Chapter Text
Donnan sat at the foot of some veritable relic of a table, awaiting judgement. The Capo dei Capi’s own advisor, the Consigliere, spoke to the Sottocapo of District 17. No surprise the news went so far up the chain. By all accounts, leaving the Thumb alive was impossible. Wouldn’t be the first impossible task Donnan took on.
The Red King they called him. Some days, Donnan hated the title more than his job, but each day made what he did to get that title a little harder to keep down. Got the name from the red staining his hands. He absentmindedly adjusted his gloves; If he couldn’t wash the red from his hands, he’d hide it.
The years blurred together, but he had spent years as a Soldato — now a Capo — in the Thumb. Apparently the Capo dei Capi himself followed his every move. Ever since Donnan hit the Ring hard enough to chase them out of District 17. That got him up the ladder to Capo. He swore then that was as high as he went.
“Why not kill them? Break the ties holding you back.”
The encouraging voice echoed in the back of his mind. Her, again. He clenched his fists, blood squelching in his gloves. The filth on his hands always got worse when she began whispering to him.
“Donnan,” the Consigliere said, snapping him back to reality. “Your decision puts us in a tough spot.”
“Damn fuckin’ right it does,” snapped MacLeod, the Sottocapo of District 17. His direct superior. “Ya’ think a fancy title’s gonna let ya start shite?”
By the fact he wasn’t dead, Donnan figured that “fancy” title did actually have some value. He remained silent as the Consigliere raised a hand to silence MacLeod.
“The Capo dei Capi is allowing him the chance.”
The Consigliere let the words hang heavy as MacLeod locked up, turning his attention back towards Donnan.
“I believe your offer was twofold: ten thousand bullets and a sizable piece of what was Middle territory.”
Donnan nodded. He wanted out, they wanted that decrepit factory. He got them that place, and he was fully prepared to sweeten the deal. He reached under his seat to pull out a briefcase, opening it up to display a single bullet embedded in foam, a distinct wave-like symbol etched into its side. He slid the case to the middle of the table before leaning back.
“I figured samples were in order,” Donnan said, smoothly gesturing to the opened briefcase. “Wanted to know which model you preferred.”
The Consigliere tilted his head as he dragged the case closer. He delicately pried out the bullet, it almost felt like an overpressurized can. The casing was barely containing whatever was inside it.
“The craftsmanship seems to be in order, but I’m afraid a real test is needed.”
Donnan stood still as the Consigliere pulled out a handgun, loading it with the wave-patterned bullet. MacLeod flashed a smug grin at Donnan. That infuriating way he always did when he thought Donnan had made a mistake.
Fool to the end, MacLeod. Fool to the end.
Without a moment of hesitation, the Consigliere fired into MacLeod’s chest. The struggling man clutched at the hole in his chest with his mechanical trembling fingers, crimson already pooling above his shirt. He dropped to the floor mumbling, twitching. Begging. The Consigliere began to turn his head back to Donnan, who shook his head and pointed back towards MacLeod’s contorting form. Donnan didn’t make mere bullets.
As the dying man’s breathing grew more ragged, all noise in the room grew quieter, as though the place was underwater. With a loud, wet crunch, the pressure-like sensation lifted. Donnan felt his ears pop, though his former boss had it much worse. MacLeod had turned into a crumpled heap of skin, bone, and red pulp. His corpse was closer to a crushed up plastic bottle than a human body.
“Well, Donnan, it seems we have a deal,” the Consigliere turned his attention back to Donnan. “Though the Capo dei Capi has one demand of his own.”
Always one more thing.
“How may I serve?”
“It would be a waste to dispose of you like MacLeod, but we cannot have you walk away whole, either. You understand don’t you? Come with me when you’re ready.”
I’ll make it out of this, Donnan told himself. He knew this was coming, but he was shaken nonetheless.
Ammon was growing increasingly concerned with the quality of the Fixers still in Section 2. Before them sat a young man, head shaved clean aside from a strip in the middle that was kept short. He went by Nanashi.
“I’m afraid the numbers don’t add up in the records,” Ammon said. “I wanted to pick your brain for any helpful information that could help us…
Correct
this issue.”
Nanashi’s gaze kept darting to the door, his leg rapidly bouncing. His nerves were not a surprise, he was probably used to more lenient leadership in the Section. Ideally just lenient leadership.
“R–Right Director,” the man gulped. “We–”
“We?”
“Right! U-Uh me and Yossi noticed a few days ag–”
“Exact numbers, please.”
