopping back and snapping under their own weight.
Lunky tilted its head, and those cords thrummed and shook as the fleshy, ruined sides swayed just a bit, almost like the petals of those water lilies that opened and closed depending on how much light they could sense.
Cruz scowled at the sight, and Lunky let out a nasty, delighted snicker. Past the cords, rows of jagged fangs protruded from either side of the wound. They trembled in place, scraping against one another like forks being dragged along plates.
In spite of all this, Lunky looked far, far too similar to a human.
Plenty of extra-dimensional species resembled humans, but that resemblance was often vague. There were usually plenty of aspects to set them apart from anything born on Earth.
Lunky was uncanny as all hell. It never blinked. Tears were always pricking at the corners of its eyes but they never budged to stream down its face. Its mouth was always fixed in an open, gaping grin, like it was supposed to be laughing. The space between the sides of its head was empty. No sign of a skull or a brain or blood or anything that should have been there.
And yet…there was something about the way its wound was suspended, never healing nor ever letting it die. There was a decent thatch of dark hair growing from its scalp, some bangs hanging just above its eyes.
It had two rows of teeth in its mouth—not the fangs lining the hole, an actual mouth. Those teeth looked so damn ordinary; pearly-white and pretty much harmless to anything that hadn’t been pre-processed with microwave directions.
Just like Cruz’s own teeth.
Lunky leaned even closer, still giggling. It pushed its way around Cruz’s side, dropping its head and all but shoving its face against the rosin cake.
Cruz swept his materials out of Lunky’s reach, then shoved the minor atrocity back behind him.
Its skin felt so dusty and thin. It reminded Cruz of that odd, frayed texture old paper took on. But its breath was coming out in sharp, hitching, excited gasps now, and it felt so disgustingly moist at the same time. Cruz could see beads of evaporation dripping down the sides of its head-wound, and he couldn’t help but gag.
Lunky sank back into Cruz’s shadow with a gurgling yawn. It made no moves to lunge back out—not yet, at least.
Cruz turned away, already feeling the weight of his bow and the rosin cake slipping back into his hands.
Lunky could do whatever the hell it wanted.
Nothing Lunky did or said would matter.
No matter how annoyed Cruz got at its antics, that didn’t mean Cruz cared about whatever it thought it had to prove.
Cruz picked up where he left off. He tightened the screw at the end of his bow, making sure the hair was good and tense. With that, he maneuvered the rosin cake in his grip and pushed it on top of those strings.
Like a million times before, he carefully drew the bow across the rosin. Back and forth, coating the hair in a thin layer, from the frog all the way to the tip-plate.
Somewhere along the first pass, he wondered if the blood he’d mixed into the rosin would react to the motion.
Experience kept him from going any faster, but he watched closely. He waited to see if any crimson spots would be left in the rosin’s wake. If those dots would grow, stretching along, braiding through the hair in shiny red threads.
Nothing like that happened.
“𝚁༽𝙴༽𝙼༽𝙴༽𝙼༽𝙱༽𝙴༽𝚁༽༼𝚃༼𝙷༼𝙴༽ 𝙷༽𝙰༽𝚁༽𝙿༽?” Lunky murmured. Cruz could feel its blank eyes on him.
The blood probably just needed more time.
Back and forth, back and forth…
Maybe the blood would just pass through the hair entirely—maybe it would spread through the bow’s body instead. And from there, when he got arond to playing…would it give the violin itself a similar treatment? Would crimson stains etch through the top plate and lower bout in-time with his music?
Cruz thought about all the modern art projects that saw people mixing paints into resin and then pouring it into the jagged grooves or holes that marred wooden tables. That always looked so damn pretty. Despite his attachment to this violin, he’d toyed with the idea of buying a different model and then commissioning it to be decorated like that.
But he’d only do that because he probably wouldn’t have the time to do it himself. He’d watched videos about the process—he knew he could handle that, but he just had so many other things to work on…
He could hear scratching against the wall—Lunky was squirming in place, clicking all its nasty fangs together. “༼𝙽༼𝙾༼𝚃༽𝙻༽𝙸༽𝙺༽𝙴༽༼𝚃༼𝙷༼𝙴༽𝙷༽𝙰༽𝚁༽𝙿༽.”
The hair was probably looser than he’d thought. He set the rosin cake down, then twisted the screw even tighter.
He grabbed the rosin and got back to his passes.
Back and forth, back and forth…
Cruz chewed at his lip as he watched. Then, he heard Lunky giggling and instead clamped his teeth around the inside of his cheek.
Maybe the hair would just start steaming. It would be a bit smaller, a bit more simple than the other things he’d imagined, but he wouldn’t mind. Honestly, he wouldn’t. It would be something, and something was always better than nothing.
His knuckles were turning white around the rosin cake’s container. He let his mind wander; maybe that steam would be tinted a soft, red hue. There was no way it wouldn't give off the smell of iron and copper, but maybe it would be laced with one of Cruz’s favorite things. Maybe it would be tinged with something that he’d later find out was what music was supposed to smell like.
He knew the hair was ready to go—excess rosin wouldn’t hurt anything, but experienced violinists like him usually only needed about five-or-so passes to be ready for a few solid hours of player.
It didn’t need any more passing now, but the steam still had yet to start seeping out.
Just a few more passes, just a little more time…
“𝚆༽𝙾༽𝚁༽𝚂༽𝙴༽༼𝚃༼𝙷༼𝙰༼𝙽༽𝚃༽𝙷༽𝙴༽༼𝙷༼𝙰༼𝚁༼𝙿!”
The smell of rot washed over his face. Hot, dry weight pressed down on his head, along the back of his neck, clamped onto both of his shoulders. Sets of broken nails were digging into the fabric of his robe and the shirt underneath. Just another ounce of pressure and it would get through to his skin.
Lunky rocked itself to and fro, raising one of its hands to tap at Cruz’s ear, cackling. “༼𝚆༼𝙾༼𝚁༼𝚂༼𝙴༽𝚃༽𝙷༽𝙰༽𝙽༽༼𝚃༼𝙷༼𝙴༽𝙷༽𝙰༽𝚁༽𝙿༽,༼𝚆༽𝙾༽𝚁༽𝚂༽𝙴༽༼𝚃༼𝙷༼𝙰༼𝙽༽𝚃༽𝙷༽𝙴༽༼𝙷༼𝙰༼𝚁༼𝙿!”
A distinct feeling crept into Cruz’s eyes. It burned, it stung, it forced him to wrench them shut.
Back and forth, back and fo—
“C̬ͩ͞ruͣz̬̮̚!̈́”
A familiar voice wove its way through the floor, deep enough to make the entire room shake.
And just like that, his eyes snapped back open.
Cruz sat upright, only just now realizing how hunched-over he’d been a few seconds ago. The weight of Lunky’s grimy hands didn’t budge from around his neck, but the pressure was suddenly gone.
“Y–Yeah?” Cruz replied, automatically needing to clear his throat. His voice felt so raspy as he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“C̎ͥ'̩͉ͯm̾o͛̋̅n͡ o̢͊̕v̷ė͛̅r͘͞͝ h̵e͓re,” Plier continued, his words layered with a strange type of static that would’ve made your ears bleed if not for what sounded like shredded satin tucked into the edges. “Ì n̬ͭͥe̻̦e͑d y͉̽̈́o̧͆u̻͙r͊ h͙el͕̗̕p̢̈ w̋ͣ̏it̯̃ͤh̄̓̀ s͢oͦ̚m̢̱̑e̓ͦ͢t̝̠ͩh͂ì̭n̼g.”
Cruz snapped to his feet, the forgotten rosin cake falling onto his bed.
He marched back to the storage closet, where his special mask hung from a sturdy nail on the inside of the door.
It’d been as soaked in crimson as his skin after The Bleeding; unlike his skin, he hadn’t even needed to clean it off once the celebration was over. He’d returned from his four AM shower to find the blood melting away from the black base, shrinking and shrinking as it rose up and dissolved into the air. Peeling away from the streaks of red and gold paint that wove around its beak and eye-lens-holes alike.
Part of him had expected some of it to coagulate, to cake around certain spots. But no, the mask had just been content to shed it before it was even needed again.
He wrapped one hand around it, deftly pulling it over his head and adjusting the straps against his dark hair.
He blinked, and his shoes were tapping against cold, black n’ white tiles. He felt the weight in his shadow dragging along the floor, and yet, he also heard a faint pattern tagging along. Lunky moved with a clumsy, staggering rhythm, definitely out-of-sync with his own steps, but it somehow kept pace with him, quite literally right on his heels.
