Chapter Text
"I'm telling you," a man in a suit was furiously whispering to another. "Don't even think about it. I don't care what they paid you, don't do it."
"A bet's a bet, Wisp," the other, younger man shrugged. "Smiling at them won't kill me."
"Smiling?" Wisp's voice reached a new pitch. "Listen, rookie—"
The man's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. The crowd passing by paused and moved like a tide to hug the walls despite how wide the hallway was. The rookie frowned at the sight and nearly choked when Wisp grabbed his collar and hauled him back.
He opened his mouth but foumd himself motioned silent. The woman across from him clutched a tablet to her chest and bowed her head deeply. At first glance, it looked like her tablet was vibrating, but no, that was just her arms. She shook like a leaf in a gale.
There was a distant, low click. It almost sounded like a pair of heavy boots thumping off the polished floors, but the gait was too uneven to be someone walking. The noise echoed, stiffening spines and bringing an unnerving quiet.
The rookie spared a glance around him. Every single person along the corridor had straightened their backs and tipped down their heads. No one moved, no one looked up. It was like they'd turned into the red sea and had parted for Jesus. Why the hell were they doing this?
A second later, the rookie got his answer.
Someone he'd thought to be half-myth emerged from a doorway. They stepped out into the hall, that haunting click-click following them – the death march in sync with their long cane hitting the floor. A grey wool sweater shrouded their frame, black slacks whispering against the floor. One leg dragged as they strode down the hallway. Their face was pale and drawn, dark eyes locked dead ahead.
The rookie had heard a lot about the boss' gaze — cerulean, oceanic, cold. To look into their eyes was to drown, he'd been told.
Eager to see the face of someone so feared yet acclaimed, the rookie chanced a look up and caught the gaze of the shadow behind the boss. A man revered as monster, the green hoodie and the black smile made it clear who he was. Dogging Eret's steps was Dream; another myth-turned-reality and omen bundled into one. People called him a hound clothed in human flesh. Bred for violence, the whispers warned.
The rookie's breath caught. He couldn't see Dream's eyes past the darkness of his pulled hood, but he knew he'd just looked into the eyes of the devil. Wisp's hand snapped up and pushed his head down. The older man bowed his own deeper.
Dream hadn't stopped walking, but the choked silence in the hall made it seem like he had. When the sound of him walking on continued, tailing the boss as always, it felt like everyone around him let out a collective sigh of relief. No one dared move.
The sharp yet hollow click-click that followed the pair sent a chill down the rookie's spine.
They look half-dead, thought the rookie, glimpsing their white knuckled grip on their cane. He'd only caught the barest flash of their pallid skin and curly hair, but he'd seen enough in the alleyways to know death when he saw it.
A mafia boss being half-dead was worse than dead. Half-dead meant something had returned. Something was still kicking.
A bitter man was worse than a kind one. He thought the whispers about them had been exaggerations but seeing the way confident people parted for them made him rethink a few things.
When the boss vanished down the hall, people slowly unstuck themselves from the panels and went about their days. Wisp sent the rookie a sharp glance and motioned for him to follow.
"You know now why you don't smile at them?" The man whispered, walking close. "If they don't sign your death warrant, one of their dogs will."
"I heard they used to be nice," the rookie piped up, not really as scared as he should've been.
Wisp hesitated. His shrug was half-hearted. "About six months ago, they went to Cuba."
The rookie heard what went unsaid. Whatever had happened across the sea had transfigured them. Cuba had carved something monstrous into their bones.
"Whatever you do, don't go talking about it," his mentor warned. "You won't like the basement sessions if you're the one sitting in the seat."
The rookie nodded along.
For February, it was warm. Heat permeated the skyscraper's glass and roasted the rooms, bright sun beams sliding between blinds to dance over their desk. The wooden floor budded with heat, their left sock tapping a rigorous tune on the boards. With their leather chair taking the brunt of the sunlight, they were still.
They stared at the tablet in front of them; the screen dull against the light that beamed off it, the sparkles spearing through their eyes. Dream stood behind them, silent and unmoving. Eret sat, reticent and still.
The elevator pinged.
