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proxylynn · 1 month ago

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MY WISH WAS ALWAYS YOURS (part #8 first half bonus chapter...Amnesia: The Law of Unintended Consequences)

{So, a while back, I got the idea for a short event based on an ask a lovely gave me, and it played out in my head so much that I had to make it into a story chapter. It is set in the same year as the film, but much later, so I hope nobody gets too confused about what's happening or why they have altered appearance details. I hope you like it and please enjoy.}

A crisp autumn wind swept through the industrial district, carrying the faint, warm scent of spiced pies and freshly baked dough. The Jack Horner Pie Co. was alive once more, its towering smokestacks sending gentle plumes into the air, and the faint hum of machinery emanated from within. The factory looked impeccable and imposing from the outside, its golden logo gleaming on the gate restored to its rightful prominence. The streets beyond it bustled with life as merchants, workers, and townsfolk moved about with purpose, their conversations tinged with mirth and prosperity.

The factory itself was a far cry from its former disaster zone. The chaos of months prior was now a distant memory, replaced by a machine-like efficiency that hummed in perfect harmony. The walls had been repaired, the production lines had been revamped, the once-scattered bakers were now a well-oiled machine, and the reorganized guards patrolled the grounds with renewed vigilance. Though his name had become more synonymous with fear than admiration, the city knew that the Jack Horner Pie Co. was thriving again. The reputation of its owner only grew with each passing day, fueled by rumors that Jack's return from the dead was something far more miraculous—and far more dangerous—than anyone could have imagined.

Inside the factory, Jack Horner sat in his newly refurbished office, poring over a stack of documents. Despite the grandeur of his surroundings—the fine mahogany desk, the polished black iron accents, the fresh brickwork, random little knickknacks—there was an unrelenting sharpness to his demeanor. His once arrogance had refined into something more focused. Ruthless, yes, but efficient. His reputation had only grown since his return. The factory's revitalization and the mysterious rumors of his survival had turned him into an even more prominent figure in the city's underworld. People feared him, admired him, and whispered about the strange power he now seemed to wield. Some even said that his eyes had gained an unnatural glow in the dark. Jack didn't mind—he knew the power of fear. It was what kept people in line. It was what had gotten him to where he was. And his looks after the Wishing Star almost claimed him did make others quake in their boots.

His bob-styled pink hair was dashed with strands of silver that glittered with dust like embers when the light hit it just right. The opalescent scarring that could be visibly seen on his skin shimmered with each subtle move. His eyes, the left a fair blue and the other a brilliant silver, held a powerful gaze, which was only enhanced by the star-shaped mark branching from his silvery ocular orb, which would catch the light like cracks in porcelain. This brush with cosmic magic and the talk of his demise is why rumors were spread. Some think he's a ghost, and others think he made a deal with some dark power. Either way, it spread his name further and became more challenging to ignore. Something that pleased him greatly.

His attention was on the papers scattered across his desk, flipping through them and making notes with a deliberate hand. His right thumb shimmered faintly with plum-tinted silver opalescence, unlike the other scars across his massive form; this was something he could prominently see constantly, a constant reminder of the wish he lost yet was used to spare him from meeting a terrible fate. A fate that was only escaped due to the desperate actions of the sole person who seemed to care for him.

He was alive because of...

*knock-knock*

Her.

“Enter.”

The door is softly opened, and Lynsie's presence is so familiar that he doesn't have to look up to see that it's her. She stands in the doorway, her figure framed by the dim hallway light. Her once-brown hair now shimmered with silver streaks of cosmic starlight, her markings as prominent as his own; her left eye glimmered with the same silver and branching star mark while the right was still a strong-willed green. They were a pair now, bound not just by history or loyalty but by shared scars and shared power. She stepped into the room, her presence filling the space like an unspoken promise. She hadn't changed much on the surface, but Jack had noticed the subtle shift in her. There was a quiet determination in how she carried herself now, a sense of confidence that hadn't been there before. She was no longer just the faithful sidekick; she was his equal in ways that had begun to feel more natural with each passing day. She hip-checks the door into shutting and comes to stand at his side, her boot heels lightly clacking against the floorboards and clipboard in hand; once close by, she starts rattling off updates. Her guard's uniform snugly hugged her form, causing her shadow to leave little to the imagination in the illumination of the room's hearth.

“I have gone over everything since we began the repair work and restructuring of the staff.”

“Go on.”

“Production levels are up 42% since the reorganization. We've secured two new distribution contracts and are ahead of schedule in fulfilling the fall contracts. Not to mention, thanks to the Midas Touch... Let's just say our coffers look very healthy even after so much spending. All in all...Not bad, considering the mess we were dealing with these last few months.”

He didn't look up from his writing.

“And the new hires?”

“Still a few kinks, but they're getting there. The improved training regiment and instructors are producing results. Finally, the guardsmen will be less useless than before. The third time seems to, so help me, be the charm."

Jack snorts a snide chuckle without looking up.

“It's about time. Less useless is the best we can hope for with some of these people. But it's good enough for now. The incompetence of that last batch almost made you pull your hair out.”

She groaned at the memory.

“Good help is so hard to find. Yet idiots are a coin a dozen.”

She gives a weighted sigh and flips through her clipboard.

“But that aside, I have some news about the city council...”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“What now? Let me guess—they're whining about the so-called ‘unethical labor practices’ again?”

“Not this time. It seems our momentary ‘dead’ status and subsequent management displacement has made them realize that they aren't as financially stable as they believed themselves to be.”

She smirked, pulling up her notes.

“They're proposing tax incentives to, according to them, ‘help sustain the city's economic backbone’.”

His eyes left his work, and he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, his smirk widening.

“Tax incentives, huh? It seems they've finally learned who is actually keeping this city afloat.”

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“Still, let's keep them on their toes. Draft a list of suggested improvements for city infrastructure. Frame it like it's for their benefit. If they're going to bend over backward, we might as well make it worth our while.”

“Consider it done.”

She jotted down a note, and he leaned back in his chair.

“We've got momentum. Let's keep it that way. We need to be operating at full throttle before the winter rush.”

She flips her notes to some other pages.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

He kicked himself for jinxing it.

“Good first.”

“The good news is...I've confirmed our new supplier for the exotic fruits you wanted.”

“Good, I don't want delays in starting the new test line for the holidays.”

“Okay? So what's the bad news?”

“The foreman says we're running low on cinnamon again. He thinks the suppliers are cutting corners due to the mishandling they were dealing with in our short absence.”

His jaw tightened, his earlier good mood vanishing.

“Cinnamon's one of the cornerstones of winter sales. Get me the contact details. I'll handle it.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely.

“Are you truly going to handle it? Or is that code for sending me to ‘handle it’?”

“Depends...”

His tone is light, but his eyes are cold.

“If they're just testing to see if we'll notice and renegotiate our contract, I'll deal with it. If they're actively trying to rip me off, thinking they can get away with it because we're busy, that's when I send in my secret weapon.”

She smiled, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“Good to know I'm still your weapon of choice.”

“What can I say? You're damn good at making others see things my way."

She snickers.

“Well, someone has to ensure your reputation is intact.”

“Careful, you're starting to sound like you think you're special.”

He said, a sly grin spreading across his face. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze.

“Aren't I?”

There it was again—that new confidence she wielded so effortlessly. The kind that both challenged him and pulled him closer, whether he wanted it to or not. He didn't answer immediately, instead reaching out to hook a finger around her wrist and pulling her into his lap.

“You're special enough to stay.”

He said finally, his voice low and laced with something she couldn't quite name but recognized all the same. She smiled, the kind of smile that softened her features in a way few saw.

“And here I thought you only kept me around for my charm.”

“Charm, competence, willingness to throw yourself into danger for me... Call it what you will.”

He listed off lazily, running a hand through her hair.

“You've got your uses.”

“Mmmm, glad to know I'm appreciated.”

She murmured, resting her head on his chest and providing comforting warmth he could absentmindedly pet. For a while, they sat in silence, the only sounds heard being the crackle of the fireplace and the faint scratching of his quill on parchment as he worked. For once, the weight of the world outside their walls felt distant.

Their dynamic had shifted in subtle ways over the months. Where once they might have kept a guarded distance from such displays of connection, now their exchanges carried an undertone of intimacy. Where once Jack might have kept her at arm's length, now he let her in—not all the way, never all the way, but enough that she knew he trusted her more than anyone else.

And behind closed doors, the walls they built so carefully came down entirely. Their physical relationship reflected their partnership—intense, unyielding, and unspoken. He would never say the words; she didn't need him to. His actions spoke for him in ways words never could: the way he'd pull her close after a long day, the way his hands lingered, the way he let her see the parts of him he hid from everyone else.

It was complicated and somewhat restrictive, but it was theirs.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the moment, and they returned to their usual professionalism. She moved to stand beside his desk, her arms held behind her back.

“Yes?”

The door opened at Jack's voice, and a new guard stepped in.

“Mister Horner, you have visitors at the gates. They say they come with a proposal.”

Jack's gaze sharpened. He's not a fan of uninvited guests.

“Did they give a name?”

“They claim to represent the Trader's Guild of Far Far Away. We checked them for credentials, and the seals they bear match our records.”

Lynsie quirked a brow.

“Interesting. That's an unusual move for them. They've been reluctant to aid our expansion into the land for what? Almost ten years now?”

Jack stood from his seat, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a performance.

“Well, let's see what they have to offer. If they've finally realized I'm not just some dough-faced dimwit, we might just play nice.”

As Jack descended the staircase to the main hall, Lynsie followed at his side, her presence a steady and loyal shadow. The two approached the ornate front doors, which swung open to reveal three finely dressed merchants flanked by a handful of guards. Their leader, a tall man with a trimmed beard and a calculating gleam in his eye, stepped forward.

