Pocket Universe

I...I blame Baccano! for letting gangsters take over my brain. This is not Baccano-fic, but it's somewhat inspired by the anime. The idea had been kicking around in the back of my head for awhile, and watching Baccano! brought it closer to the front.

(This is not quite the story I really want to write. It's more like the backstory to the story I want to write. And that's why I'm using the 50originals savage prompt instead of the gangster prompt.)

Summary: Mullen sal Newton spent so long as a wolf, he's no longer the man he used to be.

Warnings: Minimal blood and violence. No explicit sex, but there's a semi-graphic flashback of m/m sex.


The forest was too small now, and Mother was too weak to venture beyond her grove. His brother and sisters were dead, killed by men who smelled of iron and smoke and blood. He growled low in his throat. Everything was too jumbled, even time, but he remembered that smell. Men were coming. Men like the ones who killed his siblings.

Mother's hands tightened in the fur on his neck. "Hunt them, my son." Her voice rattled like dry leaves. He whined and crouched low. Everything was too jumbled now, but he remembered a time when his Mother was strong and beautiful and powerful, not a frail crone cowering in the center of her forest.

He padded out into the night. Hunt them, Mother said, but they were everywhere, their scent heavy in all directions, the sound of their intrusion close no matter which way he turned.

Poor beast.

He growled. Who dared?

Laughter. A crow settled on the lowest branch of the nearest cedar. Poor beast.

He snapped at it. It shouldn't be here, and it shouldn't be laughing at him. He was...well, he was old. Easy prey for these new men who did not fear this forest or his Mother. He whined. Hunt them, Mother said, but he did not have the power. Not like he used to.

They were too close. No, they were here, one stepping out into the clearing before him, tall and proud despite the scent of fear coiling around him. The man's hands didn't shake as he raised his strange weapon.

He snarled and leapt at the man. Everything jumbled together. A flash of light and sharp snap. The fire in his side, dancing over his ribs. The scent of cedar and loan, rich and overbearing. The sound of Mother screaming, him howling, the crow cackling.

Poor beast. Poor beast. Poor, poor beast.

* * *

He woke at midday. The burn in his left side had nothing to do with the sun. He winced. His body felt weak, the joints out of sorts, the muscles wrong. He pushed himself up on...on hands and knees? His memories were jumbled, but he remembered enough to know he shouldn't be in this form. He hadn't had the strength to shift for...for a long time. Decades. Maybe longer.

Poor beast. The crow again. It fluttered down to perch on a fallen log serving as a bridge over a small stream.

He blinked at it. This wasn't Mother's grove. "Poor beast," he echoed, his voice sluggish and foreign to his ears. He rose up on his knees, fighting the vertigo and the feeling that his posture wasn't right. Yes, he was a poor beast.

And probably an even poorer man.

He crawled over to the stream. The water was sweet and cool and seemed to clear his mind. The crow watched him as he drank, then as he bathed, its black eyes unblinking.

What now? He was naked. That was a problem, wasn't it? It was hard, dredging up the proper memories, but they were there, and --

Autumn in an orchard, apple trees planted in neat rows. The air was crisp and sweet, like the harvest, and everyone was dressed in bright colors. Festival colors, red and yellow and orange, flame-bright like the leaves. And one man, cheeks red from the wind, dark hair mussed from the wind, pressed a mug of cider into his hands, let his touch linger. The top button of his shirt was undone, exposing his throat and the dip of his collarbone.

-- yes, his nakedness was a problem.

Poor beast. Follow me. The crow leapt from its perch.

He followed.

* * *

There was a dead man in his Mother's clearing. Mother's small hut was a charred husk, still smoking in places, but the fire had not spread into the clearing. Mother's last act, or someone else's doing?

The crow landed and strutted up and down a branch overhanging Mother's hut, looking smug. He shook his head. Crows couldn't look smug. But they could, perhaps, save a forest from fire...if they were the right kind of crow.

It cackled and took flight, swooping low over his head. Dress. It landed on the dead man's chest and cocked its head to peer down at the body. They'll fit.

He supposed stripping a dead man should feel wrong. The crow watched him, and its scrutiny made him uncomfortable, like he was lacking.

Well, he was. He smoothed the shirt, worn and soft and smelling of sweat and dirt, and knelt to remove the man's shoes. They didn't quite fit, or perhaps he wasn't used to them. They pinched his feet and made him feel clumsy.

He should bury the man, shouldn't he? And bury what was left of Mother? He looked at the hut, expecting sorrow, but he felt hollow.

The crow settled on his shoulder. No time. North. Now before you're found.

He gave it a quick sidelong glance and then looked north. "Well," he said, testing his voice. It still sounded raspy and odd. He cleared his throat. "North, you say? And what are you?"

