It Is I, The Trash Man

The wind was picking up outside, warbling in a sharp, shrill way—like it was dragging along the stubborn shards still attached to the window frame. 

“Casey?!” Mad bellowed, boots crunching on broken glass as he leapt into the hallway. The chainsaw bobbed up and down at his side as he charged toward the dusty old check-in desk. (Which, in the grand scheme of things, offered plenty of potential hiding spots.) “Casey, where are you?!” 

He hadn’t seen K.O. yet. He had his back to him. 

Well, it wasn’t like K.O., as well as his many past opponents, had to play by any rules in the ring…

He set his jaw and marched forward, fishing through the pockets of his amaranth-dyed jeans. The brass knuckles slipped on so easily, so naturally. It made sense: they’d been part of a welcome gift when he was first accepted into The Pentas Family. 

Once Francis and J.P. had been reunited with his left and right hands respectively, K.O. broke into a sprint.

Mad barely had time to glance over his shoulder before K.O. snatched a handful of his hair, yanked his head up, and slammed it onto the counter.

He wrenched it back and forth with three dull thuds and wild shrieks of pain. 

Just as he was about to go for a fourth, Mad managed to twist in his grasp, driving his elbow into that little spot just below his attacker’s sternum. 

K.O. had no choice but to release his hold. He had to back away, had to swallow the bile that surged into his throat.

About two seconds later, foreign weight crashed into his cheek. The taste of iron gushed around his mouth, the smell racing up to his nose.

Mad failed to pull his fist away quickly enough, which gave K.O. the perfect opening to grab hold of the offending arm and wrench it to the side. He swung Mad into the closest wall, forcing the chainsaw to fall away. 

Mad thrashed and bucked and screamed, but K.O. kept one arm twisted behind his back. It gave him plenty of leeway to shove him onto the floor and pin him there. 

Now, Caliban had more experience in dealing with Mad, so of course he’d gone on many a rant about Mad. And more than one of those rants included the speculation about taking swigs from jerry cans. 

And as this bear-suited bastard simply refused to stop kicking and squirming and swearing and feeling like a smaller, fleshier version of those mechanical bulls, K.O. decided he could put money on him having sipped battery acid straight from an Energizer pack.

But before K.O. could add enough extra force to snap any of the bones in Mad’s arms, stampeding footsteps caught his attention.

His eyes snapped back to the hallway, to the staircase that stood at the very end of it. 

First he saw Snare racing down those steps, his long, thin legs moving in and out like scissors beneath him. 

Next, he saw Scout, yipping and baying, hot on Snare’s fuzzy heels. “Arr-woo, arr-woo, aar-woooo!”

Finally, he saw another one of his human peers rushing after the animals: Azalea, whose long, chestnut hair was practically lashing through the air behind her. 

“Aza?” K.O. called, having to spit out a wad of blood to clear his voice. “What’s going on?!”

“I have no idea!” Azalea responded, barely able to spare him a glance. Her sights were firmly set on her brother and Casey’s respective pets, chasing them as they chased one another around the corner and out of sight.

(Not that K.O. could really blame her. If Snare got lost for a second time tonight, Caliban would probably pop a vein or two, and there was no guarantee that those veins would be his. As for Casey…well, even if no-one could ever be John Wick, one point of this new plan was to get him off The Pentas Family’s collective back for at least a little while.)

Too bad the mild surprise caused him to loosen his grip. 

Without warning, Mad drew his legs close, pulling his knees halfway back under him. That was all he needed to rear up and slam the back of his head into K.O.’s chin.

Fun Fact: the human chin could be a bit of an off-switch in the ring. It could be the key to creating a lever-effect, forcing an opponent’s brain to rock around in their skull and knock them out cold. 

Mad hadn’t punched K.O. straight on, hadn’t used quite enough force, but K.O. still saw stars, still felt ice splinter throughout his jawbones. 

Before he knew it, K.O. was up, then falling, then landing painfully on his back. 

As the spots cleared from his vision, he saw Mad hefting his chainsaw, looming over him.

“Where is he?” Mad demanded, raising his weapon above his head. “Where’s Casey? What did you do to him?!”

“What did you do to him?!” K.O. echoed. “Just hearing your name makes him look like he’s gonna be sick!”

An unintelligible roar flowed out of Mad’s lungs. And then the chainsaw came arcing down. 

Nerves on fire, K.O. shifted, craning his neck out of the tool’s path in the nick of time. The metal band and all its jagged teeth hit the floor just an inch or two away from his head. 

Only…it didn’t lodge itself there. Aforementioned teeth didn’t sputter or get caught on anything. No clouds of dust or chunks of linoleum were sent flying.

The more seconds ticked by, the more K.O. noticed just how quiet the chainsaw was. Just how quiet it’d been this entire time, come to think of it. The engine hadn’t been rumbling or whirring at all. 

Mad seemed to realize this around the same time. “W-What the—?”

His face seemed to be caught in slow-motion as it went from contorted with fury to…slack with confusion.

He pulled back, examining the chainsaw’s main body. He tried revving it once. Twice. Three times

Nothing happened.

“Oh—oh, fuck you!” Mad cried. He started shaking his weapon, prodding at the button, smacking it every which way. “Fuck youfucyoufuckyouFUCK YOU!”

While this was transpiring, K.O. had been dutifully wriggling his way free, getting into a better position to regain his balance. However, he just so happened to be struck with a brilliant flare of word-association.

“How good are you?!” K.O. barked. 

If there was ever a time for a record to screech somewhere in the background.

Mad froze, one gloved hand suspended in the air, suddenly forbidden from completing its arc.

His wild, orangish-brown eyes wandered over to meet K.O. grayish-blue ones, mouth agape like a fish that had just plopped down onto the deck of a boat. 

“Huh?” K.O. continued, raising his eyebrows and plastering on the widest, most shit-eating grin he could manage. 

He was no stranger to fuck you’s in the ring, and through the years, he’d gathered responses to them. One of his favorites was simply pausing to offer a thumbs-up along with a sweet, cheesy smile. If that didn’t anger his opponents enough to throw them off their rhythm, nothing would.

Sure, there were plenty of variations to that tactic, but he’d never gotten to try one quite like this before.

Mad stayed silent. He fidgeted in place, like he desperately wanted to back away but was also gravely concerned about the potential of anyone seeing him retreat. He glanced to the side for half a second, which was plenty of time for K.O. to make sure that they’d moved closer to that broken window.

A little more goading was in order.

K.O. started with a whisper: “How…good…are…” 

He knew his eyes were wide enough to resemble a mouse lemur’s Thousand Yard Stare, that his grin was getting more manic by the second.

And he did nothing to change that.

All the better to keep attention off of how he was moving his arms, elbows rising off the floor to free up his hands as he ever-so-slightly leaned forward.

“…YOU?!” He finally concluded, his voice rising all the way to the top of his lungs.

Mad’s face twisted again, eyes narrowing, lips peeling back in a snarl as a veritable wave of disgust and mortification crashed over him. He even seemed to briefly forget the technical difficulties his chainsaw had been suffering. 

He might’ve been about to spew out a comeback, but that was when K.O. saw his chance. 

The boxer launched himself off the floor, putting everything he had behind his fist as it flew into the side of Mad’s stomach. (Kidneys never liked being tapped, after all.)

Mad crumpled back, doubled-over and coughing up his lungs. 

K.O. was behind him in an instant, one hand snatching the collar of his suit while the other grabbed a section of belt that rested on his hip.

More glass crunched beneath both of them as he hauled Mad forward, then bashed him against the bottom half of the window’s hollow frame. There was nothing to be impaled on, but the amount of force K.O. used probably made it feel like there was. 

But then, he was only halfway out. 

K.O. remedied that via clutching one leg in each hand and flipping him over the threshold.

Mad might as well have been speaking in tongues, howling and raging all at once as he landed on the cracked pavement outside with a solid thud.

K.O. watched him writhe out there. He wanted to pull a Final Girl and leap out himself, wanted to keep fighting.

 You always got to finish fights in the ring. Outside of it, that wasn’t always how things worked, depending on the situation. He wanted to finish one this so damn badly.

But he couldn’t. Doing that would distract him. It would leave his peers down a man.

So, he git his teeth and made himself stay inside, pacing back and forth before the window. He clenched his fists, and the familiar weight of Francis and J.P. gave him comfort.

Over by the desk, a side-door creaked open. The fighter almost jumped out of his skin, halfway back into stance until he recognized the entering figure by a teal blazer and deep violet jumpsuit. 

Phoenix didn’t seem to notice him at first—she took a seat behind the desk, then propped her elbows on it. One hand reaching over to rest on her head; the garnet embedded in her ring almost seemed to glow against her raven hair. 

“Phoenix!” K.O. called, jogging over. He hadn’t seen her since the window had a frank exchange of ideas with Mad. It was truly like she’d just vanished into thin air. “Where’ve you been? What was going on out there?!”  

“Someone else wandered over,” Phoenix replied, her voice quiet and disbelieving. “Around front. I think they came from his neighborhood.” 

K.O.’s eye twitched in time with how his stomach sank. The window he’d just thrown Mad back out through was in the front of the building. “...How much of that did they see?”

“Oh, they saw all of it. You, Mad. Everything.” 

K.O. clicked his tongue, hands rising up to clutch at his temples. “Ssshhhhit.”

Normally, news like this would’ve called for the pushing of a Big Red Button that was never where it needed to be. 

Fortunately, Phoenix had more to share. “Almost. But I managed to talk them away from all this.”

K.O. blinked. Then blinked again. His head still felt like it might explode, but the lack of police sirens outside was encouraging. “Well, what’d you tell them?” 

“That I was part of group filming videos for a YouTube series.”

“And that worked?!” Azalea’s voice pronounced. Both K.O. and Phoenix glanced over to see her trudging down the next hall, away from the motel’s Pool and Gym areas. Scout and Snare were with her, tucked under each arm like footballs, both wrigginlg and trying to nip at one another. “They actually believed you?”

“They did!” Phoenix threw her arms up and leaned back in the chair, fixing the ceiling with a look that suggested she was questioning her place in the universe.

“I don’t know why, but they just did! I kept my phone out and told them it was some parody along the lines of Guys Gone Wild, and they just accepted that and walked back home! It’s the kind of stuff that doesn’t even work in the movies! I can’t understand it!”

“I mean…” K.O. murmured, putting a hand on his hip to keep his balance, “…people will do pretty much anything for YouTube. For better or worse.” 

“Good point,” Azalea agreed, nodding despite the whiplash not budging from her features.

Before any more existentialism had a chance to take root, a faraway scream tore through the air. 

As well as the unmistakable rumbling of a chainsaw’s engine. 

Pulse hammering through his ears once again, K.O. realized just how long he’d stayed away from the hollow window. Just how long he hadn’t kept an eye on their enemy-for-the-evening.

Without another word, Azalea passed Scout into K.O.’s arms, and Snare into Phoenix’s, before charging toward the stairs, one hand fishing through her vest pockets. 

___

Casey could NOT afford a standstill right now.

Mad had followed him from that house, and judging by the chorus that just managed to echo up the staircase down the hall—thuds and crashes and language which would’ve briefly turned Casey’s mother into a drill sergeant (bless her heart) had she been here—he was flying into one of his critical tizzies. 

The proverbial fan had officially started producing Crap Confetti. 

Now was NOT the time to freeze and stare, no matter how much fresh shock was slapping you across the face. No matter how that infamous metallic stench was strong enough to reach him before he’d gotten to motel’s second floor, to make the air feel thick now that he was closer.

A smart person in his current position wouldn’t have found themself standing in a doorway, shaking and staring with a clenched jaw, gripping the frame hard enough for their knuckles to cramp. 

This made him think of the things Donn had said back when Casey had left the police force, set in a healthy mix of encouragement and concern. Some were fuzzy, but one that remained clear as Crystal Pepsi (yes, he wasn’t a youngin’ anymore, har-har) in his head: “Private eyes are kinda like sharks. Always have to keep moving, one way or another. Even when they rest. The only difference is that the eyes get to choose…well, until they don’t.” 

Of course, views like that always worked on the other side of things. 

The types of people Casey was hired to snoop around, for instance, could rarely afford to sit still for long. 

And unfortunately, sometimes the symbolism didn’t end there. Especially when it was obvious that it should’ve. 

In the corner of Room Thirty, there was a bed much like the one Casey had woken up on about five-or-so minutes ago. And, much like an analog-horror retelling of the Goldilocks story (not that Casey had seen one, but you could find anything on YouTube these days), there was a bruised, bloody corpse on that bed. 

Casey had seen his fair share of dead bodies. Hell, the same thing went for a person looming over aforementioned dead bodies. But then, any medical examiner who had developed a nasty habit of biting their subjects wouldn’t spend much time keeping their job (or being allowed out in public). 

Caliban was kneeling down beside the bed, holding one of the corpse’s arms close, his teeth buried in flesh. Dark red droplets were sent flying through the air, while thin ribbons oozed along his lips and chin, almost frothy.

He shook his head almost like a zoo animal testing out some clever enrichment toy. And on top of the wet, rubbery sounds of skin stretching and tearing, on top of the syrupy little smacks and plops of blood, Caliban’s voice seemed to be boiling.

It was a mess of murmuring growls that went from low to shrill and back again every few seconds. (And for that, Casey was grateful he couldn’t make any words out.)

Snare shuffled by his owner’s leg, propping himself up to nudge at his side with that soft air of understanding. Little red stains marred his pale fur here and there.

Just a few feet behind all this, a sliding glass door stood ajar. Faint moonbeams stretched through the gap, sputtered in and out thanks to the splotchy shadows of clouds. At the same time, a gust of cool air rushed into the room, making the blinds sway and rattle.

While the fresh bandages around Casey’s stomach were tight, the chill wove its way through them. And apparently some of the blood hadn’t quite dried yet, because it seemed to freeze against his skin right there.

That pain was the reprimanding flick his brain needed right now.

Casey stormed into the room and snatched a handful of hood sticking out from the collar of Caliban’s jacket. 

The cannibal let out a short, ragged cry as he was pulled away from the victim.

Who, now that he was closer, Casey could see had been put through the ringer even after death. A deep Y-incision slid along the torso, edges caked in crimson. It exposed glistening tissues and tendons and…not much else. 