He passed by the other theaters. Wide, ornate frames loomed out of pink-painted walls, showcasing posters for various movies beside each set of double-doors.
All those doors were closed; they usually weren’t even propped open during regular business hours.
Screen Zero’s entrance loomed open at all times. Its doors had been ripped away from their hinges a long while ago.
The only barrier in sight was a simple velvet rope, draped between a pair of silvery posts.
Sometimes it was enough to keep patrons from sticking their noses into the darkness beyond the threshold. Darkness that seemed just a bit too thick; enough that you couldn’t even see the handrail along the short corridor when you were already strolling inside.
And other times, it just acted like a silent invitation. A smug, taunting challenge.
Plenty of Cruz’s projects had been focused on dealing with the aftermath of those occasions.
Cruz could’ve just stepped over the rope—that was how he usually entered. But this time, part of him just felt the need to grab one of the posts, scoot it over to the side, then readjust it. The smooth, polished metal caught along his palm. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a tiny callous in his skin.
Cruz had lost count of all the times he’d seen the vague shapes of teeth decorating the top of the doorframe like a broken guillotine.
The juju attached to his mask gave him bit more clarity to work with in dark spaces. He still caught himself reaching for the handrail, then curled his fingers into a fist and lowering it back to his side.
He’d been visiting Screen Zero at least twice a week for years now. He knew where the bend in the corridor was. He knew the path, knew exactly how to avoid tripping himself up or smacking into a wall. No matter what condition his nerves were in.
Lunky’s weight seemed to ripple somewhere by Cruz’s ankles; shadow-latching was a pretty basic trick, but once that shadow was swallowed up a dark space…well, Cruz imagined it felt a bit like trying to walk through deep water instead of just swimming like a normal person.
Within seconds, a smoky, blistering smell was wafting through the air around him. Dull light was flickering along the walls up ahead, like a huge array of candles set up behind a red curtain, close enough for the fabric to catch and start burning at a moment’s notice.
Cruz turned the corner, and the hall opened up into Screen Zero proper.
All the other screens in the theater had their entrances on a lower level. If the seat you bought with your ticket was in the higher rows, then you’d have to climb some stairs to get to it.
Screen Zero defied this layout and spacial logic at the same time; the outer-half of its entrance looked identical to all the rest, but its corridor somehow led to the very top row seats first, its narrow staircase just spilling down from there.
Plier’s deep voice bounced along the walls as he muttered and hummed to himself, his tone low in this throat. It reminded Cruz of storms in summer, when the thunder sounded uncertain as it rolled out because lightning was wrapped up tight in dense, heavy clouds.
Cruz slowed his pace, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.
Plier hung upside-down, his black hair dangling like a ragged curtain, the organic thorns protruding from his back threatening to scrape along the seats below him. Of his six limbs, the first and foremost pair was hovering in the air as he tinkered with something he’d set up in his nest (that cavernous hole where Screen Zero’s actual screen used to be).
Like their counterparts, they would’ve been a dead-ringer for any overgrown creepy-crawly…except for the fact that each one ended in a hand. Said hands boasted five fingers, and most of them actually seemed to have the correct number of joints. But before you could try to get comfortable, you’d notice how the middle and ring fingers in each set extended into a pair of long talons that curved like hooks, capable of skewering a person’s head like an olive on a toothpick.
The other four were firmly planted on the ceiling—which meant one of them was looming over one section of the stairs, its joints bent in a very uncomfortable angle.
And that meant that Cruz couldn’t just walk past it.
Something in the back of his head told him to try jumping over it, but he wasn’t about to do that with his violin in hand. So, he opted to duck under it.
It worked out fine for the most part, though Cruz couldn’t stop one of his elbows from brushing against the huge limb.
Plier’s skin tended to have a scaly, leathery texture. His temperature depended on his mood, but usually seemed feverish at the very least. Right now, it was like a lobster that had just been fished out of a boiling pot.
Cruz yelped, just barely catching his balance by leaning against the handrail. He snatched his violin close to his chest, amazed that he hadn’t dropped it.
Plier’s mutterings halted like a record screeching, and then all sixteen of his eyes were trained on Cruz.
Cruz froze—not out of fear, mind you. Even though Plier held more power in the contract between them, he was still just as bound to it as Cruz was. Besides, Cruz had more than enough practice in seeing things with too many eyes.
And yet…when those eyes were all the size of dinner plates, and when their sockets all looked like geysers carved out from flesh, and when their irises looked like mounds of half-melted worms that writhed and squirmed around an ember that served as a pupil…
Yeah, he’d be lying if he said that Plier’s eyes weren’t something else.
“Sorry about that,” Cruz blurted, straightening his back.
“N͓̯̻͐o̙͒̀͢ t͆r̡͉̄̔̏͑͠o̤͚̮̤͒̿ü̷͉̆͂b̰̙̩͆̾͠ļ̦ͤe,” Plier shrugged. He readjusted his grip on the ceiling, moving the limb Cruz had bumped into a bit higher. He pulled his primary arms away from his nest as he ever-so-slightly leaned up. The thorny crest that lined the top of his head like a half-crown scratched against one of the ceiling’s panels.
“What are you working on?” Cruz wondered.
Plier grinned, his tusks gleaming. Four of his eyes swiveled in the direction of his nest, and he beckoned the human forward.
Cruz complied, shuffling along the middle row of seats to get a better look. Plier was sort of the only source of illumination here, given his whole burning-from-the-inside thing. The air always seemed to take on a haze around Plier’s form, spreading a good few inches out, casting strange, abstract shadows that seemed to crawl over him.
And thanks to that unnatural light, Cruz saw something sparkling in the nest.
Three somethings, in fact–the mirrors he’d been instructed to set up during The Bleeding.
They were suspended above the nest’s floor, all tangled up in a web of dark silk that clung to either wall. The glass of each one was broken, the shards all trapped in spirals that glinted with thin beams, the shadows they cast just barely visible.
As Cruz stared, he saw reflections on the glass. Not his, or even Pliers (though, his reflection tended to shatter mirrors in general). He saw strange faces practically divided between the cracks, eyes and mouths seemingly diced into piles like discarded prosthetics.
Then, some of the shards quivered in place, almost like muscles twitching. There was something oily between the crevices, strands of it reaching onto wooden frames.
The monster chuckled, reaching forward to twang at the silky wires like guitar strings. “W͚̿e̓͆͟’̖l͞͝ḽͩ j͌͒̚u̩s̬ͯ͢tͧ ha̾̚̕v̱e̲ to̠͖ s̾e̮e.̥”
“Really?” Cruz asked without quite meaning to. Of course he wanted to get excited at hearing such news. But his mind kept circling back to the night of The Bleeding, to the images of those other mortal participants.
Why had he seen them?
Sure, there was a chance that Plier hadn’t actually known that would happen…but, considering his nature, that chance was pretty damn low.
In that case, why had Plier instructed Cruz to bring the mirrors in at all? What could he have gotten out of Cruz seeing his competition?
Lunky had gone silent ever since Cruz crossed the first threshold, but he still heard a scratchy giggle drill into his eardrum. Somehow, the distinct lack of the little monster’s acid breath made that insult even worse.
Cruz cleared his throat. “Well, that sounds great! How can I help with it?”
“Y̵̟o͚uͤ'̢ͤre a͉̬ͅl̬̮r̹ẻ̱a̛͌͊dy͛ s̫̹ͩet.” Plier tilted his head at the instrument in Cruz’s grasp. He then rolled his shoulders, eliciting a few sickening cracks and pops. He leaned back down, his dark hair swaying again as he reached into his nest, toward the mirrors. “It͆ͯ'͠s̵͚ͬ t̺̪_ôͤo̴̯̙ dȁ̝ͩm̏͛n̍̉͞ q̞̞̏u͢i̛etͅ ì͓n̵̳͝ h̼ȇr̨͐ͯe̲. J͍͙͑ùs͆t p̗̯̉ḽa̹͗͌y͒͡_ a li͘t̩̍͢t̶͖̫l͇̈͆e s̸̬̔ò͔ṁ͜ethiņ̠͌gͪ͂ s͑͘ŏ̲̇ I̖ͦ ca̽n c̝ͬ̚onc̄̃ͫentrat͚̬̎eͧ̆.̮̙́”
Cruz was already nodding, shifting his fingers around his bow to ignore how his other set of knuckles was turning white around his violin’s neck. “Sure, sure. Anything particular in mind?”
