Information

Stealth has a minion!

Chet the Angry Rat

Stealth
Legacy Name: Stealth

The

Custom Nightmare Pherret
Owner:

Derelict

Age: 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks

Born: January 22nd, 2018

Adopted: 3 years, 3 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: December 27th, 2020

Pet Spotlight Winner
March 4th, 2022

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 12
Defense: 8
Speed: 10
Health: 8
HP: 12/8
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

Case File #057: Roger Styles - "Stealth"

I. NOT A THREAT

’They say before you can truly hate someone, you have to've loved them first.’ A faint glimpse of the words printed on some long forgotten pamphlet or magazine tumbled around his mind. A mind that was currently overloaded with emotion and starved for logic; hate, love and fear crescendoed into a blinding wave of panic as Roger finished off the last unsatisfying swig of a beer he'd been nursing for some time.

"Skim some off the top?" A calm, somewhat rasped voice teased from behind the bar counter. Thompson set a tumbler down in front of him, startling Roger out of his daze. A few small ice cubes dropped from her palm into the glass, immediately drenched in a dark amber liquid. Roger looked up at her, felt a brief moment's respite from the onslaught of worries berating his mind. Hate was gone, at least; now fear and love had free reign. Her long auburn hair extended down the length of her torso, parted into bangs in the front. An oversized, heavily worn band tee lay draped across her shoulders, dancing around her slender frame as she moved.

She was joking, of course. But even still, that was a touchy subject to mention given recent developments in the family. Roger gave her a smirk and a good-humored head shake; a much nicer alternative than the bottle to the temple he would've given anyone else who made such a comment. He graciously accepted the whiskey and took a burning sip, Thompson silently raised a small shot glass in her hand and followed suit.

"They've been in there for some time now." She prodded, gesturing to a closed red door on the other side of the room. "What gives? Sure would like to get into my storage closet."

"Don't know." Roger sighed, glaring at the door. "Pretty sure they're just cracking down, trying to scare us all straight after-" He stopped himself, realized he was probably saying too much. "Just trying to run a tight ship. You know Chet." He was barely convincing himself, let alone Thompson.

"Right." She said sarcastically. "A real voice of reason, that one." And began filling Roger's glass once again.

"I'm good, thanks." In truth, he didn't want her to stop.

"They're on me." And she beamed him that easy grin she always seemed to be just barely concealing under a layer of performative sternness that most bartenders had. Their eyes met for a brief instance before both shyly averted their gaze.

At that moment, the red door at the back of the room finally swung open. A tall, shockingly pale man stepped out of the room and promptly shut the door behind him. He was burly; enough that his neatly tucked dress shirt and pants hugged his frame a little too tightly, revealing his muscular figure- Roger wasn't sure if he'd intended that or not. The man made eye contact with Roger and shot him a single, purposeful nod.

"Better make it a double, then." He looked back to Thompson, who nodded and tilted her grip on the bottle upwards slightly. Roger tossed the golden liquid back, let out a slight wince as it burned his throat, got up from his stool and started towards the door.

"What gives, Owen?"

The stoic man glanced down at Roger with a blank, serious expression. Nothing out of the ordinary for Owen, but he was exuding a certain sense of authority that made Roger uneasy. He'd usually saved that act for grunts or associates, people he'd needed to intimidate, but never with him. Never with the family.

"That bad, huh?" Roger let out in a vain attempt to ease some tension, more for his own sake than anyone else's.

"Just go in." Owen snapped, fixed his gaze forward and stood at attention. With a new sense of irritation to throw into the mix of overbearing emotions, Roger let out a deep sigh and entered the backroom of Thompson's bar with Owen following close behind.

It was a small room. Dimly lit, no paint on the walls lined with metal shelving containing miscellaneous bar supplies. A large black duffle bag was strewn across the middle of the floor, wads of cash spilling from within; the same bag Roger had dropped off what seemed like hours ago. Looming over it, sitting on a metal folding chair with his hands clasped together was none other than Chet Aguilo, two more cronies in either corner behind him. Roger’s throat tightened and a heatwave overtook him, sweat beading on his brow. The door behind him clicked shut, and Owen placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A pregnant silence filled the room.

”Look, I told the sitter I’d be back by 12-” Roger started, and hesitated to continue once he felt Owen’s grip on his shoulder tightening like a vice. Chet slowly glanced over his shoulder at the two men behind him, then back to the bag on the floor. Roger’s anxiety spiked even higher; there was a lot being said without words, and about him.

”I know how these things go, Rog.” Chet began, and an uneasy tension swept over the entire room. “Lots of new responsibilities. Lots of distractions. Tony’s started school now, yeah? It’s a lot to take in.”

