Have you ever thought to yourself, "Hey, I like Worm. It's got superpowers and dark themes and gangs and world-ending apocalypses!" but wished you had more of all those things? I have. Luckily, I know a series of games with all of these things, a devoted fanbase, and somehow little to no representation in Worm fanfiction!

Fair warning: I say it on all my fics, but especially on this one, do not expect pure crack. I balance humor with dark themes, and this one is going to get very dark very early. Trigger warnings are in effect.

Prologue: The Fall From Grace

In the study of a small mansion east of Captain's Hill, during a beautiful afternoon in late fall, a meeting had been called.

"They're coming for me."

The group's tattooed arms, brightly colored purple clothing, and golden chains clashed horribly with the quiet, refined setting.

"The Brigade… ever since that business with the Nine, they've been focusing on our operations. Taking out our dealers, patrolling our territory."

Two of the three lieutenants present nodded agreement. One muttered a curse and took a swig of his beer.

"I've spoken with a few of those that we've freed from the holding cells of our city's finest, and they all reported the same three questions being asked by the heroes: Where is your headquarters? Who is your supplier? Where is Châsse?" he said with venom.

"Boss, why the fuck are we doin' this shit?" a gruff voice interrupted, coming from an Asian man in his early twenties. "Just send a few guys to take 'em out. Hell, I'll do it myself if you want." He sipped his beer again.

The Hispanic youth shot him a look, but stayed silent, while the last lieutenant, a slim African-American man, rubbed his chin in thought.

"No, Johnny. Silencing them will only ruin our reputation, brand us as murderers. We must move carefully to keep the public's ambivalence." He turned his head, eyes scanning Milo and Dex from behind the ornate bone mask. "I believe they are coming for me nevertheless. I've called you all here to discuss what you should do if-"

A crash echoed through the house, cutting Châsse off mid-sentence. Johnny shot to his feet, producing two large pistols from his belt, and Milo followed with one of his own. Dex crouched next to the door and listened. "It's the Brigade, I think," he whispered.

Châsse sighed, kicked back a rug, and sent a spine of bone into the floor from his heel. "All of you, go. The back door will be watched; exit via the cellar." He kicked the rug back over the bone with his other foot as it flattened itself into a gap in the hardwood. "I'll hold them off."

"Aw, come on! We can take 'em!" Johnny whispered, agitated.

Dex stood from the door, opening his mouth in sync with Milo to second Gat's protest, but Châsse silenced them with a gesture. "I have my reasons." He settled deliberately into a chair, trailing a slender spur of bone from his heel. The material warped like putty, thinning and sinking between the floorboards until it was hard to notice even for those who had seen it form. With a calm, pleasant demeanor as he leaned into the chair, he simply commanded, "Get out."

They had all seen him in this kind of mood before; last time, it had been when their fellow lieutenant, Troy, had been exposed as an undercover cop. Troy hadn't been heard from again.

Even Johnny obeyed.

Dex left the room first, stepping quickly and carefully towards the back stairwell. Gat followed a moment later, pistols at the ready. As Milo filed towards the back of the study, however, Châsse tapped him on the arm. "A moment, Milo."

"Yes, sir?" the young adult said, pausing warily as the sound of a door being kicked in came from downstairs.

"You have a younger brother, correct? Six or so?"

Milo nodded, confused. "He's seven, why?"

"I have a mission for you, then." He grew a shaft of bone out of his neck while smoothing his suit. It gestured at a door on one wall, then retracted beneath the cape's skin once more. "In that closet, my daughter is hiding. I need you to take care of her until I finish up here."

Milo reeled. "But… you… daughter?"

"Quickly now. Take her home and keep her safe. Tell no one about her, not even Gat or Dex. I'll be back for her." He swept his arm out when Milo failed to move, gesturing at the door again. "Now."

Milo moved. Opening the closet, he swept up the girl within, carrying her out of the closet and rousing her from sleep.

"Amelia, dear, I need you to go with Milo here. Be a good girl, do what he says, and daddy will get you a treat." The girl offered a sleepy nod, snuggling into the blanket she held. "Now, go," he said to Milo, "and be safe."

Milo exited the room just in time to hear the other door get kicked in.

…

"Where are we going?" the girl said, "I wanna go home."

