Note: I am not a writer. I really have no idea what I'm doing here; I just noticed a painful lack of fanfiction about Death + crew and wanted to remedy it. Despite my lack of writing experience, in this story I have my take on character origins, including Marceline's mother, her transformation into a vampire, the odd friendship between Peppermint Butler and Death, and many more origins that would spoil the story if I told you right now. There might be slight edits in the future, nothing with plot, but with word choice and phrasing. I hope you enjoy.
Although powerful, the romance of magic cannot fully overpower the reek of death. This is an only recently relevant truth.
Any wanderer crossing the wastes can tell you this, as half of their journey consists of high-stepping over crispy corpses and ignoring the perverse curiosity to check the blackened fetal forms for a familiar face. I've seen them: thin-faced and searching, scouring the wasteland for perhaps supplies, perhaps companions, perhaps a home. More often than this I've seen them when they can no longer scour.
Behind the enchanting glamor of newly made wizards, elementals, and royals lays the burnt husk of the old world, still writhing and suffering, just waiting for me to snuff it out so the new world can truly begin.
My work is never done lately. Earth is now a wreck, a trap, and there are far too many scrawny rabbits wandering around the snares. I look around the waste and remember each one as I walk.
That one by poison she couldn't even see.
That one by testy thieves.
That one by a hollow stomach.
That pile of ones by the unholy thing that crawled from the bomb.
With the bomb came magic, and with magic came the creatures. I've found myself taking more humans than ever before; soon I think they will be all gone. They are not built to live in this world, a world, ironically, that they created.
I see my old friend and therefore my destination ahead. He casts an imposing dark shadow on the horizon, mostly because he is the only thing still standing. His face splits into a sharp white smile as he sees me and waves wildly, as if it were needed for me to see him.
"Death! I'm so glad you decided to come; it really means a lot to me, you know, considering the circumstances." he says nervously, adjusting his tie with one hand and putting the other out for a shake.
I step over a pile of what is either spoiled beef or spoiled human and take his hand in mine.
"It was no problem."
It actually was no problem; this was my usual route, and even if I said no to this meeting that was destined to fail, I would have still happened upon my dear old friend one way or another.
My eyes follow the hand I'm holding up his arm to the suit he's wearing. He's dressed to the nines as usual, looking terribly abnormal in the apocalypse. But where he's from, there was no apocalypse, and absolutely no effect from it. I envy him; he lives out his lazy days in the Nightosphere, ruling his domain with a laid-back and cruel fist. Unlike him, I have to work.
"Brrrr…" he comments, "your hands are freezing. As always."
He nervously adjusts his suit more as if he's about to appear on the television channels that no longer exist. I smell the sweat on him.
He's here to find his daughter. Yes, you heard me right. His young young daughter, living in this veritable hell. Would you think him evil if I said he left her there? He did, and he did it when she was barely a toddler, left her to fend for herself in this wasteland.
To be fair to dear Hunson, her mother was still alive when he left, although terminally ill from radiation, alive but barely kicking. He knew this of course, but didn't have the heart to watch her wither away, so he simply reverted back to his naturally avoidant personality and retreated to the Nightosphere until the inevitable happened.
A few months after he left, I visited in the night, when both mother and child were sleeping, both dressed in rags and camping out in an abandoned shopping center, trying to garner warmth by wrapping themselves in sterile plastic sheets. I didn't want to take her, but it is my job. And I have to work.
As Hunson's friend, I was obliged to tell him the terrible news. His normally structured face caved into itself and he sunk to the floor, hands clutching his head as he said her name over and over. I attempted to comfort him, but when those efforts proved fruitless, I left him with his grief. From his current mood, he seems to have gotten over it, or at least suppressed the worst of the emotional pain.
Perhaps the hope of finding his daughter elevates his mood, although I know that this hope is soon to be plowed into the ground. He is so oblivious, thinking he will stroll up to her with his shiny red boots and bloated stomach and whisk her away to the Nightosphere with no friction. I know better, but I don't mince words with him. I have things to do, and this is his issue. I'm just along for the ride.
We walk with each other, approaching the epicenter of the once-thriving city, where his daughter rests, still with her dead mother. It's been approximately a week since I took her. I wonder how fresh she is.
