Beep Beep

The sound of the answering machine echoed throughout the tiny apartment, signaling to its inhabitants that they had missed a call.

Beep Beep

Behind the closed bathroom door stood a tall, white haired individual, staring at his reflection in the grimy, smudged mirror.

Beep Beep

He released his grip on the filthy sink, turning away from his reflection and moving towards the door, gripping the handle and stepping into the living room.

"And who do we have here?"

Sitting around the room were three distinct individuals; a woman in a dress, wearing a horse mask, a man in a white suit, wearing an owl mask, and another man in a letterman jacket, wearing a rooster mask.

The white-haired man remained silent.

"Oh…" the women continued, " You don't know who you are? Well, maybe we should keep it that way."

"But I know you." the man in the rooster mask began, "Look at my face. We've met before…haven't we?"

Silence continued to reign, broken by the man in the owl mask.

"I don't know you!" He lashed out. " Why are you here? You're no guest of mine!"

"Do you really want me to reveal who you are?" The women spoke up, querying the stoic figure. "Knowing oneself means acknowledging ones actions, and as of late, you've done some pretty terrible things."

The white-haired man just stared, gaze shifting from the eyes of one mask to the other.

"You don't remember me?" Questioned the man in the rooster mask. "I'll give you a clue… Does April the 3rd mean anything to you? I believe that was the day of our first encounter. You look like you might be remembering something."

The white-haired man's eyes widened, mind racing to recollect that fateful spring day…

. . . . .

April 3rd, 2028; 16:00 PM

When one first appraised Lincoln Loud, they saw a tall, well-built young man in his early twenties, testing the waters of adulthood while simultaneously trying to find his way in life.

Of course, that was at first glance.

If one looked closer, however, they would notice the darkened bags under his eyes, the way his gaze constantly shifted, how he pulled the collar of his jacket just a little higher up to cover his neck, and how worn his hands were.

Most who interacted with the lad found him to be a polite, charming fellow, content to watch and listen rather than draw attention to himself.

Under the surface, however, a storm raged.

The death of Lynn Loud Sr. six years prior sent shockwaves through the family, seventeen year old Lincoln barely transitioning into his Senior year of high school. His death came quietly, swiftly, and caught everyone off guard.

It's incredible how something as common as the flu could kill a grown man in less than five days.

The Loud family, needless to say, was never the same afterwards.

With half of the household income gone, and the insurance company's resistance to provide compensation, the family quickly fell on hard times; it was difficult for a single parent of elven to provide a decent standard of living for their six remaining children in the home.

Still, they managed, the oldest five, with lives of their own, sending home money whenever they could.

Then Lola got sick.

Leukemia, hereditary from their mothers side, and as the chemotherapy and radiation treatments continued to increase, so too did the cost. As the bills began to pile up, so too did the stress on Rita, who after a year of keeping it together for her children finally succumbed to the pressure of it all.

She collapsed; nervous breakdown, which further worsened the Loud's situation.

With their parents either deceased or ceasing to function, the responsibility of keeping the family from going under fell upon the five oldest siblings.

Well, them and Lincoln.

He made the decision just before graduation, choosing to forgo furthering his education and instead enlist in the Army.

It wasn't his first decision, and it certainly wasn't what he saw himself doing with his life, but it was a paycheck, a decent one, and when it came down to brass tacks, keeping his family afloat was more important than his own future.

Fortunately, his best friend had made the decision to accompany him on his new-found path.

They were quite the duo, managing to rise up into the upper echelons of combat units and partake in some of the most insane shit they'd ever seen.

Best four years of their lives, they'd both agreed.

The pay was excellent, the job was exciting, and they had enough brushes with death to last several lifetimes. His paycheck became pivotal in keeping the family out of poverty, and the Loud sisters knew they could never repay him for what he did.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end, and after an honorable discharge, Lincoln found himself back in Royal Woods, bouncing from job to job, looking for something to fill the ever-growing hunger in his stomach.

It'd been a year since he'd been back, and he still hadn't readjusted.

His sisters asked about what he did in the Army, what they made him do.

He shrugged them off, refusing to answer them.

Not like he could if he wanted to.

He'd talk to Clyde..but…well…no

No, he wouldn't dwell on that.

. . . . .

Lincoln slowly rotated the steering wheel, turning his old DeLorean down his street, creeping along the pavement till he reached the house's driveway.

Turning onto the hard-packed gravel, Lincoln gazed up at the old place; despite all the wear and tear over the years, it still looked solid. He and Lana had made a project of renovating portions of it when he returned home, but still maintained most of the original building.