The abomination hummed, the sound oozing down the walls to ever-so-slightly shake the floor.
“M̺a̩͈͋ybe the͗̃͘ s̓o̦ͫļ͕͇o̗͗ͫ f̳r͜o͌m̄ th͈ảt̕ l̬͟ittͬlę̘̈́ s̷ͪt̰̲͞ợ͜pͦ̚͞-͎͔̎m̰ỏ͚tͧ̎͘i͍o̗͈ͯn̰͘ sh̶͓ơẃ̩͜ y̧͞ǒ̫u s̈́a̮wͥ͞ t͜ͅh̵̛͐i͝r̯͉̆t̍ȩ̙̅e̤͐n y̔ͫ͢e̹ͦa͈͗͝r̖̤s agͤoͥ̒?” Plier clicked his teeth together in a chuckle, a rare softness slithering through some of his eyes. “Y͔'̒k͔̼͚nͧow,͒͡ th̭ẹ͒ͮ ǫn͇̉͌e͉ͅ wi͈t̞h t̂h̻͂o̾ͩs̸̿e̛̹ l͕̒̃it͡t̮́͜ĺe̟̐̈ ȓ̘a̛ͮ͘bb̶̐͝it̒̅͐-͔̥ͤĺ̙o̹͝o̶kin̓g͟ g͓͆̈́rͫ͝em̯͕̆lỉn p̥ͪứ̤p͙̳ͥpẻ̡͎ts̻.”
“Oh.” Cruz did, in fact, know what Plier was referencing. He’d discovered it before he’d met Plier. Before he’d signed that mutual contract.
He’d been a grown-ass man by the time he discovered it—on YouTube, of all things—but something about it had made him feel like he was suddenly a seven-year-old again.
Like he was back in his family home; sitting in front of the fireplace, fumbling with a needle and thread as he tried sewing up a hole in the ear of a little plush goat, rocking himself back and forth and humming under his breath.
And despite never being a fan of repetition, he’d found himself watching the short film ten times in a row, desperate to take in any details he might’ve missed. Through the years after that, it seemed to always find a way back to him on occasion.
He’d had an interest in music before, but that was the very thing to push him toward actually playing anything as a hobby. It’d taken time to save up a good violin, and even more for practice. Once he’d learned how to really harness the sound, there was only one thing he thought to play.
The very solo Plier had just requested.
Cruz knew he hadn’t shown the whole film to Plier…but then again, it wasn’t exactly uncommon for Plier to look into his mind, sifting through thoughts and memories for rituals and the like.
He swallowed a lump in his throat, shifting his fingers around his bow.
Well, if Plier had requested that, then it had to be something he liked. Why would he want to listen to a piece that he didn’t enjoy?
Cruz trekked down, trying for the first time to ignore the fact that so many of the velvet seats were covered in old bloodstains. Tried to not think about how those stains would’ve looked so damn fresh if any true light was ever allowed to beam in here. His footsteps felt so loud on the narrow staircase.
He lingered on the last step; though Plier didn’t stop what he was doing, two of his eyes darted in his direction, clearly confused by the distance.
At the exact same time, Cruz was raising his instrument up, resting it on his collarbone in a way he hoped would cover up a flinch as he crept closer.
Finally, he was standing before the nest and the mirrors.
Right beneath where Plier was perched.
He strained his ears for any muffled screams drilling through the darkness—he tended to hear things like that whenever he came into Screen Zero for meetings like this.
He didn’t hear anything right now.
Nothing except the tinks and ticks of broken glass as Plier’s talons gripped at the mirrors’ stained frames. As the shards forbidden to fall out of those frames were pushed up, as a mass of fleshy something slowly writhed and pulsed right behind them, glistening sinew peering out through the jagged crevices.
He shook his head, feeling the chin-rest find its way below his jaw. Cruz had a task that he needed to focus on. It wasn’t even anything complex.
Curling his thumb and draping his fingers in positions so specific they’d felt completely unnatural when he’d been a beginner, he began pushing his bow along the violin’s strings.
He closed his eyes and thought back to that short film. It’d taken a while for him to get the sheet music just right for his very first attempt. But nowadays, this was one of many pieces he knew by heart.
The violin’s voice was soft and keening as he coaxed it out into the air
He thought about how the music had solely built up across the video in a soft, intriguing manner. It had only reached its climactic solo near the very end, but damn had the wait been worth it.
Each and every note just seemed to match the stop-motion setting so perfectly. The character’s movements had first appeared stiff-jointed and a bit uncertain, but that was a huge point of the story.
The music had shown that even when you were running under pressure and against time, you could still have grace and understanding. No matter how clumsy or confused or scared you felt…as long as you didn’t give up, you were capable.
Cruz felt the rhythm vibrating through the bow, felt his movements grow faster as he moved on to the second part of the song—
TWOINK!
The noise sounded like it’d been ripped straight from a cartoon, but it still made Cruz flinch back, eyes snapping open.
The bow’s hair was lying across his violin, having snapped away from the tip plate. It was frayed and split here and there, looking like the mess you’d find on the floor of a salon after someone tried to bleach their ponytail with Clorox.
The hairs of any bow would wear out over time, needing to be replaced every year. Cruz was no stranger to re-hairing; he’d done it just a couple months ago.
“I–I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Cruz stammered, his hands shaking as he set his instrument down and turned the bow over. The hair flopped sadly, almost like a hangnail that reached all the way up to the elbow. His focus refused to budge from the mess, but he knew Plier’s gaze was drilling into him again. “I must’ve over-tightened the screws. Or maybe some mites got into my case?”
He turned on his heel and started climbing the stairs, keeping his head down.
“I can fix this! I’ll figure it out! It won’t take very long—”
The walls shook under a scuttling, crawling pattern. Thin veils of dust rained down from the ceiling. A weight collided with Cruz’s chest. There wasn’t enough force to knock him down, but it halted him, kept him still long enough for jagged, leathery digits to wrap around his shoulders. It happened so fast that Cruz couldn’t even think to cry out as the floor disappeared and his legs were dangling as though he was a toy being plucked up in a claw machine.
He just barely felt a pair of hook-talons pinching at the hood of his robe.
Plier raised one of his free hands and snapped his fingers. The web trembled in place, some strands shooting up, up, up into the darkness overhead, while others tightened their grip around the mirrors, keeping them good and trapped as they were hoisted out of sight.
And then the air was rushing past Cruz as he was carried over the seats, then deposited onto one at the very center of the front row.
“Ý͉o͆u̷ͣr p̓ͩ̇u̴̾͜l̝͊s̤ͣ̆e wa̭̫͞s̛͓͆ ti͋ͣ̂c͐k͓͜i͟_͌nĝͯ l͕ik͆̈́e̪̐ á Gi͓ͯe̞ͩg͗͠e̫͑̑r̰ͥ͟ c̵̭͊o̙un̻͚͓t̸̆er̰̅ b̭ȩ̖̍f̆ͫo̻r̹è̻ Iͣ cāͨ͌lle̡͓̯d͂ͥ y̡̑ǒ̑u ôv̦̏er,” Plier mentioned as he climbed forward and fell into a partial handstand, his limbs all bending and twisting as he maneuvered himself into his nest. “W̰̦oͬ̏ŭ̚͘l̠d̊n’̮͜t̗ bͦͭe tͅh̩ͭe_͐ f̀ͣiṟ͚s̙t̪͍ t̫ͧi̴͐m̶̫e, sͫo I͆ d̛͈͒i͟dn̥’̛t̛̙̠ t̳͂h̃i̹͌ͪn̻̫̿k̂ mù̠͢c̷̜͊h̛̰̏ of̨̢̍ i͕̊ͧt̡̄͘…̟̅̂”
Soon enough, he was settled down, lying on his stomach, finally rightside-up.
“…͆Bu̢͇͞t now y̳͗o̵_u̩r br̖͐̀ă̼iͩ̈n͔w͚͔ȧ̗̍vḛ͊ͪs̜͛ à̖r͉e̻͈̒ flả̯ri̴͢n̟̋g͉̱ l̢̲̞i̪̍k̔ẻ͙͋ ḁ͑ m̧oͅťh̛̄eͮ͑̒rfuc̣͍͋k̏͋er.” He folded his arms in front of himself, peering down at Cruz. “S_̈o̖. W̩͢͞h̪̬͒à̅͜t’̗́s̴̊ g̡oi̶ṉ̟̉g͘̚ o̟ͨn̸?”
