#I just have sorting through ao3 it’s a hellhole unfortunately

[sofargoneao3]

can someone give me some jily fic recs please I’m in a slump and need something

[honeydewplaydough]

Childish Laughter & Bleeding Scars

Cross posted on AO3 !  Can you guys tell me that Nie Mingjue is my favorite character lol?

What an unfortunate sight he must be, thought Nie Mingjue as he sputtered out blood through fleeting breaths. Coughs shook his whole frame. Suspended by his wrist, he hung mere inches off the ground. If he had been just a couple of inches taller, maybe he would be able to at least rest some of his body weight on the tips of his toes. But for now, he hung bonelessly, arms pulled tight. The pain was a dull ache that spread through the entirety of his shoulders and down to the middle of his back.

Nie Mingjue figured he would have rather suffered the grueling sharp pains of a hundred stab wounds than what seemed like the slow tearing of muscles.

The man leaned his head against the cold of the wall, allowing for at least the merciful kiss of relief on the back of his head. For if the lavish Sun Palace were warmth, the warmth of alcohol, the warmth of bodies pressing together, and the warmth of blood splattering across the floors, then the dungeons were the depths of a winter raging sea.

Deadly. Cold. Merciless.

Another cough wrecked his Nie Mingjue’s body. He had, at one point, attempted to count the days however the only light sources were the unreliable brightness of the lanterns that somehow flickered out on their own free will and left him in periods of darkness that never seemed to end. To pour salt in the wound, the servants also did not feed him in a coherent and a time measurable manner.

To be fair, however, feeding him was a strong word. They brought him scraps of supposed food when they damned well pleased.

And besides, eating the food prepared by any Wen Dog’s hand was not a luxury Nie Mingjue was willing to extend to them.

Furthermore, with his Qi haphazardly sealed, he would not be able to fight off the poison they would inevitably force-feed him once it had entered his body. He would be forced to witness what it would do to his body in full force. Would it make him vomit his intense up? Would it make him lose his teeth and have his gums be raw and exposed? Cause unscratchable itches that would leave him howling like some sort of maddened animal?

He would not let them have a chance to bear witness to it.

The lurch of his body forward strained his muscles and for a moment made him forget about his thoughts. He felt the clot of blood forcing its way up to his throat and down to the ground to where all the blood had trickled down from his chin and accumulated there at his exposed feet.

Worse than that was the blood that laid at his feet did not come from his own turbulent inwards.

It was also so that his body was covered from head to toe in wounds. Slices of varying degrees tore from shoulders down. A particularly nasty one had stretched from belly button to naval. Hundreds of them littered over his body, some of them being calculated slices meant to remove the top layer of skin, skinning him as if he were some sort of vegetable. Others meant to cut down deep and not a single thought was spared to the carnage that the knife took with it when it was pulled from his skin.

He couldn’t say which he had preferred.

All Nie Mingjue could do was simply hang there in silence as various torturers used his body as their canvas. Each one of them probably hoped to be praised when their Sect Leader came back from the battle he had so leisurely attended.

Just thinking about the man-made and anger run through his veins. The man that had slain his father in such a meticulous way that no blame could ever be put on to him. The man that bought our mercenaries to come and hack away at his borders, causing him both inconvenience and weeks of little sleep.

The man that haunted his dreams starting from his youth to adulthood.

Let it be known, however, that if Nie Mingjue were to see that bastard face to face, he’d kill him. He wasn’t twelve anymore. He’d face him like the man that he was and would take his head back to QingHe. For himself. To prove to himself that his youth was not a waste. That Wen Ruohan could not harm him anymore.

He would show the head off to his people. To not only to inspire them, that it was possible to shoot down the sun and conquer evil, but that as long as he stood here alive on this earth, he would always protect them.

An offering for Lan Xichen. To show him that there was nothing to be afraid of. That Nie Mingjue would move mountains, conquer the sun, and show him that he was worthy.

Revenge for Nie Huaisang. Former Clan Leader Nie had been both their fathers. He had smiled down at them all the same, had picked up Nie Huaisang, and had held Nie Mingjue by the hand. He told them stories of ole underneath the starry nights.

