#death roll

Louisiana State Penitentiary (Angola, Louisiana)

It’s not like you were ever  meant for greatness. Born to a croc hybrid mother who could never hold onto a man, raised in a city where even the rain felt sticky and oppressive most days. You were  a burnt end, a measly little asterisk in a world that couldn’t pretend to care long enough to reference properly. You grew up on the streets of New Orleans, moving from foster home to foster home until the system gave up on you entirely. By the time you were eighteen, you may have been a two-bit thug, but you’d already accumulated a rap sheet longer than most politicians' promises.

But if there was one thing you weren’t gonna do, it was give a damn. About anything. Especially the people who told you what to do. And by the time you were closing out your twenties, you were locked up on death row for a slew of robberies, assaults, and eventually manslaughter. It sounded about right, you going out this way; a selfish coward that came into the world with a crack and a whimper about to fizzle out with no impression to leave behind.

But then, on one particularly hot night in a cell that felt more like a coffin, you’d gotten an offer.

Inside a dimly lit prison cell, You sat with your back pressed against the cold cement wall, staring at the flickering bulb highlighting the peeling white paint above you. It’s all you really could do in the  cramped space, the scutes along your tail scraping against the concrete floor as it lashed idly back and forth. The rhythmic tick of a clock echoed through the room, its sound blending with the distant hum of the crickets outside. It was a lonely, suffocating place — but at least it was a familiar place after all this time.

The unlocking of your cell door broke you out of your thoughts.

The warden entered, his face expressionless as always, but there was something different about him tonight. He sighed before he spoke. “Y/Ln. You have a guest… With  a proposition for you,” the warden said, moving aside to make room for a man behind him. This “guest” wore a pressed suit and his eyes hid behind sunglasses propped up on his face like the poster boy for some secret agency. The man held a file with him that he  dropped onto the small table in front of you.

You didn’t answer immediately. You’d heard enough rumors around the penitentiary. Deals made in the shadows, trades that only the desperate and the damned would consider.

“You’ve been selected for a special mission,” the guard continued. “A chance to get out of here alive.”

Despite everything, your brow raised in intrigue. “Get out alive?”

“That’s right,” the guard replied, pushing the file closer. “We need you to become someone else,” the agent continued, his tone casual, as if talking about a simple job. “More specifically, we need you to impersonate Boon Ballou.”

You stopped fiddling with the corner of the manila folder. “Boon Ballou?” You had heard the name. Everyone had, human and hybrid alike. The infamous drug and arms dealer with charisma that could charm a snake and a temper that could end a life. The kind of person who operated in the shadows of the world, pulling strings and ruining lives. “I’m sure he’s probably off in the Bahamas doing fuck all, ain’t he? Why don’t you just go and hunt the real thing down and leave me out of it?”

The agent's words were blunt and left no room for debate. “Because Boon Ballou is dead. He was killed a year ago during a botched escape attempt from a Colombian prison.”

Well that was definitely a reason…

“No one other than the authorities knows this information. So that’s why you’re gonna slip right in to assume Boon’s identity, Y/n”

They sure sounded like they had this all figured out for you. It didn’t even sound like you had a choice. “I don’t even look like him,” You eventually spoke up, your voice laced with wariness and a bit of disbelief.

The agent smiled, a cold, calculating expression. “I’d beg to differ. Aside from you both bein’ crooked crocs, you got the same general build and the same scales. You two even have the same damn face, Y/Ln. You could walk right into his operation, and no one would know the difference.”

“I’m sorry, can we double back to the part where you want me to play a dead guy?” You leaned forward, your voice laced with incredulity. “Why do you even want me? Is it slim pickins out there in Quantico or wherever the hell you’re from?”

The warden smacked you upside the head as the agent ignored your jab and opened the folder after he flipped it around.

You stared at the folder, reaching your cuffed hands forward to leaf through its contents. Photos of Boon, the swagger in his walk that translated even through static photographs. The designer suits and gold chains he wore glinted in the light of the pictures taken in the daytime. The file also had pictures of Ballou’s associates, with detailed entries on Boon Ballou’s exploits, his connections, and his patterns of behavior. There was even a small baggy that held the gold custom-made piercings he’d had in his face. Hell, it was as if his entire existence had been reduced to these documents.

There was one photo that caught your eye: a woman, stunning, with dark brown hair and the telltale piercing eyes and scaly accents of a snake hybrid. Wanda Maximoff. She was listed as one of Ballou’s last known lovers, someone he’d had a deep connection with before his rather lackluster death.

“What do I get outta this?” You quipped, your voice sharp.

“The deal’s simple. We get you in with Boon’s crew, and get you close to his operations. You help us take down Ballou’s empire, take down the members of his circle who’ve also been slipping under our radar for years, and put this shit to bed dead in the dirt. They have one of our operatives captive as we speak, and your final test will be the trade off to get our guy back in exchange for you. All of Boon’s biggest players should be there, so this is a one and done deal. You play this right, you walk free. No more death row. No more prison. You’ll be free to go with a clean slate.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And if I fail?”

“You won’t,” the guard said, his voice suddenly cold. “You’ll be dead before you realize you made a mistake.”

----------

Eight months later

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded… And it didn’t even sound easy in the first place-

You had to change everything — your voice, your mannerisms, the way you carried yourself. You’d spent the last few months in seclusion, with a team of experts helping you get the look just right. Every detail was crucial.

You idly fiddled with the two new golden snake bite piercings while biting the inside of your lip. They were the first thing you were made acquainted with damn near right after your agreement left your mouth. You got new ink months ago too, all pieces the OG Boon had, but they weren’t nearly as much of an adjustment as the fucking metal in your mouth.