“Ah, Jack Horner. A pleasure to finally meet the man behind the rhyme.”

The man began with a practiced bow.

“I am Gregory Cienzo, and these are my associates. We come representing the Eastern Trader's Guild of the land of Far Far Away. We've heard much about your... talents and tenacity.”

Jack chuckled, low and menacing.

“Flattery gets you through the door, little man. What keeps you here is what you can offer.”

Antoniello straightened, offering a confident smile.

“Of course. We've come to propose a partnership of sorts. Now, it's been noticed that your brand has effectively dominated Spain and has been attempting to set up in Far Far Away for some time. We've also noticed you have some loose connections with the other sectors of the Guild. So...a collaboration could be arranged with our sect if that would be something of interest to you.”

Jack tilted his head, considering.

“And what's your angle? Nobody comes to me unless they need something.”

Antoniello's smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly.

“Perhaps we can discuss things further indoors?”

“If you seek business with Master Jack, you should be able to state your pitch publicly.”

Lynsie states, and Antoniello leers at the woman.

“You let your wench speak so freely?”

Jack's right eye faintly twitches and sparks.

“Don't deflect. I don't have time to waste on idiots.”

Antoniello annoyingly sighs.

“Fine. Let's just say things for us have become...difficult. Bandits, rival traders, and unpredictable weather have made maintaining control of our routes challenging. However, you don't seem to share such hardships even though you partake in some of our land wears while overseas. So we had concluded to ask of you...what with your resources and, shall we say, influence if you could ensure safe passage for things on our end.”

Jack leaned back smugly, smirking.

“So what I'm hearing is, you want my protection? That's funny. Because your guilds largely ignore my requests and try to snub my shops out of business over there. But you get some unforeseen setbacks and suddenly want to negotiate? Oh, this is rich. Let's say I humor you and offer my aid. What do I get in return?”

“An equal share of the profits, naturally.”

Antoniello offered smoothly. Jack's laughter echoed through the courtyard, dark and mocking.

“Equal share? Oh, no. No no no. Let me tell you how this works. You want my help? Then you people stop smothering my businesses, and I take seventy percent. You get thirty. And that's me being generous.”

Antoniello's face reddened, but before he could respond, Lynsie stepped forward, her tone calm and commanding.

“Consider the alternative, Mr. Cienzo. Without Master Jack's support, your trade routes will continue to crumble under the weight of your guild's incompetence. Thirty percent of something is far better than one hundred percent of nothing.”

Antoniello hesitated, begrudgingly weighing his options.

“May I have some time to discuss with my associates?”

“I think we're done here.”

Jack turns away from them and heads to return inside.

“W-Wait!”

That was the desperation Jack was hoping to hear.

“...We are open to your terms.”

Jack's smirk widened.

“Smart choice. Now, come along, and let's discuss the specifics.”

Jack continues, and Lynsie motions for the men to follow. She waits for them to proceed before she follows them to the negotiation room.

Over the next several hours, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of fiery orange and deep violet; the negotiations for the contract were hashed out. The air in the room was tense but electric as Jack leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he watched Antoniello and his associates pour over the details of their agreement. Lynsie hovered around them, her clipboard in hand and writing, her sharp eyes scanning every line of the documents for potential loopholes and any attempts on their end to cheat Jack.

“Remember, you're not just buying quality. My brand carries weight, and you're chaining yourselves to a juggernaut.”

Jack said lazily, his voice dripping with amusement as he reclined further. Antoniello's jaw tightened, but he forced a smile.

“Of course, Jack. Your reputation precedes you. This partnership will be mutually beneficial.”

Jack hummed, clearly unimpressed.

“Mutually beneficial? Such a polite way of saying, ‘I had no other choice’.”

He chuckled as Antoniello's face reddened.

The merchants finally finished drafting the agreement, and Antoniello handed over the gilded contract with a flourish. Jack skimmed it, then had Lynsie double check it, her eyes being more thorough and giving the okay when done to allow Jack to place his signature on the bottom line to seal the deal.

“Pleasure doing business.”

Jack said, standing and ignoring Antoniello's offered hand.

“You can go now. I'll have my people get in touch with your people. Lynn...See them out. I have work to get back to.”

She bows her head and escorts the merchants as Jack leaves to his own devices. As they approached the gate, she leaned in slightly toward Antoniello as they walked, her voice low and icy.

“A word of advice, Mr. Cienzo. Don't test Master Jack's patience or consider his offerings anything less than deserved. Big Jack Horner isn't just a businessman—he's a storm. Those who stand in his way will know true devastation. And in this seedy world you've chosen to step into so desperately, well... Let's just say, those that dare cross Big Jack Horner don't do so twice. Do you understand me, Mr. Cienzo?”

Antoniello swallowed hard, nodding.

“Understood.”

“Good!”

Her voice slipped into sweet honey-like warmth.

“Now, you fine gentlemen have a safe trip home. And be sure to enjoy the local hospitality. It's to die for.”

Unsure that was a threat, Antoniello and his entourage departed, their faces masks of professional courtesy hiding the unease of having struck a deal with a man as notorious as Jack. Lynsie watched as they disappeared down the cobblestone path of the bridge, her sharp gaze lingering on their retreating figures till far enough where she signaled for the gate to be shut.

“Do you have any orders, ma'am?”

A guard stationed by the main door asks.

“I want a small unit, no more than ten, to shadow them. See if they are legit and do return to Far Far Away's traders guild. If not... Eliminate them and make them vanish. No one crosses Big Jack Horner.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

With a salute, he rushes off, and she smirks. Finally. Competence. These were guards she likely wouldn't end up cutting down in fits of stupidity-induced rage. She turned and re-entered the factory, the familiar air of her command being noticed by the staff. She was Jack's weapon and a deadly one indeed.

She returns to his office and finds Jack leaning back in his chair, a glass of spiced apple cider in hand, and resuming his work from before.

“It's done.”

She said simply.

“You made the swap?”

He asks, and she pulls from her vest the original contract.

“I did. And I have men sent to follow them.”

Jack nodded.

“Good.”

He pauses to take a long sip and then chuckles.

“Do you think they realize they just handed me control of their routes?”

She smirks.

“Not a clue. And if they do, they'll likely have no idea till it's too late and try to convince themselves they can outmaneuver you down the line. Let them dream. They'll fall in line, just like the rest. It makes their inevitable failure all the sweeter.”

He chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast.

“To delusional merchants and easily exploitable circumstances.”

“To your ever-growing power.”

She replied, her voice softer with admiration and reverence.

“Think of the possibilities this can bring. Raw materials, production, distribution—every crumb of it. I can take power in our former homeland.”

“As you deserve, Master Jack.”

Jack's smirk softened into something almost genuine, but the moment passed quickly.

“You may finish up for the night. I can manage things from here.”

She tilted her head.

“You sure? You know I don't mind sharing the load.”

He waves a dismissive hand.

“It's fine. Just get things ready for when I finish. I expect my meal to be hot when I sit at the table.”

A smirk threatened to crack her lips, but she fought it. This was normal for them, yet it felt so uncharacteristically domestic now. She shook such silly thoughts away and nodded.

“Would you also care for a wine to pair with dinner?”

“Surprise me.”

“As you wish.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her.

“And Lynsie...”

She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Don't retire too soon. I might need you. To, you know...help get to sleep.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her composure. Help get to sleep, indeed. In fairness, he did wear himself out when lost in the heat of it all.

“Understood.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Jack alone once more. He swirled his glass, staring at the faint reflection of his star-shaped eye in the liquid. Sure, he'd lost the wish, but in many ways, he'd gained something valuable—a partner who didn't just follow him but understood him in a way no one else ever had. That and it's not like he couldn't find something else to make his dream of being the master of all magic come true. That would just take time.

He finished the cider smoothly, setting the glass down with a decisive clink. There was work to do, and Jack Horner wasn't one to waste time. Not when the future was wide open, ready for the taking. With Lynsie at his side, he was sure of one thing: nothing—and no one—could stand in his way.

[TIME SKIP – A FEW MONTHS LATER]

Jack's influence extended far beyond the factory gates, spilling into every aspect of daily life for the city his business calls home. His name was on the lips of merchants, politicians, and common folk alike, whispered with a mix of fear and admiration. The once-shaky alliances he'd forged had solidified into unbreakable bonds—mostly held together by gold and the lingering threat of his wrath.

One evening, as the city buzzed with anticipation for the annual Autumn Harvest Festival, Jack stood on the factory balcony, surveying the city like it was his kingdom. Lynsie joined him, her presence steady and reassuring as always.

“The festival looks quite grand this year.”

She remarked, nodding toward the bustling streets below.

“No doubt because of your generous sponsorship.”

Jack chuckled.

“Generous? Hardly. It's an investment. Let the people feast and drink and celebrate—all on my coin. They'll remember who made it possible.”

“And what about you?”

Lynsie asked, her tone lighter than usual.

“Will you join the festivities?”

He glanced at her, smirking.

“Do I strike you as the festival type?”

“No. Not really.”

She admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“But it wouldn't hurt to show your face. A little goodwill can go a long way. That and I do believe you've earned a break.”

She puts a hand on his arm.

“You've been working so hard. It would be good just to kick back and relax.”

He considered this, then shrugged.

“Fine. But only for a little while. If anyone spills something on me, I'm leaving.”

She laughed softly.

“Fair enough.”

As the sun set, the city came alive with music and laughter; the pair descended from the factory to enter the streets. No carriage to bring them in and announce his arrival. Not enough driving room. So people saw them just walking around as if they had suddenly appeared. Honestly, scaring the crap out of most. For a man who thrived in shadowy dealings and power plays, he was walking among the people as a presence they couldn't ignore.

Slowly, things adjusted.