The mere mention of it, the expulsion of his son’s name from Chet’s mouth was enough to make Roger lightheaded. His knees felt like they would buckle underneath him at any moment. Chet shot him a searing glance, startling out a response.

”Yes.” Roger blurted. It was all he could think of, his mind racing a mile a minute.

Chet grinned, leaned back in his chair and lit up a half-spent cigar. “Hah! Been there myself a few times, that’s for sure.” And he gestured to the men behind him before his pleasant demeanour suddenly and drastically changed. An expression that Roger recognized formed itself; one he’d always used as a cue to avoid Chet.

”I sympathize with your situation, Rog. Truly I do. From the bottom of my little withered heart.” Chet took a long draw from the stub of his cigar before flicking it onto the floor and pressing the tip of his pointed dress shoe into the ash. “But that does not mean, I can excuse sloppiness. Not even for you.”

Owen’s hand cut deeper into Roger’s shoulder, definitely at least bruising by this point. Roger winced as pain mixed with the hate, love and fear battling in his mind resulting in a rush of adrenaline.

”You cannot be serious.” He stated flatly. “I’ve been here since the beginning. Since day one, Chet, and have my drops ever been off? Ever?”

Ignoring his questioning, Chet promptly stood from his seat and paced the room. “Times are tough, Rog. Tony setting you back a bit more than you expected, have to dip into the pot?”

Owen began to twist his wrist and Roger dropped to one knee, pain shooting through his body from his shoulder. “Ah! Chet it’s me. You’re going too far with this, getting too paranoid-”

”What was your count?” Chet shouted, gripping Roger’s face in his palm. With his other hand, he pointed accusingly at the bag on the floor behind him. “We just spent the last hour confirming precisely how much should be there. You’re going to tell me your final count, and it better not be one red fucking cent off.”

Roger was dizzy with fear and panic. Had his count been off? He was doubting himself now. With the man who'd raised him snarling in his face, and one he'd seen as a brother tearing into his shoulder he couldn't think straight.

"Too paranoid-" Chet mocked. "We got a fuckin' rat in our midst, that boy scout breathin' down our neck, and everyone in the city losin' their minds with this Genetech shit." He spat on the floor before sticking the finger of his free hand in Roger's face, still grasped firmly in the other. "So you don't tell me I'm being too paranoid."

Roger clenched his eyes shut, thought of his son. He swallowed dryly and spoke the amount he'd counted. Owen's grip ceased immediately.

II. A PROMISE

His car crept slowly into the driveway before coming to an abrupt stop. Roger sat in the passenger seat, gripping the wheel incredibly tight with both hands, only removing his right long enough to park and rip the keys out of the ignition, tossing them somewhere across the dash. From here, he could already see the small yellow note stuck to his front door; left by the sitter, who he'd known was long gone. It wasn't the first time this happened, but he'd told himself the previous would be the last.

"Fuck!" Roger shouted, and slammed his palms into the wheel repeatedly. "How fucking dare he?" He bowed his head, let it hang as he stifled the urge to continue assaulting his vehicle.

It had been one of those slow, silent drives home with no radio, nothing but rhythmic breathing and intense thought. His count had been right. He'd be dead otherwise, he was sure of it. He'd seen that same look in Chet's eyes dealing with others who'd gotten far harsher treatment than he had. Roger shook his head, pried his shaking hands off the steering wheel and got out of the car. Before he could start towards his home, the sound of another car door opening behind him caught his attention. Roger spun around to see a tall, dark man climbing out of a parked car on the curb. He was draped in a long brown trench coat, a disheveled dress shirt and tie visible underneath. The detective.

"Trouble in paradise?" The man called, sauntering towards Roger while lighting a cigarette.

Roger scoffed, turned to walk in the opposite direction. "Tonight is not the night, pal." Then the realization hit him. The detective was here, at his home. With a gasp he spun back once again to see the detective leaning over near Roger's back tire, reaching into the space behind it and retrieving some small tracking device. He shook the object playfully in his hands and flashed a shit eating grin while inhaling deeply.

"How the..." Roger let out. "You got into the lot?" The parking lot of Thompson's had always been under constant surveillance by Chet's people. There was no way the detective could've slipped by them, being squarely at the top of their hitlists.

"Not me. Your bartender."

Roger's head was spinning once again. "Holy shit." He breathed. "Thompson's the rat." Didn't sound right out loud, either.

"Yeah." The detective stated matter-of-factly, finishing his cigarette and flicking it aside. "She's also the only reason I haven't thrown your sorry ass in jail. And I'm already having second thoughts." After a lengthy pause, he continued. "She's convinced that you'll be willing to flip too."