Various gashes were littered about the cavity, sliced with too much specific procedure for comfort. Nothing inside the ribcage except the sternum, having been snapped off and left to slump further down.

It took time and a sick type of effort to make a corpse not even resemble a human anymore, and this guy almost had the basic qualifications of a cicada husk.

At least Casey had a distraction from the bile rising in his throat.

Caliban writhed in place, clawing at Casey’s sleeves. He lunged halfway, snapping his bloody teeth over and over like a crocodile on bathsalts. 

 Snare leapt onto the mattress—onto the cadaver’s lap, really—with an arched back and flattened ears, baring his buck-teeth with a gravelly hiss that would’ve sounded kinda adorable if not for all the gore.

Scout charged over, bracing his paws on the side of the bed to engage in another staredown with the hare. He offered a warning growl, shoulders tense.

Immediately realizing that this part of his plan wasn’t worth it, Casey shouted, “HEY, HEY!” and used his free hand to grab one of Caliban’s wrists, forcing some extra space between the two of them. “Knock it off! It’s just me!”

The snarl on Caliban’s face twitched. His yellow-tinged eyes remained wide, but the vicious energy spinning around in them seemed to drop. Not by very much (...like, at all).

But Casey knew he had to take what he could get. So, he pursed his lips and maintained eye-contact.

It was more difficult than he’d care to admit, considering the entire lower-half of Caliban’s face was spattered with blood.

“...Your buddies made a deal with me,” Casey announced, keeping his voice low and careful. He couldn’t afford to show fear at moments like this. “I’ll go with you guys—I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

He ever-so-briefly paused, then added, “IF Scout and I get out of here in one piece. Sound like something you can handle?” 

Caliban froze for a few long seconds. He looked Casey up and down, some obvious disbelief having wormed its way into his frenzied energy. 

Casey clicked his tongue. This wasn’t the first time someone had analyzed him

It didn’t last.

“You and Scout,” the cannibal murmured. “So, I’m guessing you'll want me tied to the car roof? Y’know, so I won’t get too close to him?” He tilted his head to the side with a very sarcastic hum. 

“Oh, get screwed with that!” Casey snapped, subconsciously tightening his grip. “‘Boo-hoo, someone called me out for making a hobby out of torture! Better go CHEW ON A DEAD GUY to make myself feel better!’”

“Don’t take your damn lack of hobbies out on me! We've all gotta make a living somehow! And last I checked—” Caliban sputtered, twisting and edging away, “—I’ve never gone after you just ‘cause I thought you might do something to Snare!”

“But you could,” Casey argued. “You could, you would, and I’m pretty sure you’ve already done some slaughterhouse-level stuff to people who made Bunny Foo-Foo jokes that you didn’t like.”

Irony truly works in mysterious ways, since the squabbling kept either of them from glancing down at their respective pets. 

The way Snare’s ears twitched, then shot up, went unnoticed. His beady amber eyes darted over to the balcony door, then to Scout. While the beagle didn’t relax, he still went silent, warm eyes widening. When he finally tossed a glance over his shoulder, Snare hopped off the bed, turning into a pale blur as he scurried across the floor. 

A yip was caught in Scout’s throat as he bounded after the hare, both of them vanishing down the hallway outside.

“...Yeah, fine, that’s fair,” Caliban huffed, wrestling out of the detective's grasp. “But that’s still different from just assuming!”

“Barely!”

Another breeze swept in through the balcony door, stronger than the last and accompanied by an eerie whistling. 

As if on cue, the chaos downstairs cranked itself to eleven: an enraged shriek tore through the air, even louder than all the prior shouting. 

Both mobster and detective flinched in near-unision, the former gazing past the latter, his shocked scrutiny morphing into something else entirely.

(Casey couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Had the worst type of stress-eating really kept Caliban’s focus away from the cacophony?)

Tongue skating over his glinting teeth, Caliban began stalking toward Room Thirty’s door.

One hand was already fishing through a pocket in his leather jacket—Casey knew that move all-too-well. Without thinking, he marched around Caliban to effectively block his path. 

Caliban halted, just before he could draw any weapons. 

“Give it back,” Casey ordered. 

Caliban squinted at him, an interesting mixture of aggravation and confusion swirling through his features. “...What?” 

Casey narrowed his eyes, feeling his anger spike. “I don’t need to be babysat, especially by a freak like you. I want my glock back.” 

Caliban glared right back, his hand now gripping at his jacket’s lining, the zipper’s track almost certainly digging into his palm. “Look, we don’t have time for whatever this random damage is—” 

“Random?!” Casey echoed, incredulous, taking a few harsh steps closer. 

Caliban, in turn, backed up, his hand falling away from whatever lethal knick-knack awaited in his interior pocket.

“My ‘damage’ is the only non-random thing that’s happened tonight!” Casey kept advancing. 

“We weren’t any more prepared to find you around here!” Caliban kept retreating. 

Casey threw his hands up. “That doesn’t matter! What, did my gun just get up and walk away while I was out? You guys can drag me into an even bigger mess than I was already dealing with, no problem, but you couldn’t go catch that?!”

Admittedly, the idea of a walking gun was very distracting. And that was for the worse in this case, since it might’ve been the reason neither Casey nor Caliban noticed the nighttime air growing clearer and clearer as they moved, wind lapping at their hair.

Hell, they’d both reached a sufficient volume to drown out how the balcony’s rotting floorboards groaned under new weight. 

“I didn’t take it!” Caliban protested. “I didn’t take anything from you!”

“Yes you did!” Casey shouted. “Because nights like this are just games to you, and because you and your family just see me as one more damn toy for them!”

He finally had to stop, since he’d all but pushed right up close to the cannibal, forcing him to bump into the balcony’s wooden railing.

Acting on reflex, Caliban’s hands flew to grab ahold of the top post as he leaned away.

Time seemed to slow down after that. 

The SnNA-A-AP of decrepit wood rang into Casey’s ears. A chunk of the rail gave out. It plummeted down fifteen feet to land with a dull, deafening CRUNCH.

With nothing to support him, Caliban lost his balance. He wavered in place, arms a blur as he clawed at the air, as one of his shoes slipped along the edge.

And his scream…

Casey had heard plenty of screams before.

He’d heard legitimate death-rattles: wailing set in hysterical gibberish from a high-chasing gone terribly wrong, agonized howls seeping through a crushed car that bled into sobbing (which itself eventually bled into echoing whimpers), enraged bellows that still coiled around his mind long after being silenced with either a heavy thud or a swift BANG!

The scream that rushed out of Caliban’s lungs was a lot like them.

Casey let out a holler of his own. It scraped its way up his throat in a manner similar to broken glass. Somehow, though, he still moved. He was still just fast enough to surge down and grab one of Caliban’s wrists. 

Caliban responded in kind, both hands lashing up to clutch at Casey’s arm. 

Casey felt himself start to slope forward, felt his legs dragging against the balcony’s floor.

Another panicked cry spilled out, and he had no choice but to use his other arm as an anchor. A splinter planted itself right between his forefinger and thumb as if it’d been waiting for him, but the stabbing little spark was almost a comfort compared to the alternative.

Caliban was shorter than him—logically, that meant he had to be a smidge lighter, too. But dangle any weight over the side of a building like this, and logic just went right out the window, didn’t it? 

“H-Hang on! Hang on, hang on!” The words streamed out of Casey’s mouth before they’d even computed in his brain. That made it the fact that they felt more directed toward himself even more unfair. 

“...Well, would you look at that!” Another voice called from below, dripping with an acidic type of delight. 

 Mechanical whirring followed suite, getting louder and louder each second.

Centipedes made of dry ice scuttled up Casey’s spine.

A haze had settled into the edges of his vision, but that couldn’t spare him from the sight of a familiar figure down below, strutting to hover by the broken railing.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to spot tan fabric in the shadows like this, but dark red smears could make anything stick out like a twisted neck.

Not to mention the gadget cradled in his arms—the engine hidden behind bright orange casing made it shudder, pulled a jagged chain to form a rotating outline around a long metallic bar. It glinted in a way that was on par with Caliban’s teeth.

“Maybe there is such thing as karma,” Mad mused. “It looks like you’ve been a good boy! How else would you get a reward like this?” He spat out the word good like it was a rotten, fuzzy-yet-slimy piece of fruit, but his grin continued stretching from ear-to-ear as he gazed up at Casey.

Casey, meanwhile, couldn’t breathe. He tried to, desperately needed to, but his lungs were curling in on themselves like moldering paper bags. 

Caliban was in a different boat: his own breathe came out in hitching gasps. His focus spun back and forth, above and below.

“Why are you still holding on?” Mad asked, and his confusion almost sounded genuine. “Just drop him already! Don’t worry, I’m right here to help you finish this!”

A fall from this height likely wouldn’t be lethal. But there was no way to avoid serious injuries, no matter how you landed. Broken bones, head trauma, internal bleeding…there could still be some potential to recover from any of that, but your chances dropped more and more with the addition of a nearby psychopath.

Casey could see Caliban trying to arch his brows, trying to bare his teeth, trying to spit out some threats, send out some anger to challenge Mad’s jeers.

Trying to push that anger over fear. 

But Casey could also see how those efforts didn’t go through cleanly.

Mad’s chuckle was distorted, like it was literally crawling out through his teeth. “Come on, Casey. This can be your big chance. Things will be so much easier for you when he’s gone. Just one less boogeyman for you to chase around.” His voice had grown so soft in a split-second. Casey couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded like that. 

Caliban’s eyes had already been wide, but now they were watery. Now they were making a straightforward threat to burst right out of their sockets… 

“Just let go, and it’ll be one opportunity after another! Because once he’s gone, it won’t take long for his sister to find out. And then you’ll get to take care of her, since she’ll be too busy crying to hide away.”

…And that made sense; as Casey stared on, he saw just how lost Caliban had gotten somewhere behind those eyes. It shouldn’t have been possible, given how quickly this had happened. 

But it was, and Casey knew he had no room to talk about it.

“I believe in you, Casey.” Mad drummed his gloved fingers against the handle of his chainsaw, then offered the most sincere smile his twitching features would allow. “Just let—”

“NO!” Casey’s voice reappeared without warning, shaking through his skull and all the way down to his ribs. “You don’t get to do this to me! You’re not worth it!”

A fresh line of energy seared through Casey’s veins. 

The screaming agony drained away from his muscles, like he’d just taken a dose of the purest, most refreshing thing in the world. 

With that, he squared his shoulders, pushed himself onto his knees. He then let his other arm swing down, and began hoisting Caliban up.

Casey didn’t look at Mad. He didn’t need to. He knew the way Mad’s face was twisting and contorting right now, like that of some demonic influence only able to possess a body after it’d been buried, twisting in awful spasms to push at the coffin lid. 

“FINE, THEN!” Mad screeched. “BE THAT WAY! I JUST HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF!”

Caliban’s face went blank, as though he’d forgotten Mad had ever even been there in the first place. Thankfully, he was still quick enough on the uptake. He shook his head, grit his teeth, kicking his legs to provide some momentum that both he and Casey could work with

Just as Caliban managed to prop an elbow up on the balcony's edge, Casey caught movement in his peripheral vision. 

A flurry of gleaming arcs, all accompanied by what sounded like a diseased, overgrown mosquito. (It mixed well with Mad’s furious babbling, all things considered.)

Then Caliban threw his head back as another scream rattled out. 

It was horrific, slashing through the air and hitting Casey’s ears like a bundle of razor blades. The earlier one had been from shock—this one was raw, unadulterated pain.

And yet, it was the exact push Casey needed to get to his feet, dragging Caliban up and finally, finally back onto the balcony.

Just as he did, however, he felt movement nearby, felt something brush against his side. Another voice was there, high and loud and panicked, but he had no time to recognize it or unblur the words before—

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Everything to Casey’s right dropped, going fuzzy as a deep ring buzzed through his eardrums. He just barely managed to see misty trails streaking through the air.

Down toward Mad, whose rage finally drained away, leaving more than enough room for a rare case of terror. 

One shot hit the ground, ricocheting against the broken part of the balcony, sending bits of wood flying. Another lodged itself right in that spot where the chainsaw’s band disappeared into the casing.

Mad turned on his heel, but he wasn’t fast enough. The third shot nicked his arm, eliciting another howl.

“Cal!” A different voice cried out, feminine and somewhere closer behind Casey. “Cal, oh–Oh my God—!”

The echoes of bullets were still thrumming through his brain, so Casey had to reach up and knead at his temple as he turned around.

He discovered Azalea hovering over the crumpled form of her brother.

To Caliban’s credit, he still held himself halfway up, but his breathing was ragged, laced with raspy groans. 

Earlier, the smell of iron (or old, wet pennies. It varied from person to person) had been strong, but it’d also been…somewhat faded. The victim had to have been dead for at least thirty minutes before Casey raced up here and discovered them. 

Now that smell was hitting him all over again, sharp and heavy enough to be compared to dryer exhaust.

His stomach churned as he watched Azalea shed her carob-colored vest and push it toward one of Caliban’s legs. The lower half of his gray jeans had been torn open, and long bits of frayed, tangled thread could’ve almost been mistaken for tendons.

A swath of mangled skin stretched along the cannibal’s calf. Pink, glistening tissue peered out at all the world above. 

Without sunlight, blood had a habit of looking more like oil. 

Right here, right now, however, it practically glowed. 

So many beads oozed up and out, shining and sliding along undamaged skin like crimson worms on a rainy day. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Cal,” Azalea declared, her voice wavering in time with the way her hands shook.

It began saturating Azalea’s vest less than a second after she tied it around the wound as tight as she possibly could. 

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay—”

It clung to Azalea’s hands, as though it was trying to seep into her own veins through the lines in her palms.

“We’re gonna get through this! Everything’s gonna be fine, you understand?!”  Azalea leaned closer, gripping Caliban’s shoulder. 

Caliban nodded desperately, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. His eyes were screwed shut, but a few tears still managed to slip through the cracks. 

It slowly-but-surely formed a dark puddle that spread onto the floorboards.

Onto the floorboards…which gave it perfect access to a dark, familiar shape that lay not even half a foot away from the siblings.

Casey’s jaw dropped open. It felt like he needed to scream, but the necessary air was too stubborn to leave his lungs.

Now, he was man enough to admit when he was wrong, mind you, but tonight had already taken a lot out of him. 