Being the more socially approachable one, Lynsie made things easier for Jack. Engaging in conversation and distracting any children who may have been curious about them, all while keeping a watchful eye open. Despite this being a time for them not to be working, he couldn't help it. Jack found himself interested in the small displays of the people selling goods, mostly food, but looking for interesting items. He tried samples for those with edible goods and, when something caught his attention, offered those that met his satisfaction some very generous coin as financial backing or the right to use the recipe. Within a short time, he had made many people very happy.

“You're supposed to be relaxing, Master Jack.”

Her voice chides teasingly as he's about to make a beeline for the drink vendors, making him flinch faintly like a child being caught sneaking out after bedtime.

“I am relaxing.”

“Are you?”

His face scrunches.

“Don't even start. You wanted me to show some ‘goodwill’, and I am. Now I'm going to enjoy some hopefully decent refreshments.”

“Very well, but do try to pace yourself, please.”

“Woman, don't tell me how to drink. I'm not a lightweight.”

“Fine. But if you start to sway, I'm cutting you off. It won't look good to have me lug you back home.”

He scoffs and carries on, now with her in toe monitoring his indulgence.

Where earlier sellers reaped the reward of Jack's tastes, the same could not be said about those trying to peddle alcohol. Food is one thing, but his palate for stiff drinks would put master sommeliers to shame. His tastes bordering on the obnoxious when it comes to specifics, and one tiny flaw can sour his mood. These poor souls never stood a chance. The stings of his verbal lashings are surprisingly not so much aimed at the people but at the product they offered, yet his biting critiques are far from motivational.

“What the hell is this? I've heard of dry wines, but you made it bone dry somehow. How do you dry out a liquid?! I might as well be drinking grape-flavored sandpaper!”

“I wouldn't give this brandy to a pig dying of thirst. It would insult the pig, and there's no need to kill it faster with this swill.”

“The potatoes used for this vodka must have seriously hated you. For this tastes like pure spite. Spite...and the feet of someone that wants to see the world burn.”

“Do you know what a foreshot is? It's the first vapors to boil off during distillation, usually containing unwanted compounds and off-flavors, which, if drunk, can kill a person. I would rather drink that than whatever cheap knockoff cognac this is!”

Throughout the crashing waves of his scathing breaking of ambitions, a few did show promise, and he would offer some advice for improvement...but it still hit like he was disappointed that he had to do it.

Eventually, the hour that marked the festival would be winding down soon approached, and the city's vibrant energy settled into a hum of satisfaction. Lanterns swayed in the cool autumn breeze, their golden light casting a warm glow over the festivities. Children clutched at their parents' hands, some daring a curious peek at the infamous businessman, while merchants and city officials offered cautious bows and hurried greetings. Jack barely acknowledged them, his smirk widening ever so slightly at the ripple of awe and unease his presence created. This was precisely what he wanted—the reminder that the festival, the joy, the prosperity—everything—was his to give and take as he pleased. Jack stood in the town square, sipping on the only drink that had met his impossibly high standards. At the same time, Lynsie hovered nearby, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she partook from a plate of cheeses and watched him scrutinize the crowd with his ever-calculating gaze.

“Looks like your ‘goodwill tour’ has been a resounding success. Not too many tears were shed after your feedback.”

She teased, nudging his arm lightly. He snorted, amused, swirling his drink.

“They'll thank me when their businesses don't flop next year. If I have to endure subpar cider one more time, I'll buy their whole operation just to shut it down.”

She chuckled softly but straightened when one of the festival organizers approached. A stocky man with a nervous smile and dressed rather dapperly, he bowed slightly before addressing Jack.

“Señor Horner, the people would be most honored if you would say a few words to close the festival. Your generosity made all this possible, and it'd be nice to hear from you.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, glancing at Lynsie, who gave a slight shrug of ‘you do you’.

“Fine.”

He handed off his drink to a startled attendant.

“Let's get this over with.”

At the far end of the square, a makeshift stage adorned with harvest-themed decorations had been set up. Jack climbed the steps with a confidence and ease that came naturally to him. The murmuring crowd quieted as he took his place at the podium. His presence commanded attention, and every eye was locked on him as he surveyed the gathered townsfolk.

Clearing his throat, he began.

“My people...”

His voice carried effortlessly over the crowd, loud and authoritative.

“Tonight, you've feasted, celebrated, and reveled in the fruits of a prosperous season. Let me be clear: this prosperity didn't come from chance or luck. It came from hard work, smart decisions, and, most importantly...”

A sly grin spread across his face.

“From me.”

A ripple of laughter and cheers ran through the crowd.

“I have watched this city thrive over the years, becoming much more than the little village it humbly started as. The jobs you have, the goods you sell, the opportunities your children will grow into—all of it is tied to what we've built together. So, as you enjoy the rest of the night, remember who made it possible tonight. And look forward to tomorrow—as this is only the beginning!”

The crowd erupted in applause; Jack puffed out his chest in satisfaction with his brief speech. But a sharp, nasally voice interrupted.

“Enough of this self-aggrandizing drivel!”

The crowd gasped, whipping their heads around to find the source of the interruption. A figure at the crowd's edge moved closer, slipping between the revelers with purpose. It was a wiry man in tattered robes, his eyes burning with hatred. Lynsie's gaze narrowed on him as she instinctively joined Jack.

“This city and all its prosperity is because of you? So...Then it's to assume it's on you that so many suffer!”

He points a judgmental finger at Jack, and doing little more than making the man scowl, Lynsie discretely takes an on-edge stance to spring at the drop of a hat.

“Your expansion has been putting small shops out of business all across the region. Families are starving while you sit high and mighty, counting your ill-gotten gain. Even my own...I lost my shop. My love. My family. Everything...You destroyed my life, Horner!”

The man shouted, his voice cracking with rage. The crowd parted in alarm as he pushed forward. But Jack rolled his eyes before dismissing the intruder.

“Oh, geez. Not another whiny pity speech. Blah, blah, injustices. Blah, blah, tyranny. Blah, blah, You ruined my life! Do you have any idea how hard it is to run an empire? I have other things to do today, you know. Like deciding what wine I will have with dinner tonight. White wine, red wine, or, dare I say, Rosé?”

Jack's lack of fucks given isn't exactly the reaction this guy was hoping to get. The lack of a serious response is more insulting than if Jack got angry or denied the accusations.

“Did you not hear me?!”

“Oh, I did. I just don't care. I hear this kind of speech so annoyingly often that I've learned it's just your way of justifying your failures. If your life could so easily spiral to this point, that sounds more like a YOU problem. I'm just your excuse. So why not take a hard look in the mirror, quit whining, and—”

This doesn't make things any less tense. It only pours more fuel on the metaphorical fire.

“You greedy son of a...”

“Language. There are children present.”

Jack's tease is the last straw.

“Don't talk down to me! You think you're without blame?! That you're untouchable!?!”

The man screamed, grabbing some sort of pouch from his cloak and raising his arm back, aiming to throw said pouch directly at Jack.

“Let's see how untouchable you are when your world crumbles away like mine!!”

Lynsie's instincts kicked in, using her plate like a blade and flinging it at the man before surging forward off the stage. Her body is a blur as she soars in the air, her left eye flaring and igniting her hair in a protective fury. The man hurled the pouch, and time seemed to slow as the bag soared through the air, a faint trail of glittering powder spilling from its seams. If realization hit Lynsie as to this backfiring, it didn't show; at most, she put up her arms to take the brunt of the impact.

The bag bursts upon contact, a cloud of shimmering dust enveloping her and erupting in her cosmic flare. A blinding combustion, like an ember catching on lint, is gone as fast as it ignited, and when sight returns to all, two things are noticed. The first, the man is screaming and clutching his now missing arm. It seems the flung plate had been thrown with enough skill that it had sliced cleanly through his flesh and joint. The limb and now shattered plate lay some ways behind him. And yet the other thing noticed...Lynsie face down in the dirt, her sliver fire extinguished.

Jack had been stoic up till this moment. This wasn't the first attempt on him in some stupid ploy for revenge or whatever. He did not worry about it. But seeing her down and made still, a sight he's seen before yet so rare...it hits him differently. Something is wrong. Dangerously wrong.

Something in him gets angry. The air around him seemed to chill, the torches dimming as if in fear. His right eye erupts, yet he's calm. The crowd gives him space as he slowly steps down and stalks toward the would-be attacker. The poor bastard is too distracted by his bleeding and lack of appendage to notice the massive man till he's within grabbing range.

“Mister Horner...”

Some of his off-duty guardsmen had been among the festive folk and come to his side, pausing his hand from clutching the man as if he were twig then snapping his scrawny neck.

“He's no good to you dead. Let us take this guy away for interrogation and make him spill his guts.”

His fingers tremble and clench into fists of frustration. As satisfying as murder would be, his subordinates used logic, and it was enough to stay his hand...for the moment.

“Get this idiot out of my sight! I'll deal with them later.”

Jack's voice is so cold it would make ice seem warm by comparison. He didn't spare them a glance as the guards dragged the attacker away towards the factory, his focus entirely on Lynsie. He goes to her prone body and kneels, nudging her for a moment before flicking her face.

“Don't be so dramatic. Wake up.”

With a slight groan, her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She struggled to push herself up.

“Look at me.”

She blinked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“What...What happened?”

She looks around, puzzled.

“Why are we in town?”

“Because you wanted me to take a break. Remember?”

“I did what now?”

This...This got his attention.

“Lynn, what season is it?”

“Huh?”

“What season is it?”

She paused.

“Autumn. It's about to turn to autumn.”

It was mid-autumn, almost winter.

“Jack? Is something wrong?”

His gaze hardened, and his mind analyzed the implications of her disorientation—the powder. Whatever was in that pouch had not only knocked her out but had seemingly affected her memory or perception of time. His sharp gaze flicked back to her as she pushed herself to a sitting position, still dazed.

