#i lost some edits at some point this morning unfortunately but hopefully i caught most of the major typos and whatnot

[aadmelioraa]

Falling (or, Aldhelm + Efficiency Kink)

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm, 2k, rated M (read on ao3) 

written for @volvaaslaug @skatingthinandice and the rest of this tiny fandom <3 

Lady Aethelflaed is a capable leader. In fact, she is an excellent leader. And if Aldhelm is honest with himself, it’s becoming a bit of a problem for him.

He’s alone with the Lady of Mercia, not an infrequent occurrence of late. She’s finishing the necessary business of the day, and the way she handles the most insignificant chore with diligence fascinates him as much now as it did when he first began to notice. He’s come to understand that her attentiveness and care are only surpassed by her cleverness. 

She's just…good at this.

He had maintained high hopes for Aethelred for so long, but Aethelflaed has more natural authority in her little finger than her husband does in his entire body. Years of grooming and guidance have done little to improve the Lord of Mercia’s temper in the end.  

Aldhelm is almost ashamed to recall his first impression of Aethelflaed. He had thought her a naive (though lovely) girl. But he has come to realize she is stronger and more intelligent than he’d given her credit, which of course cast her husband’s increasingly poor choices into starker contrast. He cannot ignore that her skills and disposition are infinitely better suited to ruling than Aethelred’s.

On reflection, it had been foolish of him to think Alfred’s daughter would be anything less than competent. But the more he reflects, the more he realizes it is not just her capable hands and mind. It’s that Aethelflaed genuinely enjoys her role as well. She seems to derive pleasure from every task accomplished, no matter how inconsequential. She’s a brilliant negotiator, whether speaking with the ealdormen about a matter of state or Aelfwynn about what time she was expected to be in bed. The satisfied smile she allows herself after a small victory is enchanting.

It was not so long ago that Aldhelm had considered disregarding Aethelred’s wishes equivalent to treason. He had thought Mercia’s best hopes were bound up in the man, young but burgeoning with potential. Now, Aldhelm’s definition of treason is somewhat more flexible. In fact, he is increasingly sure that his loyalty no longer lies with the Lord of Mercia. To be loyal to Mercia is to be loyal to Aethelflaed. 

He had not planned on Aethelflaed endearing herself to him in this way. And he had certainly not planned on falling in love with her. 

The realization happens gradually, over a matter of years. But when he finds himself at the point of no return, he is as surprised as if it had happened overnight. Aethelflaed could command him to the ends of the earth, and he would obey without a second thought.

Of course, she would not. She understands his value to her and to Mercia and therefore keeps him close—first, as a liability to be assessed, eventually as a friend to be trusted. Despite his ill-advised confession several months ago, Aethelflaed does not seem to think less of him. If in fact she does, she will not show it. 

She is simply too practical for that. 

And her efficiency is unparalleled. 

In a single afternoon, she will complete a list of duties Aethelred had left unaddressed for weeks on end. Her records are meticulous, her attention to detail exquisite. Her desk is filled with neat stacks of parchment covered in her clean, precise handwriting. 

Watching her take charge of Mercian affairs with a careful eye and steady hand, it is impossible to ignore that his feelings have evolved beyond intrigue. 

Aldhelm is undeniably smitten. 

“Did you have something to add, Aldhelm?”

Startled from his reverie, he realizes he’s staring. Aethelflaed looks back at him with concern. Her eyebrows are raised, causing a few lines to appear on her forehead, and he cannot help but love the softness in her expression.

“Apologies, my Lady. I had meant to inquire after the delegation to Tamworth.”

“We’re to send twenty men—unless you think a larger party necessary.”

“No, I believe not.”

Twenty is the perfect number, of course. 

Aethelflaed narrows her eyes, leaning back in her seat to have a better look at him.

“You seem to have something else on your mind, Aldhelm.”

He would have to work harder to conceal his feelings if he was to comport himself appropriately. A challenge that was growing in difficulty by the day. 

“It’s late. Shall we discuss the city fortification project or leave that until tomorrow?”

She huffs a laugh.

“Aldhelm, I have just told you that is finished. Have you been listening at all?”

He curses himself for his wandering thoughts. “Are you well?”

He is not. He is failing. Her competence is interfering with his own. 

“I am merely distracted, Lady. My apologies.”

Her gaze remains fixed on him as she sets down her pen, picking up the parchment she’d been writing on and blowing gently to dry the ink. 

He clenches his jaw reflexively, and she cocks her head—her amusement compounding, he can only assume. He shifts his gaze to the tapers on her desk, which had nearly burned out.  

“Distracted indeed. How odd. What could possibly be more pressing than the matters before us?”

Aethelflaed is teasing him now, he is sure of it. 

She rises to her feet, sweeping her eyes up and down his body with an expression of curious detachment. It’s maddening.

“I had something on my mind, Lady. A conversation with your husband earlier.”

The mention of Aethelred does not appear to disarm her.

“My husband solicits too much of your time these days,” she sighs. “But he is not here now, and so I request your full attention. I have one other proposal I would like your opinion on.”

Aldhelm knows that he ought to end their conversation, walk away, but he cannot.

“I would be happy to advise you, Lady, of course.”

Aethelflaed is advancing towards him now, hands clasped earnestly before her. Her fingers are slightly stained with ink.

“I believe we have both been under too much stress lately, Aldhelm. I have a plan that may provide relief.”

“I’m sure it’s an excellent plan,” Aldhelm replies, voice slightly hoarse. He clears his throat as subtly as he can.

“I believe it is,” she says nonchalantly, and without breaking eye contact slips her fingers into the belt at his waist, pulling him towards her gently.

He could not have protested then even if his mouth had not gone completely dry.

“I think you will find it mutually rewarding.”

Aldhelm fights a smile of disbelief (was this a dream?) and glances towards the door.

“Lady, we may be discovered.”

The corners of her mouth twitch and she places a hand on his chest, no doubt able to feel his heart beating wildly within. 

“You know as well as I do, Aldhelm, that the household is far more loyal to me than to my husband.”

She is looking up at him with lips slightly parted—soft, inviting—and he tentatively rests his hands at her waist.

The last time they’d been in this physical proximity he’d been dying (or so he thought) and she had been unable or unwilling to reciprocate his affection.

Whatever had changed between then and now, he does not care to question it in the moment. 

Still, he finds himself making another objection. 

“You’re married, my lady.”

What a supremely stupid thing to say. 

Her mouth quirks into a smile.

“I am aware, Aldhelm. That doesn’t stop my husband from pursuing pleasure, and it won’t stop me.”

Aldhelm has no defenses left, no arguments, no thoughts in his head other than how much he desires her. 

He gives in and cups her jaw, kissing her.

She tastes sweet and warm like summer rain. It’s intoxicating. 

He’s not sure if he’s still breathing, or if he even cares. He tightens his hold on her waist, and she cards her fingers through his hair. 

He would probably sell his soul to remain in this moment forever. Dark thoughts like this were never far from his mind when she was near.

“You’ve no idea the effect you have on me, my lady,” he murmurs.

He can feel her smiling as she kisses him back.

“I should think it’s fairly obvious at this point that I do.”

She’s pressed against him now, melting any self-control he had left. His baser instincts take over.

They’re stumbling into the next room, and she’s steering him towards the bed. 

Apprehension and desire course through him at once. Never had he imagined that this wildest dream of his could be a reality.

Aethelflaed is undressing him, then directing him to sit as she slips out of her own garments. The slight golden warmth of her skin fades to creamy white where she exposes the most intimate parts of herself. 

She pushes him onto his back and straddles him, her slick warmth pressed against his cock. Their eyes meet as she shifts, and—most incredible of all—he can see his own exhilaration reflected in her expression. 

She leans forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she murmurs, “What do you think of my plan so far, Aldhelm?”

It’s almost cruel. He’s wound so tight already he might have snapped there. 

He can’t answer with words, nor does he need to. Their kisses deepen, and she bites her lip to contain a moan as he brushes a finger against her opening. He slips inside of her and his breath hitches—she’s so warm and wet and perfect.

She’s building rhythm now, hips forward, grinding against him. She sweeps her braids behind her with a shrug of her shoulders, exposing the fullness of her breasts.

He locates the bundle of nerves beneath her thatch of hair, synchronizing the movement of his hand with the movement of her hips. She digs her nails into his chest briefly and keens in pleasure, arching her back. He draws circles, tighter and tighter. Coming with a shudder she cries out again, her face flushed with triumph. Then with a gesture, she commands and he obeys, switching places so that he’s on top. 

Her legs encircle him. Aldhelm slides a hand from the tender spot behind her knee down her thigh to her ass. She’s laying back, eyes shut, breathing in gentle gasps as she matches the rocking of his hips. 

By the time he comes, she’s moaning louder than before. His forehead is pressed against her and he can feel the sweat that beads her brow. Her walls quiver against him as he finishes, and he’s sure he’s just returned the favor again even as he’s satiated. 

He lands next to her and catches his breath. It’s a moment before he gathers the courage to look at her, but when he does she’s grinning. The light in her eyes would make him blush if he were capable of such a thing.

In his wickedness, he cannot help but think she’d never fucked her husband like that. 

Aethelflaed turns on her side, breathing deeply as she holds his gaze. He splays a hand over the curve of her exposed hip, holding it there for a moment, then moves it gently up to her waist. 

“We made quite good work of that, Lord.”

She hasn’t called him that before. She’s watching to see how he reacts. 

A laugh escapes him. He can’t help it. 

Aethelflaed closes her eyes, still smiling.

“You’re a strange man, Aldhelm. But I have grown fond of you.”

He’s brushing the hair from her shoulders, rolling a silky strand between his fingers. He does not know how long their tryst will last, or if it will ever be repeated. He will do everything in his power to remember every detail.

There’s a freckle below her left breast. He runs his thumb gently along the contour. Her skin is prickling—the room has grown cold—and he pulls a blanket over them.

Aethelflaed rolls her head back to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. She radiates contentment. His own limbs are heavy with it too. He pulls her close to him, their noses bump. Incredibly, she does not tell him to leave.

“Did you have a second phase of your plan you’d like to enact this evening, Lady, or shall we reconvene tomorrow?”

It’s Aethelflaed’s turn to laugh. 

Laying near her in this state is restorative, thrilling. He’s bold enough to kiss her again, and the taste is sweeter than before. 

“I believe we may reconvene tomorrow,” she murmurs and rests her head on his chest. “For now, let us rest.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

He will linger in this perfect moment as long as he’s permitted. 

#aethelflaed x aldhelm #tlk fic #the last kingdom #tlk #me: sits down to write a smut fic #also me: spends 6 pages on aldhelm's introspection before they even touch #anyway i hope you like it!! #i lost some edits at some point this morning unfortunately but hopefully i caught most of the major typos and whatnot #kat writes

[fishyspots]

the same magic touch

happiest belated birthday to @patrickbrewsky! one day i’ll finish the AU you deserve but for today i can give you this, inspired by a conversation we had a while back ❤️️(ps: it’s also on ao3)

“Why are you throwing that sweater out?”

Patrick looks up from the bin, fabric in hand. He feels caught out somehow, but he’s not sure why. “It has a hole in it?”

David stares him down from his spot by the bathroom door. “Why are you ripping holes in your best sweater?”

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Patrick protests. “It was totally innocent.”

“Hand it over.” David crosses Patrick’s apartment, narrowly missing clipping the bed with his knee, limbs akimbo the way they always are this early in the morning. Patrick lets David take the sweater from him, perhaps to say a fond farewell, and turns to start David’s coffee. He didn’t know David liked this sweater best; David’s peeled it off of him more than once, but that’s true of most of his shirts at this point.

For some reason, David folds the sweater and puts it in his bag instead of the trash where it belongs. “What are you going to do with that?”

David looks at him like he’s being difficult. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re trying to clone me, that sweater got ripped in the wash so you’ll want something less fresh.” Patrick grabs for the cocoa powder he keeps in his cupboard and that David still won’t look directly at.

“Why would I clone you before they let me edit out your sense of humor?”

“You love my sense of humor.”

David is scrolling through something on his phone now, clearly past the sweater conversation, but he looks up and smiles when Patrick slides his coffee across the counter. “I have very intentionally never said that.”

“Just like how you’re not saying what you’re going to do with my—”

“The tear is on the seam.” David shrugs and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in the way that means he tastes the cocoa but will not be commenting on it at this time. “It’ll take, like, five minutes to fix.”

“And you know someone who’s willing to do that? Because the only person I can think of is Jocelyn, and I know you two have that begrudging acceptance thing going but I don’t think it extends to me.”

“She likes you too, you know. She told me last week that you were the best Emcee they could have cast.”

“That’s very sweet.” Patrick tilts his head. “But I don’t know there were any other contenders, so it probably sounds better than it is.” But they’re getting off topic now. “Wait, no. Who’s fixing this sweater?”

“I’m fixing the sweater.” David grabs his bag and sets the mug in the sink. “Should we go? We’re going to open late otherwise.”

David’s concern for keeping normal opening hours more than anything else tells Patrick that he’s missing something. Still: “You’re going to fix it.”

“That is correct.” David sighs. “Can we please go? If you wait much longer I’ll lose all this energy and then you’ll have to open by yourself.”

Patrick rolls his lips in and bites down. “How many sweaters have you mended, exactly? Because you talked for an hour once about all the cashmere sweaters you lost to moths.”

