12 weeks ago…
"Got another one for us?"
Sheriff Emma Swan marched into Dr. Whale's office without waiting for an invitation, her deputy husband hot on her heels. Whale tossed aside the chart he was currently skimming and leaned back with a sigh.
"Afraid so. Just got the autopsy report back; you said to call…"
Emma didn't bother to take a seat. "Everything the same as last time? The brand, the marks, the… brain thing?"
Whale got up with a weary,
"Yup. I'm assuming you want to take a look?"
"If it's not too much trouble," Emma replied dryly.
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Down in the morgue, the medical examiner gave the group a rundown of his findings, concluding with the cause of death, which he explained as "brain shriveling."
"Almost like the moisture slowly evaporated away, like a grape becoming a raisin."
He showed both law officers the graphic photos, but neither was keen to study them particularly closely. After a quick glance and polite nod, Emma asked,
"Any ID this time?"
"Unfortunately, no. Fingerprints are still pending, but dental records are doubtful: another who doesn't appear to have seen the inside of a dentist's office in his life."
"And the distinctive marks on the skin?" Killian prompted.
"Present," confirmed the ME. "As inexplicable as ever."
"All right, thanks," said Emma, almost a groan. "Let us know if something does come up."
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"I'm beginning to think that this killer has moved beyond showing off to deliberate baiting now," Killian remarked on their way back to the parking lot.
"With you there," Emma agreed. "Guess it was just a matter of time."
Even three years later, the sloppy mish-mash that was the United Realms still caused never-ending headaches for everyone in a position of authority. Most of the time, Queen-of-the-Universe Regina decided all questions of jurisdiction. And when the first bodies had started turning up in a remote corner of the former Land of Untold Stories, the Storybrooke team had provided consult, but left the in-depth investigations to Mr. Earp and/or the Musketeers and/or Sherlock Holmes… whoever ended up in charge over there. But then the location of the discoveries had started to move. Murder victims cropping up all over the land, most recently within Storybrooke itself. Those three had yet to be identified. Now, Killian and Emma were firmly embroiled in the hunt for a serial killer. One that could shrivel brains, apparently.
"Well, I'm off to the Hood-Jones' residence," announced Killian. "It remains to be seen whether Hope truly was as angelic as Alice has insisted all day."
Emma nodded with a wry half-smile. "If you happen to see Killian there, tell him we could use some of Rogers' skills. We gotta catch this guy. Too many people have died already."
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Present (Monday)…
Most of Z's patients eventually passed out at some point in their treatment. She had grown accustomed to it and only took action to wake them if she thought they still had the capacity to scream. Most of them couldn't by that point. She let them rest until her repairs were complete… or she needed them to turn over. Like now, for instance.
There are effective techniques for bringing a person out of a swoon. But Z lacked the ingredients to produce smelling salts, and she had found that in most cases, a brisk slap or splash of water did the trick.
The one-handed slave jolted awake, growling hoarsely. She was already working to loosen the straps securing his limbs, and he seemed to comprehend what was required of him. The table was just wide enough for him to struggle onto his side without fear of falling off; the question was always summoning the strength and will. Z never offered assistance. She could not risk injuring herself. If any slave wanted his back tended, it was up to him to give her access.
Another bleeding man staggered inside, saw the occupied table, and slumped just inside the threshold of the dwelling. Awaiting his turn, watching Tripod's treatment with dull, hopeless eyes. The newcomer had the intermittent, involuntary tremors, as they all did, even Z: one reason why her suturing efforts were not always the neatest.
No recognition or kinship passed between the two patients. They were both there, both suffering for their Master's pleasure, and that was it. Altruism, developing acquaintance, even empathy… wasted efforts. And no one had the luxury of excess energy. They focused inward, survived as long as they could, gave the Master everything, and then died.
Settling on his stomach with his head facing to his left must have jostled the needle still protruding from Tripod's neck. But the alternative was to squash it between folded skin, which he instinctively avoided. After a quick check to make sure the saline still flowed freely, Z began retying his restraints. She did not purposely hurry her process, unperturbed by the presence of someone else in desperate need of her assistance. After all, this slave was special. He was her Master's favorite. She must do all she could to ensure his survival for as long as possible. This was the reason she never bore wounds of her own: she provided a valuable service, extending the life span of all of her charges and causing additional pain as a bonus.
A drenching bucket-shower, followed immediately by a mist of disinfectant. The victim moaned obligingly, writhing, pulling at his bonds. Her Master would be pleased. Z retrieved her suturing tools. Pinch the wound, pierce the edges of what could have been a crab leg puncture, ride out the flinches. Repeat.
Sometime between stabbings, the slave at the door made a strangled wheezing noise and lurched forward onto his face. Z did not even glance his way. His feeble twitches kept time with her needle for half a dozen stitches, and then, with a final strident gasp, the second prisoner went still. And Z ignored it all. They all died eventually, most sooner than later. One could argue for the mercy of withholding intervention.
Z had lost track of the number of knots holding her patient's skin together even before pulling tight the last one. By that time, he had lost all ability to plead, whimper, or moan. He stared blankly at the cooling corpse by the door, and she could imagine his blasphemous thoughts: a longing to trade places, his sufferings complete, freed from his duty to his Master. But when Z began untying the leather straps, he seemed to shake the treacherous musings and demonstrate appropriate remorse. Obediently, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, wincing a soundless whine. Z's blood-covered tools lay scattered on the tray beside him, and at the sight, he swayed slightly, perilously close to losing consciousness once again.
Expressionless, Z stepped closer, lifted down the IV bag, eyed its contents, and gave it a squeeze to expel the fluid more rapidly. The tripod slave watched with listless, pain-reddened eyes. Minutes passed, marked by silence and unsteadiness, and then air gurgled into the top of the tubing. Z reached forward, tore off the tape, and plucked the needle free from his neck. Neither of them bothered about the thin trickle of blood that welled from the puncture wound. Negligible, in the grand scheme of things.
As her last act, Z pulled a one-size-fits-all burlap smock from a drawer and tossed it over his head. The garment was essentially a knee-length tunic without sleeves, so it was no great struggle for a slave to slip his trembling arms through the holes.
Done. Next.
Leaving her patient to figure out his own way off the table, Z began dragging the dead slave toward the doorway for someone else to deal with. She didn't know what became of the corpses, and she didn't care. That was not within the scope of her Master's orders.
Eventually, Tripod slid stiffly to the floor. He knew that Z would not allow him to remain there. If he wished a night semi-sheltered from the elements, he would have to return to his chains under his own power. He had not reached the level of collapsing on the street, like others she'd seen. Not yet.
Limited to tiny, hobbling steps in the direction of the exit, he was still inside when Z returned. She did not spare him a second glance as their paths crossed. She had instruments to clean and, with luck, a moment to sit and rest tired feet.
Her fellow slave was just as aloof.
There had once been a day when he would have grunted a halfhearted "until tomorrow" at her as he left, an exhibition of bravery and expression of grudging gratitude that he probably never quite felt. Unmoved, Z would completely ignore the gesture, preparing her equipment for the next victim as he limped away for another night. He would once have said it, even with a throat too raw to render the words audible.
He never said it anymore.