“We’re baaack!” Tommy yelled, barrelling out of the doors before they’d even half opened. Tubbo slipped behind him once the two doors had opened fully, tugging Ranboo along by the hand.
Eret looked up and smiled.
“Did ya miss us?” Tommy chattered, bouncing around the desk as he grinned. “I got a nine in my English assessment today.”
Pleased, they clapped for the boy. He grinned at them and swayed towards the stairwell. They raised an eyebrow.
“We have’ta teach Ranboo how to make the Tommy Innit Hot Chocolate!” The boy hurried to explain, grin wide enough to break his cheeks.
“It’s hot cocoa,” insisted the tanned boy. He looked awfully out of place with his Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts – or would’ve, if England wasn’t currently stuck in a heatwave.
“We’re not Americans,” Tommy faux-scowled at him, rolling his eyes. He bounced on his toes, backpack jostling on his back. Eret swallowed back the knee-jerk recoil as whatever was inside the canvas clattered loudly.
“Except Ranboo is?” Tubbo chuckled, rubbing at his neck. Bee pins littered his straps, his unruly fringe clipped back with a little yellow clip with a large striped pompom imitating a bee on it.
“Tubbo,” Tommy whispered. “Shh!”
Tubbo giggled, “Right- yeah, Ranboo. We’re not Americans.”
“Of course,” said the boy, head lopsided as he grinned. “I'm ever so sorry for your loss.”
"Hey!" Tommy shrieked. "Don't use your words against us like that!"
"Use my words like what?" Ranboo drawled as Tubbo muffled his laughter into a fist. "I was agreeing."
Eret remained seated as the boys rushed off downstairs. George was down there; he could make sure they didn’t burn anything.
Ranboo was over for a month before heading back to- to- Eret had pulled a few strings and made sure the boy got a student visa. He was over as part of a fully-funded student swap (courtesy of Arkhos' stretching fingers). The only reason he was in England was because Tubbo had mentioned wanting to see him. Anything that made their little Tubster happy was welcomed. The three boys had apparently talked at some point and hit it off. Eret couldn’t remember seeing the American prior - he had simply appeared out of nowhere - but Tubbo had taken a shine to him, which was good enough.
They would do anything if it pleased Tubbo. The child deserved the world, already suffering because of others' actions. Eret had only added to that mess when they left him shaking and weeping in- in a foreign country. The least they could do for him was provide a decent therapist and spoil the kid. If pretty words put salve over those gaping wounds of his, they would throw money at someone who could talk.
A while back, they had plans to adopt the boy. The adoption papers burned a hole in the bottom drawer of their desk even now. They'd originally been waiting for presentation on Christmas day. But then they’d been in hospital for months, leg nearly gone, and Christmas hadn’t happened. A meek celebration inside a white-wash room was nothing compared to what could have been. Eret hadn't wanted to fuck the kid up more by slapping him with a new last name and new responsibilities so soon after that shitshow.
(Maybe, if they hadn’t walked out that back door into that little red alley, things would have been different.)
Out of hospital for approximately a month and a half and they couldn’t be better-
If only their night terrors ceased; if only they could open their mouth and utter a word; if only they didn’t cry when they looked in the mirror; if only their leg worked and they could walk without the aid of a cane–
They were fine.
Dream tapped their shoulder and they flinched.
“He’s here,” said the masked man. The lack of a hood covering his blazing green eyes meant they couldn’t turn around. They couldn’t look him in the eyes, couldn't see the loyalty burning there like a spoiled carcass and still pat his head the same. They'd bitten off more than they could ever chew and they were still choking on it. And in the wake of their blood spilling over soil and rotting everything, Dream had only pressed closer, lapping his tongue over their wounds and tried to crawl deeper inside. His hands pressed at the cuts and tried to keep them together but all they could see was the empty grave and the contact that still beeped. Why he hadn't killed that man- why he hadn't done the one thing they paid him to do- if he was supposed to bite anyone who hurt them, why had he left so many alive, why hadn't he avenged them?