Cruz shifted in his seat, staring as Plier idly dragged his talons along one edge of the screen frame. He knew he was on solid ground, he knew he wasn’t being held anymore. And yet, he still felt those claws grazing the back of his neck.
He’d only been off his feet for a few seconds, but apaprently that was more than enough for vertigo to still be screwing with his senses right now. The pit of his stomach felt like it was sinking deeper and deeper. As though an actual hole had been ripped out of it, and one of his bottom ribs was now brushing against that torn tissue.
“It’s…it’s like I just said. I must’ve done something wrong with the violin,” Cruz mumbled. “I was getting it ready for play before you called me. There’s a chance I put too much rosin on the hair, or—”
“N̕ō̷ͦpe̫̽̕.̄ Nͧo͗,̧ͮ ņ̙̈o,̜ͣ̍ n̢o̍͌.ͧ̉͂” Plier cut him off with a shake of his head and a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Y̳̔ou̗͌̊ wͭͯä́n̢͟tͨ to̶̟ try̥_ a͊͑g̜ă̢͔ȉ͞n̛ͬ,͑ C̻̽̕r̽uz͚̟͑?̓̂ͪ”
Cruz sputtered at this. It’d technically been part of the truth, shouldn’t that count for something?
The bow’s loose hair felt stiff and wiry. It was abrasive against Cruz’s skin as he twisted a few strands between his fingers. It was a much less pleasant feeling than, say, old drawstrings, but he had to fidget with something, or else he’d shut down completely. Every instinct was screaming at him to stay still, as if the monster looming before him would just magically forget he was there.
All the close-calls he’d experienced, all the time-sensitive rituals he’d been part of that would’ve had disastrous results if you couldn’t react quickly.
All his practice, and some stupid part of him STILL felt compelled to just freeze whenever a situation turned sour.
Plier narrowed his primary eyes and clicked his tongue, which came in the form of a dark, curling tentacle. “T͢h̸͒ë̀̓r̡̂͒e'ͭͪs̈ n̯̊ͪó̢͘ pͦͭo͈͑ͨin̈́t͉ in̐ͤ l̟̔yḯ̬n͖ͮ_g̡̚_,ͯ ȧn̅̏d Yͤ͛̍O̗ͫU KNO͋W I͇̮ͪT̢̧ͣ.̙̓”
Cruz ground his jaw, feeling his temper bristle alongside his anxiety. “You’re right, I was thorough with the contract. I remember the part that said you have unlimited access to my mind, no matter where I am, how far away I am.”
He stopped fidgeting with the bow hair, just for a moment, to grip one of the seat’s armrests. “You can look in there whenever you want. I think you already know what’s going on, but you just want me to say it because you’d get a kick out of watching me squirm like this!”
“I o͙ͥͧw̸̉nͨ̈ y̋o̸̊ú̮r VI̢S̼̎I̽O͎̭͜Ń̝,” Plier snarled, arching his neck in a similar manner to how a cobras flared their hoods. “Y͡o_͂u̚͞ s̢̗ͪȯ̥ld youͯ̓͟r e̟ỳ͊ḛͪ̿s̿͑̂ig̒ht̒̌̚ t̀̒o͉̽ m̗̲e̚.͑͞ J̌̓u͇̿͝s̳͙͌t̖ lik͖ͫeͥͥ͠ Iͦͬ s̸o̷͜ld̡ on͂͒e̲͓ of͖̽ M̷̠Y TEET̟H̅ t̴̞o y͚͐͘o̰̭͊u͉͕.͖ Ỏ̝ͮn̔ḙ o̠f my̤̯͘ W̛ͦ͝I̮S̡̭D̸͖O͓͞M Ṱ͑̕ẼẺ̱T͓ͤH̻.͒̍̚ F̀r͘o̠m͚̊ A͈͆Lͪ̾L̷ T̨̞ͨH͔͐E̷ WͫA̤ͤY B̻͊͡AC̠̱K IN̦͒ T̹H̙̻Ẽ̋̋R͊́Eͣ́̔.̼̯͛ D̯͍o̸͖ͪ y͗ou̒͘͟ ḧ͍͙a͕͊v̶͔̓e an̖̆́y i̗̕dͬ̑͌eͯa͋ h̷o̭̼w̔͋ h̺̳̆ar̦d̵ i̭̔t w͆ͪ̔aş t̐o̍ g̝̭e̎t t͔̒͘h̀͜á̢͆t͈͍̍ o̘͇ͮuṫ͇?!”
“I never requested a specific type of tooth,” Cruz countered. “It’s not my fault you have so many rows that reach so far back.”
He paused, noticed one of the eyes near Plier’s jaw was twitching, then hastily added, “And I didn’t want you to give up any that you were more attached to. Y’know, the ones you like showing off, the ones that you have bigger stories about.”
There was truth in that; for one thing, Cruz simply hadn’t known what else an outer abomination of Plier’s caliber could really give him in exchange, considering how he’d prefer it not to naturally liquify his brain if he breathed on it too hard.
And for another thing, he’d been shocked that Plier had agreed to lose a tooth at all, especially for a human.
Teeth were to creatures like him as diamonds were to humans: precious in so many ways. Some eldritch circles used teeth as a form of currency. Others saw them as jewelry or collectibles, status symbols worth fighting over.
No matter how teeth were exactly viewed or used, outer abominations were infamous for having far too many of them. Enough for it to be nearly impossible that they’d all grown from the same gums…
Plier snorted, but he did puff his chest up a bit, his tentacle-tongue skating across his tusks. Then he sighed again. “If I̞ r̶̎e̊ͬ͝a͕lly w̥àn̓t̢̋̂e͇͌ͬd͈͇͎ t̛̩o w̢͇ͧà̩t̆̾͋c͆h̓̉̒ y͋̒o̵̞ͯṳ͛ s̜͆ͦq̞ͨ͡u̧i͎r͖͟m͜, ṯhe̪n͕ Î͛’d̐͛̏ j̊͢uṡẗ̶̖ b̘̋ͥĺ̢͢ì̖nd̨̰͖ y̾ͯoͬṳ aͤ͡nd͖͙̽ lĕͮt y̘oͦu̬͆ f̺lo̶p̭̫ ȧ͞r͑̑o̎͝u̽͠n̤̉dͅ i͉n̩ͨ a̞͆ B͑DSMͤ̀ dúngͮẽ͖onͣ̽ l͍͕ͅiͨ̆ke̿̇ s̎om̨͍e̫ͤͦ d̨̦e̗v̹olͯ̈́v̦̂ͭe̝͍͜d̢ͅ l̮͎u̫̣ͪm̾p̚ of pri̸̛̘mä̃t̮̲e-͕̮̖sl̥ͧ_u͉͌ǵ͊. B̴̥̏ű͟t̛̉ͬ yo͚û̻͕’̨ͮ͟v̊eͬ̈́ p̛̍ȑ͑oͪͅv̿͜en t̛ͧͯh͒̈aͨ́ṯ͠ ỵ̕o̍u̳͂ deserv̂e ṃò̖r̈́ê̪̌ a̚g͊́͡eͫ̄_n̫̣c͓̽͞ỳ̧͕ tͭḧ́a͔n th̨̟̚a̩̜̓t̬͂̕.͂̀͟ Ûsúâ̞ͪll͢͡y̳̍.́̏ͮ”
“Thanks,” Cruz deadpanned. The mental image made him shudder, and unlike earlier, he didn’t bother trying to hide that. “I feel so special right now.”
“Tͥ̎h͚̿ėn͆ͪ w̄͋͟hy̱̠ͩ do̿ͣn’̳t y̡ͪ͠ò̊u̵̞ ac͉t̝̗ͬu̯ͩaͩ̊l̼lyͅ u̠̺ͨsͩ͝e̼̔̑ so̠meͧ of tḧ́ͭa̸̻t̨̰͑ a͕ĝ̹͙e̩ǹ̦cy Iͧ justͫ ta̿̊̕l̐k̴̗̒ȩ̦d a͍͖b̫̠̈o̎ͪũͤ͟ť̇?̌͟” Plier asked, lowering his head to rest his chin on his folded arms.
Cruz hesitated. He knew most of Plier’s tricks; if he couldn’t bribe his victims into doing what he wanted, then he wasn’t above baiting them instead. Picking at insecurities and the like until their emotions were raw enough to grab their better judgement and pin it down until it was too late.