Roger froze, considered his options. Came to the conclusion that he didn't have many. "I-"

"Don't push that little brain of yours too hard now, Roger." The detective sneered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small business card. "Sleep on it. But you either call me by tomorrow and abandon ship, or go down with the captain. Chet's collapsing from within."

Roger hesitantly took the card and twirled it between his fingers as the detective returned to his car. Before he shut the door, Roger called out. "And what's to stop me from taking this straight to him, telling him all this?"

The detective stood again, leaned on his opened car door. "Look. I'm way beyond the point of prettying this shit up for you people." And soon there was another smoke lit up in his mouth. "You wont bring shit to Chet, because he'd kill the girl. I think you know that." He nodded, returned to his seat and shut the door before peeling off into the night, leaving Roger alone in his driveway under the flickering streetlight above.

It was past noon now. Roger wasn't exactly sure what the detective had considered 'by tomorrow', when the cutoff time was, if there was one. His mind was racing. All day he'd been weighing the pros and cons in his head. On one hand, they had taken him in off the streets, raised him and gotten him through life. On the other, they were just willing to off him on the slight chance he was responsible for an error in a drop count. He'd never felt more conflicted; his emotions continued their eternal struggle. How could he love, hate and fear Chet all at once? He pressed his throbbing temple, hoping to relieve some pressure from the stress induced headache.

Suddenly an abrupt car horn shook him to his senses and Roger remembered himself; in traffic, on the way to pick up Tony from school, running late for a pickup. He sighed and took the turn into the looped path towards Tony's school. Could he really justify going against his family, as ruthless as they were? As much as Chet made his blood boil, he couldn't shake the intense sense of obligation he felt towards the man.

Roger crushed the detective's business card in his hand, tossed it into the empty passenger seat beside him. He'd see things through with his family, but keep Thompson's secret. It was the only thing that seemed right to him. With a sigh of relief, Roger pulled into the roundabout and parked his car, prepared for the wait. He glanced around at the scene before him; children funneling into buses, directed by school staff. Some broke from larger groups to run towards vehicles that greeted them with open arms, the same thing Tony would do once his class was let out.

Roger glanced at his watch. Cutting it close for the pickup, but he'd still be able to swing it. He tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting for his son to materialize out of the blur of small faces. Suddenly, something caught Roger's attention from the corner of his vision. Instantly, his heart sank and a pit formed in his stomach. Owen could be seen sitting on a bench near the playground in a long black trench coat, glaring directly at him. Waiting for him to notice. The beast of a man reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out a silver flip phone, looked comically small in his gloved hand. He dialed a number, held it to his ear and said a single word into it before hanging up, his eyes still trained on Roger all the while.

His heart was beating fast now, and he was nearly hyperventilating. Whatever this was, whatever message this display was supposed to convey, it was crossing a line. Work was one thing, but his son was not to be involved. Roger's cell suddenly began ringing, startling him. He hesitated, but quickly flipped the phone open.

"Tick tock Roger. You've got more important things to be doing right now." Chet's voice.

"Chet, this is crazy." Roger said shakily. "I just need to bring Tony home and then I'll get the pickup done on time, okay? I've done this a thousand times before."

"No, Roger. You've got too much on your plate. I want to help." The words sounded so unnatural coming from Chet, it may have been the most intimidating thing he'd said so far. "Get your ass to the pickup, now. I'm not asking." A brief pause, as Roger considered how to respond.

"I can't just leave my-" He started, angrily.

"Owen will take care of Tony in the meantime. Couldn't be in safer hands- you know he's got quite the sensitive touch."

Roger's rage instantly deflated and was replaced with a nauseous fear. "Chet, don't do this. Don't you fucking hurt my son."

"That depends entirely on you, Rog. Tick tock." and Chet hung up, leaving an ominous tone blaring in Roger's ear as he sat paralyzed for a moment. He glanced back to Owen, who was already on the phone again, still staring. The school bell rung, and the final class was let out. Tony's class. Roger glanced at his watch, then back towards Owen.

"Fuck!" Roger shouted before frantically speeding out of the roundabout, making his way towards the pickup destination. As he drove off he kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, surveying the scene at the schoolyard. He watched as Owen stood, a hulking monster, and walked over towards his son. Grabbed his hand and lead him towards his vehicle. Roger heaved with disgust before reaching over into the passenger seat and grabbing the crumpled card, hastily unraveled the paper and dialed.

"I'm in." He spoke with a trembling voice once the call was answered. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Let's take the fucker down."

CREDITS

story by Derelict

overlay (c) Jesus

art (c) rattus