Eret’s heart wasn’t strong enough. Reality ached, sharp and bitter between their bones and grating on their skin. They knew this, had known this for years. Eret hadn't been perfect in years, not after their parents died and they took the mantle at a price. Everything had a cost, and Dream had made it clear his was blood. Usually it was their enemies', but the one time they needed him to wipe the dirt clean, he had failed.
They hadn't told him this. They couldn't without being a hypocrite. Not after what they’d become.
Pathetic.
Broken.
Fake.
‘Bring him up,’ they gestured, tapping their tablet off.
The sun was blinding. It licked over their sleeves, made them want to take off their jumper. It reminded them of heat, of pain and a forest that never seemed to end. Eret wanted to take everything off, it was too itchy, it ached, but the words scrawled into their skin made them hesitate. They couldn't let the kids see what they'd been carved into.
At least the boys hadn’t been harmed, nothing past what a little therapy couldn’t fix. The tight feeling in their chest when they thought of what could’ve been made their vision spin.
Eret was a coward – afraid of what hadn’t happened yet fearing what had. Sometimes, it was the small things that made a wall crumble.
The elevator doors pinged.
He was accomplished. Everyone knew it.
No one his age was an up-and-coming high ranker but here he was, defying his mother’s vitriol and his father’s barbs that he’d “never make it anywhere in life” with his habits.
What was it to him if he liked to smoke a little weed? So what if he accepted blood money in back alleys and conspired for a throne thousands of miles up? If letting go of a little stress on the corner hooker didn't make him fucked up, was there even any cost to buying nicer boots to get ready for a bigger seat? He knew where he belonged and he was aiming for it like he was supposed to.
Quig was accomplished. Everyone with half a brain knew he was doing well.
Arkhos owned a lot of land. They held the countryside and lorded over what the smaller gangs couldn’t have. If small timers got in the way, they were eliminated.
It only made sense he would get a job with them. He'd practically strolled into the interview and flashed his portfolio at them - armed robbery, grand theft auto and a slew of other eye-catchers; all done under the cop's radar and unnoticed - in the fact he'd rolled up in the mayor's freshly wrapped, replated jag. The whole city had been buzzing about the mayor's close call and the flashy motor that went missing during a hold up. Quig simply used it to secure himself a job. No one with half a brain would turn away a guy who had the smarts to pull off a heist like that in broad daylight and had managed to cover his tracks so quickly. The Italians had turned him away, muttering something like "sciocco appariscente" but it was their loss.
What mattered was that Arkhos had practically opened their arms to him. They'd even used the car to get leverage on the mayor, who Quig was pretty sure was in their pocket now. All thanks to him.
The lady who'd talked to him had told him he'd be welcome to join up, but that he'd have to start from whatever position they gave him. That was fine, he'd told her. So long as he could make a living.
She'd seemed very pleased with that lie.
And that was how he'd ended up here - sitting in the faux-leather interior of a lorry that smelt like bubblegum air freshener and nicotine. The guy driving looked about thirty, with thick stubble clinging to his chin and jaw and a mean scar through his eyebrow. His lip was curled over a cig like he was ready to chew through it.
They'd pulled up to the large gates of what looked like a processing factory. A whiplash mash of suburban brick houses and rural fields gleamed around them, with chickens flapping in the courtyard while the side of the factory was hemmed in by a quiet town that sprawled over the hill. The lorry chugged forwards, breezing through the gates as they swung open to let them in. From an outsider's view, the place looked dingier than a farmyard and even upon a closer inspection of the dreary loading bays and the dusty gravel, the place looked like a food processing plant, or maybe some sorry excuse for a mail sorting warehouse. Quig didn't really see the appeal in it. They were so remote out here that he figured the entire town was bought off or worked in this place, so they probably didn't even have to pretend they weren't smuggling enough drugs in and out to disrupt the country's economy overnight.
Low, orange-tinted lights lit up the unloading bays, becoming visible as the driver backed the lorry up into the building, parking the huffing piece of scrap under the overhang. A small babble of personnel were fleshed throughout the place and they came spilling over to unload the lorry like rats approaching a feast. Cardboard boxes and yellow paint lined the ground and the workers wore safety jackets and boots like they were paid to upkeep the lie. The driver snuffed his smoke out on the illegal ashtray on his dash and thumbed his doorlatch. "Get out of my cab."
