Omake: New, Dead Things (canon)
Morrowlark
You've lost something, haven't you?
So the devil won
Omake: New, Dead Things
The two of you fall back into rhythm like you'd never broken up. You on the phone and cooking, Trista on the phone, another phone, a third phone, and her computer. Every now and again a savage sound of frustration precedes Trista grabbing your body to reassert a feeling of control over your life, which you aren't complaining about except for exactly once.
"Not with milk on the stove," is delivered by you in the exact Dread Voice(tm) of your Irish grandmother, and Trista is so taken aback that she goes for a walk about it.
It's a bit after dinner, and you're debating needling Trista into another session of foolishness - you haven't felt this relaxed since you drowned - when your burner phone rings. Trista eyes you as you take it out and answer with a badly accented, "Ja?"
The man on the other end is a much of a Michigander as you are. "We are expecting a rose to be delivered to the Museum of Art. One hour. Look for the owl."
He hangs up, and you laugh before doing the same. "Motherfucker can't be much older than me, if at all." You stand. "Alright, I gotta get dressed and go talk to the mob."
Trista gives you her best Withering Look Of Skepticism. "You want backup?"
"...It's very touching, yet insulting, that you think I need backup."
* * * *
'Look for the owl'. They might as well have said 'go west' for all the good that does you; you arrived 40 minutes early, mind, but still. So you find yourself drawn to a coffee cart being run by an elderly Turkish gentleman with Hello Kitty ribbons braided into his glorious beard. He's gotta be, what, a millennial? Gen Z? Old as hell either way, but the coffee you get is thick as mud, sweet as a stolen kiss, and is well on its way to revealing the face of God to you.
"So I tell my granddaughter - she is only six, you understand - that I do not like cats, and do you know what she says?"
"No," you answer, legitimately hanging on every word.
"She puts her hands on her hips, like this, and she says to me, Grandpa, the Prophet liked cats!"
You howl in laughter alongside the older man. "What can you say to that?" you wheeze.
"Absolutely nothing, thus the ribbons!"
There is a cough behind you, and you turn to see two men your own age. Brothers at a guess; same brown hair and eyes, same nose, and one has an owl backpack. "Miss Rose?" Backpack says.
You turn back to the coffee guy. "Good health to you and your family, my friend. Thanks for the coffee."
"You as well, young lady."
You leave with the other two, who turn out to be Hans and Karl, and after a brief period of establishing that yes, you, you specifically, are the metal man here, lay out what you know in a booth at a Denny's. They seem confused, and it's Hans who first voices why:
"Who the hell took this job?"
"Russians?" Karl proposes.
"Nah, they have standards, " you counter. "Which also eliminates the Italians, the Irish, the Haitians. Organlegging I could see, but grave robbing?"
"Triads?" Hans ventures, and then he immediately changes his mind. "No, they have standards too...and they'd use their own men."
The waitress comes by, and the boys order another round of mozzarella sticks. They're tearing through the things.
Once she leaves, you rub your chin. "Who do we know that's a convenient fall guy, has no standards, and is so stupid you don't have to trick them?"
...
......
All three of you, at the same time: "Fascists."
"Let's check the dockside bars."
* * * *
You're going to kick that dead guy's ass. Your man, Mike Smith, isn't a fucking twink, he just does yoga. Karl finds his apartment, Hans lets you in through the fire escape, and the dumb motherfucker doesn't even have a dog to complicate this. So the three of you lurk in his bedroom until he comes home while you quietly celebrate putting off a moral dilemma about all this murder for another day, and when he gets home you taze the absolute fuck out of him.
You drag the little shit into his bathroom and start filling the tub before addressing your helpers: "If you walk into that bathroom, you're gonna see some shit you'll want to keep secret. That's not a threat, it's a description of what will happen. Understand?"
It's clear neither believe you. Well, fuck 'em. You go into the bathroom and shut the door.
"In the name of the voiceless," you murmur, and the transformation takes hold.
Mike wakes up screaming when you start drowning him.
"Welcome aboard, sailor," you growl. "Get. To. Your. Post!" A scrabbling boot kicks your leg, which you ignore other than to push his head deeper underwater. The door opens, and you turn your head.
Hans takes in the dying man, your Captain Ahab looking-ass outfit, and the rusty harpoon in your free hand, and then he closes the door again without another word.
Mike stops struggling, eventually, and then he rises again as your sailor.
"Now," you ask. "Where do the corpses go?"
* * * *
"Fucking Japan!" You repeat to Trista, waving your arms. "You'd think the Yakuza could clean their own house but nnnoooo, I've gotta go do it for them!"
Your ex looks at you flatly. "You're going to Japan to declare war on an organized crime syndicate?"
"Yes!"
"Great. I'm going with you."