So, as Casey finally stepped closer to this new mess, as Azalea peered up to lock eyes with him, he felt pretty damn justified in snatching his glock up and pulling it close to his chest, his face twisting into a cold scowl all the while. 

The handle was sticky with blood, but he couldn’t focus on that right now.

Azalea flinched in response, but she didn’t offer any challenging grimace. She sighed through her nose, tilting her head in a curt nod. She then turned away from him, grabbing one of Caliban’s arms and draping it over her shoulder.

Caliban rocked himself forward, shifting his weight over to his uninjured leg. Violent shivers wracked his body as he staggered to his feet, but they weren’t slowing him down all that much. He and his sister walked in tandem as they went back inside, as they crossed Room Thirty. 

The world was suddenly spinning under beneath Casey. He charged past the duo, careening into the hallway. The muscles in his jaw were already burning. His pulse was already hammering against his skull as blood rushed through his ears. 

From what he’d seen, this motel offered no parking around back. A canal ran just a few hundred feet from the building, but that was it. There were no trees, no bushes, no conveniently-placed alleyways. 

There was nowhere for Mad to run. Nowhere but the house across the street. 

Casey reached the first floor just in time to collide with K.O.

The boxer seemed to be saying something—shouting something, really—but the words were hazy when they reached Casey’s ears. 

As was Azalea’s voice calling from somewhere overhead. Panic surged through K.O.’s eyes, and he started galloping up the stairs. 

But Casey had reached the main entrance by then; the rickety old door slammed against the outer wall.

“MAD!” Casey’s voice ripped around the edges as a veritable air-raid siren climbed all the way up from his stomach. He stampeded after the shape that was limp-sprinting in the distance, having just made it to the edge of the parking lot. 

Fresh air had never felt so wrong. The wind had grown stronger, and it cracked over Casey’s aching lungs like a whip.

His fingers twitched around the gun’s handle—blood that wasn’t his had essentially fused his skin to his weapon. Everything would come peeling off like a greasy sunburn if he tried to let it go.

A tiny voice in the lowest pit of his mind wondered if Mad ever felt like that—ever had to move slowly if he needed up touch his face, ever had nightmares about all that charred flesh sloughing off in several pieces and melting into the dirt before he could do anything about it. 

Burn scars were known for causing pain years after they’d formed. 

But that would’ve been heaven compared to air meeting your skull while it was still wet with sinew…

The seconds were well-past feeling like hours, but they still saw Casey lunge, putting everything he had behind his shoulder as he rammed it into Mad’s back. 

Mad was sent sprawling onto the pavement with a shriek. The chainsaw, no longer growling or trembling, flew from his hands and landed a few feet away with a heavy thud. 

Casey had lost his balance too, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Mad squirmed and yowled, but he was kept pinned to the ground, even as Casey grabbed him by the collar and turned him onto his back. A sickening wheeze rushed through his teeth as the detective’s knee was planted onto his chest.

His hands—no, the gloves hiding those damn prosthetics—flew up to wrap around Casey’s wrist, but it was too late.

Casey's grip found a perfect fit around the maniac’s throat, forcing him to lay his head down on the asphalt.

Casey leveled his glock at Mad’s face, and that helped convince him to finally go still. 

And that, in turn, convinced Casey to finally start breathing again. The air had to slip through rows of teeth that were grinding so tight it was a wonder none of them cracked right there. 

It was acidic as it traveled into his lungs. 

Although, in the grand scheme of things…it didn’t feel so bad.

Mad was panting like a dog. His eyes rolled around in his head, darting back and forth between the gun and his attacker for a solid ten seconds. 

After that, as his focus finally settled on Casey, Mad’s breathing grew more even. 

“...What are you waiting for?” His voice was a thick gurgle. The corners of his mouth quirked up, stretching his lips into a lopsided grin that was wide enough for a dollop of blood bubble up and trickle down his chin. 

Casey couldn’t reply. He felt one of his eyes twitch, felt more fear and hatred slither through his brain. 

Mad started chuckling at the glower he was given. He choked and retched as more blood dribbled out, but that horrible smile never left.

“Oh, c’mon…” Mad crooned. With a palpable amount of effort, he lifted his head, then tilted it so that the gun’s barrel was flush against his temple. His eyes were drilling into Casey all the while. 

The instructions from target practice all those years ago rang in Casey’s ears. 

Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

His finger was already on the trigger.

It would take less than an inch of movement, and then this nightmare would be over.

The cycle wouldn’t have a chance to repeat itself; no other nightmares like this one would have a chance to find him.

He couldn’t budge.

“That’s right. You know can’t do it. You couldn’t even do it when we had those dollar-store water pistols.” Mad let out another laugh. It sounded the way half-melted wax felt. “Remember that, Casey?”

He relaxed his neck, letting his head loll to the side. “All those games…the matches of Cops and Robbers…”

The half-blinded eye was the only one staring up at Casey now, but that made it no less piercing.

“I always had to let you win. I always knew there was no point in playing fair, but I still—”

Another hand materialized around Casey’s wrist with a vice-like grip. In one swift, fluid movement, his arm was guided down. 

Away from Mad’s head.

BANG!

This time, the shot didn’t seem so loud, but Casey’s head was still on the verge of cracking open like an egg. Mad’s scream didn’t even need the time to rise to a fever pitch, accentuated by what could only be a bone shattering under the weight of a bullet.

The cold, clammy clutch around his wrist grew heavier. 

Then a different noise joined the wailing. At first it sounded muffled, like it was echoing from very far away.

But it quickly grew louder and clearer as Casey, out of the corner of his eye, caught rows of teeth. In fact, there almost seemed to be far too many of them to fit in a human mouth; for a second or two, it even looked like their owner’s maw was wider than his face. 

They were outlined with red, gnashing at the air as a chorus of unhinged cackles seeped through them. One canine glistened more than the rest. That silvery shine stuck out in the darkness like a broken ankle.

Casey staggered back, yanking his arm away.

Caliban’s laughter screeched to an abrupt halt. A near neck-snapping double-take made him sway in place as his hand flew back.

He took a few steps to the side, shoulders tense and head tilted like a pacing animal. 

But his eyes never left Casey’s.

They were even more feral than Mad’s, bulging from their sockets, pupils having shrunk to pinpricks that were just about shaking.

And yet, somehow, they were focused. They were searching.

For the first time all night, things were quiet. Not completely silent, but…

Mad’s screams had tapered down into sobs, hiccups bubbling around pants for air.

Against his better judgement, against all the clamoring voices in his head, Casey glanced away from Caliban. 

Glanced back down at Mad. 

He’d never seen that bear suit without seeing splotches and stains—it really did seem to be the only thing Mad ever wore.

Now, a new blemish was adding itself to that particular collection.

Blood leaked out through a fresh tear in the fabric, revealing the small, raw, glistening crater that now adorned one of Mad’s kneecaps.

Something cold and jagged began to prod at the roof of Casey’s heart. He couldn’t give any hints about that. He fought back against the burning sensation that was swirling through his eyes.

He expected Mad to shriek at him, to swear and spit and threaten and demand. 

But as it turned out, Mad wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, as he lay wheezing and shaking, he craned his neck to stare past the investigator.

His bloodshot eyes weren’t glazed over. They’d gone…soft? 

Casey followed his gaze, and twisting light bombarded his vision. 

Fire was blossoming through the motel. 

One of the first-floor windows was broken, allowing the flames to lap out around its edges and quickly crawl along the siding. The entire building would be engulfed in a matter of minutes.

The blaze itself, though…it didn’t look warm, didn’t have an angry red glow at the center.

It was pale.

Hell, if not for a blue sheen and streaks of yellow, it would’ve been translucent.

Casey had never seen anything like it before. Not once in his entire life.

He couldn’t even see any smoke billowing off into the air, let alone smell it. 

Why does the fire look like that?

Casey didn’t even realize he’d murmured that question aloud. 

He still couldn’t quite believe he had when a voice, low and feminine and somewhere close, answered, “Oh, that was just ethanol.” 

A violent shudder crept through his skull, down his spine, along his ribcage as he registered the muffled sound of tires grinding against asphalt. 

Casey blinked, and the motel was completely out of sight. So was most of the outside world, as a matter of fact. He turned his head to discover a different pair of eyes on him…well, only technically, since they were glancing back and forth between a windshield and rearview mirror. They were nearly as dark as the long, straight black hair framing their owner’s face. 

“It’s an oxygenate; its molecules burn more completely with air,” Phoenix explained, drumming her fingernails on a steering wheel. “It doesn’t produce nearly as many carbon particles as gasoline. The less soot there is, the less color you can see in the light.”

“...Oh,” Casey blurted. That was all there really was to it. (Perhaps because he had to concentrate on sliding his glock back into his overcoat’s pocket-holster.)

Glancing to the right, he spotted Azalea in the passenger seat, eyes closed and arms loosely folded across her chest.

Perspective through car windows was always strange, but as far as Casey could tell, this vehicle wasn’t all that big. It was just wide enough for the trunk to qualify as an emergency-extra-seat. 

Caliban sat opposite of him, leaning against…whatever you were supposed to call the thing that supported the actual back row.

Closer to the trunk’s door, K.O. shifted on his knees. One hand supported Caliban’s leg, holding it just an inch over the floor, while the other pressed a wet rag against his exposed skin.

“It’s gonna take a couple months for this to completely heal, but you’ll be walking and running again in no time,” the fighter murmured, to which the cannibal nodded with palpable relief.

Dark stains bloomed through the fabric as K.O. scrubbed the chainsaw wound, but fluid wasn’t pouring out like earlier.

That metallic stench was wafting through the air yet again; Casey had to stop himself from gagging at the sight of Azalea’s vest, completely soaked in red, lying in a heap at the furthest corner of the trunk. K.O. leaned back, then casually tossed his rag onto it with an awful smack. 

“You’re cleaning that up when we get back home,” K.O. announced, raising an eyebrow at Caliban.

“What, no rock-paper-scissors?” Caliban replied with a smirk. 

“Nope.” K.O. snorted, smirking right back. He fished a roll of bandages out of his drawstring pack and wasted no time wrapping a clean, white shroud over the laceration. “You might want to try the lottery, though. Pretty fucking lucky that idiot didn’t hit any arteries.”

“Right? If he’d just been a little closer, I could’ve kicked him in the—” Caliban’s words transitioned into a squawk as K.O. cut him off, grabbing him by the leather collar to shake him back and forth. 

“I thought you were BLEEDING OUT BACK THERE! I TOLD you to LAY DOWN! But did you listen? NO! I turned my back for two seconds and then you were just GONE!” K.O. snapped. “I already have to help Murdock with a broken nose EVERY MONTH!” 

“‘Cause you’re the family’s medic!” Caliban protested, eyes rattling around his head. “That’s the other half of your job!”

“Yeah, and the medic is NOT the guy you need to give an aneurysm!”

“Guys, c’mon. I can always turn this car around,” Phoenix warned over her shoulder, though the combination of tiredness and slight amusement in her tone suggested otherwise.

K.O. sighed and released his hold—possibly because Snare had pounced up from Caliban’s lap, standing on his hind legs and flailing his paws against K.O.’s arm with uncanny similarity to a boxer’s stance.

(It didn’t seem all that effective, since Snare was a few dozen weight classes below K.O., but maybe K.O. just didn’t want him to feel discouraged.)

Soft, warm weight shifted by Casey’s side, and he glanced down to discover Scout, alert despite being all snuggled up. He watched as Snare eventually backed down and leaned against his owner’s chest, eyes filled with a near-human level of suspicion and curiosity.

“What about Mad?” Casey murmured, the words drifting out before his brain gave them permission. 

K.O. offered an incredulous snicker. “What about him?”

Casey sputtered. “You guys are just gonna leave him there?”

“Oh, damn! The same guy who came at us with a chainsaw didn’t have any other rides for tonight! Uber’s just been getting worse; he was depending on us!” Caliban quipped with an overly sarcastic smack to his own forehead.

He then raised a wry eyebrow in Casey’s direction, stroking Snare’s back. “Are you kidding? You really think that’s it for him? He’s been on Michael Myers timing for years now.”

“You should know that better than anyone,” Azalea piped up. 

Casey’s breath hitched in his throat as he peered back over to her. 

Her eyes were open now, drilling right through him. So similar to the look Caliban had given him back at the motel. The emotion churning around inside them…well, Casey had an inkling of what it was, but he really didn’t want to right now. 

He pointedly turned his focus away from her, having it settle on the windshield instead. 

The car was slowing down, approaching an otherwise empty intersection. Casey squinted, recognizing one of the street signs outside.

Oh, and the atmosphere in here just wasn’t tense enough already. 

Phoenix jerked the steering wheel at an angle, pulling over in less than a second.

“Why?” She asked, her voice low as she turned in her seat to peer at him. The other mobsters followed suite, stiff and staring. 

Part of Casey wanted to raise his hands in a defensive gesture. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Scout, holding him close.

Putting on his best pokerface, he explained: “I remember the last place I parked my car. Before Mad found me.”

He took as subtle a deep breath as he could manage. “We’re close to that place—take me there before you do anything else.” 

For a few seconds, the eyes were off of him. Caliban and Azalea exchanged cautious glances with one another, then with K.O. and Phoenix. 

“It’ll give you guys time to find a different route,” Casey continued. “I was on a job before all this—the call to my client is way overdue. I’ll be too busy with that to try following you.”

More silence. More sideways glancing. 

“I didn’t have any recording equipment back at wherever that shack was,” Casey added. “Any fingerprints you left are good as dust by now. I can’t prove anything. And…”

Casey shifted in place, furrowing his brow, having to stamp down the tremors in his hands. “And we made a deal. If you don’t break it, then I won’t have any reason to, either.” 

One thing he didn’t bother hiding was the displeasure in his voice. For God’s sake, the people surrounding him were contract-killers that he’d already been struggling to catch! He wasn’t supposed to be giving them an out like this!

For a long, agonizing few seconds, his mind’s eye flashed to an image of his parents—the very same people who had inspired him to find purpose in the law.

They’d be so ashamed of you, a voice in his head chided. It’d hurt them like no other if they knew what you were doing right now. 

It was a bad choice. Maybe even one of the worst choice he’d made this year. 

…But it wasn’t like he had much of another one. 

Another moment passed by before the tries began spinning again. 

That well-known, sometimes-satisfying-sometimes-grating rhythm of click-clicks broke the silence as the car was steered into the requested left turn. 