The crowd had fully dispersed now, sensing the palpable danger in the air. Only a few of Jack's guards remained at a distance, reassuring the people and awaiting his orders. The faint murmur of the city festival carried on in the background, oblivious to the chaos that had unfolded.

“Lynn, focus. Tell me exactly what you remember before this moment.”

She blinked, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“I...I was...in the stables. Then...I don't know. Everything's blank after that.”

Her eyes searched his face for answers, but his expression remained hard and calculating. This wasn't just a simple attack by a fool wanting to humiliate him or bruise his ego. This was serious. And she took the hit meant for him.

He stood abruptly, reached down, and offered her a hand. She took it, her grip firm but shaky, and he helped her to her feet.

“Come. We're getting this sorted out.”

His tone left no room for argument. She nodded, her usual sharpness dulled by confusion but still trusting his lead. Together, they headed back to the factory. The crowd respectfully kept their distance, their fear of him outweighing any curiosity they might have had.

Inside the factory, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Workers and guards at posts snapped to attention, sensing the unusual tension in their boss's demeanor. Jack barked an order for his head medic as he strode through the grand halls heading for the infirmary.

The medic, a timid man with sharp eyes and steady hands, rushed ahead to prepare the space at the sound of his employer's booming call. Moments later, Jack entered and had Lynsie sit at the examination table.

“What happened?”

“Some idiot came at me. You know, the usual stuff. She did her job and took the hit. Now, her memory is off. Like by a month and a half.”

“WHAT?!”

She looked at him like he requested a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster to become musicians. His deadpan expression was enough for her to know he meant his words. The medic frowned, leaning closer to examine her. He was used to dealing with many medical emergencies around the factory, often due to Jack or Lynsie regarding "less qualified" staff. But when the pair returned from chasing the Wishing Star some time ago, even his medical skills found examining them awkward. It's not like magic is taught in medical school. So he does what he can and what he knows—giving her a basic checkup before planning for bigger things, lighting a match, and moving it slowly.

“Follow the flame, please.”

He instructed, his tone calm and reassuring. She obeyed, keeping her head still and following with her eyes alone.

“Can you give your name and position?”

“Lynsie, no last name. Also known as Lynn and Little Lynn. Strategist, bodyguard, personal assistant, assassin, and whatever else Master Big Jack Horner assigns me to be at any given time.”

“Good. And do you know where you are now?”

“In the factory infirmary at Jack Horner Pie Co. HQ.”

“Alright. Now, describe your last clear memory before tonight."

Her brow furrowed, and she sighed.

“I was in the stables, tending to the beasts, as I often do. Feedings went smoothly. I noticed the ramidreju had been shedding, likely its seasonal coat was transitioning for the coming cold, so I began collecting the fur.”

“A ramidrju?”

“Imagine a weasel, but it has a very long body like a snake, and its fur is slightly green-colored for camouflage. Its eyes are yellow, its nose is like a hog, and its tusks are like a boar, which it uses to dig deep extensive burrows and often will go after/unearth gold or other treasures. I was collecting fur because it has magical properties by acting as a healing panacea. So, loose fur would be good for medicines and trade in dark markets. I remember discovering scrap marks on the enclosure; no doubt it was trying to burrow out and then...nothing until I came to in the town square.”

The medic blows out the match before it burns too low.

“That gap is concerning. I'll need to run a few tests to determine the extent of the memory lapse. But if magic is affecting her memory, things might be more complicated.”

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair to keep a calm composer.

“Master Jack, I'll be fine. If you have to go, you can go. I will return to you once this is done.”

Her words did little to comfort him. His jaw clenched, his stormy gaze fixed on her. For a moment, the air between them was taut with tension.

“You're not ‘fine’ until I say you're fine. You don't get to brush this off like it's nothing.”

She tilted her head, a flicker of her usual sharpness returning despite her confusion.

“I'm not brushing it off. I'm telling you I can handle it. You have more important things to deal with.”

He leaned down, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the medic shuffle awkwardly.

“You're not allowed to fall apart on me. Got it?”

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a brief moment, she saw past his usual veneer of dominance and sarcasm. Beneath it lay something raw, unspoken, and perhaps... vulnerable.

“...Got it.”

He straightened, his imposing presence looming over her like a shield.

“Good. Now, stay put. I have a moron to irrigate.”

“You're going to interrogate them yourself?”

Jack's smirk was humorless, his voice low and cold.

“Of course. I'm going to remind him why I'm not someone you mess with.”

She reached out, lightly gripping his sleeve.

“Remember to make them bleed. Pain loosens lips, but death keeps secrets.”

“You did that for me already. You took his arm in the attack.”

“I did? Nice.”

With that, he strode toward the door, briefly pausing to glance back at her.

“You'd better cooperate. I don't need you making this harder than it already is.”

She smirked faintly, though her eyes held a glimmer of warmth.

“Wouldn't dream of it, Master Jack.”

The door shut behind him, leaving her and the medic alone in the room.

…

Jack marched through the factory's halls, his mind a whirlwind of plans and possibilities. This idiot had underestimated his reach and ruthlessness. If they thought they could hurt him, they'd just made the gravest mistake of their lives.

Lynsie's disoriented face haunted him. She was the one person he could rely on, who understood him and didn't flinch at the monster he could be. Seeing her vulnerable, even momentarily, sent a chill down his spine.

“Sir!”

One of Jack's guards ran up to him, saluting. His gaze snapped to the guard, irritation flashing across his face.

“Report.”

“Sir, the prisoner is ready for your questioning. He's in the holding cell, as per your instructions.”

Jack's expression darkened.

“Good. Take me to their soon-to-be tomb.”

His words were blunt, callous, and unapologetic. The guard heeded him without hesitation, guiding him towards the depths of the factory. The factory's exterior did not just resemble a fortress for intimidation reasons. Every bit of space was factored into the construction, including under it. The holding cells were deep in the lower levels, far under the supportive rock the structure rests upon, starkly contrasting to the grandeur above. The air grew colder and the walls rougher as they descended into the dimly lit corridors.

Passing a few empty spaces, the guard stops at one and opens the door, which Jack enters. Inside, the would-be assailant was bound with rope to a chair, his face pale and sweat beading on his forehead. His missing arm had been crudely tended to, yet there was not enough bandaging to cover up the smell of cauterized flesh permeating the air. He looked up as Jack entered, and his fear was palpable.

Jack loomed over him, his arms crossed, the epitome of menace.

“Here's how this is gonna go...”

Jack began with a no-nonsense tone.

“I ask you questions. And you answer them. Simple, yes? Now then...Where did you get that powder?”

The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape.

“You think I'm afraid of you, Horner? You've already taken everything from me. Kill me if you want. I have nothing left to lose.”

“Wrong answer.”

Jack kicks the chair over, and the man lands on his wound. As painful as that is, it worsens as Jack strolls up to him and puts his foot on his good shoulder, adding his bulky weight. The screams that come from this echo off the walls.

“Magic is a commodity I keep tabs on. And some poor pissant like you sure as hell doesn't have the funds or collateral for trade. So I'll ask you again. Where did you get the memory powder?”

This made the man pause for a moment.

“Wait...memory powder? I didn't have memory powder. That stuff was meant to obliterate you.”

Jack glances at one of the cell guards and motions for them to come over with what they have gathered.

“This is what he had on him, sir. The pouch was gathered at the scene.”

Jack looks at it; a single word is written crudely in faded ink as if it was scribbled in haste.

“Oblivio? You moron! That's Latin for ‘to forget’ not obliterate.”

The man groans, inwardly kicking himself.

“I knew I should've double-checked the label.”

Jack added pressure out of frustration. This was the guy who had potentially taken out Lynsie? An illiterate idiot with a chip on his shoulder that can't do anything right? Life is one fucking cruel joke after another.

“You said ‘label’. So this wasn't the original packaging?”

“It was a bottle!”

Jack eases off.

“I stole it from a shop. The old man running it had eye problems, so it was easy. After that, I snuck on a ship and came here.”

“I figured as much.”

Jack sighed, and the man laughed at him as if thinking this was some sort of victory; either that or it was a nervous response. The odd moment of calm was suddenly gone when Jack's fist slammed into the floor by the man's face. The sound of stone breaking snapped the moment's reality back into the forefront. The man's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull as all color left him.

“You have guts for coming at me like you did. Sure, you never stood a chance, but I must commend you for doing it. But you still made the mistake of doing so, and now, you must live with the consequences.”

Jack straightened, his expression cold. He turned and left the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You say I destroyed your life? That you have nothing left to lose? You're wrong. Some fates are worse than death. And I won't be used as your scapegoat or executioner.”

He turned to one of his guards.

“Don't let him die. This is his life now.”

The guard nodded and entered the cell as the realization hit the man.

“No...No! You bastard! Come back! Get back here and kill me! End me like you did everything else!”

But his pleas fall on deaf ears. This was his fate. Jack won't let him have the easy way out he craves. If he wants to die, he'll have to find a way to end himself.

Jack's boots echoed through the narrow corridors as he ascended from the dungeons, his thoughts roiling, his rage simmering beneath the surface. The frustration of dealing with someone so thoroughly inept—someone who'd threatened his empire, all out of sheer idiocy—gnawed at him. The man's pathetic pleas linger faintly behind him, but he doesn't look back. There were more significant concerns now.

Ascending the steps back to the main level of the factory, he mulled over the revelation about the powder. A memory powder from across the sea. That meant two things: first, someone with access to potent magical substances had been careless enough to lose track of it, and second, he would have to wait till morning to get in touch with his contact overseas about this "Oblivio". And that ticked him off.

By the time he reached the infirmary, his composure was firmly back in place. Lynsie was still seated on the examination table, the medic hovering nearby with an array of charts and detailed records. Her gaze snapped to Jack as he entered.

