Squadron Supreme Oneshots

The Silence of the Damned Part 2

She deleted 121 emails, 29 missed calls, and 46 texts, all from Little Birdie. Once that was taken care of, she turned back to the cashier.

"One wood slice, a chisel, a carving hook, and glaze coating," the man looked up, his eyes sunken in folds of flesh. "Is that all?"

She nodded, pushing the money over. He squinted at her for a moment before shrugging, stuffing her stuff in a bag and handing it over. He gave her some change and waved her away without so much as a goodbye.

She then headed to the butcher's shop, looking for some pig's blood. She received some odd looks, but she just said she was working on a new recipe. They nodded, understandably but still weirded out by her taste.

She came home, creating a large border of salt in the living room. Good thing she didn't have a carpet.

She found an image of the disk, traced the design on the plate, and started carving. She kept two cut resistant gloves on her hands, trying to avoid splinters. She was not going to chip her nails over a business deal. Once she was done, she applied a glaze finish.

While it dried, she picked up some Bun Cha Gio from a Vietnamese shop. She only ate enough to keep the pangs and dizziness away, opting to save the leftovers for tomorrow's breakfast before going back to work.

She picked up the wooden disk and placed it in the center of her room. She took a black crystal dagger, pressing it against her thumb. She opened up the scar, dripping the blood onto the carving. The red beads were absorbed into the wood, leaving no stain.

The lights went out, and she stepped out of the salt barrier. She kept her dagger in hand, just in case something went wrong. She felt a heavy presence in the room and heard a couple of padding steps, then an unearthly shriek.

"Hello?" It was small, scrabbling about the confines of the circle, bits of skin and blood soaking into the floor. Something flabby and pathetic-looking swung between its legs, underneath the slithering skirt.

She smiled, cloyingly.

"Who are you?"

"Can't answer that," she held up a basin of pig's blood. "Thirsty?" She growled, clawing aimlessly at her direction. She smiled and took a sip, relishing in his shrieks and whines.

Okay, cut to the chase. She read off the list of names, looking up every second to make sure she was paying attention. "I need you to take care of those bastards," she picked up the basin. "Can I trust you?"

She stuck her hand (already washed with holy water and bound in her knuckle-dusters) through the barrier, slipping the basin in front of the creature and pulled her hand away. She wasn't stupid enough to taunt her. Besides, she needed the girl to save her strength.

Then again, she had some blood left over.

***

Constance Johanssen was not truly beautiful, but her grandmother said she had a look "like a good woman should". It was all natural, but her tanned skin and brilliant blonde curls — so blonde they looked plastic — gave her a fragile aura. Even well into her thirties, she was like a slab of steak, well-aged.

But it was not her looks that caught the attention of so many. It was her voice, which her abuelita described as the remnants of honey left in an empty jar. It was breathy, almost heavenly, something that didn't just come from the mouth; you didn't need to understand what she was saying to be hooked.

All this made it so easy to draw out the targets. When she was still on the force, she always operated the stings and undercover work, the later of which she still continued.