___

Twenty-six years ago…

Azalea crept up the staircase, shifting her weight with every step. Each breath she took was shallow, yet even. She wanted to run so badly, but she couldn’t afford to make too much noise right now. 

Soon enough, she was passing by her bedroom, halting before the door that stood a few feet to its side.

It felt so heavy as she pulled it open. Azalea knew it wasn’t, knew that her nerves were just acting against her right now. Still, she had to keep her movements slow. Just in case. 

She slipped through the threshold, then pushed it shut again before leaning against it. 

Caliban’s room, much like hers, was mostly barren. A bed took up one corner, and a warped dresser stood across from it. So much empty space all around them. That made some things so much harder sometimes. 

“Cal..?” Azalea called, careful to keep her voice low. “Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

There was no verbal response, but her ears caught shuffling from under the bed, accompanied by a shaky sigh. 

Azalea moved closer to sit down beside it. Another few seconds passed before she shifted onto her side, peering under the frame. 

There was Caliban, lying on his stomach, arms folded in front of him. His face had been buried in them, but now he looked back at her with worried eyes. 

“She’s out cold,” Azalea announced. 

“She’s gonna be up again sooner or later,” Caliban muttered.

That was true, of course, but neither of them could take little bits of peace like this for granted. 

“Not sure how much she took this time, but we should have at least a couple hours without her. That’s better than nothing, right?”

“...Yeah.” Caliban’s voice was still hesitant, but he started moving. It was an awkward position to unfurl from; he had to grit his teeth and crane his neck, the bed creaking against his movements. Azalea got up and stepped back to give him space. 

The blinds were twisted shut, but light was still trickling through. Only so much of it, since the sun was setting outside, but that turned out to be more than enough to cast a sort-of halo over the large bruise on his face. Just under his eye, to be exact, fresh and an angry shade of purple.

It would’ve matched the one on Azalea’s back—the one that’d formed after she’d “accidentally slipped and fallen on the edge of a chair”—but that was starting to heal, to turn a weird yellowish shade around the edges.

It wasn’t the first one he’d ever gotten, and unfortunately, both he and his sister knew it wouldn’t be the last, either.

(It also served as a motive for Azalea to try and sneak a bit of dish soap into a certain coffee cup sometime. Which wasn't a category for firsts either, thank you very much.)

The brief pause was broken as a long, low growl churned its way through Caliban’s stomach. He winced badly, then chewed his lip and started to glance at the door. 

“She—she put a new lock on the pantry,” Azalea revealed, having to force the words out. She hated being the bearer of bad news, but that was better than forcing him to walk into another potential disaster. 

Caliban’s shoulders slumped, brow furrowing with shock and eyes wide with despair. “W-What? Already?”

Azalea offered a rueful nod.

A weak, frightened murmur crept up through his throat. Caliban sat down on his lumpy mattress with a gravity unlike someone his age, raising his hands to clasp at his hair. 

“Hey, we found a way to trick the last one, didn’t we?” Azalea sat beside him and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “We can do it again.”

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, then nodded forcefully. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.  It’ll—it’ll just take some time, that’s all.”

It was hard to tell whether that was directed toward both of them or more toward himself. Azalea didn’t begrudge him if it was the latter.

“...I found something yesterday,” Azalea declared, standing back up and crossing the room. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Caliban tilted his head, curiosity attempting to worm its way through his worry as he got up to follow. 

A bi-fold closet stood a few feet away from the bed. Both doors squeaked along their tracks as Azalea pushed them open. Unless you counted a empty boxes, there wasn’t much inside. 

For whatever reason, the walls in here were different from those in the rest of the house. They were composed of individual wooden panels instead of plaster.

Azalea reached out toward the closet’s center wall, carefully working her fingernails around the edges of one panel. 

It took a few seconds, but then, with a dull, shuffling click, the panel slid out of place, revealing a network of support beams. 

Azalea glanced back at Caliban, and she couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes widened. She repeated the process a few more times until she’d formed an opening just wide enough for a person’s shoulders to fit through. 

And with that, she slipped inside, sitting down with her back against one section of drywall. She gestured for her brother to follow, and he did after a few seconds, mirroring her position. 

“I found this just yesterday. While you were out,” Azalea explained, thinking of a small forest that stood right at the edge of their house’s backyard. The same one Caliban would sometimes disappear into after school, twisting between the trees and running just for the sake of running. 

Sometimes she went with him—particularly on windy days, so petals would fall away from branches and land in her hair.

It a sip of freedom, something to keep them out of the house, a chance to pretend that they could have a chance to get away from all this. 

Azalean leaned over, reaching back out to grab at the panels again, quickly repeating her little procedure to get them all back in place. 

“It looks like they’re all pretty loose. Just a good balance in the frame, I guess, “ she mentioned, easily fidgeting with the last one for emphasis.

Caliban prodded at it himself, squinting inquisitively as he pushed it into place, finally sealing the hole back up. 

Even in the relative darkness, Azalea could see the realization in his eyes. “I knwo those panels under the bed dig into your back,”she said softly, gently. “And it’s not good to have your joints all bunched up like that for so long.”

Despite being so skinny, as well as a year younger, Caliban was still physically bigger than his sister (as were most other people). It was easy to see him full-on towering over Azalea someday. 

A fact that was not made better by the regular lack of food in his stomach. Cafeteria lunches obviously helped, but they still cost money, and sometimes neither of the siblings could scrape enough together. But those efforts weren’t quite as pointless (or risky) as trying to get the correct portions in the kitchen downstairs.

Caliban glanced to the side with a sheepish nod. 

“So, I think…I think this could be a better place to hide. For when things get really bad,” Azalea concluded, her eyes starting to burn. 

Caliban nodded along. “And under the bed…that’s easy to check,” he added, blinking back that same stinging sensation. “She’d never think to look in here.”

“Yeah.” Azalea voice was weighed down by those thorns, dangerously close to breaking. But she still managed a smile as her brother leaned forward to hug her.

Somehow, she could even catch the slightest smile on his face, even if it was twitching with uncertainty. 

Even if it had to compete with another impatient, organic growl.

Azalea couldn’t help but smile as she turned on her heel, heading back to the staircase. Although she knew she could never pull off arson herself, she could see why Phoenix made a hobby out of it.

Sure, time was a very annoying factor, especially when you were dealing with fire.

But if you could get that fire to somehow make something while it was busy destroying…something like a design or a message—maybe a mixture of the two—glowing and brimming like a branding iron for just a moment until the flames got too eager and started lapping outside the lines…

Now that had to be a pretty sight. Too bad Phoenix didn’t get a chance to be that elaborate for most of her jobs.

The door to Room Six dragged along matted carpet as Azalea pulled it open, its hinges letting out a pitiful squeal. This made sense, considering K.O. had all but kicked it down a couple minutes ago. (It was a small miracle how only a new dent was left in the wood.) 

Aforementioned fighter was hovering by the side of an old bed in the corner, over the unconscious investigator he’d dragged onto it. 

A drawstring backpack slumped on the nightstand; it didn’t look like much at first, but it’d proven quite capable of somehow holding way more than your average first-aid kit. K.O. had been taking it pretty much everywhere he went for quite a while now.

He reached over to fish out a thick roll of gauze, and his hands became a blur as he started weaving layers around Casey’s torso.

“How is he?” She asked, lowering her voice. 

K.O. glanced her way, blue eyes wide as he gave an awkward shrug. “Pretty good for a guy who’d fit right in with a soap opera courtroom by now.” 

“Ouch.” Despite her relief, Azalea was unable to keep down a snort. “Feels like you’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

“Hey, I didn’t set out to knock him out. It just happened!” K.O. contended. “If someone’s pushing against you and trying to grab your wrists, then you punch ‘em! That’s the other half of my job!”

“Sure, no denying that. This was never gonna be a cakewalk in the first place.” Azalea fidgeted with her cherry-red headband.

K.O. offered a half-nod, chewing his lip. “Those other bandages were leaking—bleeding started up again thanks to his struggling, but I got it back under pressure. He might have some extra tissue damage to look forward to, though. It smelled like that moron dumped a whole gallon of hydrogen peroxide on both the wounds. I’m kinda surprised he didn’t wake up while I was scrubbing it out.”

“Better than lead poisoning, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, but still! Whether the bullets are in or not, you’d think that more people would know that you can’t just treat gunshots like sidewalk scrapes.”

Azalea hummed.

On one hand, K.O. acting on instinct made a fine alternative to the knockout stuff she’d forgotten to bring along tonight. Even if punches tended to not have quite as long-lasting effects, no matter how much strength there was behind them. 

On the other hand, Casey had been running on instinct himself earlier. And while he couldn’t be blamed for that, this was the second time he’d been zonked in whatever number of hours tonight. And in business like this, getting zonked out of nowhere was…not the best omen you could ask for. 

A familiar overcoat-hoodie-combo was draped over the footboard—both garments must’ve had sentimental value, if Casey had taken the time to find them while he’d still been hiding from his first captor of the evening. 

Peering at it, Azalea realized how the former, much like Caliban’s favorite leather jacket, was lined with interior pockets. Maybe a few too many. Enough that Casey could’ve very well used them to show off cartoonish contraband for sale if he was feeling some type of way.  

A glint caught her eye—the edge of something tucked into one of the lower compartments. She sidled over, careful as she reached over to tug at the coat’s side. 

The object had some definite weight to it…and now that she was closer, she saw the outline of a very specific shape…

Azalea felt her eyes widen. Not quite out of surprise.

A shiver raced down her spine, and the weight near her hand felt a lot heavier. That heft remained as she finally, finally remembered that Casey’s half-respirator was still twined around her wrist. 

The sudden heft remained as she uncoiled the straps, but that didn’t slow her down as she stuffed it into that pocket. Even if there obviously wasn’t enough space for both it and that other shape. 

It never failed to be at least a smidge uncanny when metal was warm…

She cleared her throat, stepping back and readjusting her carob-colored vest while her focus returned to K.O.. “He’s not gonna be happy whenever he wakes back up.” 

“Yeah, I know. Not sure if it’ll be worse for that to happen while we’re still here or when we’re back on the road,” K.O. sighed as he tied off the bandages with a reef knot. “Either way, he’ll still be better off than he was with Bear Britches over there.”

Floorboards creaked overhead, and that brought Azalea back to the task at hand.

A closet stood just a few feet across from the bed; she opened it up to reveal a stacked pile of dusty old boxes. (She’d found them earlier, during an anxiety-laced planning-and-pacing session.)

She took one and retraced her steps to lean out and peer down the hall. Sure enough, her brother was there, speedwalking his way from the stairs. 

She lightly tossed the box out, causing Caliban to flinch as it landed at his feet with a soft thump. Fair enough; his focus had been on the several glass jars of various sizes clutched to his chest.

(As well as a tupperware container—full of skin-strips and fingers, if you had to take a guess—that was balanced on all those collective lids, shaking in time with his footsteps almost as though it knew how much of a Jenga tower-esque situation this was.)

Snare, who had been trotting alongside his owner, leaned over to sniff at the box. Since the hare somehow resisted jumping inside to claim it as his own, Caliban let out a chuckle and knelt down. Depositing all those jars inside was a tight fit, but it would work.

Freshly-harvested organs bobbed up and down as the chemicals gently churned around them. It almost made them look like blood was still coursing through them. Like they could still be alive.

“Thanks.” Caliban gave his sister a wry grin as he hefted the box up, causing its new contents to clink against each other.

“No problem,” Azalea replied, leaning against the doorframe. “You looked like you were headed for a morbid slapstick routine.”

(Alright, the implications of that would be kinda funny to watch, but they were on a time-crunch right now.)

Caliban trekked on, passing the dusty old check-in counter before disappearing through the motel’s side entrance. Out to K.O.’s car, which was almost all packed up.

Almost ready to go.

More footsteps clicked their way closer, and there was Phoenix, following the same path, moving just a smidge slower. Her knuckles were white around the wash-bottle, the slightest shake in her wrist as she held it low to pour a line. 

It took less than a second for every drop of ethanol to soak into the carpet, all working together to create a dark, still stream that stretched over to the stairs, up to the second floor… 

The sight reminded Azalea of those old cartoons involving ACME products. Sticks of dynamite with comically long fuses.

She turned away, slipping through the threshold of Room Seven. 

A loud yip! broke the relative silence, and a reddish-tan blur came bounding over just as the door clicked shut.

Scout stopped a couple feet away from her, his white-tipped tail hovering stiff in the air, like it’d been ready to start wagging. It lowered back down as he took in his new guest, tucking halfway between his legs. He sighed through his nose with a soft, near-human demeanor.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Azalea murmured. Even if Scout had learned that he didn’t need to fear her or her cohorts, that didn’t mean he was happy with his circumstances.

She leaned down, careful to keep her movement slow and non-threatening as she held her palm flat. 

The beagle eyed her outstretched hand, and while his skepticism was almost palpable, he still took a small step closer.

Azalea gave his chest a gentle scratch, making a point to avoid any blind-spots. She stopped, however, when Scout tilted his head at a sharp angle, pendant-shaped ears flattening. Eyes now wide, muzzle wrinkling as a short growl crept up. 

She pulled her arm back, following the dog’s gaze to discover a familiar bundle of pale fur in the closest corner.

“Oh my—Snare. . !” Azalea called, her tone both reprimanding and helpless. The hare must have stuck around when she’d helped Caliban and snuck into the room after her. “Sometimes I wish we could afford to put a bell on you.” 

Snare’s beady amber eyes flicked over to his third most familiar human, but only for a second. His focus went right back to Scout. He showed no fear; hell, he was standing on his hind legs, his paws hanging in front of him, not even wobbling thanks to support from the wall.

Staring was a weird thing. When goats stared at men, that was just an obvious sign of possession, no matter what you believed in.

But hares…well, they did it to remind you that they really couldn’t be lumped together with bunnies. (If they had other reasons, it wasn’t like they were going to tell anyone.)

Snare dropped to all fours and took a couple shuffling steps forward. 

Scout growled again, but he didn’t budge. 

The sound didn’t even get an ear-twitch out of Snare. The only movement was his Y-shaped nose, fluttering faster than physics should dictate. He still hadn’t blinked. 

Earlier, when the night was just getting started with new complications, Caliban had been very hesitant about Snare being close to Scout.