"Awesome!" You double take. "Bitch, what?"
Omake: New, Dead Things
The two of you fall back into rhythm like you'd never broken up. You on the phone and cooking, Trista on the phone, another phone, a third phone, and her computer. Every now and again a savage sound of frustration precedes Trista grabbing your body to reassert a feeling of control over your life, which you aren't complaining about except for exactly once.
"Not with milk on the stove," is delivered by you in the exact Dread Voice(tm) of your Irish grandmother, and Trista is so taken aback that she goes for a walk about it.
It's a bit after dinner, and you're debating needling Trista into another session of foolishness - you haven't felt this relaxed since you drowned - when your burner phone rings. Trista eyes you as you take it out and answer with a badly accented, "Ja?"
The man on the other end is a much of a Michigander as you are. "We are expecting a rose to be delivered to the Museum of Art. One hour. Look for the owl."
He hangs up, and you laugh before doing the same. "Motherfucker can't be much older than me, if at all." You stand. "Alright, I gotta get dressed and go talk to the mob."
Trista gives you her best Withering Look Of Skepticism. "You want backup?"
"...It's very touching, yet insulting, that you think I need backup."
* * * *
'Look for the owl'. They might as well have said 'go west' for all the good that does you; you arrived 40 minutes early, mind, but still. So you find yourself drawn to a coffee cart being run by an elderly Turkish gentleman with Hello Kitty ribbons braided into his glorious beard. He's gotta be, what, a millennial? Gen Z? Old as hell either way, but the coffee you get is thick as mud, sweet as a stolen kiss, and is well on its way to revealing the face of God to you.
"So I tell my granddaughter - she is only six, you understand - that I do not like cats, and do you know what she says?"
"No," you answer, legitimately hanging on every word.
"She puts her hands on her hips, like this, and she says to me, Grandpa, the Prophet liked cats!"
You howl in laughter alongside the older man. "What can you say to that?" you wheeze.
"Absolutely nothing, thus the ribbons!"
There is a cough behind you, and you turn to see two men your own age. Brothers at a guess; same brown hair and eyes, same nose, and one has an owl backpack. "Miss Rose?" Backpack says.
You turn back to the coffee guy. "Good health to you and your family, my friend. Thanks for the coffee."
"You as well, young lady."
You leave with the other two, who turn out to be Hans and Karl, and after a brief period of establishing that yes, you, you specifically, are the metal man here, lay out what you know in a booth at a Denny's. They seem confused, and it's Hans who first voices why:
"Who the hell took this job?"
"Russians?" Karl proposes.
"Nah, they have standards, " you counter. "Which also eliminates the Italians, the Irish, the Haitians. Organlegging I could see, but grave robbing?"
"Triads?" Hans ventures, and then he immediately changes his mind. "No, they have standards too...and they'd use their own men."
The waitress comes by, and the boys order another round of mozzarella sticks. They're tearing through the things.
Once she leaves, you rub your chin. "Who do we know that's a convenient fall guy, has no standards, and is so stupid you don't have to trick them?"
...
......
All three of you, at the same time: "Fascists."
"Let's check the dockside bars."
* * * *
You're going to kick that dead guy's ass. Your man, Mike Smith, isn't a fucking twink, he just does yoga. Karl finds his apartment, Hans lets you in through the fire escape, and the dumb motherfucker doesn't even have a dog to complicate this. So the three of you lurk in his bedroom until he comes home while you quietly celebrate putting off a moral dilemma about all this murder for another day, and when he gets home you taze the absolute fuck out of him.
You drag the little shit into his bathroom and start filling the tub before addressing your helpers: "If you walk into that bathroom, you're gonna see some shit you'll want to keep secret. That's not a threat, it's a description of what will happen. Understand?"
It's clear neither believe you. Well, fuck 'em. You go into the bathroom and shut the door.
"In the name of the voiceless," you murmur, and the transformation takes hold.
Mike wakes up screaming when you start drowning him.
"Welcome aboard, sailor," you growl. "Get. To. Your. Post!" A scrabbling boot kicks your leg, which you ignore other than to push his head deeper underwater. The door opens, and you turn your head.
Hans takes in the dying man, your Captain Ahab looking-ass outfit, and the rusty harpoon in your free hand, and then he closes the door again without another word.
Mike stops struggling, eventually, and then he rises again as your sailor.
"Now," you ask. "Where do the corpses go?"
* * * *
"Fucking Japan!" You repeat to Trista, waving your arms. "You'd think the Yakuza could clean their own house but nnnoooo, I've gotta go do it for them!"
Your ex looks at you flatly. "You're going to Japan to declare war on an organized crime syndicate?"
"Yes!"
"Great. I'm going with you."
"Awesome!" You double take. "Bitch, what?"