Nie Huaisang had loved their dad too.

To bring him the head of the one who killed him, would show that Nie Mingjue would protect him and would make do on the promise he made when he was still just a youth.

He just hoped that his little useless brother wouldn’t try and turn into something it was not.

‘Oh, da-ge! Why must I work so tirelessly out on the field every day if one, the war is over, and two, you’ve already shot the son out of the sky! If anything, now is the perfect opportunity to laze around! Discover new hobbies, pick up an ancient craft! Who knows, maybe by the end of summer, I’ll become a talented flute player. One that will shake the entire cultivation world and seize them up by their necks!’

Nie Mingjue let out a snort, as he pictured his brother saying it. It sounded close enough to him and he couldn’t help but let out a small smile at the thought. The thought of his useless, no good, weak little brother being safe at night.

It was then, he heard a shuffling of feet from behind the entrance to his personal hellhole. He rolled his eyes, cursing the cowardice of the poor bastard. Was he not restrained? Were they transporting him somewhere? No, the last time they had tried that, he had needed at least seven Wen Dogs to drag him down the halls.

He tried to contain his snort at that memory.

It had caused Meng Yao to lose face, even if it was just other Wen Dogs of slightly lower rank, and that had made the beating he received earlier a bit more worth it.

But at the topic of hand, he was starting to get annoyed. What kind of grown man or woman shook like that? Did they not have the upper hand? Were they some poor servant here to dress his wounds?

Nie Mingjue was annoyed.

He had been slightly fevered and the ache in his shoulders and his back were only worsening. Whoever it was, Nie Mingjue couldn’t care less. Be it Wen Ruohan himself or a scrambling slave of a slave. They should at least have some face!

“I know you are there, you Wen Dog! Stop shuffling like a coward and face me,” Nie Mingjue snapped out.

The shuffling and rustling of robes paused for a moment. And a few steps were heard. For some reason, the more that Nie Mingjue paid attention to the noise, instead of it barely passing through his ears and onto his brain, he realized that the person had tiny feet. The pitter-patters of steps caused great confusion.

Had they sent down a small child to torture him? Had they sent a little servant boy to dress the wounds and toss down his scraps? What was he doing here?

“Doggie?” Came the small voice.

Nie Mingjue furrowed his eyebrows. The child did not sound over the age of three years old. What game were those bastards playing? What kind of monster sends down a child? Had it not been Nie Mingjue and the boy had come closer to another war criminal, he was still little enough that he could simply be kicked out of the way.

Suddenly, the boy was standing in front of him behind the bars. One hand was gripping the bars as he plastered himself against them.

“I… The Doggie?” He asked excitedly pointing to himself. He looked to be searching for something on Nie Mingjue’s face, “Woof Woof!”

[snowfall-fanfictions]

Beware the Frozen Heart Ch. 3- The Attempt

Ao3 Link

FFN Link

Things start to get interesting now. Enjoy!

Blood Tw and death tw

The training grounds of the Arendellian Royal Guard were lively with the sound of metal clanging and war cries of young men and women dressed in the forest green uniform of Arendelle. Few of the trainees noticed that the queen and crown princess had made their way into the courtyard, hands clasped together. Those that did almost immediately stopped and saluted the monarchs as they passed by. Many of them started sharing whispers and others were unfortunate to be on the receiving end of their partner’s weapons who didn’t see the two pass through.

Elsa was always nervous when she came through the training grounds. She remembered years ago when she accompanied her father to the grounds and got so scared that she ended up freezing the floor. At least two people slipped and were hospitalized that day, and Elsa wasn’t allowed in the grounds since. The memories of that day caused Elsa to quicken her pace as she went to Captain Torvond’s quarters.

Anna, on the other hand, was in awe of what she saw. The energy, the excitement, the swords! As a child, Anna looked up to warriors, like Joan of Arc and Boudica. Their legends gave her the strength to endure the years of isolation she faced. Despite this, she was never allowed to visit the grounds, because her carelessness caused concern for the captain of the guard at the time. She wished she could study the tactics of the soldiers a little longer, but was abruptly jerked by Elsa as she started to lightly jog past all the lingering eyes and into the captain’s quarters across the field.

