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Joe wiped the sweat from his forehead, dampening his dusty fingerless glove as he struggled to keep the drill steady with one hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at two of his new colleagues, who looked just as worn out as he felt, though they were clearly trying not to show it.
As he debated if he should ask if they were okay, not sure if they would appreciate it if he did, the drill suddenly slipped to the right against the thick wall.
It was only a few inches or so, but just enough to send a pebble the size of a ping-pong ball breaking off with surprising force.
Luckily, despite his fatigue, Joe's reflexes were on point, and he ducked just in time.
The small rock grazed his bald-ish head, leaving nothing more than a minor scrape.
A smile tugged at his lips, rather pleased with himself and his reflexes.
His satisfaction, however, was short-lived.
Just moments later, another piece broke loose from the wall, this time hitting him square on the nose.
"Ouch!"
Okay, first day or not, this was getting ridiculous.
With a frown to show his displeasure, Joe glanced over his shoulder at his boss, rubbing his sore nose.
"Hey, we've been splitting rocks all night. We need a break, Greasepit."
The unusual name rolled off his tongue easily enough, but looking at his new boss made him feel the opposite.
There was just something… off about the guy.
For one, he was like a castle so big, and twice as broad.
Joe wasn't naive, let alone unworldly, but even he hadn't seen anyone as big as Greasepit.
Then there was his clothing.
Greasepit's outfit, a green dungaree and a red hat covering his bald head looked like it hadn't seen a washer in ages, and the same could be said for the man himself.
Because he smelled bad.
As in…really bad.
Whenever he was nearby, Joe's nose started to tickle, his sinuses instinctively urging him to sneeze from the intense, greasy smell that lingered around him.
Almost as if the man wore it like cologne.
Oddly, it would almost make sense.
It would at least explain the shiny oily skin and the mysterious slicks of grease that seemed to appear wherever he had been standing.
And, of course, there was that strange name.
If he didn't need the money so badly, Joe would have turned and walked away the moment he met his new boss this afternoon.
But that was just the thing.
He didn't have the luxury of backing out now.
And so here he was—in the smelly sewers, his boots coated with a sludge he would rather not identify, drilling a hole into the wall of the Republic Bank of Chicago.
Life, without a doubt, was anything but predictable.
Greasepit narrowed his glassy brown eyes at hearing Joe's request, and the downturn at the corners of his mouth made it clear that asking for a break—or asking for anything, really—was definitely not common practice in this line of work.
"Yeah? Well, the only thing getting 'breaked' around here is that wall", he replied in his low, oddly goofy voice, pointing a greasy finger toward the wall where Joe and his colleagues were working.
"So get moving, yous goons! We need all that money from the treasury vault, nice and quiet!"
Joe bit back the urge to point out that drilling holes in a wall with this kind of equipment was anything but quiet, let alone subtle.
He had a feeling that saying so would make him even less popular than he already was, being the new guy and all.
Joe's bright blue eyes shifted to the two guys standing closest again, curious if they might say something.
But both kept their eyes down, doubling their efforts to break through the wall as if they had suddenly realized they were on a deadline.
Not just that.
Joe noticed that they looked a bit anxious as well.
Their movements were rushed, jerky even.
Like Joe, they were sweating like a pig, but what caught his attention most was how one of them—he believed his name was Gunner—kept glancing over his shoulder with a nervous look in his eyes.
Joe wondered why that was.
Neither of them struck him as the type to worry about getting caught by the police.
The oversized guns they were both carrying seemed like more than enough to handle any 'unwanted popo appearances'.
Or maybe they were just trying to compensate for something.
Ah well.
Perhaps all they wanted was to get this over with so they could head out and get wasted.
Joe certainly did.
And so, he refocused on the job.
Instead of helping, Greasepit leaned against the slimy wall behind them, rubbing his oily hands as he muttered to himself.
Since eavesdropping was far more interesting than drilling holes in walls, Joe pricked his ears and tuned in, keeping his gaze low, curious about what his boss-man was rambling on about.
