Below The Surface - A Lackadaisy Fanfiction

Us...

Recovery time. ..it's a precious thing, isn't it?

That feeling when you get home from a long trip, or a long day of school...maybe you came home from the hospital. Or if you were Hatchet Man Heller, recovery time meant time away from the infamous Rose Brigade.

News, headlines, rumors...everything went awry this past month, but it was a satisfying little thing to watch. Oh, to witness the sudden fear in people's eyes when they find out their beloved jazz singing sensation is a horrible person. It was definitely a heart-crushing moment for long time fans...then again, that's just how life is. While you can change people, they just choose not to.

The only person you can change is you: and it can all start today, if you have the heart for it.

Mordecai hasn't heard from them in a while. No attacks, no threats, hell, even the murders stopped. Silas and Raquelle hastily checked out and ran off to God knows where. They were simply too paranoid to handle the consequences of their actions. It was laughable, in a sense. Killer siblings, afraid of being caught? It was enough to make Mordecai scoff at the sudden idea.

There were also no more assassination attempts on Mr. Sweet or Mitzi May. That caused less stress.

...that was until the nightmares began, the night after the Lackadaisy speakeasy got flooded and destroyed.

Mordecai hasn't had nightmares since he was seventeen. So to deal with them all of a sudden was damning to his sleep schedule and mentality. The first few nights were violent: Mordecai waking up, covered in sweat over how vivid it was. He lost count how many times he showered that week from just the sheer feeling of a single bead of sweat.

Just looking back made his stomach roil. He hated this, especially since it was almost a month ago when it happened. A single month of mental torment from nobody but himself. Guilt shrouded over him.

Then he pondered: was this the same feeling one would have after killing someone? The dread, the horror, the realization and agony? He could tie it to that, in an almost logical sense.

Because of this taking a toll on his sanity, Rocky decided to stay with him for a couple nights. The nightmares continued, plaguing Mordecai's mind, and causing him to lose himself for the most part. Those olive green eyes of his were filled with so many tears and so much terror, that it was causing concern to burst throughout Rocky and the rest of the group.

Last night was no different: in fact, it was about to get much worse.

****

The dream always started like this: within the flaming Lackadaisy speakeasy, nobody but himself...for now.

Mordecai sighed reluctantly. "Here we go again..." He muttered, stalking through the burning speakeasy. His footsteps and the crackling fire were the only noises lingering.

He didn't have his gun, which was a damn shame. He needed it for whatever was to happen next.

The fire and smoke got intense, and he coughed into his elbow, eyes watering.

"Damnit..." He choked out. He walked through, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes narrowed in a calculating way. Each footstep deafened the last one, and his ears flicked at the clicking noises in the background. He whipped around, tail lashing. His heartbeat pulsated in his throat, as he now gazed around. His eyes narrowed at a hatchet, leaned against the bar, the same one that always appeared.

He remembered the routine and grabbed it. He heard more footsteps, and random, faceless goons charging after him. So he swung and chopped at them, blood splattering and splotching over the floors, his fur, and clothes. He jerked back when he was punched in the muzzle, and his pince–nez fell off, shattering in the process. He made an estimated guess on where the punch came from, swung the hatchet like a baseball bat and chopped off another nameless, faceless goon's head.