Quig unbuckled faster than he could speak to agree. The guy was a shit conversationalist and he wasn't interested in watching him pretend to help the rats unload his cargo.
“Heya,” called his new boss the second his boots touched the tarmac. The guy bounced over, grinning and waving at him in his gaudy sapphire blue tracksuit. He looked fresh out of one of those crappy sitcoms where people never really looked like they had an active part in society. “Quig, right? I’m Skepsiaren Diamond - but you can call me Skeppy, like everyone else. I'll be your reporting senior while you're here.”
“'Sup,” he greeted, banging the lorry’s door shut. The tremor shook him, leaving his skin jittery.
First day nerves, he calmed himself and put on his best smile.
“I’m excited to be working with everybody. I’ve heard lots of things.”
“Good things, I hope,” Skeppy chuckled, voice ringing into hesitant for all of a second before it was forgotten. He brandished a black plastic clipboard and waved it around like it was the word of the law.
Not that a mafia cared much for the law.
“As second in command for the Transportation department, you’ll mainly be helping me out. That’s good if you like travelling, not so good if you get travel sick.”
“I thought it was all local?” Quig pried innocently, trying to act up the whole 'newbie transfer fresh into town from a small town operation' thing. His inside eye had given him the real rundown days ago - he'd be up rubbing elbows with the big runners and the stakeholders soon, if he made it through initiation.
“It used to be, but the big boss likes to see our faces, so we travel around the UK. Usually up to London more times a year than anywhere else, but sometimes we need to go a little further out to keep an eye on the smaller operations.” Skeppy chattered, all eager-puppy and bright eyes. He seemed like a nice guy, a little overzealous to help maybe, but otherwise naïve enough to not notice anything amiss. He rambled on, Quig listening to him in bits here and there: “There’s a big meeting in a month for the semester turn-over, we’ll get up to the HQ then – you ever been to London? You need to try out the takeout we always go to, gosh there are some good ones but the usual place I get tacos from is to die for! HQ’s near a few really good ones. The betting pools are all in for the boss being the one to suggest they move in. Not that the takeouts would be complaining with all the customers they’re getting, that is - unless they don’t like mobsters strolling in for a chip and leaving.”
“What kinda stuff will I be doing?” He smiled, catching Skeppy as he took a breath. As interesting as listening to the man blabber was (not at all, he’d sooner sleep in a garbage truck), he had a job to do. He wasn’t getting anywhere letting the man warble about takeout.
“Oh!” The man gestured for him to following, practically bouncing a foot off the ground as he skipped towards a door with a glowing green entry sign above it. “Follow! Follow me!”
Led into a long metal corridor, Quig tagged after the energetic man and inwardly dismayed at how long his future days would be following around this guy. It was dull in the corridor, boxes providing thousands of trip hazards that Skeppy simply jumped over. Skittering behind him, Quig narrowly avoided any broken bones and was relieved to find the corridor was only around twenty foot long.
The door on the other end opened up into the main hub. It was nothing special; it looked like a Transport depot should. There was a cold wooden floor, bright LED lights overhead as long conveyor belts speared through a good half of the large forty foot tall room. There was a bubble of people working the belt, picking up packages and tossing them onto the leisurely roll of coils.
To his right was an off-centre ring of desks, five people sitting with their noses buried in their computer screens. Amidst the rumble of the parcel conveyor, the click-clack of computer keys left the room in a hazy sort of lull. They all seemed to be wearing casual trackies or tshirts – nothing like the workers outside.
“I thought there was a dress code?”
“Oh, for HQ sure, but round here? I don’t mind, so long as you show up to work! If you're on the loading bay team, you have to wear stuff to keep up to health and safety code, but if you're in here I don't really mind. Unless the health inspector's paying a visit!" Skeppy gave a laugh and winked like he was being funny.
Laid back. Lackadaisical. He was beginning to understand what type of guy Skeppy was.
Easy prey.
“Cool,” he nodded, gaze following the other’s exaggerated hand gestures to find a second floor. It was smaller, with the main body providing extra space for the main room, the edges lined with dingy yellow railings. Plain grey doors lined the sides, probably offices or spare storage rooms. A metal staircase led up to the half-hollowed-out floor, tacky and probably dirtier than shit.
