Marvel: Impregnation System

Chapter 133: Chapter 128: Worlds Revelation



The next day,

Meanwhile at the white house,

In the grandeur of the Oval Office in which history was made time and time again, Franklin Roosevelt sat behind his resolute desk reading it, his gaze fixed on the newspaper before him. Bold letters proclaimed, 'One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for Mutantkind.' Beneath the headline, a photograph of Ricky's smug face grinned back at him, an almost silent mockery that so audaciously showed his smug face not to him, but to the world.

It was as if Ricky had pulled back the curtains on himself, orchestrating a grand reveal in the most narcissistic manner possible.

His sheer audacity shattering the equilibrium that was so carefully set for their way of lives, forcing everyone around him to confront his presence and, for better or worse, truly consider him.

Once Roosevelt had seen enough of that smug smile, his gaze trailed downward to a column recounting the massacre allegedly orchestrated by Dewey and the suicide of Hawkins, reportedly consumed by guilt.

Eventually, Franklin set the paper down with a deliberate motion as his steely gaze shifted to his cabinet, clasping his hands tightly together, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the weight of the unfolding crisis.

"How?" Franklin uttered the single word, his voice heavy with restrained fury.

It ignited a wave of discomfort and dread in the men seated before his desk, the same advisors who had assured him, with misplaced confidence, that none of this would come to pass.

"Mr. President-"

"HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?" Franklin roared, his voice reverberating through the

room.

He slammed his fist onto the desk with a resounding thud, silencing any attempt at excuses before they could be uttered.

His glare sliced through the air, an invisible blade poised at the throats of each man before him.

One by one, they swallowed hard, the weight of his unspoken demand for accountability pressing heavily upon them.

"We did everything you asked, we put a judge that would favor Mr. Dewey, the best civil lawyer in the state-"

"AND WE LOST, AGAIN!" Franklin bellowed, his voice cracking under the strain of frustration.

He clutched his forehead, grappling with the burgeoning enigma that was Ricky Luciano, a force, a cockroach that seemingly never died no matter what they threw at him.

It felt as though Ricky would crawl out of every rubble, every disaster thrown at him, unscathed and defiant.

The relentless resilience wasn't just grating on Franklin's nerves, it was beginning to shake the very foundation of his presidency.

When people think of a presidency, they cling to the misguided notion that a legacy is defined by the time spent in office.

But presidents, officials, and politicians understand the truth: a legacy isn't cemented in the present.

It's forged in the reflections of a nation, fifty years down the line, when history decides whether they were visionary leaders or cautionary tales.

Franklin D. Roosevelt was one of those individuals deeply obsessed with his legacy and image.

This fixation shaped every decision he made, every word he spoke, molding his presidency into one meticulously crafted for the history books.

Before the war, before that great war that triumphed over everything that Franklin D. Roosevelt had done, he was known for something called the 'New Deal'.

Franklin D. Roosevelt's presidency had already left an indelible mark on the nation and his legacy was slowly being built upon this revolutionary bill.

His New Deal had brought both hope and controversy, reshaping the relationship between the government and the American people.

In the short term, New Deal programs provided much-needed relief, lifting the lives of those crushed by the weight of the Great Depression.

But in the long run, they established a lasting precedent, firmly embedding the federal government as a central player in the nation's economic and social affairs, an influence that would continue to shape the country for generations to come.

It was why even now, Franklin D. Roosevelt was considered a champion of the working class, a president who cared deeply about ordinary Americans as his Fireside Chats, a series of evening radio addresses given by Franklin D. Roosevelt, fostered a sense of personal connection and trust.

For all he was, Franklin was a visionary of a president but before the outbreak of World War II, Roosevelt's foreign policy was focused on maintaining isolationism, reflecting the general mood of the American public.

However, he subtly prepared the nation for the possibility of involvement by strengthening the military and supporting allies like Britain through programs like Lend-Lease, which faced criticism from isolationists.

As widespread as the applause for his actions was, so too were the voices of his critics.

