Chapter Text
ONE YEAR BEFORE
It had been a dark, dreary day along the coast of Brighton. It was colder than usual, the air swelling in preparation for a storm that would kick up sand and shores alike.
Alastair had wrapped up warm in a long coat and thick winter trousers. He was thin and easily chilled, "an inch away from being sickly" his mother had always said.
"We've got three crews, one caporegime and a handful of associates," Scot Griswold said, touring him on his new empire. Only last week had Alastair learnt of his parents' business; the mob.
Left to him in their will, he'd been given the entire gang his parents had started up, alongside their immense fortune and all properties and assets. The gang was small, nothing too special - at least, according to Scot.
And Scot seemed to know his stuff. His parents had evidently thought so too, seeing as he'd been left as Alastair's advisor and second in command. He was excited about running a gang, if not worried he'd mess up.
The warehouses were so big and very bright, sun sparkling off the aluminium panels. It was all so new and cool to Alastair that he couldn't help but bounce around as Scot explained the different sections of the gang and introduced him to new faces, some more grisly than the rest.
The room they were currently in was large - each and every corner stacked high with huge shelving units. Boxed things alongside bits and bobs were scattered around the place, looking something close to one of those shipping warehouses he'd seen on the tv once in a documentary. The place was a breath of misty fresh air accompanied by a metallic smell that was reminiscent of his father's old work-boots when he'd worked in the car factory.
How, he wondered silently, did he get to this?
His mother had been an accountant. Did that have anything to do with it?
Surely people didn't just decide to form a gang?
"That's it on enforcers," Scot was saying, brown fur coat pulled tight to his body. His skin was momentarily dappled grey from the overhead sun-window they walked under. For a man not too far into his thirties, his hair was thinning and whitening from stress.
Alastair hoped he wasn't the cause of that stress. He'd have to treat the other; maybe he'd like an ice cream from the Morelli's down the street.
"We've got an ex special ops coming over from America, some prodigy your father got on contract before..." Scot continued, waving at a short stick-like man with a thick green fisherman's sweater. "That's Eric, he's in charge of transport. Anyways, the spec guy is coming over in a few months. Last I heard he'd got caught up with something over in Oregon."
"Awesome," Alastair breezed, not really listening. His eye caught on a large pile of stacked crates (the only ones in the whole warehouse) in the midst of being secured with rope in the far corner. "What are those crates?"
"Being shipped to Iceland," his advisor explained. "We specialise in obscure things. They find it hard to get stuff over there. You'd be surprised at the profit it brings in."
"What sort of stuff?" He questioned.
"All sorts. Meats, shirts, toys, you say it we've probably sent it."
"Drugs?" Alastair prodded, watching two men rifle through the crates, one calling things out to the other who nodded and scribbled things down on a checkboard. He could almost hear their chatter over the soft hum of other conversations.
There weren't many people in the warehouse, maybe fifty total. A small operation, but seemingly a successful one.
Scot was quiet.
He turned to look at the other man, blinking down at him. Scot was staring at his phone, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He tapped away at his dark screen, eyes flickering over a sudden splotch of green.
Texting someone, Alastair realised, pouting.
"Scot?"
His advisor startled, head jerking up to stare at him. "Yes, Alastair?"
Stood in the middle of the warehouse the chill bit at them. "Nevermind. Can we go for ice cream?"
"Bit cold, is it not?" Scot huffed, making a point with the cloud of white mist his breath made.
"Never too cold for ice cream," he insisted, gearing up his puppy-dog eyes that had gotten him a new bike without fuss after he'd broken the last one when he was ten. Or had it been without fuss seeing as his parents could obviously afford it? Distantly, the sound of a phone ringing echoed around the warehouse. "C'mon, Scottie. Ice cream!"
"Alright, fine," agreed his advisor, mouth opening to say something else.
His sentence was cut off by a man dropping a large box in the middle of the warehouse, a good thirty metres away from the two of them. Alastair noticed the green sweater from earlier, just as the man turned to grin at him and Scot.
"Good riddance, Griswold." He boomed before kicking the box.
A loud, shrill beep started up. Alastair stood still, confused and unsure as the men furthest away began to sprint towards the doors out onto the shipping port line. Beside him, Scot cursed.