“So? How did it go? Did you make him wish for death?”

Her tone was uneasily chipper despite her state and the context of the questions.

“Wishing and getting are two different things.”

Jack replied, his smirk faint but present. She snickered at the implications, and he glanced at the medic.

“How is she?”

The medic hesitated before answering.

“She's stable. Physically, there's no damage from whatever happened. But the memory loss may take time to resolve—or it may never fully return. I'd need more information about the substance to work on a countermeasure.”

Jack's expression darkened.

“I'm working on. The idiot stole a powder. Said he came from across the sea. That narrows things down a bit.”

She grimaces for him.

“Oh...You're going to have to call Kyle, aren't you?”

He sighs out a groan.

“Yeah. As much as that guy makes me want to snap his back over my knee, I can't hate him for knowing his stuff when it comes to hexes, curses, potions, and all the crap the old bat used to brew. So he's got his uses outside of supplying me with goods I can't get here.”

She pats his arm in sympathy, but he swats her for it, making her chuckle.

“Okay then, so we have a plan. Good. Very good.”

She hops off the table.

“Easy now, Miss Lynn.”

The medic adjusted his glasses.

“Avoid overexerting yourself. Your physical condition is fine, but cognitive stress could exacerbate the memory lapse. If you feel disoriented or have trouble focusing, tell someone immediately.”

She nodded. Jack leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed, as he scrutinized Lynsie. His usual sarcasm was absent, replaced by a tension he couldn't completely mask.

“You're taking this too lightly.”

“I'm taking it as it comes. You've taught me that much.”

She shot back, though her smirk didn't quite reach her eyes. His gaze narrowed.

“What I've taught you is to be prepared for everything. This doesn't feel like you.”

She blinked, taken aback.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He straightened, stepping closer, his towering presence casting a long shadow over her.

“You're acting like this is just another bump in the road. But you don't even know how bad it is yet. Memory loss isn't some scratch you can slap a bandage on.”

Her smirk faded, replaced by something sterner.

“I'm not weak. I've dealt with worse, and I'll handle this like always."

His hand shot out, gripping her shoulder—not roughly, but firmly enough to mean business.

“You're not ‘handling’ anything. You don't even know what hit you. So until we figure this out, you're sticking close and not making big decisions without me. Clear?”

Her mouth opened to protest, but the look in his eye silenced her. It wasn't his usual domineering glare; there was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. She closed her mouth and nodded reluctantly.

He released her shoulder, stepped back, and exhaled slowly. Jack curtly nodded to the medic and motioned for her to follow him as he left the infirmary. The pair walked silently for a moment, the hum of machinery and the distant chatter of workers filling the void. She finally broke the silence.

“You need to calm yourself. If you keep this up, people might suspect you genuinely care about me.”

He stopped abruptly, turning to face her, his expression unreadable.

“Don't misconstrue this. You're supposed to be untouchable. Unshakable. You've taken hits for me before. But this is different.”

She's momentarily caught off guard but shakes it off and goes to her default stance as his shadow.

“This is no different than any other time I've leaped in as your shield. And I'll keep doing it. I'll always do it, no matter the blow. I take each hit with pride because it means you're there to respond when I need it. Just like now.”

His lips curled into a sly grin.

“You really are loyal to a fault, huh?”

“Just to you.”

She playfully poked back, and it made him chuckle.

“Let's get upstairs. I need a real drink, and you need rest.”

She nodded, following him as they ascended to their private quarters. Despite her disorientation, she felt the sense of security in his presence that she always did. No matter how ruthless or cold he could be, Jack had a way of making her feel like nothing could genuinely harm her.

As they reached their quarters, he poured himself a stiff drink and then poured a second one, handing it to her. She smirked playfully.

“You sure? You remember the last time you shared a hard drink with me?”

His smirk deepened as he leaned against the bar, swirling his glass with a casual wrist flick. His starry eye gleamed as he gradually watched her usual sharpness return despite the fog clouding her mind.

“Last time was...different.”

His voice was low but teasing as he remembered that night at his parents' with that perfect bottle of Armagnac brandy.

“Besides, I'm not about to get you sauced enough to repeat that particular performance tonight.”

She chuckled.

“Fine. One drink. Maybe this can help me sleep. Wouldn't want to risk mixing magics, you know?”

“Good girl.”

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, the tension of the evening melted away. But even as they drank silently, unanswered questions hung heavy in the air. Mayhaps...another glass would help?

…

The following day dawned with a chill in the air, the factory coming alive with the sound of machinery and the bustle of workers. The hum of the factory was distant, muted by the thick stone walls. The morning light filtered through the thick curtains of Jack's quarters, casting a soft glow over the room. But in the stillness of the bed—only the quiet rhythm of breathing was shared between the two figures lying side by side beneath the heavy sheets. The bed beneath them had been unmade in their carnal, unspoken descent into sleep. Jack's arm was draped loosely across Lynsie, his body half-splayed on the mattress.

He stirred first, his hand grazing the edge of the bed as he shifted slightly, the movement pulling him from the edge of sleep. He blinked once and twice, trying to orient himself from the hazy feeling of waking from deep slumber. It took him a moment to process the situation—the familiar warmth beside him, the scent of alcohol still faintly lingering in the air, and the softness of the bed beneath him.

Lynsie was there, curled on her side, facing him. She was still asleep, her face unguarded and at peace. The sharp, calculating glint that usually accompanied her expression was gone, replaced with the innocence of someone blissfully dreaming, unburdened by the chaos of the night before.

His mind flicked back to the events that had led them here—the attack, the uncertainty about the memory powder, the dramatic interrogation, and the slight tension they had before they returned to their quarters. What started as one drink soon became many they'd shared before sleep. The now more familiar sense of release of tension through physical acts he could only bring himself to do with her slowly dawned on him having had happened despite his original intentions. Fuck, he needed that badly last night. And with how she was, she needed it too. All that stress was gone to allow sweet shut-eye.

He sighed softly, his starry eye flickering as he glanced at her sleeping form. Despite the raw tension that had courted him the night before, the anger and worry that had almost consumed him, something about seeing her like this—vulnerable yet still with that subtle strength—calmed him.

A faint shift in the sheets caught his attention, and he saw her just as her eyes fluttered open. They were still cloudy, the fog of sleep clinging to her mind, but the confusion from the night before was gone. And in its place was something worse.

He had known her well for a decade. He has seen her at her highest and lowest points. But he had never once bore witness to the look she had as she stared at him like he was a ghost. Before he muttered a word, she reacted, practically flinging herself out of his bed and not bothered by the sudden breeze accompanying said action. It takes a moment, but then she notices the marks on him are also on her. As well as their nudity.

“Why am I—And you, you're also...? Why was I in your bed? Did we...Oh my god, Jack, did we—?”

“Calm down. I can explain.”

“Calm down?!”

Her voice cracks momentarily, and he tosses a pillow at her. It is a childish move that breaks her lapse in panic enough for her usual rational thinking to kick in.

“Y-Yeah...Yeah...My apologies...”

He pats the spot beside him, and she hesitantly rejoins him, him covering her.

“Jack? What happened?”

He had hoped this wouldn't happen, but her condition worsened. Judging from her outburst, her memory gap extended back to before the Wishing Star and before they dealt with Princess Fiorimonde. So, more months were now just gone for her. And deeper still, she no longer remembered their budding closeness. The intimacy that they had managed to achieve that went beyond their casual professional relationship. Now it's like things were at square one once more, something he once wanted out of fear.

She trembled faintly from concern or the cold; he couldn't be sure which. His tone softened slightly as he reached for her trembling hand, clasping it in his own.

“I'll explain everything over breakfast. But let's get dressed. Okay?”

Despite his usual gruffness, he needed her to feel grounded, even if she couldn't fully trust her memory. She glanced at him, confusion etched across her face, but she didn't pull away. She just nodded.

“I know, this isn't the best way to wake up. I've got a lot to catch you up on. But, you're going to be alright. I got you.”

He stood, tossing the covers aside and pulling on a fresh pair of underwear from the nearby dresser. She watched him cautiously, her sharp eyes flickering with fragments of recognition and doubt. It was a look he despised—not because it reflected weakness, but because it reminded him how vulnerable she was. And how much he hated seeing her this way.

After quickly freshening up and changing into fresh clothes, the pair went to his office. He sat at his desk while she perched on a chair nearby, distractedly nursing a cup of warm milk. Despite her earlier calm, he could tell her thoughts were racing—he knew the signs all too well. He could see it in her eyes, and he hated it.

With his own cup full of coffee to keep him focused, he sets about getting in touch with his magic supply guy in Far Far Away. Opening a cabinet by his desk reveals a series of crystals, each held on named plaques for easy identification. With delicate ease for his size, he pulls the crystal with the initials FGC. Setting it on his desk, he taps it and takes a big swig of brew, the crystal glowing as it rings. After a few chimes, the light solidified, and a voice came through.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to call. And so early too? How have you been, Jacky-boy? Wait! Don't tell me. You want something. Am I close? I bet I'm close. Come on. Tell me.”

Jack thanked his luck that these two-way communication crystals didn't display visuals, or they'd get a big look at his exaggerated eye-roll.

“Not even two seconds and already more than twenty annoying words. A new record, Kyle.”

Kyle's voice was chipper, laced with a cheeky familiarity that thinned Jack's patience.

“You know I love our chats. They're so... stimulating. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you this fine day? Are you looking for something? Illegal potion recipes? Enchanted armory? Oh, wait—don't tell me. It's a cursed object! Enchanted chains? A hex to make someone's hair fall out? I haven't had a good cursed-object deal in ages. No, I know! You finally want a love potion~. Classic.”