"Amelia, your papa said to be good, okay? I'm taking you to mi casa," Milo assured her as he drove. Why he'd been trusted with her instead of Dex, he didn't know, but he hadn't risen through the ranks of the Saints by questioning Châsse's judgment. "Your papa will be fine," he added, more to himself than her. The Saints were a family, just as much as his own blood family. Milo had joined a few years back, seeking protection from the Empire, and found them welcoming. A few ritual beatings and some tattoos, and he was a part of something. Châsse was terrifying, but Milo soon found out that he let his men do whatever they wanted, save two rules: don't hurt or threaten innocents, and don't betray your friends. It wasn't all roses and sunshine; he'd killed more than a few people in the past few years, but compared to what the Teeth had been or the bloodbath the Nine had caused? Family mattered.

Milo pulled into the driveway and led the little girl inside. His mother called out from the living room in her usual Spanish. "Milo, is that you?" She sounded worried.

"Si, Mama, it's me," he replied, leading the girl by the hand. "We have a guest."

Little Carlos came around the corner, rubbing his eyes. "Hola," he mumbled sleepily, "who are you?"

"En ingles, Carlos," Milo corrected him. The girl shrunk back behind him. When Carlos only yawned, he switched to English, saying, "This is my brother Carlos. Carlos, this is Amelia. Mama!"

"Milo!" the woman said, stomping round the corner, "What did I say about bringing women-" she stopped, seeing the shy, frightened girl hiding behind Milo's leg, and switched into 'mother mode'. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I get you something? Juice?"

"Mama, we need to talk," Milo said.

"I can see that," she snapped, turning to fetch a glass of juice from the kitchen. "We'll discuss it in a moment."

Milo shuddered a bit. He was pushing twenty, and was a 'bad motherfucker' by any gang member's standard, but Cecilia Mendoza could still inspire fear in him when she wanted to.

"Carlos, can you take Amelia and go play? Mama and I need to talk."

Carlos rubbed one eye, but nodded. "Come, I can show you my room," he mumbled in English, and after a bit of hesitation, Amelia followed him. On the way, Cecilia stopped her, handing her the glass and patting her on the head.

Milo entered the living room and grabbed the remote, turning on the news on the old CRT TV. Cecilia joined him a moment later.

"So, what is it, then? Some gang member died?"

"No, Mama."

"Maybe she's a homeless girl? Don't tell me you kidnapped her."

"Mama! No! Why would you say that?"

"Milo, you know my rules. I won't fuss about gang business as long as you leave it out of this house."

"She's not… I mean, she is, but not like you think… hold on-" he turned up the volume as the news came back from the break.

"…the local hero team struck a devastating blow against the street gang known as the Third Street Saints today, after confronting their leader, Châsse, in an undisclosed location. Châsse, a suspected murderer and crime lord, was captured by the brave members of the Brigade after a fierce struggle, resulting in severe injuries for everyone present. Team spokeswoman Lady Photon had this to say…"

"…Ah," Cecilia said after he muted the television. "So the girl…"

"Is his daughter, apparently. He trusted me to care for her, however long I needed to."

"You think he can break out? They say he might be sentenced to that Birdcage prison."

"I… hope he can." The words sat for a minute.

"Foolish. You should have let the capes put her up for adoption."

"Don't say that!"

"Money's going to be tight if we have to feed another mouth. She's a cute girl, but she could do better than a poor old woman with a gangster son and a seven-year-old boy."

"Oh, mama," he said, pulling her to him in a hug, "It's okay. We'll manage."

The phone rang. Milo broke the hug, and got up to get it. Pulling the receiver off the wall, he asked, "Yeah?"

"Milo? It's Gat. Empire's making a move on the south side of the territory, and Dex is holding off the police to the east. We need help out here. Can you round up a few guys to come hold off these fuckheads?"

Milo glanced towards his mother, who was watching him carefully. "Yeah, Gat. I'll be there in a bit." He hung up.

His mother gave him a long, sad look as he grabbed his jacket and checked for his gun.

…

Milo was tired.

A week. One week, and they'd lost all they'd ever had. Dex got arrested shortly after Châsse, the Saints had been decimated by attacks from all fronts, and Châsse had received a short, quiet, private trial in an undisclosed location, then got shipped off to the Rockies before anything could be done. All the remaining members of the Saints were gathered in the old church where it had all started, raising one last glass.

"To the Saints," Milo said, leading the group, "And to family."

A chorus of agreements and similar sentiments followed. Milo knocked back his glass, savoring the burn of expensive whiskey. After the toast, Gat stood up and walked off to the side. Milo followed.