A small smile flitted across his face at the memory; a plethora curses and a menagerie of injuries were shared between him and his younger sister.

It was one of the more enjoyable experiences he'd had since his return.

Killing the engine, he unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled the interior door handle, the hatch raising above his head like a bird's wing.

Stuffing the keys in his jacket pocket, Lincoln made his way up the gravel path to the porch, abruptly stopping once he reached the first step.

There, in front of the entryway to the house, was a plain, brown box.

Lincoln frowned.

Striding up the steps towards the door, he reached down to pick up the package, gently shaking it in curiosity.

Simply wrapped, the box was suspiciously bare; no delivery address, no return address, no postage stamp.

Slowly, he began to tear the brown paper away, revealing a taped cardboard container. Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew his knife, flicking it open and slicing in between the top flaps.

Carefully, ever so carefully, he opened the package.

"What the fuck?"

Neatly tucked inside the container was a rubber mask; a rubber Rooster mask to be exact.

Lincoln frowned.

Was this a joke? Did Lily order it for one of her costumes? With no return address or watermark, Lincoln wasn't sure where it came from.

Tucking the box under his arm and fishing his keys from his pocket, Lincoln unlocked the front door and stepped inside, calling out a greeting only to be met with silence.

"Nobody's home." He muttered to himself.

BEEP BEEP

The sound of the answering machine resonated throughout the empty house, drawing his attention. Placing the package beside the door, he moved to the answering machine on the hall table, and pressed play.

You have one new message.

"Hi," and even voice sounded, "this is 'Tim' at the bakery. The cookies you ordered should be delivered by now…. A list of ingredients are included…. Make sure you read them carefully!"

End of Messages.

"List of ingredients?" he questioned out loud, moving back towards the front door and rifling through the box.

There, underneath the mask, was a single slip of paper.

Grabbing it, Lincoln flipped the switch of the hall light on, raising it up and squinting to get better look at the small, typed lettering.

"The target is a briefcase. Discretion Is of essence. Leave target at point F-32, inside the dumpster. Failure is not an option. We'll be watching you."

Oh.

Oh.

So, they had finally gotten back to him.

Quickly crumpling the paper and shoving it in his back pocket, Lincoln grabbed the mask and rushed upstairs, reaching his room and locking the door. Reaching into his closet, he pulled out a set of black, finger-less gloves, his Letterman jacket, and a pair of comfortable blue jeans.

Quickly throwing them on, he stuffed the mask into his jacket pocket and threw on his trusty pair of Chuck Taylor's. Taking a quick appraisal in the mirror on the back of his door and satisfied with his appearance, he went back to the closet and pulled out one last thing.

It was as solid as ever; comfortable, oiled, and well balanced. He took a minute to appreciate the finely crafted piece of wood, before slinging it over his shoulder and throwing the door open, making his way downstairs.

Before stepping outside, he made sure the mask was still in its place; the lump in his jacket pocket confirmed it was still on his person.

Nodding to himself, Lincoln took a deep breath before marching outside and letting the door slam behind him.

. . . . .

01:00 AM

A lone figure stood outside the metro station, adorning a strange mask before bursting through the front doors.

The Russian Mobster was leaning against the wall, the sound of the door slamming open around the corner causing him to jump. Curious, he moved along the wall, peeking his head around to get a better view of the entrance.

He never saw the bat come down on his head.

Falling to the ground, the Rooster positioned itself above the fallen gang member, raising the wooden weapon over his head and slamming it down into the face of the prone man, swinging again, and again.

He never had the chance to make a sound.

Satisfied with his kill, the Rooster quickly dashed down the stairs, drawing the attention of another mobster.

The man came at him, swinging his fist wide which Rooster ducked under. Seeing an opening, Rooster swung the back into the side of his attacker's knee, causing him to cry out in pain as he fell.

Rooster swung the bat back, smashing it against the side of the man's head, brains splattering against the adjacent wall.

Moving along, he found himself along the train platform, eyes darting back and forth, searching for his target. He spotted him down the platform, two guards accompanying him.

Sprinting towards them, the first guard had barely turned around as the weapon cracked against the back of his neck. His friend cursed in anger, flicking his switchblade open and taking a swing.

Rooster barely dodged the swing as the blade nicked his shoulder, quickly swinging the bat and smashing his attackers hand.