“Five days ago, Director! Five days ago, we noticed missing supplies in storage. Mostly weapons, some of the K Corp healing tablets, and some other miscellaneous pieces of gear.”
Ammon nodded slowly. Section 2’s storage, while not impenetrable, was far from insecure. One entrance and exit, regular rotation of guards. A rotation that included Nanashi and Yossi.
“Any signs as to why these supplies were missing?”
“Y-Yes! The Workshop that supplied the weapons… They told us their delivery was taken by a small Thumb contingent. It was the Red King.”
Bullshit,
Ammon already knew that Erika, the guard stationed before Nanashi, had accounted for those supply items. The real problem was
why
did Nanashi — and presumably Yossi — swipe so much from the Association?
“Right, and the tablets?” Ammon cocked an eyebrow. Nanashi tried stammering an answer before Ammon’s patience grew too thin. “Enough.”
Nanashi bolted out of his chair. Before he could reach the door, Ammon put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. While the young man did try to resist, he lacked any and all strength. Why was he so weak for a Section 2 Fixer? It felt less like Ammon was holding back a battle-hardened fighter and more like they were holding a cat by the scruff of its neck.
No augments, even?
“I’ve been well aware of your playtime with
my Section’s
resources before you even opened your mouth. I just need to know why. Money troubles? Just forgot to ask for authorization to grab supplies? What is it? Speak up.”
Nanashi thrashed in Ammon’s grip, doing little more than giving Ammon more support for their theory that Nanashi was completely unqualified to be a Grade 2 Fixer, let alone a Grade 9.
Are they even a real Fixer?
“P–Please!”
Before Nanashi could finish another word, he seized up, foam pouring from the corners of his mouth. As the man’s eyes rolled back up in his head, he went limp. Ammon didn’t have to look particularly hard to verify the young man’s death.
As I feared,
Ammon gently placed the corpse on the floor. They felt a pit form in their stomach. From one answer, at least two questions had sprouted. Corruption was now a certainty, though its existence was just about the only thing Ammon had been able to pin down.
Who put Nanashi here? Is only Section 2 affected?
The Director quietly stepped out of the room, taking care to lock it behind them. At this point, cleanup of the body was the least of their worries. They’d issue an order later to one of the Fixers they trusted.
Ammon returned to their office, which had rapidly started morphing into more of a madman’s living space than a professional workspace. Their desk was littered with notes, documents, and boxes of even more documents. Along the walls piles of papers and cardboard boxes were stacked and at least somewhat grouped together in an orderly fashion. Additionally, a large fern had found its way into the corner of the office.
It had not been a long time whatsoever, a few days at most with precious few hours spent pouring over the records. Ammon found solace in the fact that, if there were any more leads floating about, they would be found in their office.
So far, all the Director had uncovered were small amounts of supplies that routinely vanished out from under the Association’s notice. The regularity was what concerned them at first, and with Nanashi’s demise that concern only strengthened. Before they could even pick up any paper from their desk to begin, a knock at the door tore their focus away.
“Enter,” Ammon said. They failed to keep the irritation out of their voice. They slowly reached into one of their desk’s drawers as the door opened.
“Hey, Boss!” said Vasya. “Ooo that one! Excellent choice!”
The redhead nodded approvingly at the fern in the corner; seemingly the only thing the airhead took notice of. Ammon smoothly removed their hand from the drawer and closed it before Vasya’s attention turned back to them. No need for that now.
“I got the names you asked for, previous archival staff from the years you requested,” she handed Ammon a small, well organized list. Not only did the list have names, but current whereabouts. The Director nodded approvingly.
“Thank you once again, Vasya,” they said. Vasya was quickly becoming Ammon’s right hand, even with her seemingly ditsy manner.
“Any time, boss!” the redheaded woman bowed and turned towards the door to leave.
Maybe that attitude will make her useful here…
“Actually, Vasya, I have another request.”
Vasya whipped back to face them, cocking an eyebrow.
Nanashi was working with Yossi… Yossi, who is still alive.
“I need you to track Yossi for a while, something’s up with her and I need you to figure out what.”
“Ya’ got it, boss!”
Once again, the redhead turned to leave. Before she could rush out of the door, Ammon called after them. “Tell Fasul to see me immediately as well.”
A distant “Understood!” echoed from in the hall right before the door shut behind her.
Truly a whirlwind… Hopefully I picked the right Fixer for the job.
Ammon took a moment to recollect their focus before diving back into their search. With the supply lead more or less handled — for now — Ammon picked up where they left off. They traced a long, slender finger along lines of notes.