They accused him of overreach, branding him a socialist or even a dictator for the

unprecedented expansion of federal power.

Business leaders, in particular, resented his regulatory policies, viewing them as a threat to the autonomy and profitability they had long enjoyed.

It was because of these powerful critics, the very same who sought to dismantle everything

Franklin D. Roosevelt had built, that they began searching for any chink in his armor.

What they were slowly discovering, however, was that the threat came from an unexpected

source: Ricky Luciano.

Which actually started to force the actual president's hand.

"From now on, all decisions involving Ricky Luciano will run through me," Franklin commanded, his voice steady but firm as it was time for him to fully step in.

"Civil unrest during this time will be detrimental to America." Franklin's cabinet nodded in agreement, understanding the gravity of the situation and the necessity of this new directive. "File an appeal with a different lawyer for the Supreme Court." Franklin ordered, his tone unwavering.

"Tell them to push every case they have to steamroll this one through. We must crush him thoroughly." Franklin knew that cases like these typically took around a year to resolve, but he couldn't afford to wait that long as this situation was far too urgent, wasting even a second could destroy his polling.

His presidency couldn't be defined by a blunder involving a mere mutant, nor could it set a precedent for civil unrest.

Franklin saw the bigger picture, a vision stretching far into the distance.

America needed unity under him now more than ever, especially as the shadow of war loomed

on the horizon.

The stakes were higher than personal vendettas; the survival of the nation itself was at risk and there was only one man who could lead the way.

"I want this trial to be over in a month. Do you all understand?" Franklin's voice was firm, his hands resting above his desk as he shot a demanding glare at the men before him.

Franklin was well aware of the weight of his words as he didn't need to say more since they would bow to his will, and they would get the job done.

"Yes, Mr. President."

Meanwhile in an undisclosed location,

"So, he managed to come out victorious?" A man wearing a Nazi symbol asked, his eyes

narrowing as he studied the paper with an unsettling curiosity.

"Shaw, this is no time for admiration. We have a vote to consider," a woman with blonde hair

said, her smile warm but her tone laced with a hint of snark.

"Such an interesting specimen." a man in white mused, holding up the picture of Ricky walking on air and pulling the image right next to his eyes.

Selene smiled gracefully, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement at the spectacle as she

leaned on her hand.

"Settle down, Nathaniel, you're drooling," Selene quipped with a playful smile. Nathaniel chuckled, wiping his mouth before casually slapping the picture down on the counter and

leaning back in his seat.

"Well, is there anyone here who opposes his induction into the Hellfire Club?" Nathaniel asked, his gaze sweeping over the room.

Selene side-eyed the woman in white, her expression unreadable, but the tension in her eyes

spoke volumes.

"If there's ever a time to make a snarky comment, Emma, then this would be it," Selene said, her words sounding innocent, but the passive-aggressive edge was sharp enough to pierce Emma's calm demeanor.

"I'm actually saving it for a particularly nasty creature, rather hideous and frail, one that preys on the innocence of small children, and spend all my time remarking on all the flaws IT has," Emma fired back, her voice laced with venom while passively directing it at her.

Selene let out a hollow laugh, the sound dripping with mockery, while Shaw cleared his throat, sensing the growing tension.

"Then, let us send him an official invention when the hellfire ball arrives, all in favor?"

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"All against."

"Then I guess we should expect Ricky Luciano's arrival."

Meanwhile, across the United States, the shocking revelation quickly spread, echoing through

every corner of the country, Ricky Luciano had successfully won his case.

Many tried to paint his victory as shady, but it was hard to do so when he had boldly ventured

into enemy territory and emerged victorious.

The sheer audacity of his success left little room for doubt; no matter the narrative they tried

to craft, Ricky had proven himself a force to be reckoned with.

The commission, especially, was on edge as Joe began sharpening his knives, preparing for

the worst.

The others watched closely, waiting to see his next move, as an emergency meeting was about

to be called.

But that was all put on hold by a bold, almost outrageous move that would forever seal the

fate of Joe and one other.