But the tone of voice he’d used was different than a few minutes ago.
The question hadn’t been rhetorical.
“…The Bleeding, right?” Cruz started, fidgeting with the bow’s ruined hair again. “This year was the first time it ever reached Earth; maybe it’ll be the only time. Who knows? But it was so damn special, and I couldn’t believe I found a way to celebrate it in a way that wouldn’t kill me in whatever way. Let alone that you invited me to celebrate, even though I couldn’t tag along to wherever you went to see it.”
He paused, a small grin etching its way across his features. “Y̢ͪo̴̫̹ư̦̲ w̲̃er̞è̩n̶̻͠’tͣ e̬̩̊v́e̺͔͇n̵̑ t͢h̯͜͞e͎͂ͫ o͇͗͐n̝ͨl̩̍ͨyͤ͆̕ mo͚rta̪̘̲l̓̂ t̨̺̼o͛͘ r̟ͦeaͧ͗̔li͜͠z̀̄̎e it w͉͍̑aͩͯs̋ͥ͆ š̢p̐̇i̿̑l̨̇l_i̻̙ͧn̬g̜̓ ov̸e͖rͧ̈́ͅ i͚ṇ̸t͔̆o͔ this̔ p̷̨lȃ͠n̢̗̕eͧ͜.͛ Th̠ͨa̩ͫt̯̃’̈͘s enc͔o̖͓͖urͦͣa̜g̜in͈ͨg͘͡ tͨ͠o̡̫ͧ s̈́̈́͟e̻̕ě̹, wͨ͘ï̛̃thͨ t̠̰͐h͉́ͯȇ͚ p͝r̠o̡̢̞je͠c̲̎t͉̀͘ś̬̀ w̢͚e͑’̭̺̀vḛ̭̰ g͞o̝t̰͢ a͢͟he̤ad̩ of̱̣͞ u̫ͨ͟ŝ͎ͭ…̼̂͒”
“I know, I just—” Cruz’s shoulders slumped. He took a deep, quiet breath. “I knew I handled it as well as I could. And I had fun in the moment. But now, I feel like I didn’t do enough to celebrate.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Cruz clarified. “It just didn’t feel as intricate or clever as it should’ve been. I saw other people celebrating, and the ways they did it just seemed…better than mine. I feel like I should’ve planned more to give my idea extra polish, but it’s too late for that now.”
Plier considered this, then shifted onto his side, propped up by at least two of his elbows. “Y͍̖o͎̅ǔ̫̅ s̀ͧa̯̬̽i̕d ỳ̗ou̘̎ s̺͘aw ot̊͢h̅e͋r̗͟ h̆̆̚u̮maǹͫsͣ͗͒ c̛͑ͨe̹͂͌l͉ͬͮë̶̡́bͥ͟r̞̮̊a̰͑̓t̘̎i̫̜ͯng̬͐.̺͐͠ W̭̄͡e͑lͮl͍̆, s̩̓͒o͕̙̟ d̅ͣͬid̢̏ Iͯͩ͜.̶̟͞ ”
He stretched one of his primary arms, reaching up toward what counted as the ceiling in his nest. All but one of his eyes glanced up; the remaining one stayed focused on Cruz. “On̠̹e̍͆ tͪ̌̅o͉o̠k t͞h̹ẻ̯̭i̹͋r̥ͣ͋ h̸̾a̦r̷̹̊v̞͇̊es̏̐t a̜͒ndͥͣ mͧ̈́͋ix̟̉͘edͯ ì̛͙t i̯̽͟nt͉ͦͦo sͯ͜o̱ḿe̱ ki̓ͥṋ̨̈́d͖ͭ͞ o̯f̊ waͫx͢ f̘̔o͖r̔ͯ̈́ a̞̙ s̫̾è̵t͌ o̡̯̎f̵̽ͭ c̷a͕n͜d̡͓̗l̀̽ͣe̞ͩs̘. A̹͆n̶͜͠ǫ̀̚th̓eͤr b̙̈́͜a̅̎r̹͇̩ël̦̽̆y̆̾ h̘̱͜a̴͎͇r̻̆̆vͪ͑e̪͊s͉te̼͐d̴ äͮ͢ hä́n̓ͪ͡d̝f̮̑ul,̧ͭ̕ and͇ ț̳̚hͤ̒e͓̊̕y͋ͥ u͚͞s̘ed͈ ā l̗ͬ́i͍͐ͭtt̘͡ļ͇e̐ pl͕ͭaͤs̨̬̒t͑i͉c d̠͗ͦr̮ͤ́õ̭̺p̭̌͢per̴̵ͣ ṭ̓o͟ pą̷̮iͭnͧ̌̈t̥ͧ s̥̉́o̭me̊͛ wh̻̬͛itͤè̯̏ r͚͝o̾̋s͓e̪̪͜s̝̭͡ wiͨ̍̕t͖̣͊h̜͔ i̴̲t̂̊ͪ.”
A thin, shaky beam of light fluttered over the monster’s face, and Cruz realized that he was fidgeting with one of the hidden mirrors.
Was he looking at the scenes Cruz had witnessed that fateful night?
Were some nebulous pieces of those other people trapped between the glass shards?
Cruz’s eyes were threatening to pop right out of their sockets. His stomach wasn’t twisting anymore; instead, something light was pushing at his ribcage.
He smiled under his mask. “Thank you.”
“Ǹo̟̖ p̦̙̈r̦͑o͆ble̽mͪ̃̾.̠” Plier closed all but his primary eyes as he smiled back. Then he shuffled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Tẻ̪ͨlͅl̵͙̦ y̵ͩo̧͐̓uͯ̈́̇ w̸ha̿̉͜t,͖̠̓ I̞ c̽â̹̑n̢ͭ al̩wä̛̺y̟ͩs͓̒ͩ čͤ̓ö́me͉̰ b̀̀͊a͋͗̽ck͈̿ͅ t̼_o͉̿͞ t̗͐̈ȟe m͖͠ḭ̉r̾̍͢ro̮̽͟ŗ̌͘ş̙ tom̱ͫoͬrr̎ó͓w.̮ͧ I̿̉̀t’s̝̱ g̛ẽ̠ẗ͢t͔͡in̹͒g͌̉ͅ c̡ͤ͜ḻ̭o͊s̭͙e t̓o̘̔ d͓͖̓i̟͡n̲ͪne͕r-̞̔ͦt̏i̷m̘͎͡e͇̱ͣ—̗͓”
Purely out of habit, Cruz checked his phone’s clock. “Uh, it’s ten-thirty.”
Cruz leaned forward in his seat. “Can we watch Sinners first? And then Obsession? Please?”
“A̖ͣẖ̛͇,̋ š̯o̼͡ ȳ͖ͧo̧ͮ̃u håͩ̕v̍en͢’_̗ͩt l͓ͯ̓o͌̇s̞ť̖͈ yo͆ͤū͘r t̀a͕s̏t̞͝e.̖ Go͕̜͟od s͙̈ǐ͂g͉ͥ̄n.͙̗͜” Plier chuckled, the sound coming out like a mound of tar-covered snakes slithering over one another. “A̼͐͟s̙ ḻ̇o͌͋ṅ͌g̿ͪ a̟̅sͧ y̦͆̎o̸u̳ͩ̑ g͌̐e̮̩͠t̜̀ š͇͜o̿ͭm͢e Nͬig̬ͪh̖̟̐tm̋ḁ͌̈r̸̭é Fu̬̔̑e͈͈ͣl̓ a_̟nd͉ D̡͖ĭͦ̒e̅t̾͘ P͚h̦ͣan̤ţ̜as͕̎ma i̙͉͌ṉ̅ t͇̕͞he̛ͯͨ h̢ă͐u̮ͮl͓͂,̭͂̈́ I͝ gu̸e͙̐ss̈́̆ I c̱͛̔a͚̾n ma̰͐̽ke͉̓ th̒͠åt̢̂ ĥ̶ͪa͠p͢pen̎.̗̮͊ ”
“You got it!” Cruz got to his feet and headed over to the staircase, only to stop short as he ralized the damaged bow was still in his grasp. He paused, pursing his lips, but then Plier held one of his hands out.
“No, it’s not like that,” Cruz explained, stepping closer and laying the bow onto Plier’s outstretched palm. “I appreciate the help, but I’ve got some spare hairs in my room. You don’t have to if you don’t wa—”
“I wasn’t, but whatever you say.” Cruz ascended the narrow staircase, a new spring in his step. He didn’t glance over his shoulder, which made Plier feel a small, strange conflict that he’d never admit to.
