It’s hard to pick a favorite from my babies... Tbh tho it’s probably Gremix if just for how much development and shit i’ve spent on him
I: tends to idolize people they shouldn't
I mean Tiffyx idolized her dad (Catfeetz) of all people for most of her youth, so that was not a great plan. She’s gotten past it now. Took her long enough tho...
Q: is the quickest to judge others.
Boss. You have a very short amount of time after meeting him to sway his opinion of you towards Cool Interesting New Person instead of Person He’ll Gladly Kill For No Reason
Don couldn't place it, exactly, but since Gremix had left, something was off. Well, for one thing, the oversized goblin found himself feeling almost lonely. The blonde had been his top visitor during work hours, despite each visit being related to some business matter, and now it seemed nobody came into his office at all. Something didn't feel right about it.
A final puff, and the cigar he had been smoking was naught more than a tiny smoldering stump. He put it out in a dark tray to the side of his desk and expectantly searched his breast pocket for another. He frowned. There wasn't another. Don opened a drawer of his desk and flipped open a little box—empty as well. Another drawer, then another searched, all yielding the same: nothing. His frown deepened.
Oh, right. Gremix usually kept his supply up.
That guy was always on top of everything, wasn't he? A deep sigh, and Don stood. Suddenly the air in the office felt too still. Too heavy. He needed to walk.
Heavy metal door opened without a noise, and carmine eyes scanned the hall. Empty as well. No guard stood by at his door… as Gremix used to enforce. Don began to walk.
It was quiet at HQ, mostly. Voices drifted down the hall from somewhere further down. He stopped at Gremix's old office, opening the door and poking his head in.
Naturally, the stressed little warlock wasn't there. Rather, his elder half-brother and supposed replacement drunkenly slept; sprawled over the desk, snoring gently. Don's brows furrowed, but he said nothing. A tiny head peered over the side of the chubby man, black hair and piercing blue eyes inspecting the visitor only a moment before the girl gave a loyal salute. She said something about getting some annual report or something like that to him within the next few days—what even was that? Don never kept track—and he only nodded, leaving just as quietly as he came, shutting the door again in his wake.
On the bright side, someone was doing the financial stuff. Good to know one thing Gremix used to do was still being done. He wandered a bit further, and there was Catfeetz's office. Frost spread over the walls a good few inches from the borders of the door, and Gaztonne sat in front of it, the ever-grinning menace of a rogue almost seeming dejected. Almost.
He peered up with those creepy, empty eyes as The Boss paused before him. A much lazier salute than the girl gave, and a bored voice reported: “Catfeetz ain't seeing visitors right now on account of emotional distress from Drixzy leaving him, Sir; but of course you're the exception. Shall I announce your presence?”
Don shook his head, continuing his walk.
The voices that echoed down the hall were traced back to the break room. He heard laughter and conversation and… well, nothing that sounded like work. Don pushed up his sleeve, glancing at the cogwheel wristwatch for the time as he walked. They should have been working. In his head he could see it: the serious accountant yelling at the lot of them, telling them to get off their asses or get fired in the worst kind of way. He never would have stood for it.
Don paused by the open entrance, peeking into the breakroom. Underlings sat around idly, chatting, eating—it was actually quite the mess, too. A couple of them were getting rather handsy on one of the couches. Don grit his teeth. Why wasn't there a cigar between them? Why weren't these jackasses working? When did his hands clench into such tight fists?
The conversations came to an abrupt stop, one underling's notice of their observer bringing the others' attention to the same. They watched, quietly, some eyes wide and worried. Deeply furrowed brows shadowing narrowed eyes that leered down at them all even from the distance of the doorway, thick lips pulled taught in a scowl not occupied by its usual smoking stick, hands shaking slightly with sheer tension of the balled fists they held in… The Boss looked mad.
And for the first time any of those underlings had ever experienced, he snapped. His deep voice was a booming sound through the halls, akin to a gunshot or a sudden crack of thunder.
Oh, he yelled.