It launched itself off his shoulder, its feet pressing hard enough to make him bleed. Little sister.

* * *

Mother was truly gone. He could feel the change in the forest, a subtle change since her influence had been dwindling, but still noticeable. The air felt lighter, the shadows smaller. The crow fluttered from branch to branch ahead of him. He couldn't shake the impression that it felt smug.

"You didn't kill Her, little sister," he called out. He was getting used to his voice, but the rasp still felt wrong.

The crow laughed. No, no I didn't. North now, poor beast. Those men had friends.

North took them to farmland. He walked along a split-rail fence. It didn't seem right to hop it, and the crow seemed content to let him wander along the perimeter. Wheat. The fields were producing wheat, and it rippled in the breeze, golden and heavy.

Would the farmer need help with the harvest? He flexed his shoulders. He could handle a scythe. Perhaps the labor would clear the rest of his head.

The crow settled on his shoulder again. Perhaps, poor beast.

When they came upon the entrance to the farm, he paused. What was the etiquette in offering help? Would it be odd if he went up and knocked on the door? So much had changed. Were people still kind to strangers?

The crow shifted on his shoulder. Barter.

He snorted. Barter. That hadn't changed. A meal at the table and a night in the stable in return for labor. He needed the food, and he'd need the sleep. He approached the farm.

The house was bright yellow with white trim, two stories with a wrap-around porch. He blinked. Yes, so much had changed. He had vague memories of his own house, stone, not wood, a single story, no porch, a single candle in the window the times he was out past dark.

The crow flew away when he stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking under his weight. He could feel it circling overhead, watching.

A woman answered his knock, middle-aged, her hair streaked with grey, her body plump and soft. Her expression was wary, though, and she considered him for a long moment before speaking. "Don't see many strangers these days."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I --"

"Don't got much charity these days, either."

He smiled. "I don't want charity. I want work. You got enough hands for that harvest?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Conrad!" she yelled.

A moment later, there were heavy footsteps coming around the porch. He shifted, and an older man, Conrad, he presumed, was limping towards him.

"He wants to work," the woman said.

"That so?" Conrad looked him over. "Who sent you?"

"Nobody. I'm..." he glanced up, caught sight of the crow circling, and his mind gave him the name of a city. He hoped its name hadn't changed. "I was heading to Stonehaven."

Conrad's expression tightened.

The crow swooped low. Poor beast. Out of place.

He shook his head. "But the closer I get, the more...I'm not ready for a city."

"What's your name?"

"My name?' He ran a hand over his face. Everything was still too jumbled, his memories as a man tripping over his experiences as a wolf. "My name --"

Moonlight spilling in through the open window on a humid summer night. Sweat-slicked skin, salty on the tongue. A man splayed out below him, his breath ragged, dark curls plastered against his forehead.

"Oh, gods, Mullen."

"-- is Mullen. Mullen sal Newton."

Conrad raised his eyebrows. "A sal? Don't see many of those anymore. You are a country boy." He exchanged a look with the woman -- his wife, Mullen finally realized -- and both of their expressions softened. "You won't make it to Stonehaven before dark. You can help with the evening chores, stay the night in the barn."

Mullen nodded. "Thank you. I'm grateful."

* * *

He stayed three weeks. Conrad didn't have any farm hands, which seemed odd, and Mullen didn't bother asking, not until he had been there long enough to earn a sliver of trust. "Why am I the only one here?" he asked as they mucked out the barn.

After a long moment, Conrad said, "Times are hard."

That evening, the crow returned. Leave, poor beast.

"Why?"

It cocked its head. Trouble.

So that was what the low tremble in his stomach was. "Trouble for me, or for Conrad and Hannah?" The wife still hadn't warmed to him, but she seemed the type of woman who rarely warmed to people. Mullen liked that about her.

Trouble for them. Trouble for you if you stay.

Let trouble come. He'd stay.

The crow sighed. Poor beast. It fluttered up to perch in the rafters. Stay then.

The next morning, Conrad came with hard cheese and bread and a toolbox. "Need you to fix the east fence today. Logs are fine, just need to be put back in place. Should have enough pegs in here."

"If that's what you need." He held Conrad's gaze as he bent to pick up the box. "I can do it tomorrow if you think you'll need me close today."

Conrad gave him a half-smile. "No. Don't think it's wise for you to be close today. Fix the fence."

Mullen nodded.

The crow accompanied him. Trouble, poor beast.

"I know." Mullen's senses were still sharp, and by midday, he could smell the men coming, blood and iron and smoke mingling with other harsh scents.

He left the tools and ran back to the farm. The crew flew ahead. Too late, too late, poor beast.

