The Jackal

Aldrich Killian was raised by a single mother and had all the silver spoons his mouth could hold. He was spoiled rotten and didn't know what consequences were thanks to his mother's relationship with the police in their neighborhood.

His misdeeds started small, picking apart dead animals when he was too young to catch live ones. When he was eight, he snuck into the neighbor's yard and used a kitchen knife on their kitten. Their little girl had screamed the next morning when she found the kitten and Killian's mother had cried, and Maya had taken a wooden spoon to his backside.

Maya Hansen was the housekeeper for the tattered Killian family, but she had more spine than either of her employers and Killian found that he wanted to cut that spine out of her. That would have to wait, of course, but he doesn't forget that spanking or the rush of pleasure he'd felt when he heard the screams.

He got better at hiding his kills as he got older; he built traps in the woods behind his house and caught all kinds of small game. When he was sixteen and his hormones really began to surge, he learned that the pleasure he felt while killing was called lust. That same year, he learned that lust led to orgasms when the thing you killed was a person.

It was surprisingly easy to do it, Maya and his mother were both out shopping while Killian remained at home. One of the young prostitutes that lived with them was a large girl, but pretty and shared sweets with him whenever Maya said he couldn't have any. Regina trusted him, which was why it was so easy to get her in his room, why it was so easy to make her put on a blindfold and hold still.

He promised that he had a surprise for her since she was his best friend and wasn't the kitchen knife a big surprise for poor Regina? It sunk into her neck with little resistance, warm blood gushing over his hand when he pulled the knife out. The handle was slick and he cut himself, but he kept stabbing until he'd ruined his trousers and Regina lay still on the floor.

Killian didn't clean the mess, just set the knife in the kitchen sink and waited to hear Maya's anguished screams before he took off. He found the transient lifestyle was best for his hobbies, but he eventually ended up home again when he was thirty and his bones started to ache in the winter.

His mother opened the door and recognized her baby boy even through the grime and the beard, opening her arms to him. He shot her in the head with a smile and continued farther into the house to find Maya. He cut her spine out just like he'd dreamed of doing when he was a child and the police found the bloody mess two days later.

He was admitted to Birch Psychiatric Hospital, where he eventually went insane. He scratched at his cell's walls so violently, that his fingernails were torn completely off, making his hands claw-like. When Killian attacked a nurse, the doctors decided to put him in a straitjacket and tightened it whenever he acted out, contorting his limbs horribly. However, Killian gnawed through it, so the doctors locked his head in a scold's bridle and threw him in a dark basement cell.

He died years later in a fire set by another inmate, he hadn't even tried to leave the basement room.

The Family

There was a time when Bucky Barnes' life was so picture-perfect that Norman Rockwell would have been green with envy. He was a university professor, his wife stayed at home with the kids, his daughter was looking at a bright future attending Harvard while his son was slowly mastering his grasp on verbs. Just perfect.

Now Bucky Barnes wakes up in a bedroom just large enough for a full-sized bed, a desk, and a dresser. His picture-perfect life has burned to cinders and he doesn't have the energy needed to rebuild it from the ground up. The walls of his room are yellowed with age and covered in his son's drawings, morbid things depicting different ways a person could die.

It's a knock at the door that drags Bucky out of his thoughts, the door opening just enough for Darcy to poke her head inside. With her tired smile comes the sound of cartoons and the smell of burning food.

"It's almost eight, Dad," she says with a tinge of apology. "You'll be late to your first class if you don't get up."

"Roger that," he says. Darcy studies him for a moment, then gives him a sharp nod and shuts the door again. The sound is muffled, but he can still hear the morning routine playing out. No longer is it laughter and talk of schedules, now it's chaos with different voices demanding others to move it or lose it.

Bucky sighs and forces himself to get out of bed, pulling on a button-down and khakis before shuffling down the short hall to the kitchenette. Darcy is standing at the stove, watching the eggs burn and the bacon grease pop; Steve is seated at the table with an old tape recorder, listing the deaths from the newspaper; Clint is seated next to him, a coffee cup in his hand.

"Today on Death in LA," Steve says into the recorder," a body was found this morning, de-colopolated." Clint cracks up, patting Steve on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Decapitated," he says, running his finger across his throat. Steve nods, adding the word to the ever-growing pile of technical terms for him to study. A few words have been crossed out since yesterday—suffocation and dismemberment. At least these words make the spelling list his teacher sends home weekly a piece of cake. If he can spell Decomposition without issue, then he can spell hinge.