Jack sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Kyle, if you don't shut up and listen, I'll find a way to reach through this crystal and strangle you till you turn blue.”

“Promises, promises.”

Kyle quipped, though there was a hint of wariness in his voice.

“Alright, big guy, I'm listening. Lay it on me.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly now that Kyle was done messing around—for the moment, anyway.

“I need information. A possible reversal potion or antidote for a memory powder. Do you have anything like that in stock? I know the old bat kept things from the benign to the extreme for all her...business ventures.”

It was a polite thing to call anything that Fairy Godmother did.

Kyle let out a low whistle, clearly intrigued.

“Memory powder? That's some serious stuff. It's not exactly the kind of thing people pick up casually. You in a bind or something?”

Jack's patience was already thin, and Kyle's teasing wasn't helping. He looks over at Lynsie as she finishes her drink, looking at nothing but listening to everything.

“Let's just say someone came after me and messed with my people, so now I'm cleaning up the mess. Can you help me or not?”

Kyle chuckled.

“Since when do you care about what happens to your workers?”

Kyle gasped with cocky realization, a sound that made Jack want to smash the crystal just to shut him up.

“Unless it was that little cutie that always follows you around~?”

“Cut the crap, Kyle! Can you help me or not?”

Jack growled; he could piratically hear the delight of being right on the other end.

“Relax, big guy. I'm just teasing. Of course, I can help. But, uh, favors like this? They don't come cheap.”

Kyle's tone turned businesslike but with a smug undercurrent that grated on Jack's nerves. There was a reason Kyle inherited the businesses from Fairy Godmother and her son didn't. And it wasn't entirely because Kyle was her "sexy man-boy chauffeur"...though it did help. No. Kyle was to Fairy Godmother as Lynsie is to Jack. Loyal, faithful, know what they are doing, and can get difficult things done.

“You know how it works. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine.”

Jack palmed his face and groaned into his hand, scowling.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I don't know yet. But trust me, I'll think of something. For now, let's mark this as an IOU. Because I like you so much.”

Jack wanted so much to be able to kill this man with his mind. There was a pause on the other end, followed by the faint sound of papers shuffling. Kyle was likely going over the many books on the products the Fairy Godmother's Cottage produces.

“Well, here's the thing,”

He said finally.

“Reversal potions for mind-altering hexes are tricky. The effects depend on the ingredients used, the amount taken, and how long it's been in the system. I've got a general antidote that works in most cases, but it's for your basic bouts of forgetfulness, like getting bonked on the head and forgetting if you left the oven on. That sort of thing. I'll need details if we're talking about the 'intentionally induced' kind.”

Jack's grip on his coffee mug tightened.

“It likely came from your territory. The guy who used it said he stole it and ditched the bottle it came in, probably for ease of stashing, so I don't have the original label. The only clue I've got is the word ‘Oblivio’. Does that ring any bells?”

Kyle hummed thoughtfully.

“Oblivio, huh? Latin. Fancy. Okay, I think I know the kind of brew you're dealing with. Years back, the King cracked down on magic that fell into the category of ‘manipulators’. We're talking about your hypnotics, will-benders, body modifiers, and, of course, the mind kickers. Naturally, the old gal was exempt from this due to her connections, but we had to relabel things to keep up with the goodie-goodie appearance. You know how that is?”

“Not really.”

“Right. I forget you don't care about public image.”

“I let my business and reputation speak for me. Why hide it? It works, and I'm still making a killing.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

“Both.”

“Ah, Jack. You really are a sociopath, you know that? But you're honest, and I like that. Mad respect.”

Kyle quipped back, though his tone was more amused than bothered.

“Okay, give me a second. Just got to flip through the gal's big book of brews.”

The crystal went quiet for a good long moment, the faint sound of papers shuffling and something heavy being dragged in the background. Jack drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently, resisting the urge to pace. Finally, Kyle's voice came back, a little muffled.

“Okay, so I found our bad boy Oblivio. And the good news is...That got renamed under the label Lethe's Tears, and it can be reversed.”

Jack didn't like how he opened with ‘the good news’.

“Don't hold out on me, Kyle. What's the rest?”

Kyle inhales nervously.

“So...Oblivio powder isn't for simply forgetting things. It's for erasing. It's extremely potent, and in its raw form, it is devastating. She always deluded it or used the smallest amount required if I read these notes correctly. So if your girl got hit with raw powder, her memory is going to keep fading the longer this goes untreated.”

Jack stiffened, and Lynsie flinched in her seat while Kyle continued.

“Now, while the antidote should counteract the effects, there's no guarantee the memories will return immediately. Sometimes, things of this potency need what we call a trigger. Something familiar. A place, an object, a smell—anything tied to strong personal memories. You get the antidote in them; then hit them with the trigger. If all goes well, the memories will start flooding back. If not…”

Kyle trailed off, letting the silence hang in the air. Jack exhaled sharply.

“Figures the old bat would rules lawyer her curses with bullshit like this. Fine. How soon can you get the antidote to me?”

Kyle's voice brightened, going back to all business now.

“I can have it shipped out and in your hands in...three days. Four tops.”

“That's too long!”

Jack snapped, a little sharper than he intended, correcting his tone slowly.

“I need it sooner.”

“Hey, hey, I get it. There's no need to bite my head off.”

Kyle said, his tone defensive but not unsympathetic.

“I'm just being realistic with you. It will take me some time to gather the stuff, make the counter agent, test it, and secure delivery. And I think you know that Far Far Away isn't exactly around the corner from your place; that's a boat trip. If all goes well and I start now, with luck that everything goes right on the first try, we're looking two and a half.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He couldn't leave Lynsie like this for that long, not in her current state, but he knew this was out of his hands.

“Fine.”

He said finally, taking another sip of coffee, the bitter warmth grounding him.

“But don't try to pull something about what you want later. I'm not in the mood for games.”

Kyle chuckled.

“Jack, you wound me. Do you think I'd take advantage of a man in need? Shame on you.”

Jack muttered something under his breath as he tapped the crystal, ending the connection. The glow faded, leaving him to stew over what Kyle said. He stared at the space on his desk, his mind racing with plans and contingencies.

Three more days. He could make it work. He had to for her sake as well as his.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. Lynsie sat silently across from him, her hands clasped tightly around the empty cup. Her gaze remained distant, as though she were trying to piece together everything before he could so as not to make him carry this load.

He despised this. This dent in her demeanor unraveled what she had been built up to be. The sharp, fiery woman he knew was trapped beneath a haze of confusion and fear, which gnawed at him.

“Alright...”

His voice was steady despite the storm brewing in him.

“We've got three days to hold this together. Here's what we're going to do.”

Her attention snapped back to him. She looked uncertain but nodded for him to continue.

“First, we will establish where your head is each day and act accordingly. We've got years of history, and we'll work on grounding you to it so the next gap in your memory doesn't get any bigger than it could be. So...Let's keep to a routine—familiar places, objects, anything that might help you feel connected. The more stable you are, the easier it should be when the antidote arrives."

She nods.

“I can also keep a record and write down the essential details like, well...”

She motions to their star-marked scarring.

“Good. Smart. Do it.”

Uncomfortably, she asks the tricky question.

“What do we do when the gap breaches years, and I recognize none of this?”

He froze, his jaw clenched at her question, and his mind sped as he tried to respond. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers, his star-marked hand faintly glinting in the dim light.

“If it gets to that point...”

He began, his tone careful, measured.

“Then we focus on keeping you grounded in the present. Even if your memory fades more, I'll ensure you have enough context to navigate. You won't be alone even if you don't recognize me.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes flickered with something he couldn't identify, but she nodded hesitantly.

“Alright. That's...That's something.”

Her tone wasn't like hers. She sounded hollow and detached, like she was simply agreeing while not truly believing it. This won't do. She's not allowed to fall apart. He stood, reaching for his coat on the back of his chair.

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“Get up. You're not going to slip up on my watch.”

“Jack...”

“We'll start with something simple today—a walk around the factory, maybe the stables later. Familiar sights and sounds might help. Then we'll do your journal idea—get everything written down. I'll fill in the gaps wherever you need.”

She looked up at him.

“You think it'll work?”

The question hung heavy between them, raw and unflinching. Jack exhaled through his nose, his expression hardening further, not with anger but with determination.

“It might. It might not. Either way, I'll remind you—every damn day if needed. I'll keep reminding you until it sticks. So don't you dare entertain doubt. You're not weak like that. You're a fighter. Write it down, draw it, sing it, I don't care. Just don't let go. Not without a fight. Don't disappoint me like this.”

The intensity of his words shook her, and the use of her trigger caused fear to overtake the situation's dire effects. Her uncertainty slowly gave way to determination, even if some moisture faintly built up in her eyes.

“Okay. Let's do this.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite the heaviness of the situation.

“Good girl.”

She stood up and squared her shoulders as if steeling herself for battle.

“Thank you. Please, don't hesitate to kick my ass if I do that again.”

“Please...Like you have to tell me twice.”

With that, they began the actual first day of grounding her memory in the reality she was beginning to lose. They started by walking around the facility to see what she could recall, which was a lot. She only didn't register the new equipment and remodeling after the star event. But Jack led her through the bustling corridors with a patience he gave nobody else, the steady rhythm of the machinery filling the air like a sugary-scented heartbeat. Workers greeted them with nods or cautious glances, their expressions a mix of respect for Jack and concern for Lynsie, given talk of the event during the festival had already spread throughout. She trailed her fingers along the cool stone walls, the texture sparking flickers of intrigue when a mark was there that wasn't before or one was now missing.

