The first order of business was getting the child to kill someone.
They shoved Pete into one of the prison rooms and gestured to a simple kitchen knife on the ground. If the child could not handle a simple task such as this, then they may have to prolong his torment. He didn't move at first, instead opting to stare at the unfortunate soul who got caught by the Family. It was a thin, fearful, pathetic looking human.
"Oh please, don't be so dramatic, we even made it easier for you!" They plucked at the rope holding the captive in place. It was wrapped around each of the human's limbs and neck, essentially bolting them to the ground while upright. "See? Now you don't even have to struggle."
Pete slowly bent down and grabbed the knife. His hands trembled and he felt himself unable to take a step forward, his legs locked to the ground. Though he had never experienced sleep paralysis before, he would later imagine that it was not unlike this.
One of the other members groaned in irritation. How could they grow so impatient so quickly, the boy wondered. Or had he simply been losing track of time in that sheer tense moment. "Remember what you learned about?" They snapped their fingers and Pete flinched violently, his whole body recoiling like a spring. He then immediately sprinted towards the captive. Raising the knife high in the air, with no hesitation or tremors, he drove it into their skull-
It lingered for an infinitely long second. Time seemed to freeze as Pete felt the sensation of the metal digging through and shattering the bone. There was not a single sound hanging in the air. No breath, no heartbeat, no pulsating of the building. Nothingness.
Then he stabbed again,
and again,
and again.
And he couldn't stop.
And he couldn't stop he could do nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing
Pete hacked at that poor soul for five minutes straight, screaming and sobbing and making all sorts of disturbing primal cries as he murdered them in a fervor of panic. His movements were wildly sloppy and animalistic, as if he did this in the heat of a violent murderer chasing him rather than the calculated mess planned for him. His limbs were electrified in the endless moments of horror. The stench permeated the room and his soul. The exhaustion that had wracked his being just minutes ago had vanished the instant that snap was heard. Nothing but raw fear had taken him over at that second. The knife became BLUNT due to how many times he stabbed against that human's bones and it eventually flew out of his hands from the force of impact. The other members eventually dragged him away from the body kicking and screaming, marveling at his handiwork.
It was a completely unrecognizable mess of red. Quite an interesting outcome indeed. One of them turned around to drag Pete off to his quarters as he sobbed into his mask. His inky body soured from a dark blue to a pure black.
...
Their efforts turned out to be completely worth it. Everything turned out exactly like they wanted. He would make the PERFECT butcher.
Of course, even if he was completely under their control, they couldn't risk him doing "field assignments" yet. He might run off or go crazy or the like. No, it'd be much better to keep him in the building for the time being. At least until all his old friends and family were gone. And so they kept him inside for almost twenty years.
As the time flew by, Pete began to undergo some mutations, as is expected of all corrupt objects. He wouldn't stop growing, getting taller and taller until eventually, he reached his peak at 10 feet tall. He never said anything on this matter but some of the other members theorized it was rather painful. His face became distorted, with wide, stretched out eyes and massive eye bags. His hair began to rot and separate, and it began curling and floating in the air. He never said anything on these matters. He stopped aging when he turned 20.
The whole time he stayed inside, his jobs were relegated to murder. Nothing else. Not torture, not education, not raising the new members or welcoming unsuspecting guests. Just the murders. He had quite the method to it, as he was quick and efficient, yet ruthless. His first few assignments were as disastrous as the first but he quickly grew numb to it all. The murders degraded from wild panic and fervor to quick, calculated, as painless as possible.
Eventually, one of the elders caught news that the last person from Pete's old life, his mother, had finally passed away in 1946. The elders were extremely elated. Now they could finally give purpose to their little attack dog. Or rather quite large attack dog.
They went to inform him of this, saying that now that his silly mother was gone, he could finally go out and do some REAL work.
Pete said nothing on the matter.
They were a bit disappointed. They'd hoped for some sort of hilarious sadness from him or even excitement at getting to go outside. But there was nothing. He turned away and waited for them to continue.
Oh well...
...
At first, they didn't have him go out alone. He went with some of the more experienced members to see how it was done. This had a double benefit as he made for quite the amazing intimidation. Their enemies would be absolutely IMMOBILIZED at the sight of this 10 foot tall monster.
After he had enough experience, he was finally allowed to go out on his own, murdering all the Family's dissenters and enemies that were too cowardly to come to them. Most of the other members always dreamed for a job like this, it seemed fun, exciting, and a perfect opportunity to see the outside world!
Pete felt nothing.
He went through his life, his job, feeling nothing. The only emotional response they'd ever get out of him is when they'd jolt towards him aggressively. He'd flinch back every time. It was hilarious every time. He was so obedient, so it's not like they had any excuse to snap at him. This was the closest they'd ever get to unlocking that rush of fear.
He wordlessly went through the years, chopping down everyone in the Food Family's path. It's not that he couldn't talk, he'd LONG since adjusted to his deformed mouth, he just had nothing to say or anyone to say it to. Pete saw himself as empty. Why even bother? There was no more purpose in life other than his sickening work. He had no where to go, no one to turn to, nothing to escape with. It would be a mercy to die now, but he did not deserve such a mercy. So he must keep working. Until something strikes him down. But that would never happen.
...
Pete flipped his cleaver around in his hand as ink dropped off the blade. It was effortless, like how one might twirl a pencil in their fingers. Another job done. Not well done perhaps. But it was done. Time to go h- back to the building.
He cracked his neck back and forth and walked out the door, trailing footsteps of muddled ink.
It was the year of 2005.
It had been eighty years.