“Cashmere is different. Anyway, I’m not, like, totally helpless,” David says. “I went to art school.”

Patrick privately thinks that the sentence might be an oxymoron, but he can acknowledge his own bias here. He took a pottery class in college as his “understanding art” elective; he and his fellow business majors had a lot to say about the cost of equipment and the annoyance of waiting around for the clay to bake. And then after all of that, his glaze was cracked and uneven. “Do they teach stitching there? Like, a whole class?”

“Mm.” David’s mouth is a thin line. “Right after the Etch-A-Sketch one.”

Patrick may have overshot it. “That didn’t—”

“Go to the store. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Patrick sets the spare key on the counter and elects to retreat.

***

“This is earlier than I was expecting to see you.”

David makes a beeline for the macchiato Patrick set in a prominent place on the counter in a spot near the door. He didn’t want David to miss it. “I said an hour.”

The teasing is right there; Patrick has to consciously push down countless other times where David has wildly miscalculated his arrival time. Instead, he takes a breath and prepares for a real apology. They’re a new thing for the two of them—after his parents came to town, Patrick’s been making communication a priority. It’s mostly his idea, but it was spurred on by some...gentle suggestion from Stevie. He doesn’t want to keep falling back into old habits, and he’s not going to put the burden on David to keep him accountable.

But David has not been exceptionally amenable to this new strategy. “Stop,” he says once he’s taken a drink and turned to look at Patrick. “Enough. Thank you for the coffee.”

He drops a kiss on Patrick’s cheek and continues on to the back room. Patrick entertains the idea of following him, but the bell above the door chimes again and he pushes down the conversation they need to have. Not forever, he tells himself sternly. Just until closing. Or lunch, if he can rig them a break.

But it’s Ronnie crossing the threshold, so maybe they do need to finish their relationship discussion. Maybe close the store for the day, or something.

“Ronnie!” Patrick winces at the enthusiasm he can hear in his own voice. David keeps saying that he’s forcing it, which might be valid. “What are you looking for today?”

Ronnie lifts her chin but doesn’t make eye contact. “David here?”

Still trying too hard, then. “He’s in the back. I’ll get him.”

Apparently he heard them, because David’s already peeking out. “Sorry about that, Ronnie. Back for that cheese or is it something else?”

Ronnie lets David curate a cheese plate for her next Women in Business meeting and suggest some wine pairings; Patrick bites back his own opinions to the best of his ability. Or, he does after Ronnie pointedly sets the chardonnay back on the shelf after he says it’s his favorite.

David rings her up and sees her off, and Patrick opens his mouth again to take advantage of a lull. Then the phone rings.

“Can you take that?” David asks. “I want to figure out what we need for that greeting card workshop next month. Jo likes it when we order with at least three weeks’ notice, and they gave us that frame for the poster last time as a thank you so I don’t want to—”

Patrick waves him off before the phone goes to voicemail. “I got it.”

Fortunately for their stocking schedule, it’s Brenda. They’ve been running low on the moisturizer she’s trying out recently, and they need to get more on the shelf as soon as she has it ready. Unfortunately for him, Brenda called seeking opinions about her new combination skin formula and the essential oil blend. David informed Patrick early on that he had combination skin, but Patrick senses that Brenda will not find this information useful. He bides his time and lets Brenda talk until David catches on to his frantic gestures.

They don't teach this in business school. He lets his eyes drift from David's face (a struggle, sometimes) to the bag at his boyfriend's feet. They don't teach a lot of things in business school.

Patrick passes off the phone and greets the next customers, who thankfully do not have any qualms about his personality. Then he checks the stock spreadsheet. They’re getting low on sweaters and socks after the cold snap last week, so he flags the vendors for David to email and sets about filling in the blank spots on the shelves after a busy morning.

The sound of David’s voice soothes Patrick’s nerves even more than the playlist he and David made together in a process that started adversarial (“Smooth jazz? Why not just get a Muzak?” “People shop in those stores too, David.”) and turned playful after they decided on a one-for-one system. Patrick’s alt-folk mixes surprisingly seamlessly with the Whitneys and Mariahs David added. Even the Counting Crows Patrick put on the list just to be contrary fits, in a way.

“Everything okay with Brenda?” Patrick asks after David drops the phone back into his holder. “Are you going to put a new cleanser in my bathroom soon?”

“I don’t see why those two things are necessarily related,” David says, “but yes to both.”

“Good to know.” They might be able to flip the sign for lunch if they’re quick; clouds are gathering in the sky outside in a way that spells a dreary afternoon. “Want me to pick us up something?”

Patrick heads for the door at David’s nod of assent. Even though they haven’t talked about it, he still feels like he’s making up for something. Hopefully that will change. He’s jumping into this new talking strategy with both feet, and he just hopes that David will catch him.

Silly, he thinks as he crosses the street. David has never once let him fall.

Twyla greets him with a sunny smile and asks if they want their usual. For him, a burger is pretty standard, but David keeps vacillating between different soups, sandwiches, and salads. It’s a caesar salad day today; though Patrick would love to read into David’s mood from his choice, he knows better than that by now. David just does what he wants sometimes. As for Patrick, he’s mostly just happy that David is limiting the chance that he won’t like his food. He worked through the international section of the menu last week and spent three afternoons in a row cranky due to hunger and the continual failure of the café to meet his admittedly unrealistic expectations. He does add a cookie, because communication is great and all but it’s always good to have an insurance policy if things go south.

Back at the store, David’s handing over a Rose Apothecary tote to Roland and he’s not even grimacing. Much. There’s definite relief in his eyes when Patrick holds the door for Roland, though. It’s quickly replaced by confusion when Patrick flips the sign.

“I thought we could eat lunch together?” Patrick resists the urge to kick at the ground like a teenager, but it’s there. “We haven’t had much time to just...see each other. Today.”

“I saw plenty of you this morning.” David raises an eyebrow suggestively.

Patrick fights his easy blush; that’s beside the point. “That’s not—”

“You know I never complain about seeing you,” David continues. “But Roland said Jocelyn is going to stop by later, so we’ll have to keep an eye out.”

Patrick thinks Jocelyn can probably wait, but he keeps that to himself. He waits until they’re settled on the couch with David’s left thigh pressing against his right and David can’t talk past his mouthful of lettuce before he broaches the topic. “I did want to talk about this morning.”

David’s eyes widen as he chews, but he does look a little less frantic than he would months or even a year ago if Patrick said something similar.

While David can’t cut him off, Patrick presses his advantage. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you’re helpless. I don’t think you’re helpless.”

David rolls his eyes, but there’s something tight around his mouth that tells Patrick he has to do a little more here. He swallows, so Patrick hurries to finish his thought.

“I think you’re...you do a lot that I don’t do.”

“And you do a lot I don’t do.”

“I don’t think—no, I know, I know I don’t think about that enough.”

Something suspicious dissipates from David’s face. “Is this your whole talking thing again?”

“I don’t have a whole talking thing,” Patrick protests.

“You’ve had a whole talking thing for weeks now. Do you want me to run through all of my skills, or is it sufficient to just say that we’re okay?”

Patrick definitely had prepared to run through all of David’s skills, but he elects to save that for another time. Maybe tonight, when he has more ability to keep David in one place until he’s finished saying what he wants to say. “It’s enough. For now.”

“Threatening me with conversation.” David shakes his head. But he doesn’t take another bite, so he’s at least somewhat worried that Patrick will drop all of his feelings right this moment.

“You can eat, David.”

David lifts his fork cautiously.

So Patrick has no choice, really. “I love you.”

Patrick wants to frame the look David gives him, cheeks slightly bulging and eyes furious and generally perfect.

They unlock the front door in time to catch Jocelyn, and Patrick finds himself still cataloguing David’s competencies for the rest of the day. That night, Patrick sees his sweater, repaired and neatly folded in the way that David says limits wrinkles, hidden in his drawer under a college sweatshirt. It looks as good as new. “Thanks for the sweater.”

“Well, the cloning people were unhelpful. Said I’d have to keep all of you if I went for a new one, and I don’t have the constitution to be mocked twice as often.”

Patrick can’t let it go without saying something, though. “David. Thank you.” That should cover his whole talking thing for now. David still looks at him like he’s a too-large shipment that won’t fit in the planned display. Back to teasing, then. “You know, I had a thought.” Patrick affects his most guileless expression as he slides into bed next to his boyfriend. David’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Since you’re so good at this, and you went to art school and all, maybe you can help with costumes for Cabaret.”

Patrick enjoys the horrified look that blooms across David’s face probably too much. “I’m suddenly feeling very helpless.”

“Could be worse,” Patrick says. “At least there’s only one of me to deal with.”

#patrickbrewsky #this is where i would normally say 'everyone go wish em a happy birthday' but like #it was last week so i hope it already happened #anyway david is very smart and has no common sense pass it on #we love to see it because we love to be it #my fic #schitt's creek fic #schitt's creek fanfiction #schitt's creek fanfic #schitts creek fic #schitts creek fanfic #schitts creek fanfiction #david x patrick

[tackyink]

Still holding onto the hope of running out of steam soon so I can work on other fics. In any case, this has a title now. It’s Degrees of Separation.

I hate this chapter solely because in my mind it was supposed to be one, then it got long and turned into two awkward chapters, and by splitting them I was left with this thing in which nothing happens. Why would you want to read this? I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to read it, even though I did. Repeatedly. To edit out all the typos I’m sure I’ve left in. I’m going to put a Golden Sun stream on the background, play Animal Crossing and drown my frustration in Coca Cola. It’s been a long week.

One last detour before Sabaody. Alex is bored, the Heart Pirates reenter the scene, and Law has an “if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions” moment.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

— — — — — — — —

Chapter 3

There was a storm.

Alex didn’t know if it was related to the Aqua Laguna that the ship had set out to avoid or it was simply one of the Grand Line’s meteorological whims, but two days after departure, the noon sky went so dark it was like a moonless night had come down early, the winds picked up, and the waves started to beat against the ship’s hull in an uneven rhythm.

The crew was all over the place, trying to steer the ship and reef the sails as they ushered the passengers inside to keep them from falling overboard. Alex had been caught in bad weather travelling before, but never to this extent. She had a hard time thinking of anything scarier than being at the mercy of a windy sea. Nowhere to run, nothing to do except wait and pray that the waters would take pity on you and let you live another day. Alex wasn’t the praying sort, so while she waited below deck with a group of people as scared as she was, if not more, she couldn’t even do that.

The nervous chatter of the passengers and the parents’ attempts to console their children were muffled by the deafening sounds of the wind, the waves, the creaking wood, and the crew’s rushed footsteps on the deck.

Alex stood the entire time in front of a porthole in the dining hall where they had gathered. It helped with the seasickness from the violent rocking of ship, it was better than to look at the other people, and, ironically, storms were her favorite kind of weather. She wondered what would be worse if they sunk, getting caught on deck and risking being swallowed by the ocean, or waiting for the insides of the ship to become a water tomb. For a long time, or at least it seemed like it, that was the main thought that repeated in her mind, until the possibility of dying felt so remote that she wasn’t even registering. Like when you picked a word and turned it around in your mouth and mind so many times that it lost all meaning. Of course she couldn’t die there. She had never done so before, so why start now?

It was absurd, but it helped. And it turned out to be right, too.

After a while, the storm subsided, and an hour later, the crew let them out on deck again. The ship wasn’t intact, but they hadn’t lost anybody, and that was as much as one could ask for when dealing with an angry sea.

In the end, there was only one major inconvenience: due to the damage, the ship had to change its course in order to dock somewhere safe to undergo repairs.

❦

Her hair had gotten longer to the point of annoyance. The tips brushed her shoulders already; long enough to get in her face whenever it wanted, but too short to tie it in a decent ponytail. Sure, she could have done it anyway, but she was vain and would have rather dealt with the hassle than solve the problem in an aesthetically suboptimal way.

The sunspots on the left side of her face were getting more noticeable, as were the dark circles under her eyes and the shy wrinkles that were attempting to come out. For someone who could spend so much time picking her appearance apart in front of a mirror, she didn’t look particularly healthy or well put together. She supposed that was part of the appeal, in a masochistic way: to find as many faults as she could, and invent some if needed.

Applying concealer under her eyes and red lipstick just for the sake of having some color on her face, she thought she needed to find herself a headband and a healthier pastime posthaste. Porta Bella was a quaint town, but there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, and she’d had only her thoughts for company for too long.

She had been stuck there for two weeks. After narrowly avoiding disaster, the ship had been moored in the harbor for several days, and by the time it was fit enough to sail, the captain decided to go back to Water 7 to have proper repairs done. The passengers had been given the choice to remain in Porta Bella and find another ship, or to return to Water 7 with the crew. Going back wasn’t an option for Alex when Sabaody was so close that it felt like she could have seen it if she climbed on a tall tree, she didn’t trust a half-baked repair job to keep her safe, and, most importantly, someone had tried to kill Iceburg and Enies Lobby had kind of blown up in the following days of her departure from Water 7.

She didn’t want to think that the tracksuit shipwright had something to do with it, but the conspiracy theorist in her told her that it was totally his fault. That nose? Could totally be used as a murder weapon and nobody would be none the wiser.

The few passengers aside from Alex who had decided to stay in Porta Bella were already gone, leaving the inn she was staying at delightfully empty, but also making her wonder if she had messed up by not taking the first random ship that would let her sail away from there.