The abandoned manufacturing plant in District 17 was not a piece Ammon could fit in anywhere, but for whatever reason, numerous reports were included about the place. Not only had it been in use by two separate Q Corporations for the same purpose, but it had been abandoned before Quake Group — the second Wing in question — had even begun to decline. What especially stuck out to Ammon was how little the reports resembled Hana Association standards. Reports meant for internal use at the Wings in question, or for the Head?
Just what are these doing here?
Donnan hadn’t been expecting to leave unscathed that day, but he had never imagined he’d have to do it himself. He had tightly wound a tourniquet just under his knee to stop the inevitable flow of blood, biting onto the loose, leathery end.
He clutched a knife in his right hand, definitely designed for combat given its razor sharp edge, but the decoration on it screamed ceremonial, rather than practical. How long had this been planned? Donnan shoved that thought to the back of his mind as he lined up the knife with his leg.
Though he tried to resist, he could not keep his gaze away from the hazy viewing window. Most of the people on the other side didn’t want to watch anymore than he wanted to do this, but an example had to be made. Even he was subject to the rules, even if the Red King could bend them more than a normal Capo or Soldato.
Realizing his mistake, he flicked his eyes to a red hot metal plate, then back to his leg as he lowered the knife. A sharp, quick cut glided through his flesh, deep and painful. White spots seared into his vision as he felt the knife scrape against bone. His teeth gritted against the leather of the tourniquet.
It was not the first time he had been cut deep like that. Memories began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness as he began sawing through bone.
Donnan stood beside his Capo, nervously tapping against the barrel of the unloaded rifle slung around his side. He didn’t know much about the operation, just what he needed. Donnan was never one for questions, anyways.
He knew they’d be set upon by Shi Association Fixers at any moment, he knew it was for the sake of the Thumb, and he knew this was his chance to prove himself worthy of the Soldato title. If he lived, at least.
Before he could even tell his Capo about the red glint off the wall, he felt metal pierce his skin. In less time than it took for him to blink, steel bit through his spine, then his left lung. Blood pooled in his throat before the blade slid between his ribs and then back through muscle and skin. Donnan collapsed to the ground as his eyelids shut.
He had to use his own shirt to clean his blood off of the knife. Not that it did much good, he was already covered in the stuff, even with the precautions he took. He braced himself as he jabbed what remained of his leg against the metal plate, an unbidden scream escaping from deep within him as the burn tore through his mind.
He could feel some sort of stimulant being injected into him, something to make sure he didn’t get even the brief release of unconsciousness until the deed was fully done. He groaned in a pool of his own blood, collecting himself back before transferring the now loose tourniquet to his other leg, once again biting on the loose end.
Too much blood, he thought as he readjusted his grip on the slick handle of the knife. Damn it!
His first attempt at a cut went deep, but not deep enough. He tightened his hold as he quickly sawed through muscle fibers, biting down harder and harder on the leather strap to hold back his yelps of pain.
His eyes opened back up. The only ones left standing were Shi. Only two. It had taken them mere moments to dispatch his entire group. He weakly coughed, a torrent of red spraying out of his mouth. One of the Shi demons crouched down to look him in the eye.
“I’m not one for killing rookies,” it said. “I’ll cut you a deal. Tell us what you know about our operation and we’ll let you walk away alive. For now.”
Donnan looked into its dead eyes. It looked human, but no human could fight like that, kill like that. One of the other things that wore the skin of a human scoffed at the dead-eyed one. Their glassy stare moved away from him.
“You’re wasting your time, these Thumb morons would sooner shoot themselves than break rank.”
A moment of distraction.
The knife clattered against the far wall as Donnan tossed it aside. His hands were getting way too shaky; he found it easier to just rip through the last few muscle fibers and skin of the leg he cut. Not his leg. Was it ever his leg?
His vision swam as he moved to cauterize the remains of a limb once again, though the pain felt distant now. Like it was happening to someone else. It was never his leg. Another job. Another body. More orders.
He picked up the leg and hoisted it, glaring at the viewing port he distantly recalled. When did he get here?
“It’s done,” he babbled. He heard the stranger’s leg clatter against the glass as he fell backwards into darkness.
Donnan propped himself against the cold wall. He couldn’t feel his lower half and he struggled to breathe, even without the cigarette in his mouth. The blood-slick lighter slipped from his hands one more time and he knew he didn’t have the strength to try again. Footsteps echoed outside the room.
Can’t even get one last smoke, he thought. Well, if he had to die, at least he took those things with him. He closed his eyes as the footsteps grew louder.
A terrible death, truly , he thought. He let his mind slip away as hands began to grab him.