He didn’t see how Plier moved his free hand, letting it drape over a very specific corner of the screen-hole’s lower frame. Darkness was mostly everywhere in Screen Zero, but he stretched his talons through the particular shadows along the floor of the front row.
Hook, line…
The monster watched carefully as Cruz’s shadow stretched along the stairs.
Waited for that shadow to fall over the same spot as his clutch. Then, he felt something a small, hollow weight collide with his digits
…sinker.
He dug his claws in, holding the weight in place. He felt ribbons of that darkness slip between his knuckles, determined to follow Cruz until he turned the corner at the top of the stairs and disappeared.
The weight thrashed and squirmed, but Plier remained still has he held it, surprising himself with his patience.
He listened for Cruz’s movements around the theater. (His pulse was still a bit fast, but not nearly as bad as earlier.) He could hear him returning to Screen Six’s projection room, but soon enough, he was heading down the hall, past the concession counter, past the ticket-booths, out the door…
Once he was sure Cruz was gone, the abomination reeled in his catch.
Lunky was a tangled heap in his grasp, wailing and trembling as it was lifted closer. Plier squeezed it a little tighter—he felt something go pop against his talons, and that seemed to make Lunky hold still, its head lolling back, its neck at a bad angle.
“W͘H̡Ỏ͗̀ T͔HE͉͢ F̼̿ͤU̵̬C͍K̬ D̷͋̃Oͤ YO̡̗͆U TH̼̼͐IN͓K̺̪ Ÿ͉́͟O̤̞͐U̲̕ ÀR̺E̷ͮͤ?̕͜” He demanded, his voice booming like a stone casket as it plummeted into the ocean.
Lunky didn’t offer a coherent response. Just gibbered and groaned, raising its arms in an attempt to shield its head.
“Hͅaͫ̂͂vẹ̾ y͗o_̟͙u͘ f̗͆ő_͒r͑̊g̖̚ͅo̞̰͜t̢ͤt̩͆e̬͓ǹ t̢̼h̨ͤèͯ͞ s̨̝̤hi̱t̴́hole̟̩ w̳̆h̶ͬ̎er̀̆͒e̵ Ĭ f̠̝ó̩̄u̦nd̄ͩ̄ y̓o̺͋͟ư͜?͆ I c̺̋̅o̶̴͜ȕ͓̠l̉d̀’͛ͮ͋v̠e̪̩ jͫu̞͝s͇͈t̓̕ lē̅tͦ͘͜ yo̙͡u̱ t̩o b̧ȗr̞̃n̗͊ ẗ́ĥ̹e̓ͅre f̴̤̈o̤ͮr̀͐̈ ţ͉h͕̺͂e r̰̖e̤ͮ͞s͈̾̉t̗̀ o̊ͅf͖̾ y͖ͧ̔o̘ur̲̜̋ f̛ͤ͠u_cki͙̅ng eͭ̓̋xi͉͟ṣteͥnͬͨc̒ͯe̫,̮̀̓ buͬt̠̩ fͪor̗̮̋ S͇͓̑O̷ME̅͋ r̊e̛̻̺a̜̒͘s̱͛o͓̐n̼̾͜,̤͂ I̋̽ de̘ͣc̰̆íd̀e̟͘͝d̏̌̔ t̞̎o̹͋ͧ b_̂r͎̗i̗ng̙̔̄ yo̚ụ̔͊ her̺̿̒e.̶͎” Plier looked the smaller creature over, then turned his wrist to dangle it upside down. He held its arms back, forcing it to look at him. “Ḁ͔̙n̹d̿ T̝H̸͎I̾̎̍S̝͂ i̮͝s̈́ͧͮ h̻͊o̡̗wͯ y̠oͩ̃ͣu̜͍̪ f̘͖ư̴̆c̶̤͠ki͜ǹ̢g̒ t̰̅h͙̼̒an̬͛͞k m̗͉̔e̩͛ͮ foͪ͑r i͈ͬ́t͔?̂̽”
He gave the parasite a shake, determined to get some kind of answer.
Lunky just coughed and choked. A vile, pulpy fluid leaked out of its gums.
Plier growled deep in his throat, shaking his head and questioning his choices for the first time in at least a few hundred years.
He made a point to catch some of the strings in its head between his talons, stretching them taut.
Lunky cried out in agony, its pale hands scrabbling at his talons, trying and failing to make him loosen his grip.
A select few of his eyes gazed down at the bow of Cruz’s violin. At the ruined hair-strings that needed replacing.
A sadistic smile spread across his features, growing so wide that it forced the corners of his mouth to split. Drops of his abyssal blood slid along his fangs and tusks.
That’s right! I’m gonna try my hand at MerMay, and of course it has to involve my murder-blorbo-fanegos in The Pentas Family!
For this AU-Within-An-Au, the mob is made up of various types of merfolk and coastal harpies (because I just had to be so damn specific and give certain characters signatures that just literally would not work underwater).
Admittedly, not a whole lot else has changed; since I’m a proud Urban Fantasy Bitch, there’s still organized crime galore. It’s just…a bit more watery/nature-based.
Hit-jobs being handled in and around the ocean. Illegal stuff being stashed underwater or transported across the water. Murder tapes starring kidnapped targets being filmed in sea-caves or on distant piers, sort of like a horror movie and nature documentary combined. That kind of stuff.
Much like my masterpost for the original stuff, this is a list of info and headcanons made specifically for this month. Once May is over, my writing/characters will go back to their usual selves. (Updates and/or corrections will be made over time, if I see fit.) And, as always, I'm more than happy to answer questions about all this!
(Update: I've made a separate post going into more detail about how merfolk and selkies work in my personal story-universe. Please go here if you're interested!)
___
The Boss
Species: Selkie
She’s based on the ribbon seal, since they’re considered very clever in using their environment to their advantage. (Also because I just really want to reference Celine somehow.) Despite her seal-form’s distinctive appearance, all the merfolk working for her have sworn off hunting seals in general to show some extra respect. (This includes selkies; yes, the rest of the mob are allowed to track and potentially abduct selkies if the job calls for it, but they can't grievously harm them. If the selkie in question is a legitimate threat to the mob's way of life, then The Boss will be the one to deal with them.)
She’s a bit of a distant-yet-familiar figure in the city; plenty people know of her, but no-one outside of the family really knows her. She holds ownership of the local boardwalk and marina—as well as the remains of an abandoned aquarium just across from them. Many people can’t agree on how she got said ownership (some say it was through inheritance, others aren’t so sure), but that’s just fine. It’s enough information to keep most outsiders from trespassing. And those who do…well, things never go well for them.
She usually only goes swimming in her seal-form once or twice a week, unless business requires her to travel across water. This is mainly to keep up appearances for the mob (since she’s one of very few members who can fully pass for a human), as well as gather clients and supplies. Even with the other air-breathing members helping carry that stuff out, there’s just so much business to oversee. She still takes her pelt anywhere and everywhere she goes, wearing it as a robe or a shawl. (And trying to steal it from her is an absolute death-sentence, whether by her own hands or those of her peers.)
Murdock Mallory
Species: Harpy
He’s based on the osprey, since they’re known for having incredibly strong and sharp talons (I mean, Murdock would obviously use talons in the place of knives no matter what bird you go for, but ospreys specifically check the aquatic box for this setting).
In my opinion, harpies would have distance-sight on the same level as regular birds of prey (eagles, hawks, etc.). However, I feel like it would also make sense if this caused some harpies to have a sort of ironic near-vision problem (i.e., seeing closer objects as blurry). Murdock would be one to have such a problem in this setting, and that’s where his black-tinted glasses come in. (The Boss gave them to him shortly after he started working for her.)
Much like my headcanon for original Murdock, this one is also a bird-lover. To the point where he sees the crows, pigeons, and seagulls nesting near the local beach as his pets. And while seagulls typically answer to no god, Murdock still has his ways. (No, this does not mean he does anything to stop those seagulls from attacking beach-goers.) The only exception to this is pelicans, because Murdock doesn’t see any respectable qualities in them. He’ll usually just kill them on sight unless he’s focused on something else.
The Newcomer [aka Y/N]
Species: Human
Much like The Boss, their personal history is pretty vague, and they don't mind keeping it that way. At one point in the past, they studied marine biology, and while they were on a scholarship, certain money-problems caught up with them and eventually drove them out of their program. This, of course, led them down a path that grew darker and darker until Murdock found them crashed out on a much rockier part of the beach. They’re not sure why he decided to take them with him that night (and neither is Murdock, if he’s completely honest), but now they have a new life. They have a job, a purpose, and a family that’s WAY more interesting than most other people could afford to run with. So, they can’t really complain.