XXXXXX

Eryn guided Magni through the town center, scanning the crowds for any familiar face. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head as he passed a group of guards, in case they recognized him. As he looked over the throngs of people going about their day, his contempt for these high-class snobs grew. These fucks were living in the lap of luxury, compared to what he has been through. He lost everything in the name of Arendelle, and for what? A life filled with misery and death. Eryn’s stomach knotted itself at the hatred and contempt he felt for this damnable kingdom. The sooner the queen dies, the soon I get out of this hellhole, he thought. He scanned the crowds again. Nothing unusual, save for a man speaking in a goofy voice to his reindeer. Eryn watched in horror as the same man drew a carrot out of his pants, let the reindeer take a bite, and then proceeded to eat the rest. He could still make out reindeer spit on the half eaten carrot. Eryn almost vomited on the spot.

“We are never doing that!,” Eryn said to Magni. The horse blew hot air out of his nostrils. Scanning the crowds again as he hitched Magni to a post, blocking the horrific sight he beheld from his mind, he noticed a man sitting on a bench up against a series of buildings, reading a newspaper. The man looked to be about the same age as Eryn, only much bulkier and with red hair. The assassin sat beside the man, pretending not to care, and studied the newspaper.

“You realize that paper is over two weeks old, do you?” Eryn inquired. The man looked to his left and studied Eryn. He minutely moved closer to Eryn and began speaking in hushed tones.

“You’re here much earlier than expected.”

“Bah,” Eryn scoffed, “You know how I am, always eager to get a job done.”

The man scoffed in return at Eryn’s snarky reply.

“So…” Eryn leaned in towards the man. “Is everything in place?”

XXXXXX

Captain Torvond read over the letter carefully as Elsa and Anna stood before him. His quarters weren’t exactly regal material, but it sufficed for important meetings like this one. There was only room for his bed, his desk, and a trunk where his uniforms and personal items were stored. The three of them took up a great deal of available space, especially Torvond. He was a large man, with broad shoulders and a bulky torso. He easily towered over the queen and princess. As he read the letter, he twirled his auburn mustache in his free hand

“Do you understand what needs to be done, Lineaus?” Elsa asked.

The captain rolled the letter back up and tied it with a twine string. “Yes, your majesty. I’ll keep you updated with whatever I find.” He gave Elsa a warm smile. “You have my word.”

Elsa returned the smile to him. “Thank you, Lineaus.” With that, Elsa and Anna departed the captain’s quarters.

The walk back to the castle was pleasant. Elsa loved to walk through the town, seeing all of the smiling faces as she passed by. The two sisters were quiet until Anna began nudging Elsa’s side.

“So… Lineaus is kinda cute, isn’t he?” Anna teased.

“Anna!” the queen scolded, “You’re getting married! How could you say that?”

“I may be getting married, but you’re still available.”

Elsa’s face burned a bright red. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, C’mon, Elsa! You know the council has been getting on your case about finding an heir to-”

“To continue the succession, I know, I know! It’s just that- well… I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

“Well, whenever you’re ready, you won’t have to look too far. Every man in Europe seems to be drawn to you.”

“Don’t remind me.”

The two sisters started laughing as they made their way back to the castle. As they crossed the town center, few people gave them much attention. They grew so accustomed to seeing the royals out and about that they didn’t stick out as much. Elsa sort of liked not being the center of attention. She appreciated the ability to blend into the crowds. She liked studying the crowds to see the different kinds of people in Arendelle. It was methodical and helped ease her mind of all the stress of ruling.

The serenity of her walk back to the castle was interrupted by a man shouting, “DIE WITCH!” and gunshots.

XXXXXX

“What the hell do you mean you aren’t done preparing?” Eryn sneered in hushed tones. “You had a whole week to sort this out!”

“Eryn,” the man explained quietly, “It’s not like we’re setting up to kill the local beggar or something. This is a monarch we’re talking about.”

“How much longer do you need?!”

“Just one more day, then everything will be in place, guaranteed.”