It was understandable—beagles were originally bred to hunt anything that looked even remotely like a rabbit. But then, Scout had clearly adjusted more to tracking and chasing people instead of hunting smaller critters.

(He’d led his owner and almost sniffed out a few of The Pentas Family’s own schemes here and there, after all.)

Plus, Snare was nothing if not a crafty little bastard. He’d held his own plenty of times before, whether through speed and jumping or more bitey antics.

Eyes still wide, Snare inched even closer to the dog. Just a few more steps and they could’ve bumped noses. Like most hares, Snare was about the size of your average cat; even if you counted his long ears, he still wouldn’t be taller than Scout. 

It was obvious both pets knew that very well. 

It was also obvious that Snare didn’t care about it, and Scout didn’t like that brand of vibes. And he couldn’t be blamed for that. 

The current look in Snare’s eyes could absolutely be translated to something along the lines of, Do something, tough guy. I dare ya!

“Alright, that’s enough,” Azalea announced, scooping the hare up and balancing him against her hip almost like a football.

Snare finally blinked, radiating immediate indignance, pawing at Azalea’s arms and squirming around in her hold as she carried him across the room. She sat down on a lumpy sofa positioned near the bed (its cushions had already been frayed from age, but now they were boasting way more tears and claw-marks than earlier). 

Scout trotted after her, sidling around her ankles. He peered up at Azalea, his big brown eyes scrunched up thanks to those specially-evolved brows. As if he knew exactly what was going on in the rest of the building.

…Except with his owner, that is. 

Azalea knew Scout could tell Casey was near. Beagles were keen dogs, both with their noses and their brains. Why else would an investigator keep one? (Well. Aside from sheer cuteness.)

But Scout had no way of knowing what was happening to Casey. And considering Casey's current state, it was easy to guess that he’d been terrified when they’d initially gotten separated.

A pang of guilt tapped at Azalea’s ribs. She thought about how Cuddles always seemed happy—in her own way—whenever she was around her. And that was just from a snake; a creature so many people claimed to not have that kind of emotional intelligence.

 Snare caused plenty of shenanigans for no reason…but sometimes, it was due to Caliban having to go somewhere without him. It could be an attempt to distract himself from loneliness.

...It felt a bit unfair that dogs could be so obvious about that stuff. 

“Don’t worry, okay?” She tried, reaching down to pet Scout again. “We’re almost ready to go—you’ll be with him soon, I promise. He’s gonna be just fine.”

Images of Casey’s injuries flickered through her head, courtesy of how she’d caught a glimpse of them right before they’d been shrouded by those bandages.

K.O. had a point about the prior treatment—what he’d said was common knowledge for people who saw more flesh-wounds than they probably should have. 

Azalea thought back to the house across the street. Back to the way Caliban’s rival had called out for Casey while they’d all still been hiding. (And no, this wasn’t just to distract herself from thinking about that damn closet and the way her brother had started shaking, mind you.)

His voice had been quite a self-report all on its own. Such high volume, pumped full of desperation and bitterness. 

Murder was hard. Accomplished killers needed to know the nitty-gritty stuff. And even if Mad conducted himself like he’d interpreted stimulate your mind as STICK A POWER DRILL IN YOUR SKULL, from what she’d heard, he still had his accomplishments. 

It was enough of a surprise that Mad had even bothered to tend Casey’s wounds at all, fudged handiwork or not. What if he’d banked on using that antiseptic as a way to just…keep Casey under his thumb? 

Plenty of transgressors worked via taking care of the worse damage, only to cause more damage as a way to slow their victim down. It was basically a war tactic.

(A tactic that Azalea would be lying if she said her peers and she herself hadn’t worked with before, but that wasn’t what this was about...for the most part.)

It didn’t make any sense. 

Mad had gained more infamy than he could handle—that had to be why he apparently insisted on taking so many pseudonyms, why he’d gone so far as to cut his own damn hands off, if the underground rumor-mills were to be believed. 

Sure, Casey hadn’t been able to catch any members of The Pentas Family so far, but there were times he’d gotten closer than any of them would care to admit.

Aside from that, he’d taken down a considerable number of other thugs, both in the Cove Port Inlets and neighboring cities. He was adaptable, tenacious. A low-level crook’s worst nightmare, plain and simple.

So why would a psychopath as sloppy as Mad want to try keeping a private eye who worked with what could be scientifically coined as Crackhead Determination like him alive?

Why are you guys trying to keep him alive? A voice in Azalea’s head whispered.

A chorus of thuds and muffled shouts crept through the wall before she could think of an answer to that.

___

As much pride as Casey took in his work, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hate it sometimes. Investigative business could be such a mess. It was very much common for the hills you stood on to transform into jagged cliff that you had to dangle from. (Oh, and they did that without warning, by the way. Every. Single. Time.)

“NO!” He barked, a number of rusty old springs inside the mattress screeching as he sat bolt-upright. “I AM NOT DEALING WITH THIS!”

The pain in his abdomen wasn’t as sharp as before, but a new problem had already taken its place. 

Three problems, actually, and they were each wearing a different shade of red.

“Hey, listen—just take it easy!” Replied the first problem, a younger man dressed in amaranth-dyed, trying to hold him steady—he’d been responsible for  half-carrying-half-dragging Casey further and further away from Mad’s house. When his vision had been blurring around the edges and the cool nighttime air almost stung against the dried blood on his skin. 

(Kaiser Oasis, Casey’s brain muttered. Goes by K.O. in the underground. Rumor had it he was a bit of a star when it came to illegal boxing. In fact, Casey knew that had to be more than a rumor, since he’d caught glimpses of this guy in the alleyways back home. Shouted profanities, growling questions, sadistic laughter echoing against concrete. Shadows swerving in the slightest corner of a street lamp. Fists arching through the air, bloodstains somehow not blocking the metallic gleam of brass knuckles. Too bad he always managed to slip away before anyone could so much as take a picture of him…or his victims, even. There was no evidence to mark him as anything other than an employee of The WormRoll, a little roller-skating rink back at the Inlets.)

“I know how this looks, but we can explain,” called the second problem: a women with long raven hair and a roughly-crafted garnet ring. She was hovering by the foot of the bed, dark brown eyes burning in a way Mad’s perhaps couldn’t hold a candle to. 

(Phoenix Rhong; a local lawyer who also happened to own the crematorium downtown. Casey had vague memories of passing her in the halls at the city’s courthouse once or twice. She’d never really sought out a conversation, just a quick, polite greeting here and there. Wherever she went, very the faintest smell of smoke seemed to follow. Though he’d been raised not to judge a book by its cover, with the way she spoke and glanced around and carried herself, he still couldn’t help but think that she might’ve been involved with something shady. Seeing her now, he wished he had more time to appreciate the validation.) 

“Don’t give yourself a stroke; you’ve already come so far,” snarked the third problem, dressed in a crimson leather jacket. He loomed by Phoenix’s side, eyes wide and calculating to compliment the way his silver tooth glinted in the dim light.

(Caliban Crawford—prominent merchant on the Black Market. Still can’t tell what his day-job is, but he moves back-and-forth between his peers a lot. In a way, that made sense. How else was he supposed to function as one of many body-disposal resources for the mob? He was the reason so many Pentas representatives didn’t leave much in the way of evidence. That would’ve been bad enough on its down…but if you had skills like Casey, then you’d learned that he carried his business out via CANNIBALISM. You’d also probably seen him sinking his teeth into his targets while they were still alive and alert and screaming.)

Casey grit his teeth before ramming his shoulder into K.O.’s chest. 

K.O. staggered back, but the wind clearly hadn’t been knocked out of him. (He did make profession out of dealing with that stuff, after all.)

“You guys just never know when to quit!” Casey hollered, leaning against the adjacent wall. “Has anything ever gotten through to you?!” 

“You’re one to talk!” Caliban snapped back. “We literally just saved you from a literal chainsaw maniac, and you’re still giving us trouble for it!”

Casey stared at him for a long few seconds. “...Oh, I see! And now I get to be graced by the presence of different maniacs! I get it now! Thank you soooooo much!”

“...Y’know what? EXACTLY. Because that’s life!” Caliban threw his hands up in the air. “Get used to it!”

“Think about it: if we really wanted to hurt you,” Phoenix piped up, placing a steady hand on Caliban’s shoulder, “wouldn’t we have tied you up or something?” 

Casey pursed his lips. He never though he’d dislike the absence of any rope in his vicinity, but here he way.

“...Yeah, well, Mad didn’t tie me up, either!” He argued, pointedly leaning back and glaring at the ceiling. “So there!”

K.O. blinked, his features growing more curious than frustrated. “Wait—why wouldn’t Mad have tied you up? From what we’ve heard, he never spares anyone.”

He took a step closer, looking Casey up and down. “What makes you so special to him?”

Casey glanced away, trying desperately to not let his face go blank. 

Why was he so special? What made Mad to determined to not let go of him?

All the time he and Mad had spent together….al those games, all their little talks, all the times he’d defended him to anyone who called him freak or bad influence or…

None of that mattered anymore. Mad had seen to that himself, what with the path he’d chosen to take. 

Casey had already screamed as much right in aforementioned psychopath’s face. 

And yet…somewhere deep down, there was still a kernel of something that was stubborn enough to hold onto those memories. To keep…liking those memories, ins pite of all the horrible things Mad had done.

Caliban snorted. “Mad’s the exact opposite of the sentimental type. He was probably just dragging things out to have more fun with an eventual torture-session.”

Casey felt proud of himself for managing to roll his eyes and glare daggers at the same time. “Right, right. Not like you’d know anything about that.”

One of Caliban’s eyes twitched, but he still ended up raising a brow, clicking his tongue as a sharp grin spread across his face. “So what if I do?”

Before Casey could let him know, a door swung open across the room.

He caught more movement in his peripheral vision (as well as more color; a band of cherry-red stood out among it, signaling Azalea Crawford, who owned one of the most popular restaurants back home in spite of the fact that people occasionally turned up dead after visiting events that she catered with various treats).

A chorus of barks rang through the air. 

Casey froze, his heart seeming to lose its shape for a second. He recognized that sound. He’d been hearing it pretty much every day ever since his rookie-stage, since before he’d left the police department (albeit much more high-pitched and laced with warbling little howls).

The mattress squealed under foreign weight near his legs, and then that weight was flush against his chest—a plethora of mornings had taught him that even the smallest paws never failed to find the most sensitive spots. Never. 

The barks transitioned into a mix of high-pitched rumbles and panting as a wide pink tongue lapped relentlessly at Casey’s face. Casey squawked at this on instinct, the brief haze now broken.

“Scout..?” He blurted, planting his hands on his ambusher’s little shoulders.

The beagle didn’t answer, but then, he didn’t need to. The way his muzzle stretched into a goofy smile was plenty evidence on its own. 

“Scout!” Casey repeated, hugging his pet even closer. “Took you long enough! Two more minutes and you would’ve given me a heart-attack!”

A helpless laugh leaked through his teeth as he pulled back. Looingk into those warm brown eyes seemed to slow down the watery feeling that was spreading through his own. “Where’ve you been?! I thought that bastard snatched you up or something!”

Well. Part of him had thought that. Another part had assumed that Scout was hidden away somewhere back at Mad’s house. 

Part of him wished he’d found him there, because then he have gotten him back sooner than this, could’ve pretended that things were okay because Scout was by his side, he would’ve managed to get to safety FAST because Scout depended on him. 

Another part of him was was glad that he hadn’t, because he wouldn’t put it past Mad to hold a pet hostage and get a free manipulation tool out of it. 

And THAT was supposed to be the BETTER option, because Mad was so unpredictable and his temper could only get nastier from here and he clearly had some kind of sick association with animals because he’d used robotic ones to hide his victims’ bodies and Casey would never be able to forget those times he’d caught a younger Mad snickering as he used a stick to poke at the crushed remains of a squirrel or bird on the edge of the road and—

“He must’ve tracked you here,” Azalea piped up with a soft voice and bright eyes. “Followed that teddy-cosplayer’s car, I mean. But he obviously couldn’t do much when you were taken into the house. So, we think he wandered over here to look for someone who could help him get to you.”

The mattress groaned again, and a Y-shaped nosed surrounded by white fur was suddenly nudging at Scout’s ear. 

“And he found this guy,” Caliban chuckled, stepping closer to scratch his own pet’s ears. “Or, this guy found him. I’m not sure.”

While Scout barely seemed to notice, since he was still focused on his owner like the absolute best boy that he was, Casey felt his face fall, felt his jaw tighten. 

Caliban had many human accomplices, but apparently that wasn’t enough.

Hell, Casey would’ve been lying if he said that Snare hadn’t seemed cute (in his own weird, uncanny hare way) when he first saw him. Because he’d thought Snare was just a wild animal with a rare case of leucism. He’d had no idea that he was owned by a mobster, or how he’d gotten his name.

…But then he’d heard Caliban’s voice, watched the hare get all excited as he ran up to the cannibal who smiled down at him with a blood-dripping morsel clutched in one hand. Thus, Casey was treated to flashbacks tinged with Monty Python and sentenced to forever question everything he thought he’d ever known about hares and rabbits alike.

Pursing his lips, Casey put his free hand against Snare’s chest and pushed him back. He didn’t shove him, didn’t throw him. Just…put some distance between him and Scout.

The hare stumbled back, his strange amber eyes looking genuinely confused as he glanced up at Casey.

“Hey..!” Caliban blurted, putting a supportive hand on Snare’s back. “He wasn’t even doing anything. He’s just curious—it’s been a while since he got to see a dog.”

True, Casey had only seen Snare chowing down on bits of people, and true, Snare wasn’t acting aggressively toward Scout right now, but that didn’t matter right now.

Casey’s narrowed his eyes as he turned his attention to Caliban. “Oh, is that it? I thought he was surprised that you haven’t put Scout on a grill by now.” He tilted his head to the side, shoulders popping up in a sarcastic shrug. “But hey, he’s not alone on that.”

Silence.

The room had already seen its fair share of awkward, uncomfortable hushes, but now…now, you could hear a pin drop. 

Somehow, it managed to rival all the awful quiet moments Casey had experienced after being called to a murder scene, both before and after the corpse was shrouded and carted off.

The mobsters all glanced at one another, eyes bulging, mouths hanging open. 

Even as Casey watched, it took almost a full minute for him to realize that the shock was genuine.