Yes, he was too late. The house and barn were burning by the time he returned. Conrad and Hannah were dead, chest shots, arranged in their rocking chairs on the porch. Mullen snarled, the scent of blood thick in the back of his throat.

The crow settled on his shoulder and cawed.

"They came from Stonehaven."

The crow shifted on his shoulder. Mullen turned his head to stare at it. "Yes or no, little sister?"

Its feet dug into his shoulder. Track them.

* * *

He tracked them to Stonehaven. The city was too crowded, too noisy, too full. He didn't like the buildings, looming structures of steel and glass and stone facades. They were too tall, blocking out the sun, keeping the sidewalks -- the pavement too hard -- in perpetual shadows.

Too much had changed. The crow fed him some of its memories, so the automobiles weren't as terrifying as they could be, though nothing prepared him for the stench of their exhaust or the chug of their engines. Mullen crossed the streets warily, convinced one of the contraptions would teeter around the corner and mow him down.

All the scents made it impossible to track his prey. He snarled in frustration. The crow laughed and circled his head.

Poor beast. A man with no money.

"I suppose you have an idea?"

Seek work.

"And my prey?"

The crow laughed. This way, poor beast.

He followed it to a bar in the basement of a building. He walked down the narrow steps, squinted in the dark interior. At this time of day, the bar wasn't crowded. Just the bartender and four men playing poker in the far corner.

The crow settled on the railing outside. Careful, poor beast. Low men. Rivals of the ones you seek.

Mullen snorted. Fine then. He approached the bar, ignoring the men playing cards, though he was aware they were watching, waiting.

The bartender looked him over. "You look like a man with little money."

"Try no money." He flashed the man a quick smile. "Times are hard."

"So I hear."

"I hear you might be able to use a hand."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, a carefully cultivated look, Mullen realized, as his vision finally adjusted and he noticed just how out of place he was in the bar. It was a small place, but the wood trim was warm and elegant, the decorations subdued but clearly quality. Mullen was sure if he were familiar with liquor, he'd be impressed by the labels on the bottles neatly arranged behind the bar.

"I don't think you're the right kind of hand," the bartender said.

"Maybe not out here. But back there," he nodded at the door leading to the back of the bar, "I'm sure you use a variety of hands."

The bartender's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "Why do I need yours, stranger?"

Mullen shrugged. "Because there's not much I won't do."

"Because times are hard." The bartender fished out a white cloth and began polishing glasses. "I can't use you. Try de Morrow's place on Sixth and Pine. He needs someone with muscle."

"Thanks. If he hires me, I'll be sure to have my first drink here."

The bartender chuckled. "Might want to make that your first drink after buying your first suit. We do have a dress code here."

"All right. That'll be my second drink, then." Mullen turned and headed out.

The bartender's laughter didn't quite mask the sound of one of the card men rising to follow Mullen. He pretended not to hear.

* * *

He found de Morrow's place, a store with narrow isles and fresh meat. Mullen's stomach growled at the enticing smells. He ignored it, just as he ignored his pursuer from the bar.

The man at the register was old, Conrad's age, Mullen guessed. He swallowed over a surprising lump in his throat. His voice was steady when he spoke, however. "I hear you can use help. Someone with muscle."

The man's face was impassive. "Where'd you hear that?"

His pursuer from the bar said, "He came into Garmond's."

A brief flash of interest skittered across the man's face. "That so? What brought you into Garmond's?"

Mullen shrugged. "Need work."

The man snorted. "Everyone does. Times are tough. So why should I give work to a stranger?"

Mullen cocked his head to the side and listened for the crow. He could feel it nearby, but it had no suggestions. Fine then. He'd go with the truth. "I had work on a farm until some people came and killed the owners. Good people."

The old man shifted. "Tough times are sad times, too."

"Man's name was Conrad. Wife's was Hannah."

"Fuck," the man from the bar breathed. "They hit the de Manners?"

The old man shot him a warning look before turning his attention back to Mullen. "When was this?"

"Two days ago."

"Go check," he said, tossing a ring of keys to the man from the bar. "Take Remmy."

"Sure."

Mullen half turned to watch the man hurry out.

"What's your name, son?"

"Mullen sal Newton."

"A country boy, eh?"

"Yes."

"I didn't hear de Manners had new help."

"I was only there three weeks."

"That so?" He gestured towards the back. "Go sit. Molly's in back. She'll get you some food. If Cal and Remmy come back come back and say you're telling the truth, I'll have work for you, boy. Conrad's send me enough quality help that I'll trust his judgment of you."

"Work's all I want."

"You're not much of a liar, boy. Get."