Eryn angrily went back to studying the crowds, silently cursing the incompetence of his contact. All of his planning, all of his preparation, all gone to waste! He muttered a few curse words as he sat hunched over, burying his face in his hands. It was then he saw someone that caught his attention. It was a young woman, somewhere around his own age. She wore a dazzling blue dress and sported a platinum blonde braid that was draped over her shoulder. Her skin was as serene and beautiful as porcelin. She looked like an angel in human form. Eryn was curious as to who this mystery woman was and why no one seemed to be paying attention to her as she walked by. Any man in Karnisvarne would have at least complimented her in some shape or form. He sat there for a minute, puzzled at the whole situation.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw rapid movement from a crowd around the town center. He jerked his head to see what the commotion was about. From there, he could point out a slightly older man, whose face was wrinkled and worn from the passing of time. What hadn’t been worn was the revolver he had gripped in his hand and the raging fury burning in his eyes. Eryn soon noticed that the old man’s gaze was on the woman he was puzzled by earlier.

“Dear God,” Eryn muttered as he bolted from the bench.

“Eryn wait-!”  Eryn’s contact exclaimed, but it was too late. Eryn had disappeared into a throng of people, out of earshot.

Eryn shoved his way through the sea of people, desperately trying to get to the old man. He finally saw the old man, who had raised the gun and was about to fire. Without hesitation, Eryn tackled the old man to the ground as he pulled the trigger. The crowd screamed and fled in a panicked state. Enraged, Eryn tried to wrestle the gun from the old man’s hand. He picked up the old fool and slammed him onto the cobblestone, causing the cracks to run red. The old man then sucker punched Eryn in the jaw, which forced him off of the would be assassin. He spat out blood as he unsheathed his dagger and pointed it at the man. The old man in turn aimed his gun at Eryn, anger flooding his eyes. Eryn dashed at the assassin with blinding fury. In an instant, his blade slashed at the man’s gut. As he doubled over, Eryn buried his dagger into the assassin’s back. The attempted killer slumped over, motionless. Eryn breathed a sigh of relief as he fell to the cobblestone. He scanned the area to find the mystery woman, hoping she wasn’t hurt, but she was nowhere to be found. Eryn wondered what the woman had done to draw the ire of this would be assassin. Old fool was much too sloppy Eryn thought, Broke the first rule of killing: don’t announce you’re going to kill someone. Before he knew it, a group of soldiers swarmed him, pointing their weapons directly at him.

“Get up, ya swine!” One of the guards shouted.

“Come the fuck on…” Eryn muttered to himself as he was hoisted onto his feet and dragged to the castle.

[mojavejourneys]

Beware the Ides of March...

This fic has been in the works for a few days but what better time to post than now?

You can also read it on AO3!

Basically it’s a culmination of Maxie wanting to rid the Mojave of the Legion and various other ideas that have been rattling around my head XD

Warnings: Major character death, guns, mentions of violence

“So... how do I look?” Maxie looked over at Arcade as he adjusted the armour plates of the Legion uniform to better fit over him. The doctor was carefully wrapping strips of leather around the other's scaled arm. He met Maxie's gaze with a sigh.

“Like a Legionary. I just hope this works.” A brief pause as Arcade fastened another armour plate and then carefully draped some red material over the wings, trying to make them look more like banners. “I still don't believe that Caesar wants to see you, even after the fact you'd basically killed half the Legion. He knows how you feel about his group. Why would he want to talk to you?” A worried look crossed Arcade's face. “Please, just... be careful.”

“You got it... fuck, you ain't my dad, Arcade. I'm surprised you even wanna help me do this. You've always told me that you wanna see that fucker with the dog head drop dead.”

“Vulpes Inculta? Yeah. Honestly all of the Legion can go away. I hate what they stand for.” Arcade handed Maxie his .44 Magnum, which had been wrapped up in several layers of cloth and put into a pouch strapped to his leg. “Don't do anything rash. I know you're going into the Fort, and there's going to be a lot of Caesar's men, but... try to be diplomatic. Reasoning with them might be the last thing you want to do but maybe this might be a chance for us to get a bead on a weakness.”