But then, Caliban made that a bit easier.

He gaped at Casey, his already fair skin had drained to a paleness that was comparable to Snare’s fur.

“...What’d you say to me?” He asked, his voice now far too small to ever match the rest of him. A chain of emotion rippled through his features, moving far to fast to categorize…although pain was quite concentrated in his eyes

And then his face was only a few inches from Casey’s, bow furrowed, teeth bared. With how close he was, it would’ve been impossible to not notice how his arms and shoulders were shaking. 

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!” Caliban echoed in a growl.

“You heard me!” Casey snarled, holding Scout a little tighter as he edged away, turning his body to act as a makeshift shield. “You don’t get to pretend that you didn’t!”

The staredown barely lasted five seconds. 

Casey braced himself, backing even further away as Caliban moved again…only to blink as he watched the cannibal scoop up his equally carnivorous companion, hugging him close as he stormed across the room. 

“Cal—Cal, wait—” Phoenix tried to follow him, just to stop short as he elbowed the door open with way too much force, lowering his head as he stormed into the hallway outside. She hovered by the doorway, her face a mess of worry. 

“Don’t worry,” Azalea murmured, stepping forward. She wrung her hands, which, if you looked close enough, were shaking as well. “I’ll help him. We need to be looking out anyway.” She gave the taller woman a nod before trekking out of the room herself.

“What? You seriously think I hurt him?” Casey shifted in place. Something was definitely off now, but he couldn’t afford to waver. “After all the times I’ve seen him mauling people with his teeth, I hurt him?!”

“To be frank,” Phoenix announced, a new harshness having chased all the calm out of her voice, “I’m surprised he didn’t slap you into last week.”

“Oh, because third time’s the charm, right?” Casey challenged. He’d already been knocked out twice in one night. Like hell he was about to let that happen again!

“What kind of savages do you take us for?!” Phoenix demanded. “Fine, we can’t always get along, that’s fair enough. But…do you really think we don’t have any standards?”

“Look, if people have standards, then they’re typically not working in an underground crime-ring!” Casey sputtered, incredulous. 

“The Sin Bernards,” K.O. piped up, glaring daggers as he spoke.

Casey went still, a shiver racing down his spine. He slowly turned his head to focus on the fighter. 

K.O. took that as the green light to continue. “That one dog-fighting ring that people suspected was trying to set up shop back home—you remember them?”

“...Yeah,” Casey answered. It’d been such a long time ago, but he remembered it well. 

Various dogs had been popping up in odd parts of town, malnourished and battered and very mistrusting of anyone who got close. The local animal shelters had managed to round them up, and from what he’d heard, the rehabilitation program had been an amazing success. Even so, it’d been crushing to deal with. He’d lost count of all the times he either woke up in a cold sweat or couldn’t sleep at all, thanks to the idea of Scout getting taken by one of those disgusting scumbags.

“What…what does that have to do wi—”

K.O. cut him off. “Did you ever stop to wonder why you and your cop-buddies never found any trace of those guys? Why they just seemed to vanish off the face of the Earth? Huh?”

He stepped closer, blue eyes glinting with a mix of anger, hurt, and….satisfaction. “Well, I don’t have time to tell you the full story, but things got real messy. And we didn’t wait for any clients to make us do something about them.”

Casey’s mouth opened and closed without any words coming out. Thinking back, this explanation made sense. He and his peers had gathered evidence of those bastards renting condos while they tried to move their business…and yet, those same condos had seemed completely abandoned by the time they got a search warrant.

There’d been some suspicious red stains on the floors here and there, but that was it. Everything else had been so untouched. 

“Murdock deserves most of the credit, though.” K.O. huffed a mirthless laugh. “You wanna know what he did to the leader of that shitbag group?” 

He gripped the side of the bed’s headboard, and Casey could’ve sworn he’d heard the wood snap a bit. 

“...He pulled out all his teeth with a pair of pliers and followed up with stabs. He went for the gut the first five times, and then he put the last one right between that fucker’s eyes.”

Casey swallowed a lump in his throat, stroking Scout’s back. He’d been raised to believe that human life was at least somewhat sacred, and he still carried said belief. 

Despite this, he still couldn’t be bothered to dredge up an ounce of sympathy for the victim he’d just been told about.

No sane person would let themself forgive a person who tortured animals for profit. That just wasn’t natural. 

It seemed his eyes had started behaving like film projectors, because K.O. nodded with an unmistakable air of understanding. “Exactly. There’s never been any angels in our family, but we draw the fucking line at stuff like that. Because it’s pathetic bullshit, and we don’t tolerate it.”

“That’s why we’re not working with Mad,” Phoenix added, her voice soft again, though still laced with anger and hurt. “We know he’s used kids pizzarias as hunting grounds. We know he gets a kick out of it. And we can’t stand people like that.”

Casey glanced back and forth between the two of them. He remembered the things Azalea and Caliban had said back at Mad’s house. 

He’d been trained to catch liars, both skilled and awful, been put through a damn polygraph multiple times just to nail down his understanding of how that stuff worked. 

And right here, right now, his senses weren’t picking up on anything.

“...You guys are really planning on going back to the Inlets?” He finally murmured. “Like, straight back there, no gruesome pit-stops along the way?”

K.O. nodded. “Yeah. I mean, other people have gotten in our way and tried to start something plenty of times before, but yeah. Our work here is done. We wanna get home already.”

Casey chewed his lip. That didn’t sound promising, but it wouldn’t do much to point that out right now. “

So, if I were to go along with you…maybe we find the spot I left my car, or maybe we just all head to the city together. Whatever happens, we part ways in the end, right?”

“Sure thing,” Phoenix replied, folding her arms across her chest. “Unless you’d like to take your chances with him.”

Casey lowered his head, weighing the options.

He’d already given Mad more chances than he deserved. It didn’t matter if that had happened when they were still kids, when the world could still fool you into thinking it was nice and actually played fair. He couldn’t afford to do that, not ever again. 

He looked at Scout.

Scout nuzzled his owner’s chin, his doe-eyes filled with an almost human-esque level of understanding and empathy.

Casey let out a long-suffering sigh, dragged his free hand down his face. 

“Fine.” He snapped. “I didn’t see any of you, and you didn’t see me. But just this once.”

Both of the mobsters faces brightened. There was still a generous amount of stress, but they looked ready and willing to work with his terms. 

(So much, in fact, that he started to worry that he really should’ve been more detailed with those terms.)

But it seemed the universe didn’t really care about that.

Because the relative tranquility died as quickly as it’d been born. 

The undeniable cacophony of shattering glass screeched through the air…along with the telltale revving of an engine. An engine that boasted rows of rotating teeth.

And on top of that—a voice. 

A distance-yet-STILL-TOO-DAMN-CLOSE voice. 

Mad’s voice.

Casey couldn’t make out the muffled words beings screamed somewhere outside, but he still had an inkling about them.

Phoenix and K.O. raced out of the room, one after the other, their faces now twisted with panic. More shouting soon echoed along the halls. Scout started barking; he charged off the bed, skidding to a halt by the door, clearly waiting for Casey despite his bravado.

Casey moved before his brain gave the order, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He stood up, grabbed his hoodie and overcoat. He pulled both on at the same time, barely even noticing the pain as it shrieked under his bandages. 

His hand flew through his coat’s pockets, settling on one in particular. Familiar weight was there, and he fished it out to reveal…his half-respirator. 

The one he thought he’d accidentally lost back at Mad’s house. 

Had the mobsters given it back to him? Even though it was so obvious that he’d gotten it after having to deal with them and their business?

The idea was an…interesting one, and Casey would’ve spent more time thinking about it.

He would’ve, if he hadn’t specifically been looking for the Glock 44 he’d learned to use back at the department. The one he was still abit surprised that a private investigator was even legally allowed to carry. 

But it just wasn’t there. He’d known it was there earlier, and now it was gone. 

His aggravation sparked back to life. 

Well, the weapon clearly hadn’t gotten up and walked away from him. 

Who had gotten physically close to him in the last few minutes?

It wasn’t much of mystery at all. Images of a glinting silver tooth flashed through his head in an instant. 

Heaving another sigh, Casey stalked out of the room, Scout right on his heels as he went into a sprint down the hall. Toward a staircase at the end—this building was pretty small, all things considered. There weren’t many other areas for an offended cannibal to run off to. 

Just because Casey had agreed to a random truce didn’t mean he couldn’t defend himself…

The man looming beside him had clearly been put through the ringer. (More than one, if Casey was honest.) 

His face was horribly scarred—almost the entire left side was splotched with an angry shade of pinkish-red. The texture might’ve looked wrinkled from a distance, but this close, it nearly gave the impression that he’d taken one of those loop tools used in sculpting and just raked it along his forehead, his cheek, his chin over and over again.

Maybe that analogy wasn’t so far off, considering how some of his fair skin had been spared. The burns stretched over, but only a bit, leaving patches on his face’s right side that were big enough to not render him completely disfigured. The wound almost seemed like it’d been placed by an artist. Granted, there’d have to be some sick, macabre thoughts involved to make it work, but still.

Especially for his eyes. 

One of them really should’ve been fused shut and hidden under the blistered tissue, but nope. The socket was crooked, like it’d been ever-so-slightly pinched. But as Casey watched, it blinked, which meant that it could still move and…he couldn’t be certain that seeing was an option, since it was dull gray and boasted a texture that reminded him of a withered grape. 

But its counterpart…well, it didn’t look healthy, what with the way a bag had long-since formed underneath it, or just how bloodshot it was. But it was still functioning, still alert, still alive. 

Alive enough for its pupil to shrink down to a pinprick.

Alive enough to showcase how the brown iris had a peculiar orange sheen about it.

Alive enough to drill an invisible hole into Casey’s head.

Casey shuffled, grinding his jaw as he leaned back. 

Mad took that as an invitation to move himself, now leaning over his captive, still holding onto his wrist. “Here, let me get a look at you.” 

He then tilted his head, his free hand moving to nudge a navy-blue blanket aside.

Casey made to snap again, to keep struggling. As his eyes followed along, however, he stopped short.

His jaw dropped at the sight of bandages wrapped around the lower-half of his bare chest in a tight layer.

The white gauze was stark against his brown skin, but a dull, dark red stain just underneath one section was the thing to really set it off.

And as he tried to regain focus, he saw how his right forearm had been dressed in a similar way. The burning and stinging felt muffled, but not by much. 

“Hmm…” A few long seconds ago, Mad’s mouth had stretched into a grim, uncertain smile with a corner of his mouth twitching. But now, he was pursing his lips in a frown. “Well, patching things up never was my forte, but—”

“Stop! Get away! Let go!” Casey interjected, nearly screaming with another attempt to free his wrist. “What did you do to me?!”

An interesting mixture of anger and confusion (as well as…wait, was that actual, genuine concern?) stirred around in Mad’s eyes. “I didn’t do this!”

His grip tightened as he jostled by the couch, trying to shift his weight against his captive. “Hey, hold still! You’re gonna mess up the wraps! It took me forever to stop the bleeding; we can’t give it a chance to start again!”

“Don’t give me that BS!” Casey spat, trying to twist his arm and having to wrench his eyes shut as another bolt of pain flared under the gauze. “You don’t clean up messes! You just cause ‘em! That’s all you EVER do!”

“Not this time! It wasn’t me!” Mad protested. “Come on, Casey! These are bullet-wounds, and since when have I ever used guns?”

Casey froze in place, the upcoming retort dying on his tongue. Loathe as he was to admit it, that defense was an accurate one. 

It was common for serial killers to develop signatures—personal quirks, things to make their grisly work unique to them and them alone. Sure, a lot of them knew the merits of keeping a varied inventory, but sometimes they still wound up getting attached to a particular tool or weapon or process.

Sentimentality could be a strange, horrifying thing. 

Mad was a prime example of that, even when improvisation ended up not working out so well for him. But at the end of the day, he had his own handmade Ol’ Reliable. Casey had only seen it in action once or twice, but there was no doubt that it was devastating…

Watching the realization cross Casey’s features, Mad offered a smug nod. 

“I didn’t see the whole thing,” he proclaimed, his gaze wandering about the room. “I was out and about, working on some of my own stuff—” Mad pointedly pretended not to see the way Casey snarled at that phrasing, “—but then I heard shots from just around the corner. I got curious, and when I snuck over to see what was going on…”

Slowly, his eyes went back to boring into Casey’s again.

For the first time in recent years, there was no rage, no ulterior motive, no sadism to be seen. In all honesty, Casey didn’t know what he was looking at, but he couldn’t take any chances in guessing. 

Mad heaved a disappointed sigh. “I couldn’t make out what the guy looked like. He was halfway down the street by the the time I realized it was you lying on the ground.”

“An extortion racket,” Casey murmured without quite meaning to, putting the pieces together as the memories finally started filtering back through his head. “My latest client works at one of the stores around here…said that someone was threatening their boss in order to get free goods…using a mask and everything…”

Mad continued on, either because he hadn’t heard him or didn’t care for details right now. “You were out like a light. And you were just bleeding so much. Too much for me to waste time on a chase and then come back to you—”

He didn't trail off, but his words grew blurry, as if echoing from somewhere far away, while Casey racked his brain.

Getting shot out in the open was bad enough. Even if he’d made relative peace with all the danger he exposed himself to for his cases, it was still a nightmare scenario. 

Part of his mind flashed to all the powerpoints and books he’d had to study for training. Some examples had been much more shocking than others, of course. If there was one part of that he knew for certain he would never, NEVER forget, it was the Bystander Effect.

Such a simple yet awful phenomenon.

He’d read so many reports about the targets of mugging (or something even worse) being left to bleed in a ditch or alleyway, wailing for help so loud and for so long that it’d be a miracle for their poor throats to not go raw. 

And yet, no matter how loud those victims were, any other people who happened to be near were likely to just. Not. Answer. 

Casey couldn’t wrap his head around something like that.

The most common excuse was that most bystanders believed plenty of other people were around to help. (Funny how that logic apparently applied to those other people too, hmm?)

Perhaps those bystanders had a reason to think it was some kind of elaborate trap. Maybe they had a reason to fear that if they helped, then unfair blame for what happened would be cast onto them. 

But why was something like that so universal? 

Why was it just accepted that people would go out of their way to avoid taking responsibility for bad things out in public?  