The island was small, so much so that Porta Bella was the only town in it, and much of it was empty. For many years there had been a migratory tendency pushing young people from nearby islands to the Sabaody Archipelago, and this one seemed to have fallen victim to it, too. The moderately long recording time of the Log Pose didn’t play in its favor, either. Five days and a half was a long time to wait when the Red Line was only a couple of days away, so not many ships stopped there. An abandoned watchtower in the outskirts of town was the only other notable location.

She left her inn room that morning, picking up a tea to go, and hoping that a good slap of early morning breeze in the face would wake her up.

Every day since she arrived, she went to the port to look for any newly arrived ships and talk to the sailors. Every time, if there was a new one at all, she was told that there were reports of increased slaver activity in those waters, and that they were headed anywhere but the Sabaody Archipelago until Marine HQ got its shit together and stopped the kidnapping crews sailing rampant. Given that the Marines must have been scrambling to recover from the loss of Enies Lobby, nobody thought they were going to get on the case anytime soon.

These series of unfortunate coincidences didn’t surprise her. Her life was often comprised of really small strokes of bad luck that were nothing more than inconvenience on their own, but that added up to really grate on her nerves. This was business as usual, so she just had to keep trying. The temporary finish line was only a stone’s throw away.

Not that human trafficking stopped at any point of the year, but she hadn’t taken into account the seasonal opening of the archipelago’s biggest auction. Thinking that not even the schedule of the Human Auctioning House had changed during her time away gave her a twisted sense of familiarity. That son of a bitch kept finding novel ways to fuck her over without even being aware of her existence. It had to be a gift, for sure.

As she walked to the half empty docks, she hoped that that was the day she lucked out. She had already decided that, if she couldn’t find a direct ship to Sabaody in the following three days, she’d take the roundabout way and sail to a bigger island with, hopefully, a wider variety of ships. She would go completely broke in the process (and there she found the thing that was as terrifying as being caught in a storm at open sea), but one had to crack eggs to make an omelette.

Ten minutes and an empty cup of tea into her stroll, she stopped in front the single newly arrived ship and thought that maybe she hadn’t lucked out, but that sure as hell life was full of weird coincidences. Because there were few submarines sailing the Grand Line, even fewer painted yellow, and she guessed that only one with that particular Jolly Roger plastered on it. Her wish of seeing it up close had been granted when she least expected it, and it didn’t disappoint. It had a curious design, half ship and half submarine. A shipmarine.

Feeling revitalized by the pun, she craned her neck and got on her tiptoes to accomplish nothing at all. She couldn’t see any of the pirates on the deck, at least from where she was standing, and what else was she supposed to do, walk closer to find a friendly face and say hi like a functioning human being would? Yeah, no. She simply stood there and stared like a creep.

The paint job of the thing was hypnotic, and she didn’t mean it as a compliment. It looked like the idea of a man who thought the peak of design was making his vehicle look like a wasp with a decal of the word ‘DEATH’ instead of stripes to look extra edgy. And okay, they were pirates, pirates killed people, it was something that came with the job – but plastering it over the ship like that was a little heavy handed, and she didn’t have any doubts as to which guy with matching tattoos had come up with those brilliant design choices. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a song about a yellow submarine? The one from those singers her mom liked when she was young… Maybe the captain was a fan, too. Maybe they sung it on board. She laughed at the thought.

It didn’t leave her indifferent, that was for sure, and that could count as a compliment, since she had seen a ton of ships throughout her life. Props to Trafalgar Law for standing out among the crowd.

If the pirates weren’t around at the moment, it had to mean they were inside of the ship or already out in town. It was early still, but she was sure it was a matter of time until she ran into them – the town was pretty small, around a hundred, counting sailors, on a good day, news travelled fast, and these guys didn’t dress unassumingly.

With that in mind, she kept an eye out for familiar faces and resumed her unfruitful rounds around the port. Another day, another set of rejections. She tossed her paper cup in a trash can and made her way to the coffee shop where she always had the second tea of the day, sometimes even the third, if she was feeling particularly down about her current predicament.

She placed her order at the counter and waited for it. The owner, a balding middle aged man whose name she didn’t know but who had started to get chatty after she showed up a few days in a row, tried to strike up a conversation while he heated the water. “Did you hear? A pirate crew arrived in town last night.”

Alex wasn’t much for conversation in the mornings, and usually her replies to his attempts were rather apathetic, but the owner had struck gold with this particular topic. “I just saw the ship,” she repeated. “Have they done anything?”

“Not yet,” he replied with the clear implication that they soon would. “But it’s a Supernova’s crew, from what I’ve heard. Their captain’s a scary guy – how do they call him…?”

She had mixed feelings about that. She’d seen scary first hand, and in her experience it came in the shape of kidnapping crews, bubble helmets, or suits and fedoras. And ultimately, it was the fedoras’ fault she was in that coffee shop in the first place.

“Surgeon of Death,” she replied. There was no doubt that with that price on his head he was a walking danger, but after their first encounter, she had a feeling he was more the selective type than the let’s wreck everything in our path kind of guy. Not that his list of attributed crimes would lead anybody to think that. “Do you have trouble with pirates often? Being close to Sabaody and all.”

“Sometimes, but they usually go to more interesting places. It used to be as easy as calling the garrison to get rid of ‘em, but with Marineford so close it’s no wonder no one wants to be here any longer.”

“There used to be Marines here?”

“Yes, at the watchtower in the outskirts, but they left after some of the rooftop caved in. Building’s condemned now. A pity, ‘cause the watchtower’s been there forever, and they’ve let it fall apart.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “How old’s the tower?”

The water started boiling then, and he turned around to remove it from the fire and make her drink. “Tale goes that it’s old as the stone entrance, but who knows,” he said with his back turned to her. “It’s not like we have any experts to come check.” He slid her the drink over the counter. “In case, try to avoid those guys. A woman traveling alone is an easy target for criminals.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, putting a few belis in the counter and taking the cup by the handle. “Thanks.”

She chose to sit on the terrace, next to the railing that separated it from the sidewalk, to have a good view of the street. She was in a sort of commercial district, if a main street with a dozen of shops could be called that. Most people who stopped at the island had to pass by sooner or later, so it was the busiest place in town. Not so early, though. It wasn’t opening hours yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched like a hawk the man who was monopolizing the only issue of the World Economic Journal and snatched it as soon as he got up to leave, so fast that it turned the heads of the other two people on the terrace.

News of the assault of Enies Lobby had been filling pages for a week already, and that day wasn’t an exception. The Straw Hat Pirates had done the unthinkable, and while in other circumstances Alex might have been watching the situation with amusement from afar, she was also pretty annoyed at them, because their stunt no doubt played into the poor supervision in the waters near Sabaody. On the other hand, she hoped that this also meant that neither Marines nor Cipher Pol would be very invested in finding her in the near future if she ended up a suspect.

She was also a little worried about Iceburg’s condition, but the newspapers hadn’t reported his death, so she had to assume he had recovered from the attempt on his life.

She skimmed over the usual columns prattling about the lack of security at sea and how worrying it was that a whole new generation of rookies with astronomical bounties were about to set foot in the Sabaody Archipelago at the same time. She didn’t think having a handful extra menaces sailing around mattered anymore, considering the state of the world at large, but the pearl-clutching sold newspapers, and she wondered about her sense of self-preservation when she realized with disappointment that, at the rate she was moving, she was going to miss the Supernova meetup in Sabaody. Her curiosity was going to bite her in the ass one day, she thought, before remembering that it already had, and that was the exact reason she was in her current position.

She skim read a few pages looking for interesting headlines, getting to the less important news that didn’t warrant spreads, editorials and pictures that took up half the page, and paled when she read the contents of an unassuming text box.

An unfortunate accident in the island of Harlun had blown up the local library while it was undergoing renovations. Nobody had been hurt, said the write-up, but the building had been destroyed in the ensuing fire and an investigation was still ongoing to determine what had happened. At least she guessed that the last part of the article said so, because she choked on her tea as she read it and spit some of it on the paper, making the ink run.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. Well, it technically could be, but no way she was buying that. The real question was if they’d be able to link the Poneglyph to her, and considering she that she was the person who spent the most time in the archive and she had conveniently left right before construction work took place, she had a pretty good chance to win that lottery. Oh, God, what if her coworkers mentioned that she used to go to the archive on Sundays, alone?

Her first impulse was to bang her head on the table and hide it between her arms, but the surface was sticky, so she ended up regretting it immediately. Instead, she put her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands. Her heart was beating loudly and her mind was running wild thinking of possible courses of action. She was on a timer. Getting to Sabaody as soon as possible was a necessity now. If there was a place she could hide, ironically, it was there.

“I see life’s treating you well.”

Alex’s heart tried to leap out of her mouth when she heard someone talk to her from so up close, but one of the perks of being born with a stick up her ass was that she only tensed up when she was startled, so she saved herself the embarrassment of yelping or jumping on her chair. She removed the hands from her face to look at the person, and the sight of a spotted furry hat and a yellow and black hoodie punched her in the eyes.

“Oh, hello,” she said, feeling more relaxed when she realized it was the Surgeon of Death leaning against the balustrade, not law enforcement. Her life had taken a turn for the surreal in a very short time, had it not?

His smirk faltered. “You aren’t surprised?”

“Saw your ship,” she said with some difficulty, and she drank some tea to swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat. Of all the times for him to appear... “Town’s small, we had to run into each other.”

“Hm.”

If she exerted a bit of imagination, she’d say he looked a bit disappointed. Why would he? No idea, but it was funny to think he was, and she was in dire need of funny.

He asked, “What are you doing here? This is far from your island.”

Farther than he knew, she almost said, but that was a can of worms and not relevant in the situation at hand. Feeling too overwhelmed to give long explanations, she handed him the newspaper open by the page she’d been reading. Talking could happen once she arranged her own thoughts, and only then.

“That’s…” He took it from her hands and read for a few seconds. An inscrutable expression gradually morphed into a look of pure indignation. “What’s the meaning of this?”

She was taken aback by the unexpected display of emotion. It was odd to see him react so strongly to something that didn’t concern him. “It isn’t that surprising, considering—”

“How is it not?” He retorted, annoyed. “Sora can’t lose against these weaklings!”

She stared at him in confusion. “What?” she blurted out, realizing afterwards that he was talking about the comic strip at the bottom of the page. And to be fair, she was going to tell him to look further up when the meaning of his words sunk in, but then she was the one leaning over the railing to look at the paper he was holding. “Wait, really? That’s impossible!”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Upon reading the message under the strip, she complained, “On break until next month?” She sat back on the chair, mumbling, “I don’t even know if I’ll be alive next month,” before taking a sip of tea.

“Summer vacation cliffhanger,” he replied. “And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Read the news above.”

He looked at the paper again, and his eyes widened the smallest fraction as recognition dawned. That reaction was more appropriate. “Do you think it was…?”

“I’m sure of it. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Are you wanted now?”

“I don’t know. They have reason to suspect I knew it was there.” And she added with a bit of humor that she wasn’t really feeling, “If I get a bounty, I’ll say it was your fault.”

“I don’t think that’s going to do you any service.” A smirk returned to grace his features as he passed her the newspaper back. He was clearly amused by her misfortune, and that was the only good thing that had come out of it. “What do you plan to do?”

Alex let out a long exhale through her nose. She wanted to say that there was no plan, but there always was. Planning was something she did obsessively. “I need to get to Sabaody as soon as possible.” It was the only option. She could have elaborated, but again, she didn’t feel like it. Too early, too stunned to talk about serious stuff. Reality hadn’t fully sunk in. “You’re on Sora’s side? Really?”

He frowned at her. He did a lot of frowning, she thought. He was going to get wrinkles young. “Of course I am.”

“But he’s a Marine,” she said, a smile growing on her face despite herself. “Aren’t you one of the bad guys?”

“The Germa are vile,” he retorted, and perhaps realizing he was getting too much into the conversation, he went back to the other, much less fun topic. “Sabaody’s going to be full of Marines in no time, though.”

She was internally screaming, but it came out as a drawn out sigh. “Thanks to you, no doubt.”

“The merit isn’t all mine.”

“I know. You lot have been all over the news for weeks.” He looked awfully self-satisfied when she said that. “I guess you’ll be heading straight there after this place?”

“That’s the plan if there aren’t any stops in between. By the way, do you know how long until the Log Pose sets?”

“Five days, ten hours and twenty-six minutes,” she said blandly, repeating the number she had been told by several people when she first arrived to Porta Bella. It made her miserable, so of course she wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon.

“And the seconds?”

It took her way longer than necessary to realize he was messing with her. “Oh, fuck off.” She returned her attention to the newspaper so she didn’t have to look at his stupid face while he thought he was so funny. “Fishman Island’s right around the corner. Try not to drown.”

“We have a submarine.” He sounded amused still. Alex couldn’t tell if annoying her gave him that much joy or if he was having an exceptionally good day. He was pretty cranky for a while back in Duster Town, but now that she recalled, his mood seemed to improve every time he got one over her. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“Regular submarines can’t reach Fishman Island.”

He frowned again. “Why not?”

“It’s too deep. They can’t endure the water pressure.”

She could sense the levity from moments ago was gone by the way his jaw set. “But we heard ships can traverse the Red Line through an underwater route.”

“That’s why you go to Sabaody first.” She was exerting a considerable effort to give these really boring explanations that no one was going to thank her for. “You find yourself a good coating engineer to put a resin bubble around your ship and that’ll protect it.”