In the stables, it was a similar situation with her recognition. She knew of all the creatures kept within and what their needs were. But he had to explain why four unicorns were missing from their pens. Luckily, her favored dark beauty was still there and was a delightful relief. How she learned of the phoenix's subsequent loss/betrayal was shameful. Regret befalling her for favoring the bird with trust. The state of the trophy room was also something that required him to explain. Her memory might have been regressed, but it was still up to speed to note every missing piece from his collection or how the stained glass window now had different patterns. Little details like that reminded him of how much he relied on her to keep things in check while he was paying attention to other aspects of his operations.

Returning to Jack's office, they worked on her journal. She wrote in neat, deliberate strokes, furrowing her brow as she documented what Jack told her about their shared history. When not too busy with his work, Jack occasionally checked on what she had written, correcting details or adding context when needed, and his voice was steady and calm throughout.

The afternoon was a gift—a semblance of normalcy. As protective as he had been, her memory was still on par with their usual, and he allowed her to run her typical rounds as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was pleasant. No issues. And when she returned with snacks for teatime, he almost figured the effects of the powder had cleared out of her system. But that was a wishful thought that he only entertained briefly until she fumbled, making slips due to not having the knowledge she had days ago.

By evening, they were back in their private living quarters. Lynsie cooked as Jack sat at the table and went over her journal, adding more notes and little things…also maybe snooping to see if there were any secrets. For as close as they were/had gotten, both still had issues with opening up about personal things. Hell, he had to learn about how her mother actually died by hearing her tell his mother and not HIM; she had him believing she killed that repugnant witch in defense when the bitch offed herself yet blamed it on her. So this was both good for her and a mini bonus for him. Her notes were meticulous, organized into sections: facts about herself, shared bits with him, even quirks of the factory and its workers. It was equal parts practical and somewhat unnerving—a record of who she was in case she woke up and didn't recognize herself.

The scent of dinner wafted through the room, a mix of sautéd vegetables and something sweet—a dish he couldn't quite identify but knew she had mastered over the years. She moved about the kitchen with a grace that belied her earlier trembling, and she was humming, something she rarely did. Watching her like this, he felt a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe today had been a success, a foothold against the steady erosion of her memories. For all the day's chaos, something was calming about seeing her in her element, even if her memory gaps hung like a shadow over them. It was a rare moment of peace, and he wouldn't let it slip unnoticed.

“Smells good.”

He remarked, leaning back in his chair and closing the journal for now. She paused mid-stir, her lips twitching into a faint smile.

“This was something the bandits taught me. You learn many random dishes when food is limited due to a lack of coin. You get creative. See what works. And I suppose cooking's always been like...a meditation for me. Keeps my hands busy when my head's elsewhere.”

He nodded, letting the silence between them settle into something companionable. For now, he could push aside the weight of everything—her condition, the antidote, the questions they hadn't answered—and just focus on the here and now.

When dinner was ready, they sat at the table, the city's lights twinkling in the distance outside the window. The silence was pleasant, not awkward or forced. They ate in near quiet, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the room.

But as they reached the end of the meal, she broke the stillness.

“You don't have to deal with this, you know. I know it can't be easy for you to deal with me being broken. Knowing it's going to get worse before it gets better. I won't fault you if you wanted to—”

“Don't.”

He cut her off.

“I know where you're going with this, but knock it off right now. You are not broken. This. This isn't on you. So don't try to make it out like it is. We've...”

He catches himself and quickly corrects his words.

“You've been through worse. That's how I know you're better than this. You don't stay down when beaten, no matter how badly. You will beat this. You're something of mine. And I don't keep useless crap.”

She nodded but didn't look entirely convinced. Her gaze drifted down to her bowl, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge.

“Still, I can't imagine how frustrating this must be for you. Having to make yourself pause because instead of being at your side, I'm lost some ways back and have to catch up.”

“Not as frustrating as hearing you doubt yourself.”

Jack put his fork down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He wasn't good at this kind of thing—comforting people, sharing feelings. But Lynsie wasn't just anyone; he couldn't let her spiral into self-doubt.

“Listen to me. I don't care how far back you think you've fallen. I don't care if I have to slow down, stop, and drag you along—what matters is that we keep moving forward. Together. I'll do whatever it takes. Because you're not some liability or distraction to me. You're...”

The words get caught in his throat. He has to tread this cautiously. Yes, it's still her. Yes, he explained to her that they got close. But that connection is weak now because it is only on his end. He's the one with the hangups that have kept them in a comfortable partnership/companionship...with benefits...but now he's the only one on that spot. He's the one with emotions. He supposed now she had a point about that feeling left behind part. Yet, this was not the time to dwell on it. He had to make this stick with her.

“I built this place...”

Jack continued, motioning vaguely around them.

“Brick by brick, deal by deal. I've fought tooth and nail for everything I've got. And you've been here for a good chunk of it. You've got my back when I don't even realize I need it. So don't think for a second that I'm going to let some powder erase what you mean to this place, to me. And I don't care how often I have to say it; you don't get to fall apart on me. Got it?”

She let out a shaky breath, and for a moment, he worried he'd pushed too hard. But then she gave him a small tentative laugh.

“It's amazing. Even when you try to be comforting, you can't help but make it sound so...formidable.”

Her voice tinged with a wry humor that sounded more like her usual self. It was enough to make him smirked.

“Good thing I don't have to do it often.”

“True. Yet, I thank you for trying nonetheless.”

The tension in the room eased momentarily, the day's weight lifting just enough to let them breathe. Lynsie picked up her bowl, finishing the last bites of her meal. Jack followed suit, the quiet between them now companionable instead of strained. He watched her momentarily as she cleared the table before shifting gears.

“Let's talk about tomorrow. We've got the groundwork laid, but we need to keep building. More routines, more grounding. Maybe even dig into some of the deeper stuff. Whatever jogs the memories.”

She tilted her head, considering his words.

“You mean like that time you tried to ride a centaur and ended up in the infirmary for a week?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“I was hoping you'd forget about that.”

She chuckled softly, the sound a balm to his frayed nerves.

“Not likely. Nor am will I forget that Griffin, which came attacking because you fancied yourself a rare dish from its egg.”

“That omelet was worth it, and you know it. And I got a cool wall trophy from it too.”

He points to the head mounted on display in the den.

“That beast busted half the chimneys, took out a dozen men, and ate me! I had to kill it from the inside. Which, mind you, was not pleasant when it fell from the sky.”

He scoffs.

“Big deal. You were fine.”

“I had four broken ribs from the impact!”

“You're still here, aren't you?”

He muttered, though his smirk betrayed his amusement.

They fell into comfortable banter, the tension gone as the conversation turned to lighter memories and shared jokes. It was a glimpse of familiar normalcy, a reminder of the bond they'd forged over the years.

As the evening stretched on, she yawned, her eyelids drooping. Jack noticed and ushered her off.

“Go get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and you'll need your strength.”

She nodded, getting in a good stretch before taking the journal, yet pausing to put a hand on his arm.

“Thank you.”

He gave her a small, genuine smile, patted her head, and then nudged her toward the hall with their rooms. As she disappeared to her room, he lingered for a moment. His mind sped with plans, contingencies, and the weight of what lay ahead. But beneath it all, there was a flicker of hope.

Three days. They could make it. They had to. For her, for him, and for everything they'd built together.

Jack clenched his fist, his star-marked plum thumb glowing faintly. He wasn't going to let her slip away. Not now. Not ever.

As Lynsie padded down the hallway toward her room, the journal clutched tightly to her chest; she felt an odd mix of exhaustion and gratitude. Her thoughts swirled, fragments of the day's conversations, the sensations of familiar places, and Jack's unwavering resolve echoing in her mind.

She paused briefly before her door, resting her forehead against the cool wood. The day had been surreal—moments of clarity interspersed with befuddlement, a sense of losing herself while still holding on to threads of what she was supposed to be. Yet Jack had been there, his presence a steady anchor in the storm.

She was thankful he didn't give up easily, a faint smile tugging at her lips, glad he was so stubborn.

Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped into her room. The space was familiar and comforting, filled with small tokens of her life: trinkets from their escapades, books she'd devoured and reread, a threadbare blanket she'd never replaced because it was just right. Everything here told a story, her story, even if some parts of it felt distant now.

Setting the journal on her bedside table, she sank onto the edge of her bed and let out a slow breath. The day had been long, and though she was drained, the idea of sleep felt daunting. What if she woke up tomorrow as she did today? What if the fragile threads holding her identity together unraveled further?

She picked up the journal and opened it, skimming through the pages she'd written earlier. It was all there: facts, memories, moments Jack had recounted to her. His handwriting filled in the margins, sharp and precise, correcting dates, adding context, and sometimes slipping in a sardonic comment. It made her smile, his dry humor a consistency she desperately needed.

Her gaze drifted to the last entry, where she had added a small note at the bottom:

"No matter what, Jack is always there. He's always been there. He says I'm not alone in this. And I believe him. I need to."

She tears out a blank page and scribbles "READ ME" on it, setting it up to point whatever version of herself might be there in the morning to read the book before acting. She trusts Jack. Just about mindlessly in most things. However, she doesn't trust herself. Not like this. She knows how she used to be. The training she endured in her youth and continued into...hell...even now. She is a weapon. Honed like a blade tempered over the years. The last thing she wants is for her fractured to point any of this deadliness at Jack. Precautionary measures were a safe bet to take before attempting to sleep.

She got to work in a very paranoid way that even she'd recognized as a bit much. Hiding anything that could be used as an obvious weapon, secured the windows—blocked the fireplace—locked the door—and made crude restraints to hinder her long enough to make her focus so she'd find the note.

This will have to do. There's not much else she could do that Jack would allow. So she shut her eyes.

And hoped.

…

Morning rolled in with a dragging slowness. The colors of the sky dance into vibrant hues in these early hours before the start of progress begins, before the chimney stacks from multiple industry buildings plume with thick smog to block it all out. Of course, the city's heart is the most significant source of such smoke—the Horner Pie Factory. The ovens and conveyor belts of the production lines are lifeless. The staff is slowly getting things warmed up for the day before the time to start officially begins.