It truly felt like some kind of Yin to the Milgram Experiment’s Yang…

Mad was the absolute last person Casey would expect to help him. 

If anything, Mad was the type of person to take advantage of the Bystander Effect, whether he was hiding his victim or aiming to snatch one up and drag them into the night, sealing their fate himself just because he was in a bad mood.

“—Aaaaaaannd that’s how we got here!” Mad finally concluded with an awkward, sweeping gesture of the room. With his free hand, mind you. Since he still hadn’t let go of Casey. 

The staring contest resumed (then again, had it ever really paused?) for another long, uncomfortable moment.

Casey took a quiet deep breath. “...What’s your game, then?” 

“What do you mean by that?” Mad asked, his brow furrowing. 

“You know what I mean. I’m not playing around with this,” Casey replied in a terse tone. “You’ve obviously brought me here because you want something. So, you might as well just tell me and get it over with already.”

Mad scoffed and pouted at the same time, which would’ve looked kind of funny if it weren’t for all his burn-scars. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. You took one bullet to your stomach and another to your arm! You’re pretty damn lucky that I managed to get them both out and dress the wounds.”

He paused, a small chuckle crawling up from his lungs. “Besides, that was only half the struggle. You’re not exactly a pocket-watch anymore.” He glanced over Casey again, and even lying down, it was obvious to anyone how he was much taller than his captor. “Makes me glad I got all that teasing out back when I was still able. Because I just knew the tables would turn someday.”

“Don’t.” Casey growled, deep in his throat. “You don’t get to use that to try and manipulate me. Don’t you dare talk about old kid stuff.” He chewed his lip, then heaved a sigh. “Like it even matters anymore.”

“What?” Mad’s lips peeled back in a sneer, his much more typical anger flaring back to life in his narrowed eyes. His grip tightened around Casey’s wrist as he leaned a couple inches closer.

“Give me one good reason why I can’t,” he demanded through clenched teeth. 

The challenge hit Casey like a .44 slug. He stared at his captor for a long few seconds, blinking as his own anger set his mind to a rolling boil.

“...One?” He asked, spitting the word out like it was a rancid piece of meat. “ONE reason?! You really think there’s just ONE?” 

The pain didn’t even give him much trouble as he propped himself up against the couch’s armrest, returning the favor via almost getting in Mad’s face. 

“Susie, Gabriel, Jeremy, Fritz,” he listed off, his heart aching at the memories of each Missing Child report. “Not to mention how many came AFTER them! Or the ones that came BEFORE them! I can only think of one time when the person you went after was an adult!”

He let out a mirthless, infuriated chuckle that came dangerously close to a sob. “But hey, I’m sure you’ve already updated that part of the list. The bodies just haven’t been found yet, huh?”

Invisible needles dragged along his brain as older memories played.

Glass shards slathered in red, glistening in the darkness.

The stench of iron swallowing up the typical smell of wood-polish. 

A huge grandfather clock laying on the floor, broken beyond repair.

The horrific, pulpy mess crushed beneath all that weight.

Bits of brain and skull sticking to the once-glossy finish on the sides. 

Red, red, so much RED…

Mad’s eyes flickered; Casey could see those exact images reflected—only from a much different angle of things. Almost as if his memories had been spinning through a film projector. 

But that was just it.

Vague recollection was the only thing Mad’s eyes had to offer right now. 

No guilt.

No sadness.

No shame.

No remorse—one of the most important ingredients to a person. 

Mad wasn’t feeling sorry about the fact that he’d done any of those things. 

Only sorry that he’d ever gotten caught.

“Oh, wait, did I catch you off-guard with that?” Casey wondered, his voice dripping with false apology. “Did you forget all those times; those names?”

Mad’s mouth opened and closed with no words coming out.

Part of the emotions on his face looked proud, looked nearly, disgustingly nostalgic.

Another part was seething, in a way so dark and rotten that it could've been infested with maggots. 

“I guess that makes sense,” Casey continued, rolling his eyes quite pointedly. “Because you don’t care to remember. You just can’t be bothered to! That’s why you think you can just make a hobby out of hurting others! YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE OR ANYTHING BUT YOURSELF.”

Without warning, Casey felt the pressure ease around his wrist; Mad’s grip had finally slackened. It was obviously a subconscious, accidental gesture, but it was better than nothing. 

Not intending to waste any chance he could get here, he tugged his arm back once again. 

Mad noticed, of course, but he was too slow to retain his hold. 

Casey peeled the offending had away, then shoved it toward the lunatic in front of him…only to freeze in place. 

Way back when, Mad’s palms were rough and bumpy, pretty much always boasting a few callouses. One time Casey had caught him tearing the little clumps of dead skin off with his fingernails. He remembered his worry taking on a gross, itchy feeling that churned around in his stomach at the sight. 

He didn’t feel any callouses now. Didn’t feel any nails, didn’t feel any skin. 

All he felt was something hard, smooth, and cold. 

Time seemed to slow down as his eyes wandered over the prosthetic.

A clutch of five digits sculpted from some kind of plastic.

A tangle of thin, tiny wires wove out from the base of each “knuckle,” simulating the tendons that were supposed to reach all the way up to the elbow and give fine motor-control. 

They all connected to a metal band, which encircled Mad’s wrist, just barely jutting out from whatever scarred skin remained. 

Casey’s focus darted over, confirming that the hand’s counterpart was in the exact same condition. 

It seemed the shock on Casey’s face was the key to finally convince Mad on the important of personal space. He snatched his hardware away and stumbled back, blindly groping at the armchair positioned by the couch.

After a painfully awkward moment passed by, he produced a pair of thick black gloves. He shoved them on, one after the other, as if that would somehow magically turn his hands back to flesh and blood and bone. The way they should’ve been.

Casey had to hold onto his anger—his needed to. 

He couldn’t let himself get caught up in anything. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. That was exactly what Mad wanted. 

But even as all those horrible, monstrous things kept echoing through his head, he couldn’t help it when his voice tapered down to a whisper: “Did…did you do that?” 

Mad stared at him, his expression now unreadable. The seconds felt like hours as he offered a hesitant nod. 

Casey’s eyes bulged from their sockets. A tidal wave of screaming questions crashed over his head, but he could only drag one out into the air. “Why?”

Mad’s features twisted in a scowl that was made even worse by how it stretched the scarred, burned tissue around his lips. 

“Because I had to,” Mad replied, his tone dripping with ice. “Business had taken more than enough hits. People were asking too many questions. I needed to get away. To start over.”

And just like that, Casey’s fury resumed its festering path around both his brain and his heart. 

The statement rang through his skull like a rusty, broken church bell. 

“The disaster at that one Freddy’s…They said two bodies were found. The owner and an employee,” Casey murmured, remembering the news story he just so happened to find while flicking through TV channels one morning. “That was you. You’d left some evidence around the place that couldn’t be covered up or cleaned off. So you decided to just send it to high-heaven.” 

Mad folded his arms across his chest, sighing through his nose and rolling his eyes like a stereotypical teenager. Despite this, you could still catch his eyes twinkling with sick, arrogant pride. 

“Afton,” Casey continued, putting piece after piece together. “That was the guy’s name. That was the latest fake identity you were using!”

Mad looked like he’d been about to say something, but a small, hitching gasp seeped through his teeth instead. His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. 

“You killed someone else before it happened, didn’t you? You cut off their hands, got rid of them, and then you—you left yours behind with the body.” Casey felt his chest tightening, felt the new gash in his torso burn and sting so bright it almost felt fresh.

“That way, if anyone came sniffing through the wreckage…they’d have no choice but to connect your fingerprints to the victim. Your records, too. They’d think you died in that explosion.”

Casey had seen his fair share of criminals going out of their way to make things…elaborate. Sometimes that just made them easier to catch, but other times it left him feeling cold, scared, almost helpless depending on what exactly he was looking for. 

The scheme Mad had apparently cooked up was a very labored one.

It was a long-con, a true gamble.

And, worst of all: it was infuriatingly, horrifically clever.

Now it was Mad’s turn to whisper, his voice dangerously close to shaking. 

“H-how…how did you do that?!”

“It’s really not that hard with you, Mad!” Casey fumed, throwing his hands up in the air and wincing as the muscles in his bandaged arm screamed. “Keeping track of everything you’ve done? That’s painful for sure. But you always have your damn tells!”

Mad gripped the arm of his chair, his hand shaking as his digits sank into the leather. 

“Shut up.” The warning came out as a hiss. 

It fell on deaf ears.

“Why else would you keep running around with fake names, ruining different people’s lives, causing wanton destruction?!” Casey shouted. It felt like a section of his brain was about to bash its way out of his skull. One hand subconsciously reached for his head, soon touching down to rake across his black hair, almost digging his nails into his own scalp. 

“Shut. UP,” Mad repeated, his breathing now ragged.

Casey wasn’t deterred. “It’s not just because you get a kick out of it! It’s because you can’t even take responsibility for crimes, of all things! You really think you’re some kind of mastermind, but if it wasn’t for all the high numbers and missing cases and flash you’re so obsessed with, then you’d just be another low-level, dime-a-dozen scumbag!”

“SHUT UP!” Mad shrieked, practically jumping out of his chair. 

In a swift, blurry movement, he grabbed one of the coffee table’s legs, raised it up, and hurled it across the room. 

It hit the opposite wall with a dull, deafening WHAM! before falling to the floor.

(Oddly enough, it stayed in one piece, though there were some brand-spankin’-new cracks in the white paint. Not to mention a fresh dent in the wall.)

Casey stared at the display, only for a violent flinch to sear through him as the shifting continued in his peripheral vision. He braced himself, clenching his jaw, gripping at the couch cushions.

Mad stormed further away, approaching a door that waited right on the living room’s border. He ripped it open, using so much force that it was a miracle he didn’t rip it off its hinges.

Then he ducked into the next room and slammed it shut, making the wall shake for a long few seconds. His angry movements grew muffled, fainter (not by very much of course), but didn’t stop altogether.

Somehow, this new, relative silence felt worse than the screaming. 

Casey swallowed a lump in his throat.He chewed his lip, glancing all around the space—there. 

A hollow threshold on the other end of the living room, almost perfectly opposite of wherever Mad had retreated into. 

He had no idea how much time Mad would take to sulk, to get his aggression out, to be unable to watch him. 

He had to move quickly. 

Casey sat upright, feeling his shoes touch down on the carpet. 

Even after steadying himself, he still had to screw his eyes shut and suck a sharp breath in through his teeth as he stood up.

The room swayed, and the pain drain that right up. 

Agony raced up and down his legs as he began to walk, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He shifted his weight with each step, making as little noise as possible. 

Once he was close enough, Casey reached out and pushed his hand onto the wall, haf-leaning against it to keep his balance.

He had to get out of here, but he couldn’t just leave. 

After all, where exactly would he go? He didn’t even know how close this house was to the area he’d been attacked at.

Wandering would be useless; Mad could track him down and re-capture him easily 

If Casey truly wanted to escape, then he’d have to be smart about…

___

Azalea dug around in her bag and fished out a familiar, pink-stained wooden container. She popped it open and gazed inside, silently reading the labels on the little glass vials she’d taken samples from a few minutes ago.

She’d used up the Japanese Giant Hornet venom for the job—so, that left four types of hype for her to work with, each ready to go, filled with clear, oh-so innocent-looking liquids. 

She settled on potentially incriminating a Gila monster, grabbing the appropriate syringe and spinning it between her gloved fingers. 

Those lizards were considering to have one of the most painful bites in all of the United States, though lethal cases were almost unheard of.

The same went for the other toxins she’d brought. 

Arizona bark scorpion, platypus, bullet ant…oh, they offered side-effects that were agonizing, but not technically fatal. 

Just enough juice to incapacitate someone for a while.

Though, they couldn’t exactly knock someone unconscious. Sure, the shock and pain could potentially make the unlucky victim pass out, but it was still a gamble. 

A gamble that Azalea wouldn’t have to worry about with certain other substances in her collection.

The same ones that she’d somehow forgotten to bring along. 

Hell, she’d even neglected to bring a trusty dart gun! It wasn’t impossible to pull off stealth-based work without one, but still...

Caliban pushed off from the top of the fence, landing beside her with a light thump on the grass. He dusted himself off and began stalking forward…only to stop short, seeing the self-aimed disappointment on her face. 

“Hey, c’mon, don’t beat yourself up about it,” he assured, giving her a light pat on the shoulder. “We’ve improvised before, so we can do it again.”

“I know, I know,” Azalea replied, offering a gesture that was half-nod-half-shrug as the two of them crept through a very unkempt backyard.

She was grateful for the morbid optimism; he’d already heard her slight panic-rant back at the motel, and yet he wasn’t getting snappy.  “It’s just…you’ve got more history with this guy than the rest of us. I don’t want to make things any more stressful.” 

“Well, yeah.” Caliban admitted, chewing his lip with a nod of his own. “But since when does random stuff like this not have any stress?”

A wide grin then spread over his features, showcasing the way his teeth looked a bit too sharp. “Besides, most jobs tend to get more fun sooner or later.”

Azalea chuckled, the syringe already feeling lighter in her grasp.

It was very late in the night. The sky had been completely swallowed up by clouds; the moon’s glow just barely managed to peek out through a few of them, but that only made so much of a dent in the darkness. 

This wasn’t a problem, really. More than enough time had passed for them to adjust to nocturnal schedules, to learn how to make their way with limited vision.

Maybe that was why Azalea could see her brother’s eyes glinting almost as much as his teeth.

Much like the ones on her face, Caliban’s eyes were brown. And yet, right now, they almost seemed to take on a shade of yellow that would’ve been creepy to most other people. 

(His eyes always did that when he had a lot of adrenaline. Even more so when he was hungry.) 

Though there was a decent amount of space, the house didn’t have much in the way of a back-patio. 

The siblings ducked as they passed a couple windows, soon approaching a door. It seemed a hole had been cut out, since there was a wide plastic panel adorning the lower-half. A typical doggy-door. 

“Does he have any pets?” Azalea asked, eyeing it cautiously. “Have you ever seen him with one?”

Caliban shook his head. “Doubt it. He doesn’t seem to like most animals, if the faces he's made at Snare are anything to go by. This probably just came with the house.”

He fished through his jacket’s pockets and brouth out a couple lockpicks. It took a moment of shifting them about in the keyhole, but a small click rang through the air soon enough. 