He seemed to study this new information from several angles before he spoke. “That’s good to know.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gave her a pointed look, but didn’t say anything about the jab. “Is it easy to find one?”

“There’s an entire section of the archipelago dedicated to it. It’s going to cost you, though. And depending on who you choose, there’ll be a waiting list.”

“Really?”

“Good coating engineers are few and far in between, and nobody wants to find out someone did a half-assed job on their sheep five kilometers underwater.”

“That’s…” He made a meditative pause. “…Reasonable.”

“I thought you were going to say something completely different.”

“It sucks too.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. Her life would be so much easier if one didn’t have to jump through thirty hoops to cross that chunk of rock. “In a hurry to get to the New World?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, either, because she was busy contemplating a new idea that had sprung in her mind. One that she’d rather avoid if she had other options left, and she wouldn’t know until a few days passed, but... this coincidence could prove to be useful yet.

“What?” He looked at her with suspicion.

“Nothing.” And just to get on his nerves a little, she added. “Yet.”

He fixed his gaze on her face, most likely gauging her intentions. Alex was incapable of looking at people in the eye, but she was good at faking it and not flinching under pressure, so she stared back.

“Do I want to ask?”

“I don’t know. Follow your instincts.”

To her surprise, he dropped it and took a step back from the railing. “I need to go back to the sub and see if the others are up already.”

Good. “For someone with a target so big on you, you wander a lot without them.”

“I like taking walks alone,” he said, like he didn’t think much of it. Like he could not fathom how he of all people could possibly be in danger from anybody else. “See you around?”

Was that a wish, a threat, or a pleasantry? “Without a doubt,” she replied, not bothering to hide the tedium in her voice. Damn empty town and damn slavers. “This town isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

She could have sworn he smiled a little at that, but Law shoved his hands in his pockets and made his leave too fast to see.

He was far enough that he wouldn’t hear her if she spoke in a normal volume when she remembered something important, so she resorted to raising her voice before the Heart crew did something they could regret. “Go to the Old Brewery if you don’t want to die! The Silver Fountain serves piss for drinks!”

He turned to look at her with the same curiosity back when she’d told him weapons weren’t allowed in the library, but this time he nodded in acknowledgement before making his exit.

The other customers on the terrace stared at her warily, but honestly, she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad for them even when the owner immediately came out to ask if she was okay and if the scary surgeon had said anything bad to her. At least something interesting was happening.

❦

Alex had a love-hate relationship with heights.

She inevitably got queasy when she was somewhere high up that didn’t have barriers or anything she could hold onto, but that didn’t stop her from going up there, anyway. It was like a very stupid magnetic pull that one day would end with her skull split open.

(It was the wind and the view. She knew that. It was also one of the few options she had to feel taller than most people.

But mostly the wind.)

The stone arch at the entrance of the town that gave Porta Bella its name was surrounded by the remains of a stone wall. First century, she guessed by the roughness of the stone blocks and the bit of mortar she scraped from between when she inspected it for the first time. It was easily over two meters, and only because the topmost part had fallen off. The blocks that hadn’t been taken away for use in newer constructions were still next to the wall, inviting anyone who’d dare to step on them to use them to climb.

She knew she wasn’t the only idiot who had felt the temptation, because the stone was worn from use. She’d also seen kids running at the top of the wall and no one had tried to stop them, and there were worse ways to channel all the nervous energy she had from reading that newspaper article.

She wasn’t a very proficient climber, but the blocks were positioned in such a way that getting to the top was easy as pie. No doubts someone had moved them for that exact purpose. When she was high enough, she threw a leg over the wall, then the other one, and sat facing the harbor.

The wind was nice up there.

She wouldn’t stand on the wall for all the money in the world and getting down was going to be an ordeal, but that was a problem for the Alex of the future.

That day had woken up to four ships in the harbor, counting the pirates’ submarine. Two would go away at the end of the week. The third was leaving that night. No vessels on the horizon.

She sighed. If the pirates were on an adventure, they sure had the shittiest of lucks docking only in the most boring islands the sea could offer.

With nothing better to do at the moment, and trying to delay as much as possible the moment she’d regret climbing that high, she moved towards the shadow of the arch without lifting her butt from the stone and rested her back against it.

She was at a loss. Sailing further away from the Sabaody Archipelago was counterproductive, but so was staying in the same island for too long, since she had no means of protecting herself if something happened. Then again, if she ended up broke before she got to Sabaody, she’d have to stay in whatever island she was to earn money to keep travelling.

All the options sucked. Maybe she needed to sleep on it to see what the lesser evil was. She had, after all, a few days to make a decision.

She looked at the sea, tinted dark green by her sunglasses, in what she assumed was Sabaody’s direction. So close, yet so far away. The skies were clear and the water calm, and though there weren’t any sailors to be found in the harbor, she could see the shadow of a couple of fishing boats in the distance. Wasn’t there a song that went like that? I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time…

She hummed, looking at nowhere in particular and letting her thoughts drift with the waves.

❦

She knew better than to cut through the lawless areas alone when it was getting late, so she had no one else to fault when she split from her group of classmates after spending their free day in Sabaody Park. It was only her and her stupid pride that didn’t allow her to admit that she didn’t think this was a great idea and that she didn’t want to go back to her room alone.

She broke into a sprint as soon as she heard the smallest rustle behind her, and that advantage proved to be essential, because someone started chasing after her. It sounded like more than one person, but she didn’t have time to look or tell how many sets of footsteps were behind her – she just ran like her life depended on it in the direction of the bridge that connected to the next grove, hoping that there would be other people there, and then—

—then she saw an open bar, a lone building in an even lonelier grove.

She rushed inside it, gasping for air so hard that she couldn’t speak, no matter how much she tried to explain to the bartender why she had barged in like that.

It wasn’t necessary.

“Don’t worry, dear, they’ve been hanging around these parts for a while,” she said, leading her to a chair with a gentle hair. “You’re safe here.” Her warm black eyes turned to someone else, and though Alex had trouble focusing on what was going on, she saw an old man with long white hair. “Why don’t you go take out the trash, Ray? They’ve driven off my clientele enough.”

“Sure,” the man replied, getting up from his stool and going outside.

Alex thought it was a horrible idea to send an old man to fight off a kidnapping crew, but that was because she didn’t know these people yet.

“Don’t worry about him. Here,” the woman gave her a glass of water. “Name’s Shakky. Rest all you need.”

❦

Footsteps approached. She shut up immediately.

“I like that song.”

Singing helped when she had too much anxious energy. It was probably related to breathing control. She had stopped anxiety attacks in the making like that sometimes.

It didn’t help at all when someone had been listening in and she hadn’t noticed.

“Oh. Thanks. Um, hi.”

“Hi,” Bepo said smiling. “I heard from Captain you were here.”

Even though she was sitting on top of the wall, Bepo’s head went past it. If he stood on his tiptoes, he could have rested his head on her legs. On one hand, it was a little aggravating that she had to climb so high up only to be marginally taller than him. On the other, Alex was filled with the urge to scratch his ears.

“Yeah, I’m stuck waiting for a ship,” she told him. “Ideally, you wouldn’t have found me here.”

“Oh? Where are you going?”

“Sabaody.”

“Isn’t that very close? How come you haven’t found a ship?”

“There’s kidnapping crews infesting the waters. You know what those are?”

“Uh… isn’t it in the name?”

Alex blinked. “Right. Don’t mind me.”

He fell into thought for a few seconds. “Why are they kidnapping people?”

“To sell. They get auctioned in the archipelago.”

Bepo frowned. “I see.”

“Hey, don’t worry,” she said, smiling for his sake. “Nothing’s going to happen to your crew. You’re strong.”

He beamed with pride. “Yeah, we are! We’ve been training for years to come here!”

Alex mirrored his expression without thinking. “Your Captain said you’ve been friends since you were kids. Did you—”

“Bepo!” Someone called out. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, sorry!” Bepo said, turning around to see the newcomer. “I was catching up…”

A woman with curly hair and a severe expression walked up to them, hands on her hips, and she looked a little confused when she laid eyes on Alex. She was struggling to place her. “Have we seen each other…?”

“On passing. I’m the Duster Town dumbass that opened the library for your Captain.”

“Oh, yeah, now that you mention it—” The confusion was back. “Isn’t this place a little too far from there?”

“I’m running away from justice.” She didn’t offer further explanation.

Bepo didn’t need it. “So are we!”

A barely contained laugh made it past the woman’s lips. “Oh well, if you’re a fellow criminal…” She extended a hand towards Alex. “Name’s Ikkaku. What did you do, keep too many books past the return date?”

“I wish.” She shook her hand. “Alex.”

“So that’s your name?” Bepo asked.

She turned her attention towards the bear. “I never told you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Wow, I am rude,” she said to herself. “Anyway, hope you’re ready to take it easy, because you have five long days ahead of you.”

Ikkaku groaned. “I don’t mind, but some of the guys get so jittery after a couple days on land. I don’t suppose there’s a very active nightlife in this place?”

“Actually, there are two taverns in the entire town.”

“Oh, that sounds like something to keep ‘em busy.”

“I don’t think you want to go to one of them, though.” She wondered if the captain was going to pass the message or they would come to regret their choices. “There’s also an abandoned Marine outpost right outside of town, if they don’t want to be drunk 24/7.”

“Might be worth checking out, but I’m pretty sure they’ll take the ale.”

“Can’t blame them.” She was tempted to drown her sorrows in alcohol, and she barely ever drank.

She took a look around the desolate harbor, the small houses and the half-fallen wall with a disappointed look. “Well…” she began, “Bepo, we need you for the crates. He’s been waiting and he’s cranky enough already after—”

“Ah! Sorry!” He said, bowing at her and looking more upset than the comment would suggest. Maybe they didn’t treat him as well in the sub as she had assumed. When he turned to Alex, he also bowed repeatedly. “I’m really sorry, but I need to go!”

“Sure, no problem!” she said, making an effort to sound lively. She felt so fake when she did that. So customer servicey. “See you!”

As the pirates left, she tried to look at them in a different light. While it wasn’t too difficult to believe they would be mistreating the mink of the crew, even if they hadn’t been unkind while she was watching. He seemed shy. Maybe that was all there was to it? But the reaction seemed a little extreme. She would pay closer attention from then on.

❦

Her privileged observation point let Alex see a lot of things that day. She saw more of the crew coming and going, though they didn’t seem to recognize her, she watched one of the docked ships depart, and she met a cat that tried to get food from her, but after a good back scratch realized she didn’t have anything else to offer and walked away, leaving a lonesome Alex staring at the hand she’d used to pet it, wondering how many parasites it had come in contact with.

She immediately went back to the inn to wash her hands and get dinner.

The rest of the evening was spent looking at her Poneglyph folder and her mostly blank notebook. She had carried with her the transcript of the stone and copied some documentation from the library that could prove useful in deciphering it, but she wasn’t making any headway yet. Very little was known about the ancient language, even less was published, and she wasn’t a cryptographer. So far, she had identified what she thought were punctuation signs separating sentences and one of the names in the text.

In her years working in Harlun, she had seen centuries old coins from a currency before belis, and some of them had the legend around the rim written in different languages. Meaning, she knew how to write the name of the island in that ancient language. That was about it. She had a feeling the script wasn’t pure phonetic, either, and that wasn’t something she could attempt to tackle without cross-referencing.

Porta Bella was a nice place to spend a short vacation, sure, but it was impossible to find any books that might help. She had tried. The local bookstore only carried best sellers, and she would have bought that vampire novel that was getting so popular if money wasn’t so tight and she had space in her bag, but as things were, she had to fight frustration and boredom alone.

She had to face the fact that she wasn’t going to do anything useful that night, either. She took off her reading glasses, thinking that trying to sleep sounded like the best idea. Maybe next morning she’d finally have some good luck and find a ship that wouldn’t carry her too far from the Red Line.

❦

Too early for words, and wearing a flannel shirt as a jacket because it had gotten windy, she strode out of the inn with her paper cup and a new challenge. She had thought herself immune to monotony before this, but she had clearly overestimated her brain’s capability to get distracted by anything.

Instead of walking to the docks following the main road, like every morning, she made for the wall again. Stepping on the fallen rock, she reached up with her left hand to the top of the wall and placed the paper cup as far as she could from her, and then she climbed up like the previous day. Well, she tried to, because for some reason early in the morning she didn’t have a lot of hand strength, and she felt a stabbing pain in one of her knees when she stretched her leg to reach the wall.

It took two tries and the fear of having lost her first morning tea, but she got where she wanted.

Cross-legged, she sat on the wall and took sips of her drink while inspecting the docks. No new ships in sight. That time there was someone walking on one of the submarine’s decks, but she couldn’t make out their face, and she didn’t know most of the crew anyway.

The wind had driven all the clouds away, and the dark shadow on the horizon reminded her of how close she had been to getting to the New World before she had to reconsider the entire strategy.

She was about to sigh, but she sensed someone near her vicinity even before she heard the crunch of gravel, so she kept it to herself and looked over her shoulder.

That silly hat was becoming a familiar sight. Trafalgar Law looked up at her from a reasonable distance, having just noticed her. Please don’t get any closer, please—

He changed course and went towards Alex, who didn’t bother to hide how little she appreciated the company less than an hour after waking up.

“Morning walk?” she asked, or grunted, depending on who you asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, annoyingly awake. “What are you doing there?”