* * *

The work de Morrow had for him was simple stuff -- sweep the floor, stock the shelves, help Molly with the cooking. Mullen could understand the old man's caution. He was a stranger. It didn't matter to Mullen. Work was work. And work distracted him from the jumble of memories in his mind.

de Morrow, or one of his men, constantly watched him. They even checked in on him while he was sleeping, and Mullen had gotten so used to the surveillance that Molly's familiar tread no longer woke him.

One month, two, then three, and Mullen did nothing more than tend to the store. He caught de Morrow giving him puzzled looks, but Mullen kept to the work he was given and didn't explain himself. His time with Mother gave him patience. He could wait for his revenge. The crow assured him his prey would wait.

Remmy became one of his regular watchers. Mullen suspected de Morrow knew Remmy made him uncomfortable. He looked too much like --

A spring wedding. The bride was his sister, and she looked lovely, but the groom, Derek de Brodie, tall and broad-shouldered, linen stretched tight over his frame, caused the dry lump in Mullen's throat. He smiled at Mullen, a quick flash, before dipping his head low to kiss his bride.

And the next morning, Mullen joined his sister in the de Brodie house.

-- his lover with his dark hair and fair skin and sly smile.

"The boss can't figure you out, Mullen," Remmy said, leaning against the wall, his posture loose and lazy. "Someone like you should be demanding something more by now. A courier gig or maybe lookout."

Mullen shrugged. "Anything more requires trust. Boss'll let me know when I earn it."

"Or maybe you're planning on going off after Conrad's killers on your own?"

"Boss'll kill me."

"Huh." Remmy pushed away from the wall. "You're an odd one, Mullen." He started towards the door. "You know how to drive?"

Mullen shook his head.

"You should learn. Come by Garmond's when you're done."

"You'll teach me."

"Yeah, Mullen. I'll teach you."

Mullen wished the flutter in his stomach was due to fear.

* * *

The crow laughed at him. Poor beast.

Mullen snarled. He hated automobiles, hated being so close to Remmy, hated the wet jolt in his stomach every time Remmy touched him.

"If you've come to mock, little sister, find another source of food." He flung his last bit of bread towards the window.

The crow caught it, then fluttered away, still laughing.

"Little sister?" Remmy asked from where he leaned against the doorframe. "The crow? You are a country boy, Mullen."

Mullen cursed the crow for distracting him to the point that he didn't hear Remmy's approach. He rose and brushed his hands clean on his thighs. "Crows are troublesome birds, but they're easily bribed. And easily flattered."

"If you say so." Remmy straightened up. "Get your hat. We're on lookout."

Mullen closed the window and gathered his hat and coat. "Lookout?"

"Cal's running an errand. We'll be in the car, waiting. Helping if things go wrong."

"Boss approved it?"

Remmy gave him a sidelong glance. "You've earned a bit of trust."

"Good to hear." Mullen pulled on his coat. "Enough for a garrote?"

"Cal had you pegged for a shooter."

"Don't like the smell of gunpowder."

"Huh." Remmy pulled a garrote from his pocket and pressed it into Mullen's hand. "Well, you won me that bet, but I'm not telling Cal the reason you're not a gun man."

"Then tell him I don't like the distance."

Remmy laughed. "That's better, Mullen. You're learning."

* * *

The job was bloody and rough. Mullen had forgotten how good it felt to kill. Not quite as good as when he was a wolf -- he remembered the tearing of flesh beneath his teeth, wet heat and gurgling screams -- but the cut of the garrote into his prey's neck, the wet, strangled sounds and thrashing made his pulse sing in his ears.

He was pretty sure he scared Remmy and Cal. They kept their distance as the three of them torched the warehouse, kept their silence in the car. Molly had dinner waiting for them when they returned, chicken and mushrooms in a thick cream sauce that was easy enough to keep warm while they showered and changed.

Nobody spoke during the meal. de Morrow found him the next day, sizing him up with a long appraising look. "Remmy says you're a monster."

Mullen set the garrote on the counter. "I'll give this back, then."

"Don't be so quick, son. I can use a monster." He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Know how to use a knife?"

Mullen shook his head.

"A gun?"

"No. Just bare hands." He nodded at the garrote. "And that."

"Remmy says you don't like guns."

"No."

de Morrow considered him. "You'll learn how to use a knife. Secondary measure. You understand the importance?"

"Yes."

"Good," de Morrow said. "You'll be working with Remmy for now. He finds you the kind of monster that can't be controlled, he's got permission to put you down. You understand that?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then you'll understand this: he finds you the right kind of monster, and you'll be the one I send after Conrad's killers."

Mullen smiled. "I'd like nothing more." He could wait.

Outside, the crow circled overhead, cawing. Good beast.