"Take care of it. You're already in too deep to refuse," Joe menaced into the phone, his voice

low and threatening.

As he placed the receiver down, a chilling smile spread across his face, one that knew that this

was the only way of really standing a chance.

"Who was it, boss?" Joe's right-hand man, Pinky Salvatore, asked from the side, his chest

puffed with self-assuredness.

Pinky was steady, level-headed, and the perfect counterbalance to Joe's erratic and psychotic

tendencies.

For all of Joe's volatility, it was Pinky's unwavering loyalty and calm demeanor that made him indispensable or at least, that's what others thought.

But Pinky hadn't earned Joe's trust through obedience alone but through his sheer brutality

that solidified his position.

Nicknamed "Pinky" after his preferred method of handling overdue debts, chopping off the

pinky fingers of those who dared ask for an extension, he was the most feared and effective loan shark in the Bonanno family which rarely ever let a debt go unpaid. "Nevermind that, how is the situation?" Joe waved his hand, dispelling the topic and asking only for Pinky to hesitate.

"It isn't good, the dirty money is flowing but when we go to clean in-"

BAM

Joe's fist slammed on his desk, a vein protruding from his forehead as that budding rpoblem

occurred once more.

"Those f*cking pinkertons." Joe seethed, his voice a low whisper laced with venom as Pinky closed his eyes and nodded, the weight of their failed plan settling heavily between them.

It had been Joe's scheme all along, sending the Pinkertons under the guise of targeting

Marshall.

But the true purpose was far more calculated: to test Ricky.

There were many ways this could have played out, and Joe had accounted for most of them.

If the Pinkertons survived, they'd report back to him, allowing Joe to assess Ricky's strength

and weaknesses firsthand.

If they were killed, their deaths would become ammunition, a perfect tool for leverage

against Ricky.

But what Joe hadn't foreseen, what no one could have anticipated from the Ricky they all thought they knew, was that he didn't just fend them off, he flipped them.

That reckless image Ricky once carried wasn't just a means to prove to those closest to him

that he had changed, it had also become a weapon for his enemies, a blade they were all too eager to wield against him.

But as time passed, they were beginning to realize a harsh truth: Ricky wasn't the same man

they thought they knew.

He had changed.

And in their case, it wasn't for the better.

"They've been aggressive," Pinky began, his voice steady but laced with frustration.

"Disrupting our business without breaking any laws. Delaying the production chains,

messing with the money drops, everything we usually hire them to fend off, they're turning

around and using against us. And the worst part?" Pinky paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"We can't touch them, because it's all 'legal." Pinky continued, his tone sharpening,

highlighting why their hands were effectively tied when it came to dealing with the

Pinkertons.

However, it was the underlying message behind the Pinkertons' actions that made Joe seethe,

practically steaming from his ears.

The Pinkertons weren't just hired guns, they were the enforcers of the wealthy elite, the relentless hounds unleashed whenever the rich needed dirty work done.

They had a history of crushing union strikes, intimidating workers, and dismantling any

semblance of fair treatment for the downtrodden.

To put it bluntly, the Pinkertons were the hired dogs of the rich, and that's what infuriated Joe

the

most.

Their actions didn't just threaten his operations; they carried a veiled warning. If Joe decided to retaliate and take them out, he wouldn't just be crossing swords with some

mercenaries, he'd be declaring war on the upper echelon of society, the same wealthy class that funded them.

And therein lay the real danger since going after the Pinkertons wasn't just about handling a

nuisance; it risked alienating powerful allies or, worse, making enemies of the people who had the resources to make his life a living hell.

Joe wasn't afraid of a fight, but a battle too soon against the rich could destabilize everything

he'd built.

The only way Joe could take any action was if the Pinkertons crossed the line, but these

weren't amateurs.

The Pinkertons had been playing this game for decades, and they had perfected the art of not

only not stepping on that line, but tight roping it.

"Impede them for now, pull some of our goons off the protection racket and guard duty to put

bodies in front of them," Joe ordered swiftly, Pinky nodding before he let out a wicked smile. "I'll handle Slick."