"Morning, guys," Bucky greets. Clint grunts and hands him the coffee cup, Bucky taking a long drink from it. It's bitter, not the fancy brand Natasha had insisted on once upon a time, but it does the job of waking him up.

"Dad, they found a guy without a head behind Dunkin' Donuts," Steve says excitedly.

"Oh, I love Dunkin' Donuts." Maybe he'll pick up the kids early from school and take them there as a special treat. He's not making the salary he used to, but they deserve something for being so good these past months.

"Dad, tell Stevie to get a healthier hobby," Darcy says.

"Dad, tell Darcy that keeping a record of death is healthy," Steve returns. Bucky and Natasha had been so happy that they had smart kids, but now it's just Bucky and he's starting to realize that he's raising smartasses.

"Darcy, keeping a record of death is healthy," he says. Darcy makes a face, shoveling eggs onto the three plates set out on the counter. "Are you eating? Don't think I haven't noticed the way you just push food around at dinner." Darcy nods her head like this is a speech she's heard a thousand times, making a show of tearing into the bacon. "Don't be an ass about it."

"She's a slut."

"No, honey, sluts are people with loose sex morals," Clint corrects. "You're sister's being a bitch." Steve grins and turns in his seat to poke his tongue out. Darcy points a fork at him in warning.

"Call me a bitch and I'll put you on toilet duty," she warns. Steve doesn't look daunted by the chore, but he does face the table again and shares a look with Clint. The pair have grown close and Bucky really hopes he can scrape the cash together for Clint's paycheck.

"Alright, that's enough," Bucky says in a firm tone. "Darcy, do you have your book report done?"

"Yeah, I finished it last night."

"Stevie, what about you? Did you get your science project done? The fair is in two days and I don't feel like tripping over you in the middle of the night because you forgot to do something." Steve's eyes go wide and he mutters something about his backboard before sprinting out of the kitchenette. "Good thing I reminded him, huh?"

"He's a smart kid," Clint shrugs. "He's gonna get first place with his volcano and Harvard is going to scoop him up like they're trying to do the sourpuss over there." Darcy makes a face, tossing her plate of eggs into the trash bin under the sink. "You do realize that eggs taste better when they aren't black, right?"

"I'd like to see you do better," Darcy snaps. Clint raises his brows and looks ready to prove a point when there's a knock on the front door. The entire apartment goes dead silent, all eyes going to the door. The white paint is flaking off, the frame is slightly crooked after the last earthquake, and nothing good ever comes from early morning visitors. "Dad, is that another debt collector?"

"It shouldn't be," Bucky murmurs. It takes him a full minute to remember the phone call he'd gotten yesterday, the stuffy lawyer in charge of crazy Uncle Obie's estate. "Christ, it's the lawyer."

"What lawyer? Are we getting sued?"

"No, honey." At least, he sure as shit hopes not. He opens the door with dread curling in his belly, finding a well-dressed man on the other side. His designer suit looks woefully out of place in the hall with the graffiti sprayed over the walls and the crooked bulletin board offering rewards for pets long since gone.

"Mister Barnes," the lawyer checks.

"That's right." He holds out a hand on instinct, all too aware of how sweaty his palm must be compared to the dry grasp of the other man. "I'm sorry, I can't remember your name."

"Rumlow."

"Don't you have a first name," Darcy asks. Rumlow lets out a sound that might be classified as a laugh, but it just sounds choked to Bucky's ears.

"I'm assuming that everyone does."

"Are you here to kick us out," Steve asks. At some point between the knock and Bucky opening the door, Steve had wandered over to Clint and now has Clint's arm draped protectively around his shoulders.

"No, I'm not that kind of lawyer." Rumlow's eyes seem to take in every minute detail of the kitchenette, a judging weight around Bucky's neck. "Is now a bad time?"

"It's as good a time as any," Bucky says before his children can think up something witty. "Please, come in." Rumlow steps inside, heading straight for the kitchen table and setting his briefcase down. The leather of it looks supple and it's sure to be ruined if it stays in that puddle of apple juice for long.

"I represent the estate of your uncle Obadiah Stane." He sits in the only vacant chair left, pulling out a laptop. He doesn't seem comfortable as everyone gathers around him, obviously used to having personal space. The Barnes family doesn't buy into that, if you want personal space you'll have to go to the laundry room.

"We have an Uncle Obie," Darcy asks dubiously.