Jack awoke with the weight of a restless night pressing on his chest. The light filtering through the curtains barely cut through the haze of exhaustion, but it was enough to rouse him from the quiet slumber he'd managed to snatch. He blinked at the ceiling, the room's silence stretching around him, broken only by the distant murmur of the city slowly coming to life. The smell of the factory's cooking fumes, of the day's first round of preparations, wafted faintly through the air even here in their private quarters.

He swung his legs off the bed, the cold floor hitting his feet. His sudden movement made his mind wake up quicker, flashing the reality he now had to confront. Lynsie wondered if she'd slept, if she was still the same as she had been yesterday, or if the powder's effects had taken even more overnight.

Jack stood and stretched, his body creaking with the unfamiliar stress built in his muscles over the past few days. His mind was already racing through what he needed to do: the factory, the staff, making sure her memory was still intact for another day. But the small part of him—the one buried deep under the layers of callousness and indifference—couldn't shake the concern that gnawed at him for her.

The clock ticked louder in the silence, the steady rhythm mocking the fragility of the moment.

He reached for his robe, slipping the faded and familiar fabric on before heading out. His fingers paused at the knob of the door, suddenly hesitant for a moment longer than necessary before he opened it.

The hall, too, was still. The faint hum of the factory machines below was the only sound that truly broke the silence. His eyes immediately landed on her room down the hall, and the door shut.

Slowly, almost with caution, he made his way toward it, not wanting to rush what felt like a moment of breakable peace, even though he could feel the day beginning to pulse outside, full of tasks and responsibilities that couldn't wait.

When he reached her door, he paused for a breath. He didn't knock yet but instead pressed his ear to the cool wood, straining for any sound on the other side. It was silent, and in that soundlessness, Jack's thoughts surged.

He had to stay focused and keep reminding himself that whatever was happening with her was temporary and manageable. He was in control—he had to be. He would make sure she was okay, and he would do everything to ensure that.

But what if the memories slipped even further today? The thought crept in uninvited, but he quickly squashed it. He wouldn't entertain any more of these doubts, not when they only complicated things.

His hand went to the door handle, but he heard something on the other side before he could turn it. A rustle, a faint shuffle, then the unmistakable sound of paper. He knocked softly, waiting for a beat before calling out.

“Lynsie? You awake?”

No response.

He knocked again, louder this time, but still no answer.

“I'm coming in.”

He tested the doorknob and found it locked. His brow furrowed slightly, but then he smirked. She always was paranoid, but this was next level. Not a problem—He forced it open with some effort and was met with a quick flash as something shot by his face. A slight glance revealed a pencil now embedded in the doorframe.

“You should know not to enter a lady's room without permission.”

The sight that greeted him was reassuring, but not, especially with how detached her voice was. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the journal open in her lap. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her eyes buried in the book, but she seemed present. The room, however, bore signs of cautionary paranoia—the windows were securely bolted, furniture arranged in defensive positions, and the fireplace blocked. His gaze flicked to the makeshift restraints lying discarded near the bed and bits still on the frame.

“A bit of an overreaction, don't you think?”

Her eyes snapped to his, and his dread was confirmed; no recognition existed in her gaze.

“Huh? You really did get big. Neat.”

His chest felt tight even as he forced a neutral expression. The detachment in her voice and the scrutiny of her gaze weren't exactly aspects of the Lynsie he knew. The effects of the powder were more profound than he'd hoped, and the familiar bond they shared now seemed like a brittle string, stretched thin by the weight of her lost memories.

“Yeah. Big, strong, and stubborn too.”

He stepped further into the room but kept his movements slow and deliberate.

“Sounds like you. Well...The you I knew as a kid.”

So it went that far back this time. The first gap she lost was several weeks. Then, she lost a few months. Now, years are absent. And going off how she's reacting to him, the last ten years or more are gone.

“So you still recognize me?”

“I know it's you, Jack. Even with...whatever these things are.”

She motions to their cosmic scars. That's something, at least. His mind focused on assessing the situation. Everything they'd built, everything they were to each other now—that was gone. He felt a pang of frustration but hastily smothered it. This wasn't her fault. He had to handle this carefully. This was a Lynsie from a long time ago, someone still raw and cautious, not the one who had grown alongside him into a formidable partner.

“Good. Makes things a bit easier. Though if I'm honest, I figured you'd be a bit more, what's the word? Glad? To see me, I mean.”

He said evenly, pulling a chair from the corner and turning it to face her as he sat down.

“Oh, I am. I've wanted to see you again for years. But you must forgive my lack of enthusiasm. This has been a hard kick in the balls that I don't have.”

She taps the journal with her fingers in a claw-like way before running her hand through her hair to keep calm. She may have sounded detached, but the tension in her was palpable.

“Sorry. This has been a bad first impression.”

He waves it off.

“It's fine. I'd probably have done worse if I were in your situation.”

He watches her skim over the pages.

“How much do you know right now?”

She shrugs, her expression shifting from guarded to faintly curious.

“Only as much as I've read so far. But from the gist of things, I take it I work for you. Right?”

“Yeah. We've worked together for a long time.”

“So that makes you...what? My boss? A partner? Something else?”

He let out a low chuckle, the question amusing him. Hell, he didn't know exactly how to label their relationship himself. He was still iffy on calling what they were as "friends", but that line was murkier than the briny deep considering what they did behind closed doors.

“Honestly, a bit of all three, depending on the day. But that's more of a recent thing.”

“What does that mean?”

Not about to go into detail about such sensitive things, he continues but on a different track.

“You help me run this operation. You've been my right hand for a good chunk of it.”

Her gaze flickered to the journal in her lap, her fingers tracing the writing lines.

“That's what this says. But words on a page don't mean much when you can't recall it.”

His frustration flared again—not at her, but at the situation. She was right. How could he expect her to trust a history she didn't remember?

“Fair point. But you've always been good at figuring things out. Let's take it one step at a time. Start with what you know. What's the last thing you remember?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Depends on what you're asking. The last clear memory I have...”

She leans her head back, eyes closed as she thinks.

“I was stealing from the tax repository of this shitty little town. They were assholes, so it was fine.”

“Of course.”

“So I'm loading this chest onto the back of a wagon that just so happened to be parked in the back...”

“Very convenient.”

“I know, right? So I'm loading this wagon and...”

She trails off, her hands rub her face, and she sighs.

“That's where it all goes dark. I can't recall anything after that. You can imagine the surprise of going from that to waking up here, tied to a bed. Kinda jarring.”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, I can see that. It's probably why you did all this.”

He motions around the room, her eyes roaming from one thing to another.

“Precautionary measures. Yeah, I'd do that if I didn't trust a situation.”

“Do you remember how old you were during that?”

“Why?”

She looked at him funny; he knew this would be the heaviest thing to answer. But he needed to know. He needed to figure out just how far back her mind had gone.

“Because your birthday is next month. You'll be thirty-eight.”

The journal falls from her lap.

“Thirty-eight? Are you serious?”

His deadpan expression was enough for her to know he wasn't joking.

“...E-Eighteen.”

The word leaves her like a muttered curse.

“Oh god...”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Yep. This was bad. He watched her process this revelation, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her knees. The room, the carefully constructed haven she had fortified in the night, now felt like a cage—a stark reminder of just how much she'd lost. Her expression shifted between disbelief, confusion, and a hint of panic. For someone who had just learned they'd lost two decades of their life, she was holding it together better than he'd expected, but just barely.

“I know this is a lot. It's a damn nightmare, frankly. But—”

“Get out.”

He froze mid-sentence, the sharpness of her voice cutting through his words. She wasn't yelling or being loud, but the sharp edge in her tone made it clear that she wasn't asking. He looked at her, and for a moment, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time—unfiltered fear. It wasn't the fear of him, but of herself, of the chasm she now realized separated her past from her present state of mind and being.

“Lynsie—”

“Get. Out.”

Her voice cracked, but her words stayed sharp as a blade.

“I need... I need a moment, Jack. Please.”

He exhaled slowly, holding back the instinct to argue. He knew better than to push her when she was this raw.

“Okay.”

He yielded, standing up and pushing the chair back slowly.

“But I won't be far. If you need me, you get me. This is your home. Feel free to do what you need.”

She didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the floor as if avoiding his eyes was the only way to keep herself from unraveling. He waited for a moment, a part of him screaming to stay and fix this, but he couldn't. She wasn't someone you pushed—not when she felt cornered. So he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have in the stillness of the hallway. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought the urge to burst back in. Instead, he leaned against the wall outside her room, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on knots he'd neglected to smooth out. This wasn't how he wanted the day to start, but it was the reality they were facing.

This was worse than he'd thought. Losing over twenty years? It wasn't just a setback; it was catastrophic. The person in that room wasn't the Lynsie he'd come to know and depend on. She was someone else entirely, a shadow of her former self, struggling to make sense of a world that had left her behind.

He'd seen her in many different states—battle-scarred and triumphant, broken and rebuilt—but this...this was different. This wasn't a fight he could muscle through or a problem he could solve with sheer determination. It required patience, understanding, and a kind of vulnerability he wasn't used to showing.

“Damn it...”

He muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall and heading toward the kitchen. He needed to keep busy and focus on something tangible while she worked through her thoughts. Coffee, he decided. Coffee was a good start. And maybe pants. It's generally a good idea to get dressed; a robe isn't going to cut it as the morning presses on.

[To be continued in the second half.]

#big jack horner #jack horner #little lynn #big jack horner x oc #big jack horner fanfic #jack horner x oc #jack horner fanfic #puss in boots the last wish oc #MY WISH WAS ALWAYS YOURS #self insert #op writing

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