It was just then that a mob boss within the Commission, someone of Joe's caliber, looked upon the crackling of the fire, his eyes narrowing as the flames danced.

The warmth from the fire seemed to mock the cold calculations swirling in his mind.

"Boss, he said he'd take care of it for a favor-" One of the grunts walked toward the highly respected man, his figure cloaked in the shadows.

The low light barely illuminated his hardened features, but the weight of his presence was

unmistakable.

"Do it, just make sure it's taken care of." Some hours later at Alina's Residence,

At Alina's house, a dinner was being held where Marco served his family a cuisine he was

trying to perfect, the warm glow of the dining room contrasting sharply with the darkness creeping around the house.

As laughter echoed through the walls, a growing sense of unease took hold outside. Men, like shadows in the night, silently surrounded the house, their guns glinting under the

pale moonlight as deadly eyes locked onto the peaceful scene within, each figure poised, waiting.

Marco, unaware of the looming threat, continued to serve Moxie another helping of mac and cheese, his hands steady, focused on perfecting the meal.

But in that moment, one of the men raised his gun, the cold metal aimed at the unsuspecting

cook.

Time seemed to slow as the atmosphere shifted from warmth and comfort to impending danger. SPLAT

A large chunk was suddenly torn from one of the men, his mouth opening in a silent scream,

but a decayed hand swiftly clamped over it, muffling his terror.

Chaos erupted in an instant, contrary to the peaceful dinner inside, outside it was turning into

a deadly nightmare.

The hitmen who had once been poised and menacing were now silently overwhelmed, their

weapons useless against the unseen threat.

Ten hitmen were completely overwhelmed by the fifty crawlers recently displaced and

unearthed around Alina's house.

They all tried to raise their guns, desperately firing into the night, but for every hitman, there

were five zombies tearing into their flesh.

One by one, their bodies gruesomely disappeared into the shadows, dragged into the night by

forces beyond their comprehension.

"W-What the hell!" One shouted, seeing eight of his brother, his friends, gruesomely ripped

apart in what felt like seconds.

"Rico, we gott-" One of the men looked towards the young and frightened Rico, reaching out

only for the Zombies to suddenly grab him.

"Rico?" The man forced an unnerving smile, looking upon the young man who fell to his

knees in horror at what was happening before him.

"AHHHHHHHHHH-" The man's scream echoed into the night, a desperate cry for help that was abruptly silenced as a rotting hand reached up and ripped into his throat with sickening

precision.

Blood sprayed out in a violent burst, coating the nearby ground in crimson as the zombie yanked his throat apart, ripping through muscle like it was just paper.

The man's eyes widened in terror, his hands clutching at the empty space where his voice once was, his desperate attempt to breathe cut short by the relentless tearing of his flesh. The zombies were unyielding, relentless, their jaws working in synchrony to pull him apart.

The flesh of his arms, his torso, his legs, each part was methodically torn away, bones snapping under the weight of the undead assault as each of the zombies pulled their part of it to the shadows to feast on.

All the while the man's screams turned into a wet, choking gasp, his body twitching as the crawlers dug deeper into him, pulling out chunks of meat with terrifying efficiency. His limbs, once strong and defiant, were now nothing more than ragged stumps, discarded as

the zombies feasted on what remained of him.

Rico sat there, speechless, his eyes wide in horror as he watched the carnage unfold before

him.

His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of disbelief and disgust gripping him as the once-feared hitman who had been his uncle was reduced to a bloody heap of flesh and bone. However this time, the family having a warm meal inside heard that blood curdling shout that

made their skin crawl.

"Ma, get them!" Marco shouted, his voice raw with panic as he turned and sprinted toward

the broom closet.

His heart pounded in his chest as he yanked open the door, grabbing the double-barrel

shotgun from its place.

He didn't pause to think, moving instinctively to defend his family from the chaos unfolding

outside.