Much like the original version, The Newcomer mainly assists Murdock and the others with their work. Sometimes they’re the one to lure a target too close to the water. Sometimes they’re holding the camera for the odd murder-tape or two. Sometimes they’ll run around town to relay messages or plant certain things in certain places. And sometimes they get right in on the action, whether being carried through the air by one of the harpies (usually Murdock. He is their main mentor, after all) or swimming alongside the merfolk. Sure, they know how to pilot most vessels, but they like getting in the water whenever they can afford to. (Because otherwise, they would’ve stolen their set of scuba gear for nothing.)
Remember that abandoned aquarium I mentioned? Well, plenty of the other mobsters have made a home there (mainly the harpies roosting in certain old exhibits) and The Newcomer is no different. They’ve made what used to be the gift shop into a sort of apartment. Whenever they aren’t involved in outdoor work, they’re usually running around the halls to help organize supplies/products.
Caliban Crawford
Species: Mershark
He’s based on the mako shark, since they’re infamous for being one of the most intelligent types of shark out there, which they use to be even more of a menace to society.
Due to events in his past, he has a slight fixation on human teeth. So, whenever he’s assigned to harvest organs after a hit-job, he’ll always remove the teeth first; they’re the only parts he won’t agree to sell. He’s gathered a collection of them from his targets, his favorite of them all being a silver piece. (He used to just keep them in a little bag hidden in his lair, but The Newcomer helped him arrange them into a necklace sometime after they met him.)
Also, Snare is still along for the ride! In this universe, he’s a cookie-cutter shark; not just that, but a rare leucistic cookie-cutter shark. Unfortunately, his coloring has led to a few instances of him almost being trapped by researchers. But courtesy of Caliban, those researchers tend to have a bad habit of never making it back to land. (And yes, I know I’m missing a big pun-oppurtunity by not just making him a sea hare, but those things just wouldn’t really work as pets.)
Azalea Crawford
Species: Cecaelia
She’s based on the blue-ringed octopus, since that can reference both poison being her signature method, as well as irl Ro’s height. All the better to grin at whoever decided to underestimate you as they convulse, right? (Though, keep in mind that she wouldn’t actually be tiny. In my opinion, while merfolk in general would be somewhat bigger or smaller than humans, they also just wouldn’t be the exact same size as certain regular fish, since they’re humanoid.)
Yes, she and Caliban are adoptive siblings in this universe instead of biological siblings, but that doesn’t make their bond any less genuine! In fact, since both sharks and octopi are on their own right after birth, there’s a chance neither of them would have survived to adulthood if they hadn’t found each other. (Certain tooth-based events forced Cal to hide out in the same coral reef Aza was using for shelter at the time. Their relationship started off as a bit symbiotic, but that became more and more caring/respectful as they matured.)
Despite her venom-warning-colors, her size and flexibility makes her a shockingly effective spy. It helps that she’s also one of very few merfolk-members who can actually survive on land (granted, she can typically only stay out of the water for thirty minutes or so).
K.O./Kaiser Oasis
Species: Mer-crustacean [I couldn’t find any actual/hypothetical terms for a creature like this that sounded right, leave me alone]
He’s based on the peacock mantis shrimp because of course he is! It’s probably the only thing in the ocean that literally punches its prey to death! Naturally badass! (Working with the same logic I talked about with Azalea, he’d also still be human-sized.)
When it comes to illegal fighting matches, he actually has to hold back a lot of the time (because, again: MANTIS SHRIMP). Sure, he’s usually assigned to kill his opponents. But certain fights just need to last longer (example: ones that are being recorded to be sold on the Dark Web), so he’ll have to begrudgingly go “easy” in the first half.
Despite being humanoid, he still has twelve color-receptors in his eyes. Part of him is understandably smug about being able to see so many things that most other creatures just can’t. Another part of him is sad that he can’t find a way to put those colors on the stuff The Boss arranges to be sold. Yes, impossible colors would make contraband even more tempting/expensive for clients. But then the impossible part comes in…
Garret Wyre
Species: Mereel
He’s based on the moray eel. Now, while eels technically don’t suffocate their prey like snakes do, they are apparently known to wrap themselves around said prey, basically tying a knot to make escape more difficult. (Plus, this version of Garret still has big, strong hands, even if there’s webs in-between the fingers.)
He almost never goes up to the surface—scratch that, he hardly ever leaves the reef he primarily inhabits (good thing it’s pretty close to the cove). Even when he’s assigned to carry out a hit-job, he’ll go out of his way to stay underwater as much as possible and then, once everything’s said and done, swim back home as fast as possible. So many things could go wrong if he stayed out longer than necessary, right? (Because of this, his work can't to be recorded like many of the others. Although it might be a different story if you offered to use a scuba camera.) The only exception to this is business meetings with The Boss, which usually include the rest of his peers. Other than that, it’ll take a lot of cajoling, bribing, and occasionally fighting to convince him to peek out of the water for something.
While all the merfolk members play a part in hiding or transporting contraband, Garret is the best at it (his paranoia helps. It’s efficient, but it can occasionally lead to even more problems than there were in the first place). He has all sorts of hidey-holes in and around his reef.
Parker Thenope
Species: Naga
He’s based on the banded sea krait, since they’re cool and…well, I figured I already had enough harpies in here. Ironic, since his name is referencing one of the Greek sirens, who were originally depicted with wings, but eh. (Besides, original Parker is all about drowning his targets, and a naga would have more of an opportunity to take his time with that stuff.)
He’s still very fond of music in this setting (he can still play instruments just as well, too; you say “claws” he says “built-in picks” lol). While he could still work in the industry here—again, I’m an Urban Fantasy Bitch—he’s aware that he doesn’t need a job to survive, thanks to instinct and living semi-feral environment for most of his life. So, he’ll get his music-fix via sneaking into a studio near the beach at night, after all the employees have clocked out. (And while he tries to cover his tracks when he leaves, he still isn’t always successful, so now some of the aforementioned employees are convinced the studio is haunted.)
Much like irl Nate, he hates dolphins. None of his peers know why (sure, dolphins can be assholes, but there’s gotta be something specific for Parker to have such a particular attitude about them), and he doesn’t plan on elaborating. He’s just glad that dolphins typically don’t come into the mob’s territory…although, if they do, he’ll be the first to try running them off.
Val Ocitie
Species: Harpy
They’re specifically based on the peregrine falcon, since as far as I know, those birds are still considered the fastest on Earth. And since original Val specializes in bullets, it’s only right that this version of them can move as fast as one.
They have an even more competitive relationship with Murdock in this setting. If they have enough free time and hear that the same goes for Murdock, then they’ll almost always try to challenge him to some kind of competition. Luckily for them, the hitman pretty much never turns down because he’s an adrenaline junkie whose need to show off has replaced some of his common sense.
Unlike Murdock, Val tends to avoid using their talons for hit-jobs. Yes, they know talons are quick and effective, but so are gunshots. Yes, firearms can be hard to come by (and even harder to stash), but sometimes you can’t afford to take the body somewhere else. Sometimes your carnivorous friends aren’t available to drag it underwater. And in such cases, bullet holes are a great way to make potential corpse-discoverers immediately think a human perpetrated the crime.
Two-Toes Johnny
Species: Mergrouper
He’s based on the goliath grouper, since they’re certified Big Boys who take absolutely no shit from anyone.
Plenty of jobs involve the target being on the wrong boat at the wrong time. While any of the other can sabotage vessels, sometimes that’s just not enough. Sometimes things get so dicey that there’s no option except to just ram the vessel until it tips and sinks. Whenever it comes to that, Johnny’s the guy to turn to (...although he’s also the one to suggest just doing this in the first place, no matter what the job entails. To his credit, it technically is the most surefire way to success.)