“Wasting time.”

Someone with a little more tact, or at least who cared about having it, would have taken a hint and left, but this was not the case. “I want to hear more about Sabaody.”

Oh, she wasn’t nearly awake enough for this, but she made an effort to not be outright rude. “Okay,” she relented. “But you ask me questions, I don’t want to think.”

That was good enough for him, it seemed. With irritating ease, and without having to step on the fallen stone, he boosted himself up against the wall and climbed it in a matter of seconds.

Something caught his attention when he looked up, and he stood up on the stone like the concepts of acrophobia and losing one’s balance were but a faraway ping in his radar. Alex’s mood was souring by the second, granted, a likely thing to happen at that hour. It wasn’t personal.

“Is that…?”

She turned to look in the same direction he was.

“Yeah. Red Line.”

“I didn’t think it was so close.”

“It’s a few days away still. It’s just that big.” She thought of the times she’d been at the base. It was impossible to see the top from its bottom. And, considering what lay up there, perhaps it was for the better. “You saw it from the other side, I guess?” North Blue was adjacent to the New World. In a sense, both of them were from the same side of the Line. How weird to think that they had anything in common.

“Yeah. We entered the Grand Line through Reverse Mountain.”

Expected, but incomprehensible to her unless he had a death wish. “Ships sink there every day. What do you want so bad that you’d risk that?”

“Wasn’t I the one asking the questions?” he shot back.

She gave him a deadpan look, then looked at the cup between her hands. It wasn’t doing much to drive away the numbness of her fingers. How many people had gone out to sea since the Great Age of Piracy began and failed because they bit more than they could chew? And they weren’t the only ones dying. For every decent man that got a ship and called himself a captain, there were ten whose only interest was pillaging villages and getting rich. Was that massive chain reaction what Gold Roger had intended with its final speech? Had it been a final fuck you to world order, or was there something else behind it?

She had contradicting thoughts about it. Roger’s last words had unarguably made the world worse, but…

Well.

The guy had been a badass. Even she wasn’t immune to seeing that. With every new pirate crew that sailed to Reverse Mountain to test its fortune, he kept proving how much bigger than life he had been. Twenty years down the line, he had become as much of a legend as the tales of gods from islands in the sky. The kind of legacy a regular person only dreams of having.

He said, I will never die.

He had been more right than he knew.

She looked at Trafalgar with renewed curiosity. “Are you trying to become Pirate King too?”

He didn’t give a clear answer, despite how easy of a question it was. “What if I am?”

It wasn’t a no. A straight yes would get many pirates laughed out of town even in a place like the Grand Line. There wasn’t a lot of room for romantic ideas of piracy when civilians lived in fear of black flags showing up one day at the port and taking away everything they had.

“Just curious.” She wasn’t feeling articulate enough to explain where she was going to herself, much less him. “Nothing wrong with dreaming big.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt like she had called herself out. Where was she going? After Sabaody, after crossing the Red Line, after getting to her hometown? Those were only checkpoints. But where was her purpose? Inside the bag she had in her room at the inn, or somewhere else?

An awkward silence stretched along with the horizon. For some reason, he decided not to press her for answers and sat down. A small mercy for Alex’s neck.

“After the Log Pose sets, it will point to Fishman Island. How do we get to Sabaody first?”

It was a relief to be able to give an answer she didn’t have to think about. “It should be visible when you’re close enough to the Red Line. It looks like a random cluster of trees popped up in the middle of the ocean.”

“That’s it? Is it safe to dock anywhere?”

“Mostly. The archipelago is made up of 80 groves. 60 to 69 house a Marine garrison, and that’s where the ferries to Marineford and Mary Geoise leave from, so you don’t want to be there. Other than that…” She had to strain to remember the range of numbers. “20 to 29 is the only lawless area open to sea, so you know Marines won’t go there, but since no one’s keeping watch, the competition might try to sabotage you. I don’t know, I never had to worry about that sort of thing.”

“I’m not afraid of other crews,” he said with that devil may care attitude that got pirates killed left and right. “We haven’t come this far without knowing how to defend our ship.”

She wasn’t going to argue his point. “I’m just saying what I know. You do you.” But she took note to keep her opinions to herself, lest he had the urge to express how full of himself he was again.

He looked at her like he was trying to figure out what sort of hidden meaning her noncommittal response held, but little did he know that behind the sleepy façade her prevailing thought was it’s too early for this shit.

“You said you spent some time in the archipelago.” It wasn’t worded like a question, but it was a way to probe for info. She supposed that she would have wanted to know the credentials of her sources, had she been in his position.

She hummed. “I lived there a few years.”

Taking a sip from the cup, she returned her attention towards the outline in the horizon. It had been a constant part of the scenery back then, always peeking out from behind the trees and buildings of the groves closest to the shore. A grim reminder, on one hand, of those who lived above the peasants, but at the same time, Sabaody had been… fun. There was always something happening. Moderately dangerous, but always entertaining. She had forgotten how that felt after the years of routine in Duster Town.

A question brought her out of her thoughts. “Are you from this area?”

“Oh, no,” she said, surprised that he had even entertained the idea. “No, I got a scholarship to study in one of the World Government’s academies. I’m from the other side of the Red Line.”

“From the New World?” He said with surprise, and mulled over this new piece of information until it fit satisfactorily in whatever picture of her he had constructed in his mind. “So that’s where the accent’s from.”

It was unexpected comment after unexpected comment. “Excuse me?” she replied in an incredulous tone. “You are the one with a heavy accent.”

Now it was him who got caught off guard. “That’s not true,” he retorted. He looked like he was trying to determine if she was pulling his leg.

“Yes it is,” she insisted. “Everybody has an accent. You and your crew have that typical northern one that sounds like you’re about to shank the person you’re saying hello to.”

For a moment, she thought he had offended him to the point of silence. Just for a moment, because he didn’t take long to counter with, “You sound like you’re trying to whisper through a megaphone.”

She snorted with laughter as soon as the words sunk in. It was true that she spoke in a low voice most of the time. “If that isn’t the best description of Dressrosan I’ve heard—”

She felt an immediate change in atmosphere, like an electric current shooting through the air, and shut up as a precaution.

Trafalgar has tensed up all of a sudden and was staring at her like she had grown a second head, like she was trying to set her on fire with a glare, or both. “What did you say?”

She found herself tensing up in return, even though she didn’t know what she had done. But when a dangerous guy scowled at you like that, survival instincts kicked in. Goodbye sleepiness, and welcome life danger. “Um… Dressrosan?” She eyed him warily. “My mother tongue?”

His eyes grew wider, but other than that, his expression didn’t change much. “You’re from Dressrosa?”

She suddenly understood. It wasn’t the first time she got odd reactions when she said where she was from, but it had been a while. “Oh, right.” She sighed. “You’ve heard of the whole Doflamingo thing.”

Or… maybe she was wrong. He seemed a little out of it, like he was looking past her at… who knew what was in his head.

After a few seconds without a reply, she deemed it safe to speak. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“…No. I was just surprised.” After that, he seemed to go back to normal, though his voice sounded a little strained. He was still tense. “It’s a long way there.”

Suspicious. Did he know someone from there? “It’s not so much the distance as having the Red Line in the way. Getting permission to cross it takes time.” And she figured that she had run out of it.

“How’s the country?” He asked in a way that tried to sound casual, and maybe, maybe would have worked if he hadn’t made clear already that he had a particular interest in it. “Being ruled by pirates and all.”

She made a disgruntled sound. She had signed up to answer questions about the Sabaody Archipelago, not Dressrosa. There was a reason why she hadn’t been home in ages. “It’s doing fine. Better than fine, in fact. Economy is booming. People are happy.” She delivered each sentence in a quick, clipped tone. “It pisses me off.”

“Why?”

Because she always had to be the odd one out, she thought. And this guy wasn’t getting the message that she didn’t want to talk about it. “Doflamingo doesn’t deserve that kind of credit. He and his crew should go back to the hole they crawled out of.”

He huffed. “North Blue’s had enough of him already.”

Animosity was dripping from his words, and that made her feel a little less displeased and a lot more interested in what he had to say. He could’ve seen firsthand the repercussions of Doflamingo’s actions there.

“That’s true.” She didn’t know much about the specifics, but there was a reason the North Blue was considered the most dangerous out of the four cardinal seas. “I guess he did a number there before he moved onto the Grand Line.”

“You don’t sound very fond of him either.”

Look at that, a flat out admission of having feelings about someone.

“He’s scum,” she said with more venom than she had meant to. “He dethroned the king only to take over himself, reinstated gladiator fights to death, and he has a trafficking empire. The Human Auctioning House in Sabaody displays his Jolly Roger openly. But he’s a Warlord. As long as money keeps flowing and the Celestial Dragons can buy new pets, nobody seems to care.”

“And you do? You say your country’s doing well.”

She didn’t know whether to reply honestly or not. He was trying to dig deeper than she was comfortable with answering, but she was on a roll already. “Dressrosa used to be a very poor country. I’m not blaming the people who have a better life now, but I don’t think you can build anything stable from corruption. Someone will topple Doflamingo one day, and the country will go down with him.” Her tone was increasingly becoming more determined. “And when the time comes, I hope they get rid of kings once and for all.”

“You lost me at that last part.”

“Monarchy is an obsolete form of government. How’s the world going to get rid of the Celestial Dragons if we can’t even get rid of the pests at home?”

He stared at her blankly, and that was when she realized she had talked too much and looked away from him. Ah, to be a life form capable of fusing with granite and dying in the spot…

She heard a short, muffled laugh, and glanced at him. Great, a pirate making fun of her was exactly what she needed to start her day.

“Can’t say I took you for an anarchist.” He was smirking.

“What part of ‘fuck the government’ was unclear?” she replied, still avoiding to look at him. “The more time you spend near Mary Geoise, the more you realize everything has to burn down. Then there are the Marines.” A lost cause. “It’s even their combined fault that I’m stuck here.”

“What do you mean?” He sounded relaxed again. It was like he hadn’t been acting like a weirdo through the entire conversation about Dressrosa. “Aren’t you just waiting for a ship?”

She took a long breath in preparation to give the same explanation she’d been getting every time she spoke to a newly arrived sailor. “Kidnapping crews are infesting the waters ahead. Normal ships don’t want to go near Sabaody because there’s going to be a human auction next week. Marines aren’t helping because the government benefits from the slave trade, and I assume the Enies Lobby debacle has hit them hard. I already told Bepo you don’t have to worry about it, though. They only attack pirates if they think they’re weaklings.” And trying to change the subject to something that didn’t force her to wallow in her misery, she asked, “How much was it already, Mr. Supernova?”

He looked awfully satisfied with his title. “It’s not Trafalgar anymore?”

“I’ve always liked stars.” And speaking of Bepo, she remembered something from their conversation the day before. “By the way, I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m—”

“Bepo told me. I like Librarian-ya better.”

She had an urge to fling what was left of her tea at him, but she held back at the expense of looking away and letting a strained smile show. Not worth the loss of beverage. It wasn’t going to stop him from being an early morning smartass.

The silence that ensued this time didn’t feel as uncomfortable as before, but that bar was so low, it might as well have been underground.

#degrees of separation #tried to post this draft from mobile and the formatting imploded #why is tumblr so

[today-only-happens-once]

With Great Power - Chapter 4

Title: With Great Power – Chapter 4

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | AO3

Fic summary: Thomas Sanders is just a regular social media personality. But when he gets bit by a spider during filming one of his YouTube videos, his whole life is about to turn upside down—whether he (or the aspects of his personality) want it to or not. Platonic LAMP/CALM + Character!Thomas. Spider-Man AU.

Chapter Word Count: 3377

Chapter warnings: mention of death, panic attack, lying, cursing, nausea, dizziness, risky and unsafe behavior (and encouragement of it)

A/N: Hi hello it’s been too long. But the Big Deal Real Life Time Sucking Thing has been turned in and hopefully I will have some more free time on my hands. ^u^ This chapter had some surprises for me as a writer, so I hope you find it enjoyable! Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Tags: @captain-loki-xavier, @human-dictionary @the-peculiar-bi-tch @mining-pup @band-be-boss-blog @asexual-trashbag @samathekittycat @why-should-i-tell-youu2 @theobsessor1 @always3charcoaltea @changeling-ash @logical-princey @crimsonshadow323 @flickering-raven @smokeyrutilequartz @dontbugmeimantisocial @soijusthavetoask @marvelfangeek09 @princelogical @creativenostalgiastuff @vigilantvirgil

…

Later that night, Thomas lays on his bed in the dark and stares up at the flat ceiling of his bedroom. Dodie’s newest EP floats through the air softly—he’d turned it on with the perhaps hypocritical hope that listening to his friend’s music would help him feel better about avoiding, well… his friends.

Once the news started showing stills of him in his scarf and sweatshirt—most of them mercifully blurry—with the anchors musing about who the stranger may be, Thomas had switched off the TV. He really wished they’d focus more on the kid, or even the guys that tried to take him. Anything but their apparent crusade to identify “Spider-Man”.

Turning off the TV, unfortunately, did very little to assuage the churning in his stomach. The events of the day flashed through his mind in broken fragments. The woman crying out for her kid, the wide and fearful eyes magnified by the glasses on the kid’s nose looking at him through the rear windshield, the snarl of contempt from the driver of the vehicle…

Thomas sighs and scrubs a hand across his eyes. The alarm clock on the nightstand politely informs him that it’s nearly 2 in the morning. He wonders bitterly if there is anything more frustrating than being utterly exhausted and still unable to sleep. His body feels like lead but his mind is still running through the events of the day like a highlight reel.