"Once the city of Chicago is out of dough, the boss can buy up the whole place, real cheap-like. And you know what? Those stinking mice won't be able to do a damn thing about it…"
Joe's back stiffened, and a frown appeared on his face.
Mice?
Did he just say… mice?
Was that some sort of slang for cops he didn't know about?
Distracted, his drill slipped once again, this time landing with a loud bang that made Greasepit and the others practically jump out of their skin.
"Hey! I told yous! Ssssshh!", Greasepit hissed.
Joe offered him a sheepish smile as he picked up the drill, his confusion now replaced by embarrassment.
"Sorry, boss. It won't happen again."
"It better not! We're supposed to be as quiet as…"
"...mice, sweetheart?"
A somewhat high-pitched voice echoed through the damp, winding tunnels of the sewer, sending a chill through Joe that had nothing to do with the cold air.
The sound had come out of nowhere, and for a reason that was unknown to him, it made every remaining hair on his body stand on end.
He and his colleagues spun around at once, and though the moment was like a blur, Joe noticed that their faces had gone as pale as sheets.
Kind of like they had seen, or heard, a ghost.
Before he could make sense of it, a soft click was heard, and something clattered near his feet with a metallic cloink.
Slowly, Joe looked down, and as the realization hit, his eyes went wide.
"Grenade!"
Everyone scattered.
Joe dove for cover, throwing his arms over his head to shield himself from the impending blast.
But as he was doing that, his eyes caught something weird, something he might not have noticed if he hadn't overheard Greasepit's strange little speech.
There was a symbol painted in white on the grenade.
A shape that looked a lot like uhm… Mickey Mouse?
Stinking mice, quiet like mice…
What in the world was going on here?
As Joe landed on his stomach in the same muck that covered his boots, another click echoed through the tunnel.
He braced himself, silently praying he was out of the blast range, despite not being religious.
Sure, life had thrown him plenty of curveballs, but he most definitely didn't want to die here.
But the expected bang never came, and after a few seconds, Joe slowly raised his head, only to see red smoke filling up the tunnel.
A smoke grenade.
It was only a smoke grenade.
Relief washed over him as he scrambled back to his feet, though he stayed on high alert.
Nearby, a movement caught his eye.
He turned to see Gunner—the one who had been glancing over his shoulder anxiously—lying close by.
But instead of relief, Gunner's face held a look of sheer terror.
For the second time today, Joe wondered why that was.
He had never seen anyone so frightened, and an ominous feeling settled over him.
Whatever had rattled this usually tough guy had to be something far more serious than he wanted to imagine.
"Gunner, right? You okay?", he asked hesitantly, extending a hand to help his colleague up.
But Gunner slapped it away and sprang to his feet with surprising agility, his greenish eyes wide-open in panic.
Startled by the intensity radiating off the man, Joe instinctively took a step back.
However, before he could move farther, Gunner grabbed him by the arms, his grip fierce.
"Don't leave me", he breathed, his voice thick with fear.
Joe wrinkled his nose as a wave of Gunner's foul breath coursed down his face.
"Shit man, what the hell is wrong with you? Let me go!"
But Gunner didn't let go.
In fact, he clung to him as if Joe were the only thing keeping him from sinking into the deep blue sea.
They struggled briefly while the red smoke thickened, filling the entire tunnel as the grenade emptied itself at a steady pace.
The air grew harder to breathe, and Joe finally stopped struggling as he began to cough.
Freeing one hand, he pulled his bandana up over his nose and mouth to shield his lungs.
He glanced at Gunner, who still clutched him tightly, his eyes darting around the tunnel in panic, searching for…
Yeah, for what?
But just as Joe was about to ask, an unexpected sound echoed through the sewers.
A sound so familiar, though it seemed out of place here in the underground tunnels, and thus, he wasn't really sure what exactly he was hearing.
His coworker did.
Gunner gasped, and he tightened his grip around Joe's arms.
It was actually quite strange how a sound as simple and soft as a gasp could spark a pang of fear in Joe's stomach, twisting it as if he had eaten something rotten.
As the weird noises grew louder, Joe squinted in confusion and looked down at the man clinging to him.