But he had no idea just how much worse things were about to become as the men who had

come to destroy them would have welcomed a quick death by his gun. "Momma?" Moxie tilted his head, his voice filled with confusion as he looked up at her.

Alina quickly scooped him into her arms, pulling the bewildered Sophia close to her side.

She tightened her grip on the children, her protective instincts kicking in as she scanned for

any possible escape and rushed toward the basement. Meanwhile, Marco's hands were slick with sweat as he'd never killed anyone, never even held

a gun before.

The weight of the double barrel shotgun felt foreign in his grasp, the cold metal

uncomfortably heavy as his fingers fumbled for a steady grip.

His heart pounded in his chest, each beat deafening as he slowly made his way to the front

door.

BAM

"YOU F*CKING BASTARDS, I DARE YOU-huh?" Marco's voice boomed, kicking the door open

as his finger was tightening on the trigger as he pointed the double barrel shotgun toward

what he thought was an intruder.

But instead of a looming threat, only a single leaf danced in the wind, fluttering in front of

him.

His brow furrowed as his gaze swept across the empty space, and with a confused grunt, he

slowly lowered the gun.

There was nothing. No signs of anyone. No sounds.

Stepping cautiously onto the porch, Marco continued his search, but still, nothing seemed out

of place.

His chest tightened, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, but the tension in the air

felt

wrong. Without a word, he let the shotgun fall to his shoulder and walked back inside the house.

With a scowl etched on his face, Marco moved to the landline, his fingers trembling slightly as

The dialed a number.

"Who may I connect you with- "

"Slick, ###-#### and tell em it's Marco." Marco said, his voice edged with urgency as he

recited the emergency number Ricky had given to Alina. She had never used it, but Marco wasn't about to let hesitation get in his way as it was a

number that, in the back of his mind, he had always known could be a lifeline, something he'd

never thought he'd actually need, but here he was.

"What's up Marco, you guys low on cash?" Ricky picked up the phone, sitting on the edge of

the bed as Ravne laid panting behind him, completely naked. "Listen, I wouldn't usually call you but I heard a scream and I need you to come down here,

make sure the coast is-"

"What happened?" Ricky's voice cut through the silence as he appeared through the portal,

his posture nonchalant despite the situation.

He was only in his boxers, but the gravity of the situation was never lost on him since if his kid

was nearby, no threat was mild.

Marco quickly explained the chaos, his words spilling out in rapid succession, telling him how

they were having a meal until they heard this blood curdling scream and it set them all off.

Snap

Ricky snapped his fingers sharply, the sound echoing in the quiet night and slowly, the shadows seemed to stir as zombies began to emerge, their grotesque forms moving with eerie precision.

Ricky had warned them that they were given zombie guards but Marco didn't think he was

actually serious, unnerved at the mere sight of them. Watching, two zombies emerged from the darkness, each holding not an unconscious man,

but an injured cat in their decayed hands.

The animal's limp body hung between them, blood staining its fur but behind them, Rico's

form was dragged, his mouth covered by one of the zombies as his limbs were pinned firmly

to the ground, helpless and squirming.

"Wait-no, I'm sure it was a man screaming!" Marco's face reddened in embarrassment, seeing the cat let out simmering wails at the gash in its stomach. "Hey man I'm not judging, but way to go all out with the shotgun." Ricky laughed, nudging

Marco's shoulder as he ducked his head at this turn of events. "Aye don't get down on yourself since next time, it might not be a cat." Ricky patted his head,

his eyes looking towards the bushes and making eye contact with Rico before turning the

young kid away from the grueling scene ahead of him.

"But hey, don't hesitate to call me, even if it's just for an injured cat, got it?" Ricky smirked,

giving Marco a knowing look.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Marco nodded silently, his face flushing in embarrassment before he glanced back at him and

trying to find the right words to say.

"Thanks, Ricky, for coming here so fast." Marco rubbed the back of his neck, his voice sincere.

Ricky responded with a simple thumbs-up, his expression stoic but acknowledging the

gratitude.

"No problem, man. Call me anytime." Ricky smiled, watching Marco nod and walk back into

the house.