“This isn’t working,” he mutters aloud to himself. He takes a breath as if it will ease the churning in his stomach. Closing his eyes, he reaches through his mind with the probing thought.

Virge?

A sigh that isn’t exactly Thomas’s own echoes in his head. Yeah, Thomas, comes Virgil’s voice, sounding unsurprised. One sec.

The host opens his eyes again and blinks at the ceiling that he’d been stuck to just earlier this morning. Was that really just this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago. Dodie’s “Monster” gives way to “Arms Unfolding” but it’s little comfort alone in the dark. A moment later, Thomas hears the familiar whoosh and glances over to see Virgil standing beside his bed. His hood is pulled up over his purple hair and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his patched hoodie.

It’s hard to see his eyes in the dark under the hood and shaggy bangs, but from the slight duck to his head, Thomas knows he’s avoiding his gaze.

The internet personality sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m getting the feeling that you need to talk.”

Virgil lifts a noncommittal shoulder. “Logan already tried.” He nudges sock-clad feet against the Virgil 2.0 sweatshirt in a heap on the floor. Tension is etched carefully into every crevice of Virgil; evident, even in the dark.

Thomas looks at him patiently, shifting over slightly to make room. “Today was a lot.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Virgil snaps. His gaze flickers up to the vacated space on the bed. He sits gingerly on the very edge of it, as if he’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“So talk to me.”

Another long pause. It’s filled only with the soft, melodic sound of Dodie’s voice and the background whir of the apartment’s AC unit. The glow of the alarm clock’s red numbers does little in the way of light, and the darkness of the room so late at night seems to only amplify the silence between them. It stretches. For a moment, Thomas thinks Virgil isn’t going to say anything.

Then: “We could have actually, really died today.” Virgil’s words ring crystal clear and heavy in the dark. With it comes a tightening in Thomas’s chest. Virgil continues, the double vocalization leaking into his words. Amplifying them. “And don’t come at me with that ‘cognitive distortions’ crap. Not this time, Thomas. You know I’m right.”

Thomas can feel his heartbeat picking up in his chest and he takes in a deep breath through his nose. He holds it for a second, then releases it slowly through his mouth. He sees Virgil close his eyes as Thomas does it again. Virgil nods a silent thanks.

“But we didn’t,” Thomas replies softly as he feels the wave of panic brought on by that initial realization abates a little.

Virgil scoffs. “That’s kind of beside the point. We were in way over our heads.”

“But it turned out okay in the end.”

“Because we got lucky!” Virgil meets Thomas’s gaze for the first time tonight, his dark eyes cutting sharply through the space between them. “In fact, we got lucky a lot today. Lucky that we stuck to the car. Lucky that we caught the kid when he was about to faceplant into pavement going 45 miles per hour. Lucky that we got off the car when we needed to, that the driver didn’t have a gun or something, that nobody got a decent picture of you. The list goes on!”

Thomas is quiet for a moment, looking at Virgil carefully. At the tight clench to his jaw, the harsh glower from under his bangs, the aggression sketched into the edge of his stare. Thomas softens a little. “You’re right,” he says, and Virgil blinks at him, disarmed at the agreement. “We dove headfirst into a fight that wasn’t really ours in the first place.”

Virgil nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“So…Why?” Thomas tilts his head curiously as he asks.

Virgil arches an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

The host sits up a little more, speaking as his thoughts come to him in a slow progression of understanding. “I mean… you’re my fight or flight, right? You said so yourself.”

Virgil rubs the back of his neck and averts his gaze again, favoring instead to focus on a picture of some of Thomas’s friends he’d had framed on his nightstand. “Right. I… I guess.”

Thomas is watching him closely as the thoughts begin to click into place. “If the fight wasn’t ours in the first place, if we were in way over our head, if the odds were most likely against us… why did you choose fight, Virgil?”

Virgil looks startled for a moment. “I…” the thought is left unfinished.

He huffs a breath and shoves a hand back through his hair. It knocks the hood off his head. Virgil doesn’t seem to notice or has decided he doesn’t care. Thomas doesn’t press him any further. Even in the dark, he can see the flicker of his eyes as he thinks back to that split-second decision.

“Because they were in danger,” Virgil says quietly. Simply. His eyes are abruptly wide. Afraid. “I didn’t think. They were danger, and I just… threw us headfirst into a fight we could have lost.” Thomas feels his chest seize suddenly, alarm surging up his throat as Virgil’s voice takes on a sudden and intense distortion. “You must hate me.”

“Whoa, whoa. No.” His breathing is getting faster. Thomas’s hands fist around the blanket across his lap as if it will ground him. “Virgil, you gotta—” His throat closes up with panic.

“I know! I know. I’m sorry, I—in for four seconds, Thomas.”

Thomas screws his eyes shut and focuses on his breathing. In through the nose for four seconds, hold for seven seconds, out through the mouth for eight. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat a fourth time. He can hear Virgil breathing slowly with him.

“I don’t hate you,” Thomas says after a few minutes, when he’s felt his heart slowing back down and his throat doesn’t feel as tight. “I’m… actually really proud of you.”

Virgil’s eyes flit back up to Thomas’s. “Yeah?” The distortion is gone, but Virgil sounds smaller somehow.

Thomas smiles faintly. “Yeah. I mean… us running towards danger to help someone else instead of away from it? I’ve always wanted to think that I’d be that kind of person.” He nudges Virgil’s shoulder with his foot. “Now I know I am.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks for the briefest moment, then it disappears. He looks away. “I’m supposed to protect you, Thomas,” he says. “Running you straight into a fight isn’t exactly keeping you from harm. It’s pretty much exactly the opposite of that.”

“I don’t know about that,” Thomas says gently, thinking back through moments of the fight in the parking lot. His muscles ache slightly from the memory, but something more important sticks out. “I seem to remember a voice sounding an awful lot like yours telling me to duck before I would’ve taken a fist to the face.”

Virgil snorts. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck and glances at Thomas. He makes a face. “Honestly that was a little weird, right?”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t even know what made me yell that at you. I just had this sudden, intense feeling that you needed to duck. I didn’t know why.” He shakes his head and shrugs. “It was weird. But I’m kinda glad for it. A bloody nose isn’t exactly a becoming look on you.”

“Huh.” Thomas turns Virgil’s words over in his head for a moment. “Do you think it’s related to all the other, um… weird stuff?”

Virgil looks at him. “I don’t know. It might be?” He sighs. “Though ‘all the other weird stuff’ also hasn’t been helping with the whole…” He waves a hand vaguely.

Thomas huffs a suddenly exhausted laugh, not needing any further explanation from his Anxious Side. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I get what you mean. We don’t know what’s happened to me, or… even what I’m able to do. And that’s…”

“Unsettling,” Virgil finishes for him. Thomas nods.

Distantly, the internet personality hears a car roll by on wet pavement down the street outside of his apartment. His eyes drift around the room, lingering on the corner of his room by the closet. The same place he’d managed to get himself stuck to the ceiling. Maybe figuring some way to have better control—to not stick to walls and ceilings unless he wanted to, like when he stuck to the car—and exploring these new… abilities (powers? Thomas doesn’t know what to call them) would help.  

“Maybe tomorrow,” Thomas says carefully, “we can go… experiment a little. In a controlled environment.”

Virgil’s lips quirk up into a smile. “You sound like Logan.”

Thomas laughs and runs a hand down his face. “Yeah. It’s probably his idea. But what do you think?”

Virgil nods once. “I think it’s a good one.”

“Good.” He pauses as Virgil pushes up from his position on the bed. “Good night, Virgil.”

The Anxious Side gives him a small two-fingered salute as he sinks out. “G’night, Thomas.”

…

Thomas hits the cement floor hard and grimaces at the jarring impact, his shoulder taking the brunt of it. He groans and coughs a little before rolling to his feet. He pushes sweaty bangs out of his eyes and squints up at the window at the very top of the warehouse wall. Dusty, late afternoon sunlight filters through the small window and the piles of shipping containers cast long, dark shadows in the dimly lit building.

Thomas had found the warehouse on the outskirts of Gainesville the morning after his talk with Virgil, and he’d been coming here every day for almost a week. Two days ago, he’d tweeted out that he was feeling under the weather—and texted Joan and Camden about it—and tried to ignore just how much his stomach twisted uncomfortably with the knowledge that he was now lying to his fanbase as much as he was lying to his friends.

He’d been trying not to think about it.

“On a scale from 1 to 10,” Logan’s measured voice cuts into his thoughts, “how would you rate the effect of that impact on your body’s physical capabilities?”

“All right, Baymax,” Roman quips from where he’s leaned against a shipping container. “You could just ask him if he’s hurt, like a normal person.”

Thomas rolls his shoulder a couple of times, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “About the same as every other time I’ve crash-landed this week,” he says lightly. “So a little winded, but nothing that bad.”

Logan quirks an eyebrow from where he stands a few feet away, then jots something down on a clipboard. “Fascinating.”

Virgil sits perched on the top of an unmarked container, chewing on his thumbnail. “We definitely should have broken something that time.”

Patton—who is sitting beside him, his feet kicking back and forth slightly against the container—looks at Thomas worriedly. “You okay, kiddo? That one looked like it hurt.”

Thomas frowns, then rolls his shoulder slowly one more time. Just to be sure. “Yeah, actually.”

“Well,” Logan says, studying the clipboard in his hands. “That just about confirms it. We can include a notable increase in your physical durability on our list of physiological changes your body has undergone as a result of recent catalytic events.”

“Thomas, you’re virtually indestructible.”

“No,” Logan corrects Roman hastily, waving a pen in the Creative Side’s direction. “That would be hyperbole. However, you have certainly demonstrated an unnatural ability to withstand impact that would, under normal circumstances, severely injure any other human.”

Thomas grabs his water bottle from where he’d set it down by Roman’s feet. He nods his understanding, glancing around the warehouse. Truthfully, it was pretty much the perfect place for what he was doing. As far as Thomas could tell, the warehouse was mostly abandoned. Shipping containers were empty, but they provided a number of walls of various heights for Thomas to use for practice. And, perhaps most importantly, there wasn’t a soul around except for himself.

“It’s probably a good thing,” Virgil quips in reference to Logan’s comment, “given how many times you’ve faceplanted into concrete this week.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender at the disapproving look Patton throws at him.

Thomas acknowledges the comment with a brief glance before he surveys the warehouse again. They’d realized his strength level had markedly increased on day 1. Before things had started to change, Thomas couldn’t even do a pull up. Now? Now he could pull himself up onto a ledge with one arm. In fact, he lifted one of the warehouse boxes—weighing several tons, by Logan’s best estimate—like it was a slightly awkward desk.

“Thomas,” Logan interrupts, “what would you say is your fatigue level?”

Stamina was another thing that Logan had been keeping a close eye on. Usually, Thomas could manage a 2 mile run before he’d start to feel the fatigue. But he’d been working out—experimenting? Training? Honestly he didn’t know what to call it—for nearly eight hours each day. And sure, he’d be tired at the end, but there was still a marked difference in Thomas’s stamina level.

“I’m good,” Thomas tells him honestly. “Starting to feel it a bit, but I want to keep going.”

The one thing that continued to be a problem for him, really, was this whole “sticking/not sticking” thing. He was getting better as the days passed—practice makes perfect, as Patton kept telling him—but it wasn’t coming as naturally as the stamina or the strength. He kept falling or slipping. Again and again and again.

Logan hums in thought and writes down something else. “As you wish.”

Thomas’s gaze zeroes in on a stack of shipping containers a few yards away. He bounces on his feet a few times, stretching his neck. He flexes his fingers. His shoulders tense. He breathes in. Out.

He takes off sprinting.

Thomas kicks off the ground as he rushes up to the tower of containers, his hands finding unnatural purchase against their smooth walls. He kicks his feet up against it, grinning a bit to himself as they stick. He huffs a breath.

He climbs quickly as if it’s a ladder—hand, foot, hand, foot—and reaches up for the edge of the top container. He glances down and immediately wishes he hadn’t. At the same time that he realizes just how high up he really is, Thomas feels his feet slip. His hands let go. The ground rushes up to meet him very suddenly.

The wind leaves Thomas’s lungs. He wheezes, coughing in a desperate attempt to get air back. He lays there for a moment, waiting for the world around him to stop spinning. The lighting fixtures set up into the scaffolding of the warehouse ceiling turn briefly into double and triple images. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the high-pitched ringing in his ears to abate.

When he opens his eyes again after a long moment, he sees Roman standing above him. The Creative Side offers a hand, and Thomas accepts it as Roman helps him up to his feet.

“What happened?” Roman asks, walking back with him. “You were almost there.”

Thomas shakes his head without answering. He doesn’t know.

Wordlessly, Thomas turns on his heels once they get back to the starting point and faces the tower of shipping containers again. He breathes. He tenses. His weight shifts forward to the balls of his feet. He takes off running again.

Thomas scales the side of it just like he had before, getting about three quarters of the way up before his hands slip, his feet suddenly letting go. He plummets to the floor again.

“Thomas,” Logan says quietly when the host manages to push back up to his feet and stalk back towards the starting point again.

“He has to do this, Logan,” Roman says with a certain edge to his voice. “It’s not like it’s that hard!”