“What th' everlovin' fuck am I payin' you shitheads for, huh?! You think this is a game? Well I ain't playin', so unless you wanna meet the ass-end of my name, GET BACK TO WORK!”
They scattered much like roaches in the light, tripping over their own feet with sputters of apologies and “yes sir”s and in a flash the room was cleared, the behemoth goblin left alone again as he glowered into it, breath heavy with rage.
His footsteps were as an angered elekk thundering down the hall—Gaztonne didn't need any more warning than the fury he had heard aimed at his comrades in the break room, he was away from Catfeetz's door before the man had even turned to come. The iced-over door was shoved open with a cracking slam that shook the whole hallway, and Catfeetz nary had time to react to that before he was pulled from his seat and dragged over his own desk by a fist that clenched the collar of his shirt.
Panic wasn't something oft seen on the Death Knight's face, but if there was a word for the fear in his lich-glow eyes, that was probably it. Cold, dead nose pressed against the triangular wedge that made Don's, that furious gaze locked unwaveringly into the undead's own.
“Is this how you run a fuckin' business, Cat?” came the infuriated growl from The Boss's throat. “A broad breaks up with you an' suddenly there's mass chaos?! What kinda mother fuckin' underboss are you, huh?! How am I supposed t' trust you t' take over when I can't even trust you t' do your duty while I'm still here?!”
The frozen deader swallowed, but said nothing. Silence followed for a few brief moments and he was tossed like a discarded ragdoll back across the desk. He scrambled to his feet, some grumbled excuse for an apology falling on deaf ears as Don turned and stomped back out.
A threatening statement was his parting gift. “Get back to work, Catfeetz, or Light help me, you will regret it.”
Another door slammed open, this time to Gremix's old office.
“And YOU,” Don yelled, large hand pointing across the room. Neither that nor any of the other cacophony he had caused seemed to effect Razzlex, the bedraggled wreck of a man still snoring gently on the desk. But he wasn't the one being addressed anyway. The tiny girl behind him perked, eyes wide. Had she done something wrong?
The Boss's voice dropped to a much calmer tone, though he still sounded distressed. “You're th' only person I've seen doin' fuckin' anythin' around here today. What's your name?”
“Lymren, sir.”
“Good. Give yourself a raise, an' get this useless drunkard piece of shit a blanket. I don't care what you were on before; now you're his assistant.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed gently and Don slumped back against the wall, fingers pressed to either temple and eyes squeezed shut in frustration.
“Mistah Gutshot.”
Fierce eyes opened again and darted down to meet the teal hair and aqua eyes of Tiffyx, who stared up at him with a smile. Catfeetz's plucky daughter was a much more welcome sight than anyone involved with The Family was right now but… When did she get here?
“I got ya somethin'. Uncle Grem sent me a letter a while ago, sayin' you'd probably need me t' bring it aroun' now.”
A breath of relief escaped Don as the young girl held up a large box of—beautiful, glorious, oh thank the Light—cigars. Grateful hands were quick to retrieve one of the dried herb sticks and in record time it was lit and between his teeth and goodness did the smoke drifting before his face bring a mental satisfaction the man couldn’t even begin to explain.
A large hand patted her on the head and Tiffyx grinned.
“Thanks, kitten,” he said finally, a cloud of gray floating from his mouth as he spoke.
“No problem, Mistah Gutshot,” Tiffyx laughed, squeezing his thick midsection in a hug he reciprocated with one strong arm. “Where is Uncle Grem, anyway? He ain't in his office.”
Don stared down at the girl in silence a few moments before giving a lazy shrug.
“He's on, uh, vacation,” he decided. “A long, much-needed vacation.”
“Is he comin' back?” The girl looked almost concerned. “...Is he dead?”
Don laughed—the sound a great comfort to each fearful green ear that heard it through the halls of HQ—and shook his head.
“Nah. Don't you worry about your uncle. He's jus' off livin' life for once.”
“So is he comin' back, though?”
Another puff of smoke and a vaguely worried glance down the hall before Don answered.