But as soon as Marco disappeared inside, Ricky's smile immediately vanished, replaced by a

cold, rageful look.

Ricky could have told Marco the truth, could have pulled him into the mess that was his world,

but he couldn't.

Moxie was going to be dragged into Ricky's world, whether he liked it or not, simply because

he was his son.

But Marco reminded him too much of Rocco and couldn't bear to see that light in Marco's eyes

fade the way it had with Rocco.

Marco was a good kid; passionate about cooking, focused on his craft but Ricky knew the kid

had a weakness, a vulnerability.

If Marco ever learned the full extent of what had transpired, Ricky was sure he'd abandon his

dream of becoming a chef to take on the weight of protecting his mother, his family. Ricky wouldn't let that happen as he wasn't about to let Marco's life be consumed by this.

Ricky was strong enough to bear the burden for both of them, and as he turned to look at the

crying Rico, he realized he was ruthless enough, too.

Snap

A portal materialized next to Rico and without hesitation, the zombies that had been pinning

him down shifted into action.

Their eyes, vacant and cold, locked onto the young man as they dragged him toward the

swirling vortex.

He cried out, desperate, but his cries were drowned by the rotted hands placed on his throat as

Ricky followed the scene.

They threw him into the portal with a force that left him gasping for breath, and without a

moment's hesitation, the zombies returned to their programmed task.

The crawlers, the uncommon ones, were almost like living machines.

Their movements were precise, instinctual, mechanical in the way they executed their tasks.

Their minds were nothing more than echoes of their commands, unshakable in their

obedience.

The orders that were given by Ricky were clear and absolute:

-Guard Alina and her family with your lives.

-Ensure at least one survives.

Ricky stepped barefoot into the portal, the cool, unseen ground beneath him feeling strangely

grounding.

He spared a brief glance at the crawlers, their grotesque forms frozen in place, their tasks

complete.

A subtle nod of acknowledgment passed between him and the undead creatures, an unspoken

recognition of their efficient brutality.

His gaze then shifted downward, focusing on the sniveling young man before him.

The boy trembled, his face pale and contorted in fear, his body shaking with the weight of the

terror he'd just experienced.

Ricky stood tall, silent and composed, towering over him like a predator eyeing its prey.

"P-Please, please don't kill me -ARGH!" Rico begged, he pleaded while grabbing Ricky's foot

only for the other to press against his head.

"Do you think of me as some f*cking chump?" Ricky's voice was low, venomous, as he

crouched down, his smile twisted with a cruel edge.

"What? Did you think I was just gonna let you walk out of here after you came after my girl"

Ricky let out a dry, humorless chuckle that echoed in the silence of the room, the sound

almost mocking.

Rico's sobs grew louder, the weight of Ricky's words sinking in as every breath felt like a

struggle, the terror pressing in on him from all sides.

The

laughter echoing from Ricky's mouth, empty and cold, only deepened his panic, making

his body shake harder with fear.

"There's only two options for you." Ricky's voice was hateful, filled to its brim with only

anger as he pressed his bare foot firmly onto Rico's head, pinning him down.

"A quick and painless death or a long, drawn-out, agonizing one. Choose." Rico's body trembled beneath the weight of Ricky's foot, his breath shallow as fear gripped

him as his mouth opened, but no words came.

"JESUS F*CKING CHRIST, STOP CRYING ABOUT HOW YOUR LIFE IS OVER AND ANSWER ME!" Ricky yelled, his voice booming into Rico's ringing ears as the young man bellowed out. "Quick and painless~" Rico cried, unbelieving that his life was really about to be snipped out

but he couldn't face like a man, his weeping coming out even louder.

Sigh

"Unbelievable, you come to kill a family or abduct them or whatever, and you're crying,

really?" Ricky pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling incredibly annoyed only for it to deepen

at a pool of yellow liquid forming beneath him.

"OH COME ON!" Ricky yelled out, embarrassed for this young mobster who was cradled into a

ball surrounded into a pool of his own piss.