The cosplay aside, Boon Ballou wasn’t just a name; he was an institution. Every piece of the kingpin’s past had to be learned and studied, every habit adopted. It was like walking around with your gut sucked in until you forget you were doing it at all.

Nobody even called you Y/n anymore.

You’d spent hours in front of a mirror, practicing Boon’s sneer, the tilt of his head, the slow drag of a cigar between his fingers. Your diet had shifted to match Ballou’s preferences — whiskey instead of beer, crawfish instead of steak.

You were fed stories of Ballou’s notorious escapades, his love life, and, most importantly, his final days — how he’d disappeared from public view for more than two years now, last heard going off to The Philippines for business before his body turned up in Colombia where he’d very quietly died. Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on who you ask), the underworld kingpin of the Hollywood South had an operation that practically ran itself while he was gone.

And now Boon Ballou was coming back.

-----

Then came the night of the deal.

The night was humid, the sky hanging heavy with the promise of rain. Adrenaline coursing through your veins, you could hear your heart pumping in your ears.

The deal was supposed to go smoothly. Now dressed in Boon Ballou's signature black leather waistcoat over a suit, you stood surrounded by armed agents, the tension crackling in the air. You were about to be handed over to the waiting criminals, Boon Ballou’s people, in exchange for a government agent who looked like he’d seen better days. You didn’t know how long he’d been over there or what he’d seen, but it was painted thick on his face. The melodramatics aside, it was supposed to be a simple handoff.

But most things start off simple until they’re not.

You had been betrayed. You inevitably outlived your usefulness to the government agents escorting you across the territory line. They’d planned to shoot you while you walked across the invisible line, gun you down, and leave your body behind as evidence that the criminal empire was dismantling itself.

“Boon Ballou” was meant to die here and tonight.

The first shot came from behind you. For the first time in your life, you felt a real rush of fear. But you had a way of surviving. You didn’t think—you just acted, charging through the chaos and breaking free. You spun, using your tail to knock an agent off their feet and then tore through the surrounding chaos, all teeth and claws. Gunfire erupted around you, but your strength and speed had always been your advantage. You were a croc, after all—built for survival.

You dashed into the thick shadows of the bayou, moving through the dense foliage, but no matter how fast you ran, the shots never stopped. In the distance, you could hear the shouts of your would-be killers as your massive tail sliced through the muck and submerged beneath the murky waters.

For a long while, you just swam through the bayou, the only sound being your own breath and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. Eventually, when you surfaced against the endiscript bank, you caught sight of a blacked out SUV. You weren’t sure if it’d always been there, but an owl hybrid, grizzled and rough-looking, stepped from the cover of the nearby truck. His eyes locked onto you, recognition sparking.

“Boon?” the man asked, his voice low but urgent. “That you?”

You didn’t respond verbally at first, still catching your breath. Nobody called you by your name anymore, but it startled you how quick you responded to being referred to as Boon Ballou.

“Get in, man. ’Less you tryna get shot out here. You straight?” The barred owl grabbed you by the arm, still soaked, and pulled you toward the SUV. 

That seemed to pull You out of your stupor. “I’m fine,” You grunted, your voice rough, trying to mimic the deeper tones of Boon’s Southern drawl. “Just get me outta here.”

 "Two years talkin’ to nobody an’ ya still act like youse untouchable." the older man grumbled as he opened the back door to the SUV and ushered you inside. As you sat in the back of the vehicle in wet clothes and squelching boots, you watched the glimmering lights coming from the edge of the French Quarter. This city was now both your prison and your possible salvation.

As the car screeched to a halt outside a lavish estate, Your mind was spinning. The game had just changed. The owl hybrid that drove you here got out of the van and opened the car door for you to get out, both of you walking up the steps leading up to the front door.

Inside the house, amidst the luxury and wealth that seemed so far removed from the prison cell you’d left behind, you found yourself face-to-face with her. Wanda Maximoff.

Her eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, you saw something in them — something that made your breath catch. The woman who had once been Boon’s lover, the woman who had been a part of Ballou’s past.

But now, she was standing in front of you, looking at you with the same intensity.

This is the woman that Boon Ballou left behind.

And in that moment, you realized something: You weren’t just impersonating the deceased croc. You were responsible for breathing new life into his name.

You were Boon Ballou now. And in this world, that might just be the most damning thing of all.

“You’re back,” she said softly, her brows furrowed in disbelief and voice trembling slightly.

You swallowed hard, your heart heavy. You were way beyond your depth. You don’t know how to run a fucking drug ring. Sure you studied for the test, but you didn’t know a damn thing when standing in front of people with no choice to interact. You couldn’t go back out. There were no takesies backsies. Not if you wanted to live. And when everything you’d worked for for over half a year, when your freedom depended on her and all the people around her believing that you were Boon Ballou? You have no choice but to step up to the plate.

So, you lied. You embraced her.

“Wanda,” your voice was rough with just a hint of unspoken guilt as your fingers brushed the deep red scales that fanned across the outside of her neck and her cheekbones as they gleamed even in the warm, dim light. You didn’t have to pretend to admire her. You’d run into a lot of snake hybrids in your own time, but you hadn’t met one that had so quickly held your attention like she did. That tempted you toward her gravity like she did.

“I’m back.”

No one knew Y/n, the orphan slated for lethal injection. They only knew the man that was their lover, their boss, their friend, and even their rival. Could you really fill those shoes when your foot was essentially forced into them? And more importantly—could you survive long enough to figure out your next move, or would the past of a dead man, and the lies that came with it, consume you until there was nothing left of you?

You were playing a game with stakes that were beyond deadly– and if Boon Ballou proved anything, he proved that no one gets to play forever.