"Run!" Scot shouted, grabbing his arm with such force that Alastair winced. The advisor tugged him along, back towards the doors they'd entered from as Alastair stumbled.
"What's-" What's happening? What's he doing? What's all this fuss for?
"Down!" Scot shoved him down behind a large box with a tractor drawn on it. Alastair went, knees bouncing off the freezing cold concrete floor as Scot cowered over him, hugging him tight to his chest and pressing a hand over the ear that was unguarded. "Close your eyes, kid."
A large bang shook everything. In the darkness, Alastair sucked in a breath and choked on a toxic mix of ash and dust and smoke. He opened his eyes to find Scot's furry hem in his face, the man's nose buried in his hair as his callused, rough hand uncovered his ear.
Scot patted his shoulder, easing him upright despite the ringing in his ears. Alastair coughed in the silence of his own head and blinked up at a ferocious looking Scot.
A thumbs up was shoved in his face, a tap to his jaw drawing attention to the appendage. Alastair looked and nodded slowly, letting his advisor pull him to his feet.
Metal shelves were toppled like dominos, everything within a certain distance of the once bomb gone, blown to dust. If Scot hadn't of dragged them both back they too would've been nothing more than ash. The green sweater man was gone, now nothing more than a scrap of fabric on the floor.
In the burning wreck of the warehouse, shivering men scrambled away from their hiding places and ran for the doors once more. They didn't get far as a group of thirty or so men burst into the room through those very doors, hefting big guns and chunky bulletproof vests.
Guns popped and crackled, mowing down the runners until there was no movement from their reddened bodies. Scot shoved him back, sticking his hands up as a fat man in a suit plodded into the scene. The guy's hair was all greasy and slicked back, greying at the sides and roots. His white dress shirt looked ready to burst out of itself.
Scot was obviously speaking, as the men had stopped firing at a hand gesture and the fat man was nodding along amicably. Alastair wobbled where he stood, wary to touch anything lest he burn himself on the hot metal of the toppled shelves, the ringing in his ears fading to a dull drone that was still just a bit too loud.
He watched the fat guy instead, eyes locked on his face as the guy looked over to him and his entire gaze darkened. Alastair was frozen as the man grinned at him, bearing fake pearly whites.
There was a hand gesture, a gentle beckoning come here from the man. Unsure, Alastair wavered, looking to Scot only to find the advisor frowning heavily, looking panicked. His face was darkened with soot, the fires all around them blotting out the light whilst making the shadows dance a golden show on his coat and in his eyes.
Alastair took a step forth when Scot made no move to tell him not too, finding his hearing slowly settling as he took a few weak steps towards the group. He felt like a newborn lamb, all limbs and no muscle.
"An inch away from sickly," his mother's voice called.
At another reassuring nod from the fat suited guy, Alastair stepped close enough to Scot to have joined the group circle. It seemed highly unfair for Scot to be standing alone whilst the suit guy had at least thirty other men wearing balaclavas and wielding big, heavy guns gathered around him.
Beside him, Scot opened his mouth just as the suited guy shoved his hand down his trousers and pulled out a handgun. The bullet tore through his head quicker than a knife slid through butter.
Scot Griswold dropped to the floor, a hole blown through his brain. Alastair stared, swallowed a whisper and screamed.
He screamed and screamed and screamed.
The fat guy just smiled at him. Even as he fell to his knees and knelt in the blood of his friend, even as he became lightheaded, even as his vision clouded with tears and his eyes burned from the smoke, the fat guy just smiled at him.
A pudgy, sweaty hand curled through his hair. Alastair jerked at the contact, rearing away from the leering, stout man before the base of his gun came down and knocked him unconscious.
Eret shot up in bed, a cough tightening their windpipe as their eyes watered. Every breath was a rattled, hoarse thing and every time they closed their eyes they saw a naive boy falling victim to a horrible act.
"Alright?" Dream's concerned voice came from the doorway of their bedroom.
They cleared their throat, twisted over half their bed to grab the glass of water on their nightstand and chugged it down.
"Yes," they said finally, wiping water off their chin as they shivered from phantom touches. Dream entered the room, steps slow and measured, and placed their phone beside the now empty glass. "Time check."