Human litter turns to mechanical as we enter the outskirts of the city: power lines felled and riven, perhaps once spitting electricity but now silent as the rest of the metropolis, looted stores standing like tombstones, lining the streets, vomiting what's left of their product onto the sidewalk. A gray mist, presumably toxic, weighs over the city like a suffocating blanket, and I consider whether this choking air contributed to the mother's death; likely, as no other living creature can be seen or heard, and certainly none mortal. Both Hunson and I must break our stoic gaits to occasionally avoid rubbish and obstacles, which is of plenty in this forsaken place.
It's been a few months since he last saw his daughter, but has pinpointed her position through my help (which was not difficult, considering it has remained fixed for these few months). I can only imagine the girl's initial confusion and pain at her mother's death, seeing as I didn't hang around until morning to watch it blossom. There is no guidance in this wasteland, and certainly no care for the weak. An infant doesn't have the capacity to strategically plot and carry out a survival plan; the proposition that she would have moved at all is absurd.
I take lead to the supermarket, as it's an unspoken truth acknowledged by us both that I know the way, having been there before. I taste the tension in the air through the painful silence of the apocalypse. As if this situation was not awkward enough.
I try to consider Hunson's feelings. He is definitely nervous, yes, I can see that by the sweat stains and darting eyes: nervous about meeting his daughter again, nervous about his meticulously planned sweet talk failing. He is also contemptuous, and toward me. I feel his eyes biting at the back of my skull. Swelled words rise like carbonation to the surface and pop without a sound from either of us. Why couldn't you have spared her; How dare you lead me to where you took her, you bastard; You would have taken my little Marcy too wouldn't you you sick fuck if she had been on your list; Don't you have shame; I'm your old friend for Glob's sake
Perhaps he is plotting to get even with me sometime, and I admit, I do not look forward to that day. Even I must confess I find some of Lord of Evil's more monstrous forms impressive. But his power is inexperienced and reckless, while mine originated with the start of all things, and weaves into universe like knit, holding a dangerous and frighteningly massive scale. If he tries anything, he will regret it.
This contempt I sense dissolves as a fat adobe building filters into view, none other than the notorious supermarket where inside a young, distressed girl cowers. I hear the pace of Hunson's gait quicken behind me. He clearly cares about his daughter, I will give him that, but his methods I seriously question. For every spitting remark of criticism he might give me for doing my job, I would have several of my own to rally back.
What happened to your ethics when the apocalypse came, mister family man?
Why wouldn't you let your child and her mother take haven in the Nightosphere when the end came, Hunson?
You would spend the day tramping with them through the wastes and then retire to your downy four-poster bed while they slept on the softest refuse they could find.
You were simply tolerating her mother, weren't you? You could never truly be with a human, Hunson, never take her into home and call her wife or soul mate or any of those committal terms. You just took her for one night and when a child was conceived, you adhered to your oh-so-righteous standards by being barely there for them, just enough for it to sting when you left.
Do you even care that Delia is dead, Hunson? Or are you just distressed about your new burden? Do you wish that your child would have died too? It certainly would have cleaned things up, wouldn't it? A clean slate for Mr. Hunson Abadeer, Lord of Evil, wifeless and childless, a shining example of purity, perfect to rule the new shining world.
But of course, I don't say these things. Once again, I don't have time to mince words. I have things to do.
Hunson overtakes me, his canter turning into a full-out jog. He reaches the glassless doors of the market quickly enough and wrenches the once-automated entrance open, his paunchy stomach barely clearing the doors as he squeezes inside, sprinkling glass shards on the sidewalk. I clear the obstacle much faster than my companion, using my always-handy rake to lever open the door. I reflect.
I really need to put on some weight. Either fat or muscle; this is frankly embarrassing, even the barbequed corpses around here have more bulk than me. Sure I'm the personification of death, but why can't I be ripped? Is that so wrong to want? I have that gym set back at home, haven't touched the damn thing since I got it. Think I've got a New Year's resolution here, memo to self: get ripped by the end of next year, end memo. When is next year, though? Are years even a thing anymore? I wonder which calendar the new era will choose, I've always preferred the Gregorian myself, but-
"She's not here!" Hunson shouts, ejecting me from my thoughts.
"Are you su-"
"MARCY!" he howls, "MARCELINE!"