“And destroy 'em from the inside. I got just the means. Hey, while I'm gone, you reckon you can get Cass and Veronica to meet me back here? Tell 'em to bring weapons, meds, chems... 'cause I got a little idea. We'll meet just north of Cottonwood Cove. Got it?” Maxie flashed Arcade a smile before he turned around. “I'll be back before you know it.”

As Arcade made his way back, he nodded. Maxie headed onto the barge and was ready to be taken to the Fort.

~ ~ ~

The Fort. Caesar's main camp. And a place that made Maxie feel sick to his stomach. He passed by several cages that held slaves dressed in ragged clothes. One woman was trying to reach out to him and he paused just briefly to take her hand.

“Listen, you gotta stay strong,” he whispered to her, making sure that no Legionaries could hear, “'cause I may be able to get you outta here. Don't say anything yet. I gotta talk with Caesar but as long as I keep my disguise up... I might be able to get you outta here.” The woman nodded and let him go. Standing up, Maxie then headed further into the Fort, past several more tents until he saw what looked like the largest tent.

But outside, he caught sight of a familiar checkered suited man lashed to a post in a kneeling position. The hybrid's eyes widened. “Benny?!”

The man looked up. “I guess it's my time now, huh?” He did a double-take. “Hold on, are you the guy I put a bullet in the head of?”

“The very same.” Maxie smirked briefly. “But keep your voice down, okay? I'm guessing Caesar got to you first?”

“He knows about the Platinum Chip. But look... if I have to die to keep the Chip from getting into Caesar's hands, then so be it. I already told you what you needed to do to help create an independent New Vegas. Yes Man will help you. But... I think the only fitting way for me to die would be for you to return my bullet.”

“Didn't forget that part, huh?” Maxie knelt beside Benny for a moment, resting his more human hand on the man's shoulder. “I made a mistake about you initially. Maybe you're a little bit of a chickenshit but you don't deserve to die at the hands of the Legion. Or mine for that matter. I ain't gonna kill you. 'Cause I want you back in the Strip. Once all this shit in New Vegas is sorted out, I ain't staying. This place ain't been kind to me at all. That was probably why you tried to put me outta my misery.”

Benny shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe at first. But you're actually more human than most of these one hundred percent human types in this hellhole. The Ben-man made a mistake at first but he knows a good guy when he sees one.”

“Thanks, Benny. But... you ain't dying today. Depending on whatever the fuck Caesar wants to talk to me about, I may be able to get you outta here.” Maxie stood up then. “Just hang in there.” He carefully made his way to Caesar's tent, and after showing the Mark that he'd been given, he was allowed entry.

But when he entered, he didn't see Caesar anywhere. Another man came up to him. “You were here for Caesar?”

“He called for me, yeah. Dunno why.” Maxie removed his helmet and shook his head. “Guess something came up? 'Cause he was pretty adamant about it.”

“Unfortunately shortly after he sent the message to you, he fell into a coma and our doctors haven't been able to revive him. All we know is that it's a brain tumour that will kill him if it's not removed. As his most-trusted right-hand man, I was instructed to give you this information.”

“Lucius, right?” Maxie folded his arms then, eyeing the man with some suspicion. “So what the fuck would Caesar want with someone who really don't like him at all?”

Lucius nodded. “It seems a little strange, but Caesar believes you have the right connections to save his life. He believes you know a doctor who works with the Followers of the Apocalypse?”

He was talking about Arcade. Maxie forced himself to remain deadpan. “I may do. So what, you want me to bring him here and get Caesar fixed up? I ain't sure he's gonna agree to that. He don't like you guys as much either so I don't think he'll help you willingly.” He sighed then. “I'll at least try. But if he don't wanna come, then I'll do it myself.”

“You?” Lucius laughed then. “With those?” He pointed to the claws on Maxie's right hand.

“With proper surgical tools, dumbass. Now do you want your leader saved or not?” Lucius gave a nod. “Okay. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“The guy in the checkered suit. You let him go with me and I'll bring back some form of medical help. If you don't, then I'll string you up by your balls and Caesar can fucking go to hell for all I care.”