"We had one, yeah," Bucky nods. "He wasn't too popular with the rest of the family. My dad said he squandered the family fortune." Darcy perks up at that.

"We have a family fortune?"

"Did you miss the bit where I said Obie squandered it?" The perk turns into a slouch that drives one bony elbow into Rumlow's ribs. The lawyer grunts but doesn't say anything, pulling up a box on his laptop.

"Obie recorded this message six weeks ago," he says, hitting the fullscreen option on the box. "He asked that it be played for you in the event of his death." He presses the spacebar and the video starts playing, revealing Obie seated at a desk in an office.

"James," Obie greets," it's good to talk to you. Sadly, if you're watching this now, it means I'm no longer among the living. Happily, that makes you and your family my sole beneficiaries. I've instructed my lawyer to deliver the essential elements in my last will and testament. Give it to them, Brock." Rumlow pulls a key out of his pocket, holding the misshapen thing up for Bucky to take.

"A key," Darcy asks, snatching it out of his hand to study it. The shaft of it is broad with a golden sheen, a strange design carved into the top and bottom of it. "What the hell's it for?"

"It's for your new house." All eyes go back to the screen, taking in the odd background Obie is sitting in front of. It looks like green-tinted glass, white writing scribbled over the front and back of it. "This house is the fruit of my life's work." The video box shifts to the bottom right corner while three other frames fill up the screen, changing every now and then to show different parts of the house. The walls all look like the one in Obie's office, but the furniture is expensive, sturdy things. When the photos shift again to reveal bathrooms, Darcy practically begins to vibrate with excitement.

"Everyone gets their own bathrooms," she hisses excitedly. There's only one bathroom in the apartment and no one abides by the five minute rule. Extra bathrooms are like pizza after a long diet.

"Is this for real," Bucky asks in a whisper.

"It is a one-of-a-kind home," Obie continues. "It's my home, actually. I have no complaints, I've led an interesting life, I have seen some amazing things." All the videos disappear for a split second and then Obie reappears in the direct center. "The only regret I have is that I never really got to know my nephew, nor appreciate the love of a family like you have. This house is my attempt to make up for that. Perhaps we'll meet again in another life."

When the video box disappears this time it doesn't come back, revealing a disturbing wallpaper. It's all geometrical shapes with zombified faces sketched behind them. Rumlow shuts the laptop before Bucky can really study it.

"When can we see it," Darcy asks.

"The house is yours whenever you'd like," Rumlow replies. "Actually, I'm heading up there after work if you and your husband and kids would like to tag along." Clint makes a protesting noise and holds up a hand, shaking his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says loudly," time-out. I am not the Mister here."

"Uh," Bucky says, looking pained," my wife, uh... M-my wife is..."

"Our mom got burned to death in a fire," Steve supplies. He sounds torn up about it even after six months, Bucky suspects that wound will stay raw for a long time. Instead of getting onto Steve for his bluntness, Bucky faces the lawyer again.

"Where exactly is this place?"

"Just a couple of hours drive from here depending on traffic," Rumlow tells him as he puts the laptop back into his briefcase. "It's on the outskirts of Willow Grove, just up the Parkway. It's in a gorgeous area, but I have to warn you, your uncle liked his privacy. There isn't a neighbor for miles."

"Well, I guess we'd better check it out."

The Torso

Loki Laufeyson didn't have a privileged life, he grew up in a poor neighborhood in the aftermath of Katrina. He thought a college scholarship would get him away from the wreckage and his mother's hands. He joined a fraternity because he thought it would earn him friends.

Loki Laufeyson didn't live long enough to enjoy any of it.

He was passing his classes, partying, and enjoying being nineteen. His fraternity brothers did the same, including a boy named Archie Brener. Archie's family was rich in several ways, including a gambling addiction. He gambled away everything his parents gave him until they cut him off, forcing him to grow up. Instead, Archie turned to a loan shark with a propensity for busting kneecaps and hand-delivering cement shoes.

When Archie skipped out on a payment, the loan shark went after his best friend. Loki had just gotten a cup of coffee to help him through a three am study session when he was grabbed and shoved into a trunk. Loki swore he didn't know where Archie was hiding, he didn't know where the money was. They believed him, but they still needed to send a message.

The police found pieces of Loki's body spread throughout New Orleans for a month. The coroner said he was still alive when his limbs were removed. No one heard from Archie Brener again, but there were rumors that he was lying at the bottom of the Gulf.