"I don't like this, Milo," Gat said. "This is fucked six ways to Sunday, you and I both know it."

Milo regarded Gat for a minute, quiet.

"I mean, we should just go out there, and fuck shit up! Go down fighting, or some shit. Not… this." He gestured at their subordinates.

"Gat, we got no choice. The Empire's too strong, and you ain't exactly leader material," he said. When Gat turned his head and furrowed his brow behind his signature black shades, Milo walked it back a bit, raising his hands defensively. "No offense, amigo, just the truth!"

After a moment, the scowl softened. "You're right, Milo. I don't exactly do the whole operations thing that well, do I? Dex was always the one for that stuff." He laughed a bit. "You remember that time I told Sanchez to tag that one area, the one I forgot was near the police station?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, smiling a bit. "He called you up an hour later while he was running down an alley, begging for a pickup because the cops had shown up." Left unsaid was the fact that Henry Sanchez had been shot dead in the turf war a few days ago, that one of the candles on the altar was for him. The silence stretched on a bit.

"Wait, Milo. Why don't you run the gang?"

Milo was taken by surprise. "What?"

"The guys like you, and you got a good head on your shoulders. You could run this thing."

"Gat…"

"What? I'd vouch for you."

"I… I can't. We just aren't gonna stay afloat without muscle or numbers, and we have neither." He swallowed, the words hard to say. "It's… it's better to let everyone go their separate ways than get our family killed, you know?" He kept going. "I hear a lot of the guys are gonna try getting work at the Port or Docks. Good pay, always something needing to be done. Maybe Mikey will finally settle down with his girlfriend, have a few kids like he always wanted to. I have my brother and-" he stopped a moment, almost mentioning her, and recovered, "mother, to take care of."

Johnny, who had a complicated look on his face, stayed silent. After Milo stopped, Gat knocked back the rest of his glass, passed it to him, and replied, "Yeah, you're right, but I'm not gonna give up on the Saints. You take care of yourself, Milo. I'll keep in touch." With that, he left.

Milo stared at the two glasses, then at the group assembled, and finally at the altar, littered with candles and pictures like a massive Dia de Muertos display.

"Good luck, friend," he said under his breath.

…

Milo hated his job.

Well, he didn't hate his job, so much as he hated the people.

"I need this done by Monday," his boss said, tossing an inch-thick sheaf of paperwork onto Milo's cramped desk. "No excuses this time."

Milo took the stack without comment. Every day was like this. Nevermind that it was Friday, that he'd have to pull all-nighters all weekend to fill out every blank and check every box, or that he would have to call the overseas supplier at three in the morning on Monday to confirm details. He'd complained to HR about it, taken it to his previous boss's superior, and all he'd achieved was unpaid leave while they'd done an 'internal investigation' that ended with said boss getting a promotion.

Despite that, he couldn't afford to lose his job at Medhall. There weren't many job opportunities left since the docks were rendered useless and the economy took a dive. The daycare his mother taught at had closed, and now she worked cleaning people's homes for a pittance. He needed this job to keep his family from losing their house, or worse. So, when he got assigned all the difficult jobs, or was tasked with a less than reasonable deadline, he sucked it up and did whatever he was asked.

That didn't keep him from hating everything about the situation.

Milo finished his previous task, sent it off to be approved, and did his best to put a dent in the new project before his workday ended. When the clock struck 6, he sighed, packed up, and left. They didn't like him pulling overtime.

He stayed to the back of the elevator; kept his head down. Working downtown meant being around E88 gringos, and Medhall seemed to have them in spades. Right now, he could see a tattoo peeking from beneath the short sleeve of a coworker who'd joined him on the way down. Yet another reason to hate the job: Milo had to wear an undershirt beneath his long-sleeved button-up to be sure nobody saw his old Saints tattoos, an offense that would surely get him written up.

He left the building and headed for a nearby bus stop, then boarded a few minutes later. His suitcase clunked to the floor of the bus as he found a seat next to some lady with a scared chihuahua in her purse. He sat through the familiar bumps and shakes of the trip home, wishing he had the spare income for an auto loan, or hell, a fixer-upper he could take to his old garage buddies at Rim Jobs. Maybe they'd reconsidered the name.