He twisted the knob and started to push, only for the door to stop less than halfway.

After flinching in near-perfect unison with Azalea, he carefully wormed his fingers through the crevice between the door and its panel. 

“What the—?!” Caliban whisper-shouted, moving his wrist up and down. “...There’s latches!”

Azalea furrowed her brow. “Plural?”

“Yeah! I can feel four or five of ‘em!” The cannibal gave an aggravated growl. “This has to be the one thing he’s actually thorough about.”

Azalea pursed her lips, tossing an anxious glance over her shoulder. 

Pre-planned jobs already came with their own time-crunches. Stuff like this only tightened that leash even more. 

K.O. had agreed to create a distraction after waiting two minutes; the siblings couldn’t afford to waste even a few seconds if they wanted this to work. 

She glanced down at the doggy door, raising her foot to give it a little kick. The plastic flap yielded easily. There was nothing behind it. 

After that, Azalea let out a sigh. “Alright, hold these.”

She pushed her bag and the syringe-container into Caliban’s hands without waiting for an answer, then dropped down to her knees to push the flap up and out of the way. 

Her shoulders made entry a little awkward, but she was petite enough to make it through just fine. She picked herself up, glancing around at an empty garage. 

Or, mostly empty, since the car Caliban’s rival apparently used was parked outside. A desk had been set up in the far-corner, cluttered with sheets of paper and various tools. A few strange, glinting shapes hung on the wall nearby; either weapons or more pieces of equipment—or both. 

The smell of metal, motor oil, and old blood hung heavy in the musty air.

Azalea turned back to the door, making short work of the nearly comedic amount of latches that had been installed onto it. 

The threshold was shut as quickly as it’d been opened, Caliban scurrying through to join her. 

“You didn’t see anything,” Azalea stated, squinting up at him as he handed her stuff back.

Caliban raised one hand in a small salute…though that didn’t stop one corner of his mouth from twitching in that way you just knew meant a giggle was being pushed down.

Another door stood at attention just a few feet away. 

The two of them crept toward it, only briefly jumping out of their skins at the sudden cacophony of shattering glass, followed by the unmistakable wailing of a car alarm. 

“There!” Caliban proclaimed, struggling to keep his voice low. “There’s the distraction!”

Azalea nodded, racing up a short set of concrete stairs. She pressed her ear against the door, listening carefully. She managed to catch frantic footsteps stampeding somewhere inside, though they were quick to disappear.

She was silent while turning the knob, swift as she pushed the entrance open. “C’mon, c’mon..!”

Her brother followed her lead into a laundry room, then into a small kitchen.

With the overall dingy vibes and the aged light buzzing and flickering above, you’d think there would be dishes piled up in the sink. But no; there were only knives.

“Where do you think he put him?” Azalea whispered as she sidled past the dining room table. “There’s a chance this place has a basement.”

“Maybe, but this floor can’t be that big—” Caliban started, then cut himself off. He turned his head, craning his neck in a sharp, sudden way. “Wait..!”

He took in a brisk breath, his nostrils flaring in a way that was almost similar to the near-constant twitching of Snare's nose. “I smell blood. Think it’s fresh.”

Azalea was right behind him as he trekked forward.

They came upon a much wider space—a living room, complete with a sofa here, an armchair there, and a small white table to seemed to have had a brief exchange of principles with one of the walls.

 A metallic gleam caught Azalea’s eye; Casey’s half-respirator, lying vacant right by the crash site. She tip-toed over and plucked it off the floor, winding the head strap around her free wrist. 

There was another door across the room, but the short corridor stretching out to the right seemed a bit more interesting..

The siblings kept going, turning a corner just in time to discover a closet; one that had been installed on a track, not touching the floor or ceiling by less than a single inch. 

That itself wouldn’t have been much to look at.

No, what really got their attention was how the door was sliding open.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

A dark eye shone through the crack, widening as it stared at them.

Neither Azalea nor Caliban had much of a chance to stare back. 

As if on cue, hollow space grew wider, allowing an arm to lash out. It wrapped around Azalea first, just touching along her back, then stretching to grab a handful of Caliban’s shoulder. 

The two of them let out twin yelps of panic as they were drawn forward, soon colliding with a number of hanging coats and miscellaneous clutter as the door slid shut behind them.

And now Azalea could smell blood too; Caliban had learned to track certain scents almost like a shark, but it was stronger in here

The figure responsible for this was taller than both of them. 

Even in the darkness, it didn’t take much time at all for both of them to recognize his face from so many near-misses in the past. 

But if anything sealed the deal, it was his voice. 

“I knew it!” Casey proclaimed, clearly struggling to whisper. His tone was strained by something more physical, though; like he was biting back an acidic tinge somewhere. “You guys have connections with him!”

The investigator raised his arms again, attempting to pin Caliban to one of the narrow walls. “Mad couldn’t get what he wanted from me, so called you in to take care of the rest!”

Even through the new chaos, the siblings still had a chance to exchanged confused glances.

“That’s not true at all!” Azalea snapped right back, tugging at one of Casey’s arms. “It’d be a clear break of the family’s rules!”

“The hell are you talking about?!” Caliban hissed, struggling against the other man’s grip like a bag of angry cats. “That guy’s a total parasite! I wouldn’t even put his cuts on my table, let alone work with him!”

“Likely story,” Casey growled. “Why else would you have come here?!”

“Because we’re trying to help you!” Azalea shoved her way in-between Casey and Caliban, forcing the former to release his grip. Caliban staggered back, catching himself against the opposite corner of the cramped space.

Casey gawked at the two of them, slowly shaking his head. “...No. No, you aren’t—”

“Yeah, we are!” Caliban protested. “There’s no time to explain! Just go with something..!” His eyes passed over something behind all the hanging stuff, only to freeze in a neck-snapping doubletake. His voice suddenly wavered, hitching. “...for once…”

Azalea felt a wave of something cold and prickly slide over her shoulders. 

“Cal?” She called, trying to keep her voice soft. “Cal, what is it?”  

Her brother didn’t answer. He just kept on staring. 

Azalea shuffled closer, pushing everything aside to see for herself. 

She automatically wished that she hadn’t. 

The closet’s back-wall was, to be frank, falling apart. A large hole marred the paint, revealing crumbling drywall and even a bit of a support beam. 

Caliban audibly gulped, his already-wide eyes growing even wider to accommodate the rotten memories now circulating through his head.

Azalea knew, because those same memories were doing that exact thing to her. 

Caliban stepped away, pressing his back against one of the closet’s doors.

“Cal,” Azalea repeated, finding it even hard to keep her tone even. “Cal, it’s okay—” She reaching up to grasp his shoulder. “Look at me, not at that.”

Caliban swiveled his head to face her. His eyes were still full of that strange, yellow-looking gleam, but his energy wasn’t excited anymore. Now, it resembled that of an animal caught in a trap, just about desperate enough to chew off one of its legs to escape. 

“This isn’t the same as that was,” Azalea told him. “We’re not—” She had to take a shallow breath, had to stop herself from shaking. “We’re not back there.”

“I-I know,” Caliban replied, nodding frantically. “I know, I know…”

“We’ll get out of here soon enou—”

“Shh!” Casey (who had apparently just been polite enough to stand by for this little scene), jolted in place, his focus darting back over to the doors.

The three of them fell silent.

Somewhere else in the house, a door let out a long, low squeal. 

Floorboards creaked softly. 

That might be K.O., part of Azalea’s mind whispered. He could’ve ditched Mad and circled back here to help us.

But that couldn’t be the case.

K.O. wouldn’t have been walking so quietly, so carefully. Not if he’d led a threat far enough away, at least.

Closer…and closer…

“Casey,” an unfamiliar voice called, dripping with bitterness and dread. “Casey, come on—you shouldn’t be hiding from me.”

Casey edged away from that spot where the door met the wall. 

Caliban slid closer to Azalea, eyes still wide, fear draining away. His features would’ve been completely unreadable to almost anyone else. 

“You said what you said,” the voice continued, even closer than before. “And I said what I said…”

In her peripheral vision, she saw him reach into his jacket, saw something shiny with a wooden handle appear in his grasp.

She brushed her arm against his, shifting the syringe to her opposite hand. 

“I know you’re around here somewhere!” The voice was full-on shouting now, desperation hanging in thick tangles around the words. “Doing this won’t prove anything!”

Azalea peered over at the detective, just in time to see him lower his head, shivering and clenching his jaw.

The closet door was flung aside with a grating whoosh!

A new figure loomed in the hall outside, dressed in a tan suit smeared with red stains.His eyes were narrowed at first, only to nearly pop right out of his head as he noticed the new guests in his house. 

But that only lasted a split-second. 

Caliban leapt out with an ear-piercing war-cry, his favorite cleaver a blur as he raked it against the other man, who shouted with unintelligible rage and hatred as he lashed right back. 

In a matter of seconds, they both disappeared back around the corner.

Azalea didn’t hesitate. She surged out and down the other side. Casey struggled, trying to move on his own terms, but she kept a deathly grip around his wrist. She could still hear her brother, hear his shouts of fury and pain mixing with that other voice, hear the subsequent thudding and shuffling of limbs against the walls and floor…

Coolness seeped over her, making goosebumps sprout all over her arms.

At the end of the hall, she discovered another door, wide open, letting the fresh, nighttime air filter on through. 

K.O. raced across the threshold, skidding to a halt upon seeing one of his accomplices. 

“I tried to draw him away, but he just went running back here before we could get far enough,” he reported in-between gasping breaths, panic thick in his voice. “What’s going on?!”

“Change of plans,” Azalea replied, somehow just as breathless.

She pushed Casey toward K.O.—yes, the latter was shorter than the former, but he was also one of the strongest members of The Pentas Family. He was their very own underground fighter, after all.

“Take him back over there!” She instructed, pointing past his shoulder at the abandoned motel, her heart sinking as the background noises grew fainter for a millisecond. “I need to help Cal!”

“Don’t I get a say in this?!” Casey demanded, still jostling unsteadily as K.O. took hold of his arms. 

Before either of his technical captors could respond, a new sound sliced through the air.

Azalea couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard something like it, but her instincts were already shrieking and clawing at the interior of her skull. Judging by K.O and Casey’s expressions, they knew to recognize it, too. 

A chorus of rapid, buzzing, mechanical revving, almost like a car’s engine.

Almost.

Except for the fact that most cars didn’t come with a long, spinning line of teeth.

“GO! HURRY!” Azalea shouted, feeling the blood rush through her ears as she retraced her steps, sprinting past the closet, back to the entrance of that kitchen from what felt like hours ago.

The noise felt like nails being drilled into her ears now.

Mad had his back to her, holding that same shape she’d seen in the garage. The noise it made now felt like nails being drilled into her ears. 

And in front of Mad, lying on the floor—Caliban. 

The screaming suddenly felt muffled, except for a slight ringing along the edges.

Azalea could practically feel her blood start to boil in her veins. 

Her brother had been backed into a corner…and now, some filthy bottom-feeding child murderer was AIMING A CHAINSAW AT HIS FACE.

Caliban was holding up a chair, using it as a shield. The chainsaw’s teeth sputtered and jumped at the obstacle, but that would only last so long. 

Before she even realized it, Azalea was running, jumping onto Mad’s back.

Mad let out a guttural yelp, swinging his weapon up and away from Caliban. 

He tried to sway from side-to-side, tried to thrash his new attacker off. 

But he didn’t move fast enough. 

In a hazy, fluid movement, Azalea’s arm lashed out, then came arching back toward him. 

The needle glinted hungrily as it sank into his shoulder. She pressed down on the plunger, her white knuckles cracking from sheer force. Part of her almost expected the syringe to break apart in her hand.

Mad froze in place, lowering the chainsaw in a subconscious, almost mechanical way. He started trembling, his breathing growing even more ragged. 

She jumped away from him just as he dropped his toy (which apparently landed right on its OFF switch, Thank God). 

Then, he crumpled to his knees, and started screaming. 

A confused, raspy, keening distress-call.

He writhed in place, clawing at his shoulder as tears streamed down his face. 

Caliban was back on his feet in an instant. He raised the ruined chair over his head, then swung it down onto the chainsaw’s engine about half-a-dozen. That didn't seem to inflict too much damage, but it was better than nothing. 

Once he was satisfied, the cannibal turned his sights back to Mad. 

Lowering his head and squaring his shoulders, he charged with another bloodthirsty scream, holding his former shield like a battering ram.

Mad’s neck was caught between the two front legs, and though he reached up to grab at them, he couldn’t stop the new momentum. 

Caliban shoved him forward, making him skid across the floor until he was against the wall. 

He didn’t stop until the chair’s legs dug into the adjacent wall, causing little wisps of dust and drywall-crumbs to come flying out. 

And just like that, Mad was pinned to the wall. 

For a few long seconds, Caliban didn't let go of the chair's back-post. Instead, he loomed over his opponent, panting like a dog, his eyes feral as they rolled around in his head.

"You look like a tuna melt," the cannibal declared.

Though this didn't stop Mad from all his kicking and squirming, a flare in his eyes made it clear that comment had struck some kind of nerve.

"...I HATE tuna melts," Caliban added, his snarl quickly shifting into a grin so wide it almost seemed to split his face. A dark chuckle seeped through his bared teeth. "HATE 'EM!"

He pulled away, throwing his head back to let out a loud, ragged high-pitched cackle, his teeth practically gnashing at the air.

While Azalea was normally happy to see her peers getting some well-earned stress relief, she still knew very well that this impromptu timeout-trap wouldn't hold Mad forever.

Sure, the pain from the Gila venom would slow him down, but even that could only last so long. The side-effects varied from person to person; sometimes they'd linger on for hours. Other times, however, they might start wearing off in forty-five minutes...

With that in mind, she felt her free hand tug at her brother's jacket, then heard the speed of the world whistling past the two of them.

She finally, finally managed to blink, and she was outside again.

She didn't have to guide Caliban along; he readily ran beside her, unhinged chortles still leaking out from his lungs in-between breaths.

Her lungs were threatening to burst open and tangle themselves all over her ribcage, but she couldn't think about that right now.

Azalea just had to focus on running, had to focus on how Caliban was still breathing, had to focus on the two other, very familiar figures up ahead.

Casey, who was being half-carried-half-dragged, and K.O., who was halfway through the entrance of that decrepit motel...