He dashes up and down the aisles of the supermarket, snapping his eyes from one place to another, searching for hiding places that could hold a small child. Cabinets, shelves, storerooms, all fruitless. His feet slip on the linoleum as his search becomes more and more panicked, the possible locations for his child growing fewer and fewer.
"MARCY, BABY, ARE YOU HERE?"
He's practically screaming now.
He turns on me. His head snaps to me so quickly I hear his neck crack. His expression is pure fury.
"YOU SAID SHE WAS HERE!"
"I said nothing of the sort, Hunson," I reply coolly, biting back the inflammatory responses I so dearly want to make, "I last saw her mother here. She can't have wandered far."
I make my way back to the entrance. It won't take too long to search the quarter-mile radius around this place, and our shouting should draw her out if anything. Hunson muscles past me and slams through the slightly-ajar door, spreading more glass on the ground and making the doorframe shake. He shouts her name the moment he exits, his footsteps slapping on the empty streets. I am about to call for him to settle down when all sound stops.
"Hunson?" I fish for a response.
"Hunson, what's the matter?"
I get my answer when I exit the supermarket.
Hunson is not the only figure awaiting me. I am shocked to find a tall and lean figure standing across from my friend, and Hunson appears to share the sentiment, as he is frozen staring at this person.
Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a man, his face set in surprise, tiny round spectacles supported by his long and pointy nose. He's dressed unusually well for being a wanderer, his attire being indicative of some sort of professor or scholar, and this attire is well-kept. He seems to not have been in the wastes very long, or is very experienced with scavenging and frugality. A curious object rests on his hip: a gemmed golden crown, clearly magical, clearly powerful. Its influence is shown on his person: his skin is a pale blue and his hair an ice white; I presume the crown has also impressed magical abilities and conditional immortality on him, considering he is alive in this inherently lethal place. He holds, bundled in his arms like a baby, a collection of canned goods and other scavenged loot.
"Did… did you just say Marceline?" the man asks hesitantly.
"…Yes, yes I did." The words do not come easily to my friend.
The blue man breaks his immobile position by dropping his scavenged load onto the road, quickly trotting to his left, an area obscured by a mountain of refuse. The cans roll about, and one moves our way. I stop it with my foot.
Roast beef hash.
Sometimes I wish I could eat.
My friend is visibly tense beside me. He edges forward on his toes, trying to glimpse behind the tower of debris, but afraid of what he will see. I laugh inwardly.
If only he knew I was thinking about eating when his daughter was missing, or possibly dead. He would gore me, I think. I keep this joke to myself.
In a few moments we hear the patter of rushed footsteps, and if I'm not mistaken-
Yes.
Two sets of footsteps.
Hunson does not have my foresight, or keen hearing, but he does have eyes. And when the tall, lean, blue man edges out from behind the debris, holding hands with a small, pale girl-child, Hunson sees.
"MARCELINE!" he gushes out, and I swear to this day I have never heard someone speak one word with such jubilance and relief.
He dashes forward, bending his knees to become level with the tiny tot. He reaches out for a hug.
The girl shies behind her blue companion, and I hear Hunson's heart break.
"M-Marceline…" he falters.
The bespectacled man looks suspicious now. He grabs the toddler's shoulder in a protective gesture, nudging her behind him.
"I-I'm her father,"
Marceline's companion thinks for a moment, and I see a realization cross his face. He turns on his feet and kneels to become level with the tot. He takes her hand gently.
"Is that true, Marceline?" he asks in a voice barely above a whisper.
The girl is about to cry. Tears line the bottom of her eyes- her nose drips. Her mouth pulses as she tries to answer without letting out a sob. She eventually gives up speaking and nods curtly, flinging a few watery drops from her eyelashes with the movement. Her head stays inclined, eyes downward.
Her companion swallows thickly, and erects himself to his full height. He faces Hunson.
"I suppose- I suppose she should go with you. Being family. And being so well-off." he murmurs, taking in Hunson's immaculate clothing.
"It's probably better that way." he sighs, and I see his fingers distractedly glance the crown on his hip. He kneels down again to the crying girl, producing a rag from his back pocket. He wipes the tears and mucus from her face, and allows her to blow her nose into the cloth. He returns the rag to his pocket and takes both of her pale little hands in his.
"You're going to have to go with your father now, sweetie."
She shakes her head furiously, more tears gathering in her eyes.
