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English
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Published:
2025-07-15
Updated:
2025-08-02
Words:
1,109
Chapters:
2/?
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Kudos:
8
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BABY'S TAPES

Summary:

The tapes are a constant. One after every job, maybe two or three if he feels like it. Recorded, stored, remixed. Some are more mundane than others. Most of the people on them are dead, others a staple in his life...until they aren't.
Baby doesn't mean to hoard them, he just like the sounds of their voices, how they distort into music. He never intended for them to be heard either.

OR

A collection of the tapes Baby has, and the conversations he captures along the way, down to the very last job.

Chapter 1: MOZART WITH A GO-KART

Notes:

Hello hello

I haven't seen anyone play around with this idea, but it's been stuck in my head and I think it'll be fun to write.

All of the chapter titles will be labels of actual tapes baby's made, with little stories of what I think happen during them. If you pause when baby's putting away his mixtape, you'll see a lot of them, and I managed to snatch a screenshot of it before Netflix got rid of the movie lol.

So be prepared for short dribbles featuring no pov, limited detail, and mostly dialog! ( *・ω・)ノ

Chapter Text

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[Background hum feeds into the recording. The low static of a vintage tape begins, whirring and spinning. Bags of money slam on a table nearby. Someone exhales off to Baby's side.]

JACK [Close to the mic in Babys left pocket, voice rough, slightly amused.]

"He's still not talkin'? Creepin' me out, Doc. Little mute statue over there with those damn earbuds in, listenin' to..."

[A shuffle of steps closer. The man peering at the iPod in Baby's hand. A considering hum.]

"Cho-pin. Whatever the fuck that is."

PATTY [Sitting at the table, nails file making scratching sounds against long stilettos. Her voice is tinged with mock sweetness.]

"Leave the kid alone, Jacky bear. He's just a sweet lil' baby."

JACK [A whoosh of air as the man flicks his wrist in Patty's direction, telling her off with a deep-set Texas twang.]

"I ain't botherin him! Mind yo' own business, woman."

[There's a subtle insult thrown back, too soft to be picked up by the recorder's speakers. Footsteps retreat from Baby's side, Jack stepping back and tossing himself down on a stool that creaks and wobbles.]

"Doc's boy ain't says a damn word all day. Just find it strange, that's all."

[A chuckle, dry and litted with notes of feminine intruige sounds from the table, laced over shuffling of papers and the stacking of bills.]

PATTY [Head turned, directing the lazy question to the man counting hundreds at the head of the table ].

"So...what's the deal, anyway? Rumors true? That really your boy?"

[A giggled laugh, head turning to compare the two she was staring at.]

"I gotta say, I dont see the resemblance. Mom must be the real charmer."

[A long sigh drifts out of lungs, heavy and long-winded after too much caffeine and not enough sleep. A pause in the snapping of rubber bands.]

DOC [Tired, voice lacking the usual bite it had that morning.]

"Baby's good at his job. That's all that matters."

JACK [Clicking his tongue against his teeth. Muttering.]

"Type of freak listens to classical...?"

[There's a long stretch of quiet, the background noise of paper and nail filing mixing with soft sounds of Bach leaking from headphones. Pianos croon, fading in and out beneath murmured conversation.]

DOC [Voice clearer now, more awake and tinged with exasperation. Perhaps even smugness.]

"Look– kid's like a Mozart with a go-kart. Could drive with Elton John playing or Tchaikovsky for all I fucking care."

[A slight pause. A snort.]

"Classical or not– he gets the job done. Can't say the same for the rest of you."

[The room falls silent, members of that day's crew waiting for their cut. Bags zip. Thunks of something heavy landing on the table. A shuffle of chairs scraping back and feet shifting. Someone coughs, and the tape rewinds slightly, repeating the previous lines.]

"M-m-mozart with a go-kart..."

[Synths and sounds of lyrics chopped together.]

"So– are the– are the rumors true?"

"Kid's...good at his job– like a–"

[A record scratches as it rewinds.]

"The rumors– the rumors–"

"Mozart with a go-kart–"

[It loops twice, fading in between notes of elecontic keyboards and the overheard Bach before stilling into silence. Brief static. It ends with a final soft breath, fingers clicking the plastic button.]

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

Chapter 2: ROAD RAGE

Chapter Text

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[Crackling static. A faint shhhh of fabric shifting as the cassette player is jostled in a pocket. There's a sound of rapid breathing: Baby’s, close to the mic, coming in fast agitated quivers of lungs working overtime. His inhale catches in his throat, exhales huffed out in sudden waves. He’s pissed. The background has an echo, the large expanse of the warehouse's meeting room.]

KNOX [The sound of footsteps pacing in circles, boots making dull thumping noises on the concrete. His voice cuts in mid rant, rising in temper the longer he speaks.]

"–coulda' gotten used killed, man! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

[The sound of a curse under someone's breath. Words mumbled mainly to themselves, but overheard by the rolling tape.]

"Kid's got a fuckin' death wish or what?"

[Footsteps retreat, leaving Baby's breathing to be the main thing overheard. Something metallic and heavy gets kicked, flying across the room and hitting the wall.]

DOC [Stepping away from the dented trashcan on the floor, voice tinted with high levels of sarcasm as he speaks, directing the words to Knox, who's busy nursing his foot and swearing.]

"Are you dead?"

[A rhetorical question that remains unanwsered. A pause before Doc continues.]

"Because you dont look dead to me. Unless I've suddenly become an exorcist in my spare time?"

[A click of a tongue.]

"You look pretty fucking alive, so quit it with the bitching."

"Damn idiots giving me a headache..."

[A shift of attention, the rustling of fabric as Doc turns to Baby, his voice sugarcoated and overly sweet in an antagonizing way.]

"What'd you do, Baby? Hm? Go on, speak up now."

[Silence.]

"You rile everyone up again? Show off? What'd I tell you about that?"

KNOX [Throwing his hands up, the sound of them slapping against his jeans when they fall back down.]

"Rile up–? Oh come on! Over a fender bender, Doc. Riled up my ass!"

[The ranting continues, an overaxagerating spill of words blamed in Baby's direction.]

"One car– one! Cuts us off at that juncture before the highway and he goes full on road rage!"

[Knox's voice turns higher pitched, mimicking the sound of Baby's thoughts through cheap mockery.]

"Oh shit, shit, guess I'm a professional getaway driver? This one asshole didn't use a blinker? Oopsie! Guess I gotta thread the goddamn needle passin' 90 miles an hour! Fuck–!"

DOC [Footsteps walking over, something dangling from his hand. The sound of a duffle bag exchanged, passed for Baby to hold. Knox's ranting fades into the background as Doc gets closer, leaning in to Baby's space.]

"Quit it with the temper, Baby."

[A deliberate pause, stretched out for a second too long.]

"Petty doesn't suit you."

[There's no response, just a subtle huff of annoyance coming from Baby's mouth, the faint exhale of a terse breath. Doc sighs, muttering to himself].

"This is why I banned you from driving my Mercedes."

...

[Over the silence, the ambiance of the background cuts out. Instruments filter in, but only for a second. Beats not thought out, and too disjointed to have a cohesive flow.]

[Only a few lines remixed make it in.]

"Petty doesn't suit you...doesn't suit you."

"Full on– f-full on– road rage."

[A mash of out of tune keys. A sigh of frustration. The packing of intrusions being put away–]

...

[TAPE ENDS]