Sometimes the bus drivers just stopped as soon as you pulled the call cord, sometimes they drove three blocks before stopping. His bus driver of the day seemed to be the latter, leaving him to walk the extra distance alone. He barely even noticed the other people who got off at his stop- that is, until he heard footsteps behind him.

He spun around just in time to see a familiar-looking black man in a green shirt, flanked by two Hispanics wearing black and purple skull bandannas. Great.

"Oh, hey," he said, trying to play it cool. "I don't have any money, guys, and I really gotta get home. Can we do this later?"

"We just wanna have a little chat, Mendoza. You haven't been keeping up with your bills, you know?" One of the mooks cracked his knuckles 'menacingly'.

Milo recognized the voice, if not the yellowed teeth, bloodshot eyes, and emaciated frame that had once been hefty. "Anton? You run with the Sons now?"

The dark man shrugged, stepping forward. "Yep. At least I run with somebody." The grunts maneuvered around him, and Milo found himself being herded into an alleyway. Shit.

"Look at you," Anton said, advancing while Milo backed up, "Wearing a buttoned-up shirt, lookin' all responsible and shit. You must be doin' pretty well for yourself, huh? Huh?!" He tried to push Milo, failed at doing anything beyond a slight stumble.

"I don't want to fight, Anton," he said, gripping his briefcase and eyeing the goons.

"Then let me make it easy for you, for old time's sake. Join up. No more paying the gang of the week, Baron knows how to throw a party, and the perks are pretty good. Or," he smiled widely, his ruined yellow teeth painted bright against his lips, "you fork over this month's cash. Your choice, pal."

He chose to run.

That evening, he staggered into the house beaten and ragged. His mama was still out, and Amelia or Carlos had cooked dinner in the form of frozen microwave meatloaf. Hopefully, he'd be healed up by Monday. The briefcase was still intact, its contents unmolested, and that was all that mattered.

God, he missed the days when the Saints kept things sane.

…

Everything was wrong. The world didn't make sense anymore.

"… In the Book of John, Our Lord spoke to the Disciples, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me shall live, even though they die.' Truly…"

Rain soaked into the freshly dug earth. Amelia clung to his hand, squeezing it for security. The priest's words washed over him like the rain off the hastily erected awning over their heads.

"… and so, we commend Cecilia Julieta Mendoza to the earth. May her soul, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace." The priest made a cross sign, and other attendees began to file away shortly thereafter. Many offered small words of condolence, or empty offers of help, and Milo nodded along and offered equally hollow thanks.

His mother was dead; it was really hitting him now, as he watched the vault be sealed and the staff began shoveling the dirt back into the hole. Amelia was… changed. Carlos was trying to be strong, but Milo knew he hurt too.

Milo had almost firebombed a Nazi bar.

The cops had no good suspects. Amelia had described them as white, male, tattooed, and wearing black and red prominently. Any E88 member in the city could be involved, for all the good the police had done. Even if they had arrested anyone, it wouldn't bring his mother back.

The only thing that kept him from hunting down the fuckers and making them pay had been the thought of leaving his siblings alone.

Amelia… had powers. The doctors had referred to it as a 'trigger event'; huge, life changing trauma that made powers manifest. He had no idea how to approach that kind of trauma, but it probably would involve therapy he couldn't afford for long. Worse for her, the power was some kind of healing; it might have saved Cecilia, if not for one of the bastards kicking little Amy in the head when she reached to help her mother. Instead, she'd been recovering from a concussion for the past week.

He didn't know how to keep her from crying at night. He didn't know how to talk to her about it not being her fault. How to be a parent to Carlos, who was reacting much as he had, save being held back by age and lack of experience more than responsibility and rational thinking. Milo didn't know how to discourage him properly, keep Carlos away from gangs, away from the life he himself still wished he had.

He felt lost. Maybe he'd been feeling lost for years, since the Saints fell apart, and only noticed it when he had no one left to guide him.

The vault was fully obscured by dirt, now. A week from now, her headstone would be delivered; within a month, the grass would be creeping over the scarred earth. His mother would be sealed away forever, then, the only reminder of her a fifty-pound stone and the hollow words carved on its face.

He held Amelia close to his side, for his support as much as her own, and peeled open Carlos' fist, giving the hand a reassuring squeeze. Bracing himself, he led them out into the pouring rain.

Châsse, in this context, is a French word referring to a type of reliquary. You can find it on Wikipedia by searching for 'Chasse (casket)' if you'd like more information. I figured I'd add this note because it's a hard term to look up in English.