Hatchetfield.

It Can't Be Undone

"Hello fwendy-wends."

And the gym erupts with demonic technicolor and laughter that makes his skin crawl. They are chanting and singing but Peter can't even pay attention to them. He only has eyes for the figure that has appeared directly behind them.

"Richie?"

Peter asks it like it's a question, but it's not. He's known Richie since kindergarten, has gone trick or treating with him in full face paint, seen him with a black eye and a fat lip, cackled with him after Ruth gave them full makeovers. The point is, even with green hair and a radioactive letterman and his fingers being fucked up tentacles, Peter would know Richie anywhere.

And then... The thing wearing Richie smiles. Because it must be wearing him. Because Richie would never make an expression like that, a smile with so much malice and too many teeth.

"We wanted to make you comfortable, meeting you with a familiar face." Richie's face widens, impossibly. His cheeks split along the seams. "And Richie wasn't using his."

"W-what... What the fuck?" Stephanie nearly shrieks. Peter feels like his heart is in his throat. Oh god, oh god this can't be happening.

"Don't want to talk to me?" The thing wearing Richie pouts. It was something Richie used to do all the time, when Peter and Ruth refused to watch a thousand hours of whatever anime he wanted to show them. But it looked nothing like Richie. It was... crueler. It was the kind of expression you made at a dog before putting it down. "We were the bestest pally-wals. Right, Petey? Though, maybe you would recognize me better like this?" Water drips down from his hairline and blood gushes from his nose and his face tinges blue and bloats and holy shit, is this what he looked like after-

Peter turns to the side and throws up.

"Guess not!" The Lord giggles. His face snaps back to normal. The abrupt change gives Peter motion sickness.

Behind him, one of the figures cackles. It sounds like a bleating goat.

"Humans... So disgusting," another Lord remarks from the opposite direction. Their voice is low and slow and vaguely familiar? He can't place it.

"Listen"—and Stephanie is starting to sound annoyed and Peter should really do something about that before she snaps at one of them—"We're just trying to-" She stops abruptly, and speaks with abrupt horror. "Dad?"

Peter's head snaps up at that.

"Holy shit."

Because standing there in a blue beret with ooze dripping down his face is Mayor Lauter.

He chuckles at their shock, a sound that is musical like wind chimes falling down a staircase. "Your father was such a stunning performer, Stephanie, I couldn't resist snatching him up for myself. Telling all of the people of Hatchetfield he cared if they were safe? Telling you he didn't know what happened to your mother? The man was an artist."

"What does my mom have to do with anything?" Stephanie demands, but the Lord just chuckles again.

"Yum yum!" A guttural voice cries, and Peter's eyes jump from Mayor Lauter to the pink monstrosity beside him. Peter had only seen her twice, and once was while her head was flying through the air, but Peter is ninety percent certain that she's Mayor Lauter's driver. He doesn't recognize the man in yellow, but Grace is staring at him with utter terror.

"Daddy?"

Oh fuck.

"Grace?" Peter breathes. Surely he heard her wrong. Grace didn't mention her fucking dad dying, surely she would have mentioned it.