"Are those… motorcycles?"
Gunner squeaked, nodding frantically, practically climbing up onto Joe's shoulders as he glanced around in terror.
His grip around Joe's neck was like a vice, making it even harder to breathe.
Joe tried once again to pry him off, but that yahoo was latched on tight, not budging an inch.
In all fairness, it was starting to annoy him.
"Come on, man, let me go…"
"Aaaooowww!"
Joe froze as wild, maniacal laughter joined the sound of roaring engines.
He had never heard anything so chilling.
Eyes widening, he turned toward the sound, which was no easy feat considering that his beloved colleague was still hanging around his neck like a goddamn circus monkey.
"What the hell was that?"
"It's them! They're coming!', Gunner cried, clamping his legs around Joe's waist and nearly toppling them over with his weight.
"Who? Who's coming?!", Joe demanded, his voice breaking as he struggled to keep his balance, now feeling a surge of panic himself.
The thick cloud of smoke disoriented him, and that scaredy-cat that had attached itself to him like a tick didn't exactly help the matter.
"Them!", Gunner howled, pointing a trembling finger over Joe's shoulder.
Through the haze, Joe could just make out the tears streaming down the man's face, which only made his own pulse race even faster than it already did.
What the fuck was going on?!
Joe spun around, deep down realizing just how ridiculous this must look.
Like he was trying to dance the tango, or at least a very awkward version of it.
"Who's them?! I can't see nothing!"
But Gunner had lost the ability to form coherent words, instead, he was now sobbing with his face buried in Joe's neck.
"We're gonna die! We're gonna die!"
A sudden scream nearby made Joe practically leap out of his skin.
He let out a shriek that was embarrassingly high-pitched, surprising even himself as it was way too high for a man to produce.
If he were completely honest, he was even a little impressed he could hit such a note.
Whoever was lurking out there clearly didn't agree, and that same voice echoed through the thick smoke once more.
"Bwhahahaha! You sound like a little girl!"
Despite his dire situation, Joe's cheeks burned with embarrassment as he continued spinning in circles like a frantic ballerina, trying to locate the source of the taunting voice.
But the smoke was just too thick.
"And you're hiding like a coward! Show yourself, goddammit!", he shouted into the swirling red haze, blinking his eyes furiously as if that would somehow clear his vision.
Which it didn't, of course.
But then, finally and completely out of nowhere, Gunner's iron grip suddenly slackened, and he collapsed on the slimy floor with a splattering thud, nearly dragging Joe with him.
A quick glance confirmed that the man had passed out cold, but Joe didn't waste time wondering if that was for better or worse.
He was free, and that was all that mattered.
Gun in one hand, Joe stretched out the other one and cautiously took a few steps forward.
He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere felt safer than just standing there, waiting for whatever was out there to get him.
Another scream echoed through the tunnel, followed by a loud thump, and Joe nearly let out another opera-worthy shriek as he quickened his pace.
Holy hell.
What kind of nightmare had he stumbled into this time?
He needed to get out of here.
Now.
After what felt like an eternity, the smoke finally began to thin, loosening the tight knot of fear in Joe's stomach at the same time.
A smile tugged at his lips as he realized he might actually get away.
Nearly tripping over his own feet, he started running.
Then, out of nowhere, his outstretched hand collided with something.
Something solid.
He froze, his breathing shallow.
Though the smoke was lighter here, it was still thick enough to obscure his view.
All he could make out was a vague silhouette, which was already enough to make his insides twist again.
Whoever stood before him wasn't the same size as Greasepit but still came close enough.
That couldn't be good.
Moving at a painfully slow pace, Joe gave the figure a cautious pat, which immediately reminded him of his grandma.
The poor woman had lost her vision to cataract but refused to get surgery.
Whenever someone visited her at the nursing home, she would reach out with her smudgy, grabby old-lady hands to 'see' who was there.
It always left Joe feeling oddly disgraced.
Yet here he was, doing the same thing, and feeling equally ridiculous.