The Russian screamed in pain, falling to his knees as he gingerly held his shattered hand. He began to look up and let out one final, short yelp as the bat came crashing down into his face with a sickening crack.

God, he could taste the adrenaline.

Dropping the bat with a clank, and drawing back, his gaze fell on his target; a shaking, suited man who had pissed himself.

'Fucking traitor' Rooster thought.

Grabbing the knife, he sauntered over to the sniveling man who had backed up to the edge of the platform.

"Please, don't do this!" He began to plead. "I'll give you whatever you want! I'm a powerful man! I can make it worth your while! Just please do- "

Without hesitation, Rooster jabbed the blade into the man's neck, quickly pulling it out and stabbing again in his kidneys.

The man, wide-eyed, slide down the wall, hands desperately trying to stop the bleeding that only began to intensify.

Rooster watched, gaze never wavering.

Watching the man go limp, Rooster moved to grab the briefcase at his side, keeping it at his side as he ran back the way him came in.

Coming to the top of the stairs, he spotted a Russian kneeling beside his first victim. The mobster turned his head towards him, eyes going wide before cursing in his native tongue.

Rooster kept sprinting.

Holding the briefcase in front of him, he slammed into his target, knocking him on his back. Rooster towered over him and raised his foot, the Russian screaming before it came down into his face, causing him to go limp.

Hearing shouts from down the stairs, Rooster moved forward, bursting out the entrance doors of the station and dashing to his car.

Quickly hopping inside, he fired up the engine, slammed on the gas pedal, and surged out onto the road.

. . . . .

02:00 AM

Tossing the briefcase into the open dumpster, Rooster made his way back down the alley towards his car, mask still adorning his face.

'Too easy' he thought to himself.

In fact, this whole 'job' was way too simple; a couple thugs protecting some corrupt bureaucrat? What kind of amateur did they take him for?

Still though, he got to take down a couple Russian fuc-"

"Hey! Who goes there?" a voice yelled out.

Turning around, he spotted a bum coming towards him, metal pipe in hand.

"Whatsa matter boy?" he questioned, "Too chicken to tell me why you're in my alley?"

Rooster kept silent.

"Fine then you fuck!" the bum yelled, "This'll teach you for coming on to my turf!"

He ran forward, raising the pipe above his head and letting out a war cry. Rooster, instincts taking over, ducked the incoming swing, and used the bum's momentum to flip him over his shoulder, landing on his back.

Grabbing the pipe, Rooster stood over him, the bum keeping quiet as the metal pipe came crashing into his face.

He groaned and tried to roll over, but something overcame Rooster. He felt, deep within his gut, to finish it, to keep smashing, hurt.

And then, he wasn't in an alley anymore.

He was in the jungle, standing over some Russian that tried to get the drop on him.

The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

His unit had been moving towards their target, and the Ruskies got the drop on them.

They tried to kill them all.

Tried to kill his friends.

And Rooster felt rage.

So he raised the pipe over his head and brought it down again.

And again.

And again.

He kept swinging until the Russian's head was a pile of mush splattered across the asphalt.

Wait.

Asphalt?

He was back in the alley, standing over a dead bum, metal pipe dripping with grey matter.

"What the fuck." He spoke into the night air.

The thick stench of blood and voided bowels filled his nostrils.

His body ached.

The piece of metal in his hand grew heavy.

He gazed at the body below him

Dropping the pipe, he slowly backed away, turning around and running back to the car.

Oh Christ

He felt sick.

Reaching the car, Lincoln tore the mask off his face, vomiting the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk. He felt the rush of adrenaline leave his body as he sat in the driver's seat, pulling out of the parking space and onto the road

He took a deep breath, and tossed the Rooster mask in the passenger seat.

. . . . .

03:15 AM

Pulling into the gravel driveway, Lincoln killed the engine, stuffing the mask into his jacket as stepped out and moved inside the house.

Closing the door as quietly as possible, he noticed the flickering blue light of the TV illuminating the living room. Deciding to forgo the explanation of why his clothes were soaked in blood, he instead decided to go straight to bed.

He moved up the stairs as quietly as possible, stepping into his room and locking the door.

Pulling his clothes off and tossing them into a pile, Lincoln sat on the edge of his bed, taking another deep breath before lying back.

It had been too easy, he decided.

Too easy for him to casually take the life of another human being.

'It wasn't my first time though.' He thought as his body began to shut down, drifting off into slumber.

'And it certainly won't be my last.'


A/N; Decided to try something entirely new. Hopefully its an enjoyable read. Let me know how I can improve it!