“Maybe he can’t,” Virgil quips.

“He has to.” Roman’s voice is a little higher than Thomas is used to hearing it. Something about it only spurs him on.

“Roman—” Patton tries, but Thomas doesn’t hear what his Morality is saying as he takes off at a dead run for the stack of shipping containers again.

This time, he feels his fingertips brush the very edge of the top container. Then he slips.

Thomas yelps in surprise, reaching blindly. One hand makes contact with the side of the containers as he slides down, and he feels a sharp pull in his shoulder as the hand sticks, abruptly stopping his fall. He grits his teeth, reaching his other hand up. The first hand lets go before he’s ready, and Thomas falls clumsily the rest of the way.

He lands awkwardly on his feet, the harsh impact bringing him to his knees. It sends a jolt of pain shooting up his body. Thomas falls forward onto his hands and knees, his eyes stinging. He takes a second to catch his breath.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Patton says from a distance, uncharacteristically firm. Thomas can hear a set of footsteps behind him, getting closer.

“Y-Yeah,” comes Roman’s voice, distant. It sounds tight and pained. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna—” A grunt. “I’m gonna go lay down.”

The footsteps are right behind him now. Thomas hears Logan’s voice speak up from behind him, unusually gentle for the Logical Side. “Breathe, Thomas.”

Perhaps ironically, Thomas doesn’t have the breath to respond. He nods, hating the way his arms feel suddenly like jelly. His exhale is shaky. He bows his head and tries to focus on catching his breath. The concrete is cold and grounding, and Thomas leans so that his forearms and forehead are against the floor. It helps with the lingering dizziness.

After a moment, Thomas pushes himself up so that he’s just kneeling on the floor. Logan is standing in front of him now. The clipboard is gone. The internet personality glances around the warehouse and notices that Roman is nowhere to be seen. Patton stands a few steps behind Thomas, his eyes bright and worried. Virgil stands a few feet back. There’s something unreadable about his expression.

“Are you… all right?” Logan asks.

Thomas takes a deep, slow breath. It doesn’t shake as much. “Yeah,” he says unconvincingly. He pushes himself to his feet.

“It’ll come, kiddo,” Patton says as Thomas brushes past him.

Thomas doesn’t answer as he walks out of the warehouse.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #platonic lamp/calm #sanders sides spiderman au #spider-man au #with great power fic #tw cursing #tw death mention #tw risky behavior #tw lying #tw panic attack #character!thomas #hhhhh i hope you enjoy this chapter #<3

[infinitehours]

Chapter 5

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you didn’t heed The Ghost Host’s warning about flash photography and too many bright lights?  

What a coincidence; so have I!

Hello and welcome to part 2 of my Ted Talk series, “Let’s Torture Karen For Fun”.  Thank you all for joining me here.

Oh.  I should mention that this is the “scary” chapter.  As in, it probably won’t frighten you, but it is a bit creepier than the other chapters.

There’s a character based off of a face character in Epcot in this chapter.  This particular face character I’ve always thought was some kind of spirit when I was younger, hence why they’re referenced here.  

Also, you’re going to start to see signs of the references I’ve put in to both the Phantom Manor and the Phantom of the Opera (only natural since the book/musical inspired the Phantom Manor).

Additionally, I wanted to explain/reference the two mansions and why only one has the aging man portrait in the foyer.

Van Winkle was an actual delegate back around that time; I may go back and change it to a fake name later.  As well as maybe edit this chapter later.  If anyone can give me tips and pointers, that would be appreciated.

Also I apologize for the really terrible art.  I will probably go back and edit them later.

~~~~

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

~~~

Table of Contents Link

~~~

Ch 5: Poor Unfortunate Souls

~~~

”If you want to cross a bridge, My Sweet, You’ve got to pay the toll.”