I feel Hunson gathering in a quiet white rage beside me. Not only does his daughter prefer this man to her father, but she also prefers being with him in this wasteland than with her father in a lavish comfy home.
"Enough of this- let's go, Marceline, I'm a very busy man!" he barks, losing his short temper. He holds out a hand for her to take, snapping it out into a wide-reaching spread and shaking it impatiently. He menacingly closes the distance between him and the duo.
Hunson, you moron. She wasn't even on your side to begin with. Now you're guaranteeing she never will be.
A ghost of fear graces Marceline's features, and she jumps and grabs the blue man's side in a vice.
"I don't want to go, Simon!" she sobs.
Well, there you go. You're going to have to drag her out of here, Hunson. And you can be sure she'll put up a fight.
But-
Oh.
Ah.
The blue man's expression has changed. The tot still clings to his side, sobbing dryly, but his face does not show a hint of protectiveness or concern. It shows blossoming anger.
She has touched the crown.
I have to stop myself from chuckling. I feel something big coming on- the crown hums with powerful magic. This will be interesting.
The blue man's face darkens, deepens. It is now fury- and madness.
"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY CROWN, YOU FILTHY LITTLE CRETIN!" he spits, shoving the child away and snatching the crown from his side, hunching over it possessively, greed glinting in his eyes.
The girl is thrown back a few steps and lands on her rear with a loud thump. At first, her face is the epitome of shocked. Her mouth forms a perfect "O", eyes opened full, looking at Simon with pure betrayal. When she realizes what has happened, the tears gush anew.
She gets back on her feet as gracefully as an injured toddler can, turning away from her former companion. Her vision is blurred by the tears as she stumbles to the now less-harmful father figure in her life.
Hunson doesn't say anything as she staggers to his side, clutching the seam of his pants and keening in a high moan. He doesn't say anything as he turns half-circle and begins walking away with his daughter. I know why he keeps mum. This is his deus ex machina, his gift from the gods. He knows when it's best to lay back and accept such victories.
I follow the two a half-pace behind, but glance back at the blue man. The magic of the crown has now worn off, and now he is conscious of what he has done. He is on his knees in the dust. I see him mouth "no" over and over like a prayer.
"Marceline!" he shouts, "I didn't mean to-!"
She shrinks into her father's pants more, responding with a loud sob. She stumbles, and Hunson shepherds her with his right hand on her head. He has the smuggest look on his face.
I look back once more. Now all of the man is in the dust.
We walk in silence to the limits of the broken city, the only noise being the child's sobs echoing across the twisted metal jungle. Even without words, I know what Hunson is thinking. He still has that damned smug grin on his face.
He is so insurmountably pleased about his great luck. The incident ensured that not only would his daughter come with him- she would also cut ties with everyone else. He was her everything now.
He has a face that deserves to be punched, I think.
I don't think I will visit with Hunson much after this.
We reach the city limits. Hunson approaches a flat wall that remains from an obliterated building, one of the only things still standing here. He gropes around in his pockets, and eventually pulls out what he needs to travel home- chalk and bugmilk.
My mind dazes as he goes through the portal ritual. I'm thinking deeply a lot more these days. I snap out of it and tune in.
"…First thing is to get you new clothes!" Hunson gushes, having finished the final part of the ritual. A portal to the Nightosphere is now carved into the wall, burning red and smelling of scorched brimstone. No place for a child, really.
"See ya, Death!" he chirps, giving a quick wave with his open hand as he drags his daughter to hellfire with the other. I give a half-hearted farewell, going limp at the wrist as I wave.
Hunson goes through the portal first. He enters, and his movement lags- only his arm remains out for a moment, still attached to his tot of a daughter.
She looks at me. Her eyes burn with betrayal. And hate. Her eyes ask me how I could let this happen. I am surprised. Now that her pain is dulled, she sees this for what it really is.
I shrug at her. I've let worse things happen. I make worse things happen.
Her expression calms as if she understands. She gives me a nearly imperceptible nod. Her arm goes first, and it quickly reels her body in.
She's through the portal- they're both gone. Nothing remains of the door or the two people it facilitated.
I stand in silence again. Once more, alone. I look around. Curious to think how chaotic it must have been when the disaster was at its fullest. Now it is as still as space.
Nothing but the dead and dying here, I think. And one man who wishes he was dead.
My specialty.
I begin to walk.
I work.