Much like Caliban’s thing with teeth, Johnny has an interest in alcoholic products. He still enjoys classic books as well, but you can’t exactly keep collections like that underwater. (Side note: according to my research, fish can indeed get drunk. To be clear, YOU SHOULD NOT TRY TO GET FISH DRUNK FOR ANY REASON BECAUSE ANIMALS DESERVE RESPECT, but it’s possible. Look it up for yourself and then imagine how that would go with merfolk.) Since most of the mobsters in this setting don’t have to rely on money to survive, they often take their payment in other ways (either just the thrill of a hit-job or…luxuries, let’s say). Johnny typically requests either novels or various types of liquor—the stranger/less common, the better. (The Newcomer integrates this into their typical errands, so they’ve gotten plenty of favors out of him.) He owes plenty of favors to The Newcomer, since they tend to. He likes experimenting with them (mixing, aging, etc.), and he’s well-aware of their potential use in jobs.
Phoenix Rhong
Species: Harpy
She’s based on the black kite, since they’re one of those species that will intentionally start fires in order to flush their prey out of hiding.
Out of all the harpies in the mob, Phoenix is the most enamored with shiny things. So, if a target happens to be wearing jewelry at the time of their death, and if said jewelry is deemed not valuable enough to sell on the Black Market, she’ll volunteer to take it. (Plus, shiny things can be the perfect tools when you need to be at least a little subtle about starting a distraction-fire…unless that fire has to be on a boat to force targets to jump in the water. There’s no way to really be subtle about that stuff.)
She has a bit more of a public presence than most of her peers in the mob...sort of. Let me explain: if harpies were to exist in modern society, it probably wouldn’t be uncommon for humans to try pulling them aside and asking them stuff in the event of a disaster or the like. (Y’know, since harpies are in the air so often, so they could definitely see way more than others can. Also because humans just have to stick their damn noses in everything.) And if anyone would take advantage of something like that to mislead potential witnesses, it’s Phoenix. She is one of the most skilled liars in the mob, so she’s gotta do something with it.
Miles C. Peyote
Species: Harpy-adjacent [or…a distant cousin of harpies. You’ll see in a sec]
He’s based on the fish-eating bat, or Myotis vivesi, since they’re known for using sophisticated techniques to hunt. Adaptive echolocation would certainly help Miles in setting his traps and making sure targets fall into said traps, no? (Plus, if you have wings and know how to use them, then there’s really nothing to stop you from having any damn vantage point you want to watch shit go down.)
Since a few of the pools in the abandoned aquarium were drained a long time ago, Miles had claimed them as both his trap-building workshop and trap-testing studio. He just likes being prepared before he has to set aforementioned traps up in outdoor job-sites.
While he’s still just as quiet as in the original setting, he’ll pipe up whenever the mob decides to hold onto a target for a while. Because captive targets make excellent lab rats to test his work. (And if a whole target isn’t available, then a spare limb can still work.) Otherwise, he’ll settle for The Newcomer bringing stuff from the old gift shop. He’s sometimes hesitant to use plushies, though, since they make nice decorations for his personal roost.
Howie Thetaxi
Species: Harpy
He’s based on the albatross, since, much like Miles’ case, they’re very clever when it comes to solving problems and navigating via ocean winds.
While all the harpy mobsters here can watch/follow targets or enemies, Howie can usually pick up the slack if the others are busy, since he can travel hundreds of miles (thousands of kilometeres, since irl Ryan is British, lol) in a single trip, as well as locate vessels from a similar distance.
Where original Howie tampers with cars, this Howie does the same with boats. Sabotaging engines, snatching certain parts to replace with counterfeit ones, the works. Plus, if you time it right, if can be shockingly easy to sneak off with smaller boats or jet-skis and the like. Sometimes Howie finds himself doing just that to help The Newcomer whenever a job calls for them to sail instead of swim.
Mercury Fredes
Species: Swan bachelor [I only say that because apparently “bachelor” is the masculine equivalent to the word “maiden.” You'll see, just keep reading]
So. Most of you already know the whole deal with selkies. Well, some myths portray shapeshifting creatures with pretty much the same abilities, only they’re swans instead of seals. Most of those myths were centered around women, but I’ve still seen some things about male selkies, so why not have swans that can turn into men and back again? (And since Mercury is based on Thomas Sanders, it helps that 20% of swans are gay, lol.) Plus, during my research of bird species for the harpies here, I wound up learning that some swan species are adaptable enough to live on beaches and swim in saltwater (particularly mute swans).
Anyway…much like The Boss, Mercury tends to stay in his human form most of the time, wearing his feather-skin in a nice, fluffy jacket. Whenever he does go into swan form, it’s usually part of a plot-and-coordination scheme. Since so many people don't see swans as threatening, it's not too hard for Mercury to get a target to follow him off the beach and into the water so one of his mer-peers can take care of them. (Plus, no-one would ever suspect a wandering swan to be listening in on their conversations...)
That’s just one of the ways this version of Mercury might be even more dangerous than the original. Swans are clever, vicious, and protective. They send plenty of people to the ER each year, and at least one killed a man. I think Casual Geographic said it best: “...where geese are all talk, swans can actually do damage. You could try to humble a swan by grabbing its neck, but you’re still risking your entire way of life if this angry Q-tip Tweety goes for your eyes.”
___
Outsiders/Allies
Casey Clowes (CoryxKenshin fanego created by @insane4fandoms )
Species: Selkie
He’s based on the leopard seal, since they’re literally one of the most mysterious species on the planet. And as mentioned before, due to The Boss, while he’s still technically a threat to the mob, most of its members won’t go out of their way to kill him. They’ll still taunt him, mess with him, misguide him, and interfere with his work if the job calls for it. But even when confrontations get physical, they’ll make sure he’s able to walk and/or swim away.
Now, if you know anything about selkies, then you know that stealing their pelts is a horrible thing to do. And, since his creator and I are addicted to angst, this version of Casey has had this little aspect cranked up to eleven; his pelt was irrecoverably destroyed sometime in the past. He still retains many of his non-human abilities (enhanced swimming/diving, scarily long breath-holding threshold, eating raw fish with no consequences, etc.). But he’s unable to shapeshift the way most other selkies can. Even if he’s made a way for himself without that, it obviously wasn’t easy…
Much like how the mobsters are technically still mobsters, Casey is still technically a detective. Despite his inability to shapeshift, he has a few more limitations than he’d care to admit. (mainly needing money to survive on land). But he still tries to live semi-feral, since he’s just a badass like that. He lives out of a secluded beach house that he personally set up in one of the many sea-caves near the city boardwalk. Whenever he isn’t working, he’s swimming/diving to hunt or simply explore.
R.D. (my fanmade StephEgo)
Species: Mer-ray
She's based on manta rays, since they're considered one of the most intelligent fish in the ocean. They're highly curious and capable when it comes to complex problem-solving, and have demonstrated exceptional long-term memory skills; I feel that aligns very well with the original R.D.'s scientific career/mindset.
Much like the original version, she has just as strong a career in the Black Market as Caliban (and yeah, they're still very much partners in this AU! Of course they are! They're based off of YouTube's IT Couple, you really think I could just separate them like that?!). Sure, there's already tons of public research involving both humans and merfolk, and said research is more than available to both societies...but that doesn't necessarily mean every single question has been answered. Y'know, due to the fact that they're the questions most people don't want to be answered. So, R.D. has contact with a few less-than-legit characters aside from The Pentas Shoal.
And much like the original version, she finds herself travelling long distances quite often for her work. It wouldn't do for her and her associates to conduct all their experiments in one place, would it? Besides, some materials are only available in certain, out-of-the-way places. Still, R.D. makes sure to return to the waters around the Cove Port Inlets in-between her business ventures.
Sam Ryder (OC created by @sammys-magical-au )
Species: Merlionfish
As for Sammy’s own request, they’re based on the lionfish. And if you thought regular lionfish were venomous, well you ain’t seen nothing yet. (It just makes sense, considering merfolk are technically highly-advanced fish.) Sure, this aspect has gotten Sam into trouble more than a few times, but they’re smart and crafty with their business. Not only do they have strength on their side, they’re quite literally untouchable for most potential enemies. (And no, they’re never gonna stop bragging about that.)
While this version of Sam still has better morals than the mobsters, they’re still a bit unhinged and willing to work with them if the situation calls for it. The primary business between them is consensual venom-harvest-selling (something that Cecaelia!Azalea often partakes in herself), but they’re also a great asset when it comes to escorting members or other allies to certain places, as well as guarding certain products for a time. Plus, they’re not above gossiping about certain underground business being held in their home-waters. If said subject happens to align with Pentas operations…well, that’s just business, right?
Much like the original version, Sam doesn’t live in the waters near the Cove Port Inlets. In fact, they live quite a ways across the pond, but they still journey back and forth through different channels for work. They have other allies/friends aside from The Pentas Shoal in the States.