"6.52 AM," their bodyguard and emergency second in command answered. He wasn't wearing his mask in the solitude of the penthouse, the long jagged scar over his lips clearly visible, even in the dull light that filtered past the drawn blinds. "Your first appointment is at 10.05 AM. Multi-national corporation, Lazar's Beams. Originally Australian. Founder and CEO is Lannan Lazar, big shot in the shoes industry."
"I take it George is awake then," they chimed, for Dream never had that level of information right off the bat without having talked to George first. Their recruitment of the man to be their computer specialist (fancy name for being their hacker, really) had been a marvellous one indeed. He never failed to encourage.
Dream blew out a breath and smirked. "Yeah."
"Good, we can start early." They nodded, swinging out of their bed. The carpet under their feet helped ground them, the fluffiness a secure reminder of where they were. Dream turned around to open the blinds (they were high enough up that no one else could see through the windows so it didn't really matter that they weren't changed yet) whilst they tapped off a text to Phil on his status.
"Sapnap's here too," said the other, light slowly flooding the room as they stalked over to their walk-in wardrobe and tapped open the pressure-point press-open doors.
"Back from Arkansas so soon? He cleaned up after himself, I hope."
"Of course. Krinios went with him and helped with the arson. Among Us Industries won't be interfering with any of your North American factories now that they've lost their own."
"Inconspicuous and sudden?"
"Electrical fault, I heard," Dream snickered. "Wooden walls are very flammable."
"I'm sure our pyromaniac enjoyed his trip," Eret laughed, stepping into a pair of ocean-blue tights. Their white skirt with printed fish on it came next, tied up old-fashioned with the corset-esque string at the back. "Corpse Husband won't know what hit him."
Dream added, "He was being too loud."
"On Arkhos' scenic view too. Such a shame some people fall victim to their own greed."
That last statement hit close to a nerve, for both of them. They turned to the left to pull a shirt up against their chest for comparison against their skirt and saw Dream's wicked grin in their peripheral. Eret blew out a breath as Dream began his kettle wheeze before eventually giving in and laughing with him.
They settled on a light white coloured fabric, see-through over-vest that had puffed out sleeves and went nicely over their cordial black tank top.
A buzz caught their ear. Eret checking their phone to find Philza's responding text to be all greens.
"Technoblade will be here today, seeing as they've finally moved into their house." They hummed, slipping the phone into a hidden pocket in their wavy above-knee cut skirt. A switchblade from their wardrobe drawer found itself joining it, a pretty amber handled one with a little fish skeleton inside. "Try not to pick another fight with him."
"He started it, boss," Dream chirped, smiling innocently when they turned to stare at him. The ex special ops tilted his head and quickly changed the topic. "Phil buy that suburban house he seen?"
"You know he did. Don't know why, it's ugly as sin. There's also the fact Wilbur needs to crouch to get up the stairs."
"How long do you think he'll be able to stand it?"
"I'm going to give it a month before offering him another loft." They decided, stepping into their ensuite and tapping on the hot water to wash their face. "You?"
"Bets are on for at least two," Dream confirmed their suspicions. "Sapnap thinks Phil's too stubborn to move out when he'll really need to."
"Oh well," they said and halted conversation for a few minutes as they shoved their toothbrush into their mouth to brush their teeth.
"Don't Wil and Techno have a kid brother?" Dream murmured when they dropped their toothbrush into its holder.
"Eighteen in a few months. Tommy Innit."
"You going to..?" He let the question trail off, already knowing the answer.
Eret shrugged, taking the logical route of this argument. "Better he's introduced early than brought in as an inexperienced greenhorn at eighteen. He's already had longer than most others would."
"There's only so long you can be safe outside the group when your family's in the group," Dream agreed. This was fact; one known from experience.
Dream had lost their sister when they were still Clay. Eret lost their parents and a friend when they were Alastair. Both were intimately familiar with death, the loss it brought with it and the ultimate reason behind such happenings.
Their stomach grumbled. "What do you say to breakfast, darling?"
The brunette grimaced as if pained. "I'd say we'd better get something from a café." And then, explanation enough, "George is cooking."
"A quick shopping spree has never hurt anyone," they smiled.