Rated ARRR.

The back room of Marker's Funerary was a wood-working room, where all of the products were made. Most days one would come in to find sawdust flying through the air, and see scraps of wood spread across the floor. None were being made today, and the dust had settled in piles on the ground. This was because Charlie Marker's focus was currently on the men in the room with him.

Travis Giantis sat firmly tied to a wooden chair, though his head was slumped over onto his chest. He was either asleep or unconscious – likely a bit of both. He'd taken a good beating, and lost quite a bit of blood up to this point.

Pierce Brown was an artist. He did tattoos, each of which had been amazing pieces of art work, but in the fact that this was his career, he couldn't be squeamish either.

That's why he was an acupuncturist too. He just liked needles, as was shown by the dozens of piercings adorning his relatively young face. He paced around Travis, little black case in his hand, sizing the man up as though he were a perspective meal. After a few moments of this, he kneeled beside Travis, and tilted his head up to look into a pair of glassy, half-open eyes.

Charlie Marker sat off to the side of the room in his blue apron, watching this display with interest, his wooden carving in one hand, a knife in the other. There was a whole lot of silence in the room, and as usual, Charlie was the one to break it.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Inspecting." Pierce answered, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He looked over at Charlie, and the man visibly jumped at the sight of Pierce in a half-lit room. "To discern how long I can keep him alive."

He looked back to Travis, and the man was showing signs of consciousness. He furrowed his brows at Pierce and seemed to be trying to focus his vision.

"Pierce?" Travis said quietly after some time, and the ghastly smile spread over Pierce's face again.

"And so recognition dawns," Pierce said, running his fingers along Travis' cheekbone, and letting them linger on the man's lips. Travis jerked his head back vehemently, and Piece stood again with a dangerous smile on his face, eyes still on the other man. "You haven't changed at all. So I wonder if it's the same for Dennis? Or dear, sweet Alex?"

Travis turned his head away from Pierce, his jaw firmly clenched.

"Have it your way," Pierce said softly, extracting dozens of long, thin, metal needles from his black carrying case. "I have time."

Denny stood up sheepishly from behind the counter, looking something like a dirty kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. There was another of those uncomfortable silences in the room as he shifted uncomfortably under their gazes.

All at once, three pairs of eyes turned to Soap.

"Who's this, then?" Bacon asked finally, gesturing to Denny.

"Old acquaintance." Soap said, taking a sudden interest in the far wall. He walked around them and carefully placed the knife he had been carrying back into the chopping block.

"So you were playing hide-and-go-seek then, were you?"

"Soap, what's going on?" Ed asked.

"But if it involves a porn king, don't tell us." Tom added.

Denny looked up from his feet, staring around at the four of them. He looked at Soap.

"Why are they calling you 'Soap'?"

"It's a nickname." Soap said quickly. He wanted out. Badly.

"On account of his lawful nature." Ed added, and Denny just nodded very slowly. "Just how old of an acquaintance is this fellow? You've had that nickname for some time, as I recall."

"Old, old acquaintance, alright? Ancient. Why does it matter?"

There was a moment of disbelief, and Bacon eyed Denny with suspicion.

"It matters because," Bacon said, taking a step forward, causing Denny to take two steps back, "You're one of our mates, Soap, and if this fellow here is what's been causing you to act so off lately –"

Soap pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look," Soap said, "He hasn't done anything, alright? Just an old acquaintance, he showed up all of twenty minutes ago."

"Just an old acquaintance." Denny echoed, sounding a bit hurt. He looked down at his hands, and pulled at his nails a bit.

"See?" Soap nodded, ignoring the looks that were being pinned to him from all sides. "Right, then. Should call for a service to pick up your car."

Soap wandered off out of the room to the phone, his step quick. When he reached the other room, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wondering how he would get out of answering to this one.

Back in the kitchen, Denny continued to stare down at the floor, and all at once three stares turned to him.

"An old acquaintance, eh?" Ed asked after a moment. Denny nodded, but said nothing.

There was no doubt about it that Ed, Tom, and Bacon were all curious about Soap's past, as he'd been tight-lipped about every detail of it. They'd never pressed the issue, but it was slowly becoming inevitable.

"Got a name?" Ed asked.

"That depends," Denny grumbled, "On whether Alex wants me to."

"Old acquaintance indeed, even we don't ever call him Alex." Tom said, "That would be like calling Bacon by his first name."

There was a very long silence as all of the men considered this. Ed furrowed his brows, and Tom chewed thoughtfully on his nail. Tom turned to Bacon,

"Actually, what is your first name?"

"Don't push it." Bacon said flatly. "Look, we're not trying to look tough, but Soap's been a bit on edge lately and if you've any idea why –"

"I don't. This is the first time I've spoken to Soap in years." Denny said, and took a towel from off one of the racks. He dampened it on the tap, and put his face to it. It took several tries before he successfully peeled back all the layers of dirt. There was a Denny-shaped face imprint on the woven cotton cloth. Eventually he looked up at the three.

Silence rang out again, and as always, Tom was the first to comment.

"Fuck me; he looks like your double, Ed."

Author's note: Kind of went on a long, drawn-out, writer's-block-induced hiatus there. This is an incredibly short chapter, but I figured it would be best to put something out anyways. Iniko, lovin' you as always. Colour of Love, biting your nails is bad, it wears at the enamel of your teeth and nails and causes, like, fungus-y stuff. I'm getting the telepathy thing, though, but I think it became irrelevant since I got it after reading your review. Thanks for the psionic messages anyways, good to know you go the extra mile. Ladybug11, it's fortunate you're intrigued by my plot, because I am too, and that's not a good thing on my part, since a writer should know what they're doing. I decidedly do not. Hoorah. Bagel.