                         -Ursula,  Disney’s The Little Mermaid

~~~~

Cautiously, she began to climb the stairs. They were going up; not down to where Michael presumably was, but she could swear that statue was going to spring to life at any moment and jump her.  And she couldn’t bear to be around when that happened.

On the next floor was another hallway, this time it was framed with doors lining either side as far as she could see.

No, literally.  She could not see the end of the hallway.  

It seemed to go on for miles and miles; if there even WAS an end to it, it was certainly well out of the visual range of any human being.  

Who the heck would even make a house like this?

There was not a soul in a sight, but there was creaking throughout.  The walls creaked, the floors creaked; Karen just hoped it was the house settling.  

She muttered disgruntled strings of sentences insulting the Ghost Host as she turned at a junction reached for what she had hoped was the light switch for that next set of hallways.  

The old fixtures of the chandeliers above her were sluggish in illuminating her surroundings.  That wasn’t too comforting when there were shadows at one side that she couldn’t quite account for, but relief came when this turned out to be merely another table with papers.  

Out of curiosity (and because it couldn’t possibly make her anymore lost than she already was), she briefly shuffled through them.  

Among the items that caught her eye was a newspaper.  It was faded in several places, but the words of one particular headline stood out.

“LION EATS MAN

On this morning, officers of the law have found what is believed to be the half eaten remains of local man, one Mr. Hugh Hudson.  Mr. Hudson had been reported missing by his cousin and overseer, Mr. Jefferson Lewis of the textile company Williams Textiles, just earlier today, when he had neglected to show for work or respond to visitations to his home.  Mr.  Hudson frequently suffered from unseemly bouts with the bottle, and it was under such influence that it was believed that he had happened across the grounds of the traveling Circus, The Museum of the Weird.

Although initially a suspect in this terrible tragedy, ------, the owner and ringmaster of the circus”

Karen squinted her eyes, but the name wasn’t faded but deliberately blacked out.  

“Although initially a suspect in this terrible tragedy, -----, the owner and ringmaster of the circus has cooperated in full with authorities and was henceforth released from suspicions.  He expressed his opinion that exceptional drunkenness was a type of evil, second only to lecherous behavior, and that such tragedies were an inevitable consequence of Mr. Hugh’s choices.

No evidence has been found that would implicate foul play.  Officers of the law have investigated and determined that the methods by which the scene happened involved Mr. Hugh hefting himself over the fencing using a nearby ladder. After which, becoming trapped when there was method of climbing on the other side.  Authorities are working with the assumption that the remains are, indeed, Mr. Hugh, in spite of the condition they are, which is to say, in rendered completely unidentifiable, as there was a bottle of his favored heavy wet near the beast’s cage.   And, furthermore, on the good logic that none others in town have been found to be missing.”

Lion.  Unidentified body.  And again, that Museum of the Weird.  

Karen looked at the date.  1879.  Was this the same event that the other letter she had found described?

Underneath the paper were more letters. She opened a few, but most of them had names she didn’t recognize.  Until she came across one addressed to ‘A Mr. James Bartholomew Gracey’.  

Gracey.  That was the surname of the other letter author.  She opened it up.

“Mr. James Bartholomew Gracey,

You had wrote previously expressing interest in our convention that took place in Wheeling; I write to you now that we shall hold a second convention on the 11th of June.  Ordinarily, only delegates are meant to attend, but as you have previously provided a great service for many of our members I do not think that your presence will incur an uproar.  

Take care, my friend.  For there have been rumors of late of those who wish to secede stirring trouble in towns.  I recognize that you have a certain attachment to your estate, and I do not contest it is very much your birthright, but I urge you to consider relocating closer to Parkersburg, where you could be among the many who share your sentiments.  At the very least, I pray you take care until this war reaches its conclusion.  

Sincerely,

P. Van Winkle”

This one didn’t have a year date or any other identifying features, but it mentioned a war.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. This was going to be a headache and a half to make sense of any of this, and likely wouldn’t even get her any closer to finding Michael.  

Gracey.  Given that she was finding so many letters with that surname, and given that Solomon’s portrait was hanging prominently in the foyer, she’d have to guess that the family lived in this mansion at some point.  

She frowned when she went back to staring at the letter.  Why was it…darker…?

Looking up, it seemed to have escaped her notice that the hallways she came from were now nearly black.  Goosebumps prickled over her arms and neck.  

Someone had turned off the lights.

And, judging from the human sized shadow that stood in the murky darkness: that ‘someone’ was still there.

“H-hello?”  She asked in a voice much smaller than she’d intended.

The only sounds she could hear was the echoes of a door slamming off somewhere in a distant part of the house.  The shadow didn’t change its position.  

“Michael?”  She said, a little too hopefully.  But he would never have pulled a prank like this; she knew that even before she was met with silence once again.  

“G-Ghost Host?”

Not a sound.  This was likely too subtle for someone as show-offy as he was.  

“Please….won’t you….won’t you say something?  I can see you, you kn-”

THE SHADOW SUDDENLY LURCHED, JERKY INHUMAN MOVEMENTS COMING CLOSER COMING TO HER

She screamed and turned and fled.  Down the hall in the opposite direction, she came across even more intersections and just blindly went down another and another, turning on the light switches as she went because she couldn’t stand to be left in the dark with whatever the heck that thing was.  

                            [Frightfully sensitive to bright lights]

She winched. There it was again, a thought floating to the surface of her mind that distinctively did NOT belong to her.   Unlike with the memory of Solomon, this thought didn’t gradually come upon her but was instead thrusted into the forefront of her mind.  And complete with an unwanted sense of anxiety to boot.    

She dared to look behind her, and despaired to find that the hallways she left were already dark again.  Getting desperate and running out of breath, she grabbed the first few things she could find, another table and an unlit candelabra, and positioned them under the light switch so that the prongs of the candelabra held the switch on.

Karen didn’t actually think this was going to do much, but as she went to the next hallway she witnessed the candelabra shake.  On its own.  Violently, at first, but as she stared, the object moved less and less frequently until it stopped.  The light switch remained on.  

She sighed in great relief, hoping to all heck that whatever it was, ghost or not, that it had given up its attempts.  The shadow certainly didn’t seem prepared to peep around the corner without the darkness there, so for all points and purposes it had worked.  

Frightfully sensitive to bright lights…Had that been some kind of hint?  Was she somehow peering into the desires of another being? Or was it a purposely sent message? Did the shadow really think she was going to turn off all the lights and allow herself to be at the mercy of a creature she knew nothing about?

She shook those thoughts away.  It didn’t matter anymore; a quick glance at the candelabra confirmed it was still there, keeping the lights safely on.   And so long as they were on, she apparently needn’t do anything about the shadow.

Another table. Another pile of assorted papers.  She’d have briefly scanned over them and just kept moving, as she didn’t want to risk the shadow getting brave, but the top ones….

…Were etchings of the two different types of houses she had seen when they first came across this place.

Just like how she’d seen before.  EXACTLY.

One was a Southern style house, with a flat roof and four large Roman-esque pillars surrounding the front door.  There was a second story veranda that wrapped around the entire house, with iron wrought bannisters that looked just as decorative as they were practical.  Though the etching was in black and white, she recalled from her previous contact that the building was mostly white and looked like it was made of paneled painted wood.

The other was in a style she’d seen around really old houses in mostly the Northeast.  A brick building, with roofs slopping at sharp angles and a decorative turret with many decorative toppers scattered on key points of the roof.  One of the most notable and visible points of interest was a glass room on the side that formed a half circle before fusing into the rest of the building.  

Underneath these was a note.

“Mr. Solomon Gracey,

Apologies, but I am afraid I have no answers for you again.  Though we have had a thorough investigation, the authorities have not been able to locate the evil persons who had accomplished the fire set to your home. Many of us have the opinion that the fire was a joint effort by many persons, who were eager to take advantage of your late father’s passing and your current absence.   And that Mr. Wyatt Williams may be involved.  As there were no fatalities, we thought it wise to let the matter drop; granting, of course, that you do not wish to press further.  

As requested, the style of the new exterior will be a marked difference from your original inheritance.  You recall your acquaintance in Pennsylvania, for whom you had favorably mentioned his newly completed estate some three years prior?  We were able to coax Mr. Asa Packer, the architect of that estate, for advice.

You will be pleased, but likely as puzzled as we were, to know that much of the core inner rooms had remained perfectly intact.  Indeed, it was because so many rooms were unscathed that injuries and deaths were prevented. The resulting consequences should be that it will not take more than a handful of years to fully complete her, as only really the outmost rooms and outside appearance need be worked on.  And, of course, we will extend the conservatory in accordance to your previous wishes.  I believe I can speak on behalf of my sister and say that the promise of this particular expansion delighted her.  

I hope I am not out of line in the choice of my next words, but know that it is out of concern for your safety that I state them.  Stay at the University.  The town has been broiled over with unrest as of late, perhaps due to the circumstances by which our new President was elected.  Coupled with the unpopularity of the Gracey family among the townspeople, returning now may only elicit additional responses against the estate before it has even reached completion.  

Besides which, your presence is not needed for the reconstruction, and I offer my assurances that myself and the rest of staff will make do with the family townhouse in the meantime.  We will take care; you needn’t express such worry as you’ve have.

Regards,  

Edgar Galloway”

She looked back down to the pictures but they were go-

                       She was standing somewhere else again.

It was….it was the foyer.  And the man standing in front of her…

Solomon Gracey.

There were two rows of people before him.  On the right, was a row of maids in the green, pinstripe dress she had seen before on both Nell and the maid from the other memory-dream.  On the left, was an apparent row of butlers.  They, too, were dressed in a deep forest green, albeit as a suit.  They had a pinstriped vest of a more grayish-purple color under their open jackets with a row of golden buttons, and a black tie around their neck.  Both sides were standing rigid as if at attention.  

As a butler took hold of Solomon Gracey’s hat and outer coat, she could hear one of the maids whisper to the other ‘You’re right.  He is quite handsome in person.  That portrait hardly does him justice!’

At the other end were a maid and butler pair; they seemed to be in charge, because the maid silenced the other two with a harsh glare.

Solomon, for his part, smirked in good humor.  “Thank you. I’ll consider that a compliment.”

And the maids, upon being found out, couldn’t help but giggle in both embarrassment and relief until the head maid interrupted them with a cough.  

Head maid and butler stepped forward to greet him.  Both had similar shades of hair, a deep raven black.  The woman’s was longer and had been tied in the back to be plaited into a single braid.   The man’s was cut very short and side swept at the front, but there was still much left on the sides that it would have just covered his ears if he hadn’t had it swept behind them.  Both, too, had cloudy grey eyes.

“Welcome home, sir.” The head maid said.

“Thank you.  It is good to be back.  Despite…” His face fell as he surveyed the room, “Well, despite everything.”

“We did do our best, sir, to organize the reconstruction and recreate many of the rooms.” The butler said.   “But there were limitations-“  

“I know, Edgar. I do thank you all for the effort and the willingness to stay despite the hardship this must have brought.”

“How was the University?”  Edgar said.

“Boring.  It was everything I had hated from the academy plus the addition of an overbearing school administrators that paraded the grounds as though it were their battlefield.  The amount of posturing would have you nauseated.  But at the very least, I’ve passed the bar and can now open a practice.”

He stopped short when he came upon his own likeness up above the fireplace.

“Oh, is this the previously mentioned portrait?”  He turned to Edgar and the head maid with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. “What on Earth were you thinking?”

“Sir, we thought it would be wise to have your portrait displayed prominently for guests who may come to call upon us.”  The maid replied, giving even Solomon a pointed look of warning. “It would do much to send a message that, despite your youth, you are indeed the current, true master of Gracey manor.”

“Indeed, a wise choice,” Solomon agreed, still smiling.  “But couldn’t you have commissioned someone who displayed my chin a little LESS prominently?”  

The maids fell into a giggling fit again, and the butlers seemed threatened to join them, but a clap from both overseers put them back into line again.    

…..

Karen could feel the scene fade away; this time, the change was much more obvious.

The hallway returned. The pictures and letters returned.

This…this was the same house.  

                                              Plink.  Plink.

She picked up the two drawings and placed them side by side.

                                         Plink.  Plink.

The same exact house, just at two different points in time.

                                          Plink.  Plink.

Most of the same inner rooms, just a different exterior.

                                         Plink.  Plink.

Is that why she saw BOTH when they were approaching the mansion?

                                        Plink.  Plink.

Wait….What….

                                        Plink.  Plink.

….was that sound?

She looked up from the table….only to realize, in horror, that the other end of the hallway was dark.  

And the shadow was waiting there.

                                               Plink.

Shards of small glass came down from one of the above light fixtures, and the room grew a shade darker.  It was then that it dawned on her, fresh goosebumps rising, what the shadow intended to do.

                                      PlinkPlinkPlink.

Three lights tauntingly broke all in quick succession.  The shadow was halfway down.  

                              [Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.]

Another unwanted thought.  Wrapped in fear and anxiety.

She fled again further down the hall.

                             [Catching up. Catching up.]

Another corner.  Again, again.

                                   PlinkPlinkPlink.

But this corner had a stop.

Stop around the corner. There was no place left to go.

                           [Catching up.  Catching up.]

                                  PlinkPlinkPlink.

There was no more hallway left, only rows of doors that led to a door at the end.

Can’t go back.  She’d run right into the shadow.

                                        [I SEE YOU]

Try one. Try two.  Why are all of these doors locked?

                                    PlinkPlinkPlink.

Finally.  The door at the end.  

She opens it and slips through.

                                       PlinkPlinkPlink.

She looks around for the light switch. A single bulb in the center of the room, dangling from a thread.  

She closed the door behind here and learns the hard way why this door wasn’t locked.

It was because it didn’t have a lock.  

The sounds of breaking bulbs gets closer.

She opts to put her weight against the door.  

Only just to register what’s actually IN this room.

…..

Coffins.  

There are coffins in this room.  

Why were there coffins in a storage closet?

Piled high, undecorated, unpainted. Just plain wooden coffins.

She doesn’t have time to think about it; already the door is pushing her back.  

                            Keep it closed. Keep it closed.

Digs her heels in, gaining leverage to force the door closed again.

She manages to find the perfect spot to put her feet.

It will close for sure.

Keep the pressure up.

But the lightbulb, the lightbulb. The single lightbulb.

It was already flickering.

                     Please don’t go out. Please don’t go out.

The shapes of the shadows of coffins dance in the flickering light like an old movie.

Sometimes, they seem to move.

                              Please don’t. Please don’t.

The pressure against her back again.

Her hand in her pocket.  It curls around the ring.

The ring in her pocket she’d forgotten about.

The ring, the ring….

                                               The water.

She was standing up near the water.   Someplace in town near the water. She couldn’t recognize where.

The fear.  Nauseating fear, it didn’t go away.

A woman was there.  That woman.  It was from the first memory.  The maid and the boy and the angry young man.  But she wasn’t wearing a maid’s uniform.  And she was scared.

Yes.  So scared. Please.

“Rolly!”  She cried, stumbling in the darkness.  Her blonde hair fell in curls about her neck, and her eyes were a dull grey-blue.

Why was it dark?  

That’s right, because it’s nighttime.

But we were in a closet….weren’t we?

“Rolly!  Rolly please!”

Please save me.

Someone.  Please help me.  

“Good evening.”

Both of them turned to see.  That wasn’t Rolly….that….that voice….

A man dressed in all black.  He was almost impossibly tall and thin, his face covered by a grotesque, demon-like mask.  

The mask had horns, it looked like it was screaming, and there was a crack on the right eye socket of the mask which displayed the unusually large eyeball the man had.  An eyeball that held a color electrifyingly blue; a shape and size and color that was so different from his ordinary looking left eye.  

Almost instictively, she wanted to run at the sound of his voice.  

“Who are you?   What do you want from me?? Do you-do you want to hurt me??”  

                      “Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

Run.

Run off into the town; after all, it was right there.  But she was held into place.

Couldn’t move.  

….

…This was the Ghost Host.    Seeing the Ghost Host having an actual, physical form.  Not merely a voice floating on the wind.  And all back when he was alive.  

“What….what do you want, then?” The woman anxiously looked at him, but also kept looking around her.  “Rolly?  Rolly are you near?  Please, Rolly!”

“He cannot hear you.”

“Why??  What have you done with him??”  She was frantic.  

“Why I’ve done nothing, Miss Slater. It is Miss Slater, correct?”

“How do you know that?!”

“I know someone who knows things. And I happen to know that your friend has traveled the next town over in search of some work.”

“He…..he wouldn’t.  Not without telling me.”

“Are you so sure, Madame?  And even if he was here, are you so certain he would be able to help you?  That he would have the funds at the moment to spare food for an extra mouth?”

Miss Slater was silent.  Karen was silent.

The nervousness was hers.  Or was it Miss Slaters?  Was SHE Miss Slater?

This was bad.

“And what would his friends think, hmm? His former captain? As I understand, he gets a generous sum of money as a sort of thanks for a good length of service from a company that just so happens to be owned by the Graceys.  And you?…Well…You were just fired from their house for meddling with one of the master’s sons, weren’t you?”

“That..! You…!”  The woman’s face went pale.  She doubled over as if in pain, her hand clutched to her heart.

Karen felt a tinge of pain in her own heart.   Stabbing. Burning.  

“Now, now.  Calm yourself.  You wouldn’t want to aggravate your condition, now would you?”

The man chuckled darkly, circling around her like a wolf with prey.   Her eyes followed nervously along.  

“I hold no judgement of you nor bear any grudge.  In fact, I’m rather well aware that, as a mere maid, you had little choice but to say ‘yes’ to the young master’s amorous affections.  How awful that must have felt; kicked out in the cold because you only did what you were told!”

“Stop!”  Miss Slater’s eyes were winced shut, the tears beginning to streak down her face.

The man.  The Ghost Host.  Waited patiently for her to catch her breath.

“Nathaniel said he loved me.”  She said, mournfully.  “And I….I convinced myself that I felt the same, if only to make it easier.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I don’t. …I don’t know anymore.  I think…I think a part of me did. In a way. In a twisted, awful sort of way, because he only ever made me feel twisted…and…”

She sat shaking on the riverbank. Sobbing quietly.  

“Twisted….twisted and awful….I hate him….I want to get away….And I”

She gulped.

“And I don’t…I-I don’t have anywhere to go….”

The man’s hands lifted, and those long, bony fingers ghosted along the woman’s frail shoulders.   Skeletal white against the bare of her arms.  

“Allow me to help you.”  Fingers caught underneath her elbows just as they reached them, and she was coaxed to stand.  

“You could come with me.  My troupe and I just so happen to be moving out tonight. A fresh start.  Fresh clothes.  A warm bed, warm food.  Does that interest you at all?”  This last part was whispered right at the shell of her ear, and she felt compelled to pull away in response.  

“And what,” She said, glaring at him. “Pray tell, is your price for such luxuries?”  

The man laughed, and his booming voice caused the woman to nervously ease herself away even further from him.

“I assure you, Miss Slater,” The man’s toothy smile could barely be seen underneath the shadow of the mask.  “I am not THAT kind of man.  I apologize if I have given the wrong impression.  It is fear that interests me, not lust.  As for my price, I’m not asking much.  What I want from you is...” The man reached out to very gently lift her chin.   “….your voice.”

Her hand went to her throat.  Her face no less filled with anxiety than before.

“Do you mean to rip it from me then, sir?”

He chuckled.  “Nothing so macabre.  I merely want you to perform with us.  Your performance needn’t be strenuous.  A song here, a song there.  Surely a fair price for what I offer in return, yes?”

“I’m not a singer, sir!  Only for my own enjoyment; I’ve never performed or had any sort of train-“

“Unnecessary, I promise.  The sort of clientele we get is often far from the obnoxious, discerning upper crust.  You need only be decent, and we shall fill the whole tent!”  

He offered his hand, and she hesitated to look at it.  

She reached up, gently, slowly. Until her hand was firmly in his grasp.

The man smiled.

“Welcome to the Museum of the Weird, Miss Emily Slater.”

Jerked from below.

Taken back into darkness.

Pitch darkness.

But there were outlines of coffins, despite the darkness.

                                                          Oh.

She was back in the closet.  

The memory was gone again.  

And the single lightbulb must have gone out.  

Karen sat there, her back against the door, and attempted to regulate her breathing. The room had dropped a whole 20 degrees, accented by an awful burnt smell that reeked through the air; her jacket, which felt particularly heavy against her shoulders, did little to ward off the chill.  In fact, it felt as though the cold went right through its threads.    

When she was sure that she could actually hold her own weight without passing out, she made the attempt to sta-

……

She tried to sta-

……

She.  Tried.  To. Stand.

Stand Up.  

….

She couldn’t stand up.

She felt the color drain from her face, the burning smell threatening to overpower her as she lifted her shaking hands up….up to her neck….

Only to find.

An….an arm.

…..

Made of stone.

The hand was on her right shoulder, the arm itself resting on her collarbone, the bend in the elbow right on her left shoulder and all of it coming from…

…No….coming through the door.

...The arm was coming through the door.  Unhindered.  As if the door wasn’t there at all.

She whimpered.  Tears lightly stinging her eyes, she stayed perfectly still.  As still as she could with all the shaking she was doing.

The statue...The statue had been chasing her this entire time?

….she tried…to go under the arm. To wiggle…

…wiggle

…wigg-

The arm suddenly pushed down on her collarbone, pinning her harder against the door.

She cried out in response, the burning smell was getting worse, and worse…and worse…

The…head…of the statue was now through the door.  Stoney eyes staring directly at her.

She whimpered again, silently wishing someone would hear her.  Would know she was there.

Her arms clung to the stone, trying to pull it off her but it was too solid and heavy.

Stoney eyes staring at her.

“P-please…..Please….”  She whispered. Was it for her savior to hear?  Or the statue?  Karen herself didn’t know who she was calling for.  The tears were running down her face and she couldn’t care to stifle them.

They remained like this, the two of them. A statue and a person.  The smell of burnt carcass enveloping her just as strongly as the arm did.  

But there was an eventual shift on the statue’s face.  The stone eyelids…flickering….Opening.  Revealing…

Actual human eyeballs.  

This only made her cry harder, because not only was it unnerving to see eyeballs set in stone, but they didn’t have any pupils.  

At least, at first, they hadn’t any pupils.  But dark pools began to phase into their center, stronger and stronger until the pupils fully appeared.

And with them came….a sort…of softer gaze. The statue looked at her with some sort of recognition.

And….And slowly….meticulously….the statue’s hold began to soften too…

The face moved away….The arm moved away….

Even the single lightbulb in the center of the room came back on.

The burnt smell disappeared.

Without the strength to hold herself in a sitting position, or even the statue to pin her there, Karen slumped to the floor.

Shaking.

In a closet full of coffins.  Curled up on the floor, shaking, with the tears still streaming down.

And she finally was able to shudder back to life A nice, long, deep breath.  

#chapter 5