"I-I-I'm s-s-s-s-sorry-" Rico sniffled out, stuttering through the sobs as Ricky wiped his

hand across his face.

SIGH

"Just tell me who sent you, let's get this over with." Ricky sighed out heavily, feeling that this

had gone on further than it should and he had barely met this guy.

SNIFF

SNIFF

SNIFF

"I-I was sent by Mr. Nitti from the Nitti family- "

"You're kidding, that wimp?" Ricky laughed, shaking his head in disbelief while slicking his

hand through his hair.

Out of all the mob bosses in the Commission, he never expected Frank Nitti to be the one to

make the first move against him.

Living in Al Capone's shadow for so long, Frank had always been the type of guy who could

only look up at the big figures, never quite stepping into the limelight himself.

Yet, seemingly overnight, he suddenly became the boss of the biggest crime organization in

Chicago.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe it. Hold on," Ricky said honestly, his voice laced with disbelief. Without another word, he opened a portal and stepped through, leaving Rico sniffling in the

silence, completely alone in the dim light.

Minutes later, Ricky returned, Chester in tow, his body still slack with exhaustion, his face

frozen in the quiet serenity of sleep.

The moment they stepped through the portal, however, the calm was shattered as Chester's

eyes snapped open as he was suddenly thrust into whatever chaotic situation this was.

"Why is there a young man crying in a puddle of what I assume to be, piss?" Chester tilted his

head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Rico, who was curled up on the floor, his face

twisted in shame and fear.

The sight of the trembling young man seemed almost pitiful, but Chester's voice was laced

with a hint of curiosity, his tone cold and detached, as if he were merely observing a strange

specimen rather than the mess before him. "It's because I'm gonna kill him once all this is done." Ricky said to Chester, his voice calm

but filled with an unsettling finality as he turned to Rico, his tone turning furious.

"But he's too much of a chicken-sh*t coward to stop pissing and crying everywhere!" Ricky

yelled, demeaning the young man further which only worsened the situation in its entirety. Rico's whines grew louder, his body shaking as the weight of Ricky's words hit him, but

nothing could escape the looming dread that hung in the air. "I'M SORRY!" Rico sobbed, his voice echoing through the cavernous warehouse, his tears

falling like a river of regret and pooling into the piss lake that was his own undoing. Chester flapped his wings above Rico, his eyes locked onto the young man's, and in an instant, Rico's pupils dilated.

Ricky slowly approached, his footsteps deliberate, until he stopped just inches away from the

puddle of tears and urine that Rico had become. "Who sent you?"

"Frank Nitti."

"No seriously, who sent you?"

"Frank Nitti."

"No but like, urgh, did Joe ask Frank Nitti-"

"No."

"There's no way it was Frank Nitti."

"It was Frank Nitti."

"Well, I guess it was Frank Nitti." Ricky stood up, rubbing his chin before nodding to himself.

"Can I go back to sleep now?" Chester asked, perching on his shoulder on Ricky was lost in

thought.

"Yeah, go nuts." Ricky, clearly in his one world, replied half-hazardly to Chester who shook

his head and flew back into the portal. 10 minutes later,

A car drove towards Chicago though it wasn't the letter informing Frank Nitti of the

emergency meeting of the commission taking place but instead, Ricky.

"I understand why you are going on this grand quest to quell the burning thirst of vengeance,

but why am I here?"

And Alexander.

The gerbil, having heard the reason behind Ricky's relentless pursuit, understood completely

why he was driving toward Frank Nitti's residence with such fury.

However, Alexander knew they were just ordinary men, humans, whom Ricky could easily

handle on his own.

"For the company?" Ricky asked Alexander, a hint of uncertainty in his voice as he figured it

would be a bit odd, and honestly, kind of cringy, if he went in alone.

"Fair enough."

Author's Note: hey guys, thanks alot for the understanding and for being so cool with me

shifting the chapters for this week. I'm feeling way better and other than a gross ass cough, I'm fine, anyways hope you enjoy!