Survival of the Fittest II: First Moments of Freedom

[Thechosenone]

“Pigs sir. Just pigs.” David Nestor pulls the curtains aside to see what the source of the noise is. The Minister’s private study is a place of quiet where only Nestor is usually allowed and only for the purpose of recording his employer’s thoughts to paper or to set up Cahill’s Phonograph. His opinion is rarely voiced here.

Nestor watches the pigs scamper through the open courtyard of the research facility rooting about under the midnight sky. He can see his own refection in the glass too, a meek man with typical Malifaux features, empty eyes and pale flesh. He’s only been here for seven months but already he can see the way this world takes its toll. He adjusts his glasses returns back to his employer and the slab like oaken desk he sits at.

“Pigs?” Cahill furrows his brow. “Isn’t that something… what’s his name… the idiot with the Alligator…”

“Mr. McTavish sir.” Nestor offers passively.

“Yes. McTavish. Isn’t that something he should be dealing with?” Cahill stares into his papers never looking at David. Nestor admired the old buzzard when he first came here. He looked tall, noble and intelligent. He was everything that Nestor wanted to be. But seven months is a very long time in Malifaux. Peoples’ true selves are revealed very quickly in this ugly world.

David sees Cahill’s true nature every time he watches the man conduct a surgery on the Gamin. Hunched over the tiny body, face almost in their guts, blood slicking his scrubs and face as he plucks and prods. David could never shake the thought that first came to him weeks ago, probably because it fits so well and because awful truths are hard to shake… Buzzard. That Minister Cahill looks exactly like an old buzzard feasting on death.

“It’s late sir. He’s probably sleeping.”

Cahill sets down his pencil and rubs at his temples; agitated by the distant sound of squealing hogs. “Wake. Him.Up. David. It’s his job. My job is to weaponize the Bog Gamin for use against the terrorists and insurrectionists that plague our city and threaten our way of life. It’s my job to navigate the tiny veins and brittle physiology of these hideous things and it’s my job to appease the will of the Pinnacle! Mr. Mctavish’s job is to deal with the livestock. Wake. Him.Up.”

Nestor nods. “Of course sir. Right away.” He feels a thankful rush of relief to be out of the office and away from Cahill even if it is just for the few moments it takes to navigate the halls of the compound and reach McTavish’s cabin in the courtyard. Nestor collects his thoughts and takes a precious few moments to regret his assignment.

The assistant mutters to himself as he walks down the stairwell of the compound and to the courtyard. Every violent hate that comes to mind leaves his lips as a hushed whisper. It feels good to vocalize a dozen different demises for Cahill.

He imagines pushing him down the stairs and hearing the sweet snap of bones as he tumbles down.

His illusionary murders stutter and fade as he’s interrupted by a noise from one of the halls. He stops on the stairs and listens and again the noise comes. It’s a thumping of some kind and it originates from just outside the stairwell. Nestor leaves the winding railing and opens the door to this floor of the compound, having no idea what the noise could be. He considers some late night carpentry or a shutter left swinging in the night breeze.

The door opens to the candle lit hall where Nestor expects to see a maintenance worker or errant shutter. Instead his eyes wander down to the source of the noise. A shredded corpse laying heavy on the floor, ragged with wounds and pooling out blood onto the wooden floor and carpet. Nestor’s focus aims at the face but the identity is hidden behind a red veil and ruined flesh. A top the corpses back is a bog gamin with a kitchen knife in its hand. The little creature repeatedly hammers the weapon through the body till it thumps against the floor.

His mouth drops as another of the test subjects scampers up and starts yanking at the man’s boots and then clumsily starts lacing them up on his own ugly feet.

The door to one of the personal quarters opens and another of the test subjects enters the hallway, this one slicked in gore and wearing a blood soaked lab coat far too big for its frame. This one is older than the other two in the hall and it stares back at him through broken spectacles… Doctor Tate’s spectacles.

The other staffers named some of these creatures and he remembers this one too had a nick name but right now it couldn't be further from his mind.

Nestor’s eyes creep over to the creature’s hand and the scalpel it’s holding. He swallows hard as he meets the gamin’s gaze and sees something unexpected there. Intelligence.

“Oh god! Help!” His paralyzing fear is overtaken by survival instinct. Bernard snarls as Cahill’s assistant vanishes back into the stairwell. He points his scalpel at one of the gremlins and grumbles out a single broken word.

“Revenge…”

Nestor reaches the warm moist night outside the compound startling the quiet with his scream. “Help! Mr. Mctavish! Help! The Bog Gamin are out of control! Help please!”

He stumbles out the compound calling for anyone. The moon creeping through the clouds is the only light that leads him. “Mr. Mctavish!”

He’s about to scream again when his own murmurings are silenced by another louder call. He turns to the compound and looks up toward the moon and the balcony of the facility. Perched there are two of the gamin, one holding a long metal pitch fork and wearing a wide brimmed hat freshly painted with human blood. The other holds a bucket in one hand and with the other it reaches dumbly into container to pull out a heaping of gristly filth that it shoves into its mouth and chews slowly.

“Mr…. McTavish… where are you?”

The bucket bearer snarls and throws a handful of the offal at Nestor. It splatters across his chest and drips warmly. He looks down, his hands smearing over what he realizes is blood, bile and random elements from the commissary.

The other gamin taps his pitch fork on the balcony and screeches, its call so loud that it hurts Nestor’s ears.

“Mr Mctavish! Where are you!” He tries feebly again. It’s much more a whimper now than a demand.

And then he hears the familiar noise again, the squeal. Nestor turns quickly to see pigs dragging in the night air with powerful snorts. They emerge from all directions and move in on him slowly. The way they stare, the way they stalk… Nestor doesn’t see the actions of hog intelligence. He sees the predatory approach of wolves.

“Please… someone!” He begs.

The Gremlins above watch the circle of hogs close in around their meal. He’s taken beneath a thrashing blanket of ruddy fat flesh and ripping tusks. The one with the pitch fork smiles while his companion continues to shovel blood gruel into his mouth.

[skyhawk]

Seems Mr. Mctavish was wranglin critters and lettin his gator get'em.

Nice stuff. I love anything with gremlins and i think mctavish should totaly get bumped up to henchman so he can lead a crew off ruffiants, pigs and gremlins

[Thechosenone]

Thanks for the read Skyhawk. The first chapter in the story explains my version of the Malifaux gremlin origin. Check it out if you like gremlins.

A word of warning, my writing is Malifaux "Inspired". I stray greatly from any established canon.

[MasterMind]

Truly excellent writing... I've read very little of the fluff, but this was really cool!

[Thechosenone]

Many thanks mastermind and welcome to the board. Please take a look at more of my stuff as long as you enjoyed this.