The compound spread on for a while, maybe a good half-mile in length. It could cater for “up to sixteen lorries at once, but was built to deal with over twenty on stress days” and was mainly made up of more conveyor rooms and storage holes. If anything, the docking bays for the lorries took up most of the room, the tall metal fences around the compound looming to “keep the ones we don’t want in, out”.
He wasn’t about to tell them how bad they’d failed at that. Gates weren’t going to do anything when transfer papers could be forged as easily as his.
This’ll be fun.
“Remind me of the hours?”
“Your shift is nine to nine,” Skeppy chirped, bouncing around and showing him niche corners that he really didn’t care about. While internally moaning about the hours he was going to waste, Quig was dragged outside and shown the remote bays around the back.
“These are where we load the drugs,” said his boss, gesturing to four lorries from where they’d stopped under a shelter. This one looked like the other bay he'd arrived in. The sky was getting darker despite the clammy heat but Quig ignored that and took note of the ‘other side’ of this Transport hub. “We usually get around twenty pick-ups a day - around ten big shipments and anywhere from five to nine smaller ones. The busiest we ever were was a few months back. We were racking in an average of thirty per day and yeesh, we were busy.”
“Wow,” he intoned, genuinely impressed. He wondered how much the compound dragged in money-wise. It had to be in the millions. “All of that exports or imports?”
“Both,” clarified Skeppy. The shade of his tracksuit was really beginning to grate on Quig, the colour a few shades from teal yet nowhere near cobalt. It was almost like the false blue hue of Minecraft diamonds. “As SIC, you’ll oversee the reports and make sure nothing is missing from what we process. I'm still dealing with the backlog from a few months ago, which is kinda why you're here.”
“Yeah, sounds good. Is there anything else I need to worry about?” He inquired, following after the hyperactive man as he flounced off to show him a small break room in the side of one of the bays, a fridge stuffed in the corner with a coffee maker sitting front and centre on the granite tops.
“You’ll get a report on the little things - I can't really remember since some are niche. You'll probably have to fill out a few health forms, if that helps. We've got a lot of machinery and stuff that needs to be verified. Coffee?”
“Not a big fan of the stuff,” he lied. These people didn't need to know about him.
“Ah,” Skeppy laughed, giving him the side-eye. If Quig wasn’t so sure the man was more naïve than a newborn, he might’ve been afraid the man was onto him. “You’ll come round eventually. You’ll definitely need it.”
A few minutes passed as they waited around for the coffee, Skeppy pulling out a large white mug with blocky black writing on it: ‘BBH is Big Daddy’.
Wisely, Quig decided not to ask.
Finally, after Skeppy had fixed his long hair back into a more presentable bun, they shuffled back into the main room and up the metal stairs. His boss sipped leisurely from his mug, completely unaware that Quig could shift and push him over the yellow railings – he’d fall a good thirty feet, a death sentence or permanent damage. His fingers twitched before he bundled them into his jeans.
Skeppy pushed open a door near the end of the walkway, walking into a room with a small window in the right wall and a thin desk in the middle.
“This is your office,” he declared, beaming. “Best if you sync up your work email real quick or you’ll miss the data reports and your schedule, which would be a mess and we try to avoid those around here, if you know what I mean. But yeah, feel free to customise your office however you want, you could paint the walls pink for all I care.”
Quig pretended he'd been listening and nodded at the pause clearly meant for his response. “Uh... thanks.”
A hand clapped onto his shoulder, Skeppy already veering out of the room and leaving him. “Have fun. If you need anything, gimme a call – my office is on the opposite side!”
Abandoned in the small room, Quig let the door squeak shut. Alone at last, he sighed and sunk into the ruddy, hard roller seat.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Having a nice first day? Asked Travis.
Yeah, detail later, he pinged back, getting a thumbs up before the entire conversation wiped itself clean. He pushed his phone back into his pocket and mulled over how long it would take to get a better chair. Maybe he could add in some paintings, spice the place up a bit; the grey walls were going to give him an aneurysm.