The person in front of him was solidly built with muscles like steel cables…and surprisingly, a bit on the furry side.
A frown creased Joe's face.
Short hair, almost like the coat of a dog.
But a dog this size?
Impossible.
For the second time today, he found himself questioning his sanity.
Goddammit, Grandma had always made this look so easy!
Joe's hand slid further down, past what he guessed was a waist until it brushed against something that felt suspiciously like a belt.
But before he could continue his awkward exploration, a warm hand clasped around his wrist, halting him.
"That's far enough, sweetheart. As flattered as I am by your…attentive greeting, you ain't exactly my type, if ya know what I mean."
It was that same voice again, though a little softer this time—still amused, but with a sharp, threatening undertone that sent a shiver down Joe's spine.
"Who… Who are you?", Joe stammered, his hand limp in the stranger's iron grip as every drop of strength had left his body at this point.
He wasn't sure why he asked.
In all fairness, he didn't even want to know who this person was.
Not anymore.
Without thinking, his free hand drifted toward his gun, but before he could reach it, something coiled around his wrist to stop him.
Something that didn't feel like a hand this time.
Something hairy and strong…
Every cell in his body filled itself with dread, and though every part of him wanted to bolt, his feet stayed rooted to the ground.
"Oh, me?"', the voice replied, dripping with mock sweetness.
The pressure on Joe's wrist intensified, building until it nearly crossed the threshold of pain.
He shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull his hand back, but the grip only tightened.
Then came a sharp, sickening snap.
"I'm the reason you'll be sleeping with the lights on from now on, new guy."
Joe's eyes widened as he looked down, barely breathing.
Something that looked unsettlingly like a white tail slipped away, brushing against his bruised skin, and as he stared at his hand hanging at an unnatural angle, the pain suddenly came.
It hit him like a hot flame, setting his body on fire instantly, and he let out a raw, shocked scream.
"You broke my wrist."
He held up his arm, staring in horror at the strange way his hand moved compared to his forearm, and his stomach twisted with nausea.
"You broke my wrist!", he yelled again, louder this time, though he had no idea why.
The damage was obvious enough without him pointing it out for not one but two times.
Suddenly, a hand seized him by the throat, slamming him back against the wall.
"You called me a coward."
Clearly, this figure didn't take kindly to insults.
Joe's heart hammered as he squinted through the red smoke, his brain struggling to make sense of the figure's vague, shifting outline.
He caught flashes of something white, something fur-covered once more, but it was all so disorienting.
Surreal, even.
Quiet as mice…
Swallowing, he forced out the same question as earlier, but using a different word this time.
"W-What…what the hell are you?"
At that, the figure paused, and a chuckle escaped him, low and amused.
He leaned closer, filling the gap between them with a slow, almost theatrical flair.
The red smoke parted just enough for Joe to see him, and the sight made his heart almost jump out of his chest in sheer panic.
White fur, smooth as polished marble, a pair of striking red eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a mouth curled into an amused, almost boyish grin, revealing a set of sharp-looking buck teeth.
Everything about him was strange and disturbing, but it was his expression—a look of pure, playful confidence—that confused Joe the most.
Like he was in on a joke Joe would never understand.
"What am I?", the figure echoed, his tone teasing once more.
He gave a slow exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows, and his grin widened as he leaned in even closer.
"Grade-A mouse material is what I am. The kind you'll be dreaming about… If you're lucky."
Joe's mouth went dry, his voice caught in his throat, too stunned to tell the guy that when he was in it, he wouldn't consider it a dream but a nightmare.
He was living it now, after all.
And it didn't feel like a dream.
Not even close.
The creature took in Joe's reaction with visible satisfaction, eyes twinkling as he raised his fist with a playful wink.
"Tell Greasepit I said hi."
Joe was out before he hit the ground.
…
When Joe regained consciousness, he was in a hospital bed.
The bright, sterile light above him hurt his eyes, and the scent of antiseptic tickled his nose.
His head ached severely, and his wrist throbbed with dull pain, although he wasn't sure why, just as he didn't know why it was packed in a thick bandage.
In fact, he had no idea why he was finding himself in the hospital.
Before he even had the chance to fully orientate himself, he noticed a man sitting beside the bed.
The man's face was blank, his brown eyes cold, his bald head covered with a hat.
"Detective O'Neill", he introduced himself the moment Joe met his gaze.
Usually, as a criminal, Joe would have felt a healthy dose of worry finding himself in the presence of the police.
But that was before.
Now, he had seen true evil.
Yes, it all came back now, vivid and surreal.
Red eyes, white fur, a wicked smile…
Joe's hands trembled as he yanked the hospital blanket off, pain forgotten as the same terror as last night overtook him.
He needed to get the hell out of here.
That monster knew his face.
What if it came back to finish the job?
"And where do you think you're going, Mister Whittaker?", O'Neill asked calmly, leaning back in his chair as he watched Joe with an unreadable expression.
"I'm leaving town", Joe replied, his voice shaky but determined.
"And if you know what's good for you, detective, you'll do the same."
He tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but something stopped him.
Something cold around his not-wounded wrist.
He looked down, confused, and saw the light glinting off the metal handcuffs fastened to his bedframe.
The detective crossed his legs, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, yeah, by the way… you're under arrest."
Joe looked up, dazed, his thoughts still scrambled by pain and the haunting memories of chilling red eyes.
His head pounded viciously as he tried to process what the detective had said.
"For what?"
"Attempted bank robbery."
O'Neill's tone was casual, almost conversational.
Joe drew a sharp breath, about to protest, but the detective cut him off with a raised hand.
"Spare me the 'I didn't do it' speech. We found you at the scene, tied to a pipe with the drill in your hand..."
He paused briefly, and a small smile curled his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Like a little Christmas present. The only thing missing was the bow."
Again, Joe opened his mouth, but O'Neill shook his head.
"You had your ID in your pocket, and your prints match with those on the scene."
He let out a small, cold chuckle.
"Just face it, buddy. You're busted. Big time."
That fact did seem to amuse him, and a faint twinkle appeared in his cold eyes.
"You know what that means, Joe. Jail time. Again…"
Slowly, Joe sank back into the hospital bed, the fight draining out of him.
Back to jail.
The place where he had already lost pieces of himself, day by day.
The place where nights swallowed you whole, filling your sleep with terrors that made nightmares look tame.
He closed his eyes.
Red eyes stared back at him in the dark, and a chill ran down his spine.
"Unless…"
O'Neill's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back.
Joe's eyes flickered open, only to see the detective leaning closer to him.
"Unless what?", he asked cautiously.
"Unless you tell me what happened. I can talk to the DA. I can make you a deal."
Joe frowned.
"What kind of deal?"
"A plea deal", O'Neill replied, nonchalantly plucking at an invisible piece of lint on his pants.
"You see, you're not the first low-life criminal gifted to us. Somebody out there is taking matters into his own hands, and I want to know who that is."
After a final swipe of his pants, he looked up, locking his brown eyes with Joe's bright blue ones.
"It's very simple, really. You tell me what happened, and I knock down your sentence. Maybe…", he added, leaning in.
"...you don't even have to go to jail. How about that, huh, Joe?"
He would be free.
That thought, once all Joe ever wanted, sent another shiver down his spine.
Freedom meant being out there.
Out, where he could find him.
Jail, the very place he had always hated, dreaded even, now suddenly felt like the only place he would be safe.
After all…
Nothing inside those walls could be worse than what he had seen last night.
Joe's face hardened, pressing his lips into a thin, resolute line as he turned his head away.
The decision was made.
Fuck the police.
They couldn't help him.
No one could.
Only he could.
He, and the roughly fifteen years of jail waiting for him.
O'Neill's expression darkened, frustration flickering in his eyes as he realized Joe wasn't going to talk—not in a million years.
Just like all the others who had seen…well, whatever it was Joe had seen last night.
"Fine", he muttered, standing up before pressing his hat tighter to his head.
"Have it your way, Whittaker."
And with that, he left the room.
A smile curled Joe's lips.
He was safe.