Lucius growled but reluctantly agreed. “How long will you be?”

“Give it two days at most. If the doctor won't agree to it, then he'll have to teach me what he knows and I'm a fast learner.” Maxie put his helmet back on. “Just keep Caesar stable until either the doctor or myself looks at him properly. Now I gotta go. Time is of the essence here.” He went to leave the tent and freed Benny, much to Lucius' chagrin.

As he got back on the barge with the checkered suited man, he took off his helmet again. “Okay. I need you back at the New Vegas Strip. Tell Yes Man that he won't hafta worry about the Legion.” He met Benny's gaze. “I saved your ass, so now you fucking owe me.”

“Right.” Benny nodded as he spoke, still rather shocked at finding himself on his way back. “Have you figured out what to do with House yet?”

“Well he ain't going anywhere just yet. He's waiting on me to make the next move for his idea, but I don't like it one bit. You just worry about keeping the Platinum Chip away from him for now. We got time. We're gonna deal with him later. Right now it's just a case of taking out the biggest threat to the Mojave.” Benny asked Maxie what Mr House was waiting for. “Oh, he's waiting for me to get the Chip for him. Like fuck am I gonna do that. Just keep the Chip safe. You were willing to kill to keep it outta his hands the first time, so... just do that again.”

The suited man gave a nod and the two sat in relative silence until they got back to Cottonwood Cove. Once they disembarked, Benny said his goodbyes and made his way to the Strip.

~ ~ ~

“So, no trouble?” Arcade asked as he helped Maxie undress. Hands briefly traced over the exposed skiin before he continued to undo various buckles and straps. “What did Caesar want?”

“It weren't Caesar. It was his right hand man, Lucius.” Maxie closed his eyes when Arcade asked what he wanted. “Apparently Caesar's got some sorta brain tumour and he's in a coma. And somehow Lucius thought I was the guy with the connections. And I just said I knew a doctor, I didn't say you specifically.”

“Even if you had, I wouldn't help that man.” Arcade shook his head, setting aside the clothing he'd removed and handing Maxie a pair of leather pants. “I don't agree to what he does, and I'm not the sort to break the Hippocratic Oath. So I'm not going in there.”

The hybrid pulled his pants on and turned to the doctor. “I wouldn't want you to go anyway. They'd probably enslave you and force you to do it. I ain't gonna sell you out to those fuckers. But I do have an idea.” He grinned and went over to his bag, pulling out a double barrelled shotgun. “Shotgun surgery.”

Arcade's eyes widened. “You're going to... I mean, isn't that a bit unsporting?”

“Aw c'mon, they'd fight dirty too. Anyway, we got two days to come up with a plan. That's what I told Lucius.”

Just then, a tall blonde-haired woman walked into the room, nodding to Arcade before looking over at Maxie. “About time I caught up with you again. Besides, I heard a little of your plans.”

“Heh. Just in time, Evanna. I might need your expertise on this one. Okay, so... I ain't just dealing with Caesar here. We're also gonna free the slaves. And once the slaves are out, the Fort goes up in fucking flames. Think you can do that?”

Evanna was already looking through the various weapons that had been brought over, thinking over what she could do. She faced Maxie with a light grin. “Oh, I can do that, alright. Okay, what I'll do is rig up two sets of explosives. One set will be just small enough to blow off the locks to the slaves' cages. Then when we're all a safe enough distance away... the second set will be the big fucking BOOM that you want!”

“Alright. So, if you can get that done in two days, that'll be amazing. I'll need backup as well 'cause we should take extra weapons. Not just for us, but so that we can arm the slaves as they escape. Can you relay that to the others? We're gonna be ready for this. It's all gonna go to plan.”

“Right.” Evanna took what explosives and other items she needed and then left. Maxie began his own preparations.

The next two days were going to be crucial.

~ ~ ~

Maxie, along with Arcade, Evanna, Veronica and Cass, had gathered at Cottonwood Cove. The doctor was the only one not wearing a Legion disguise.

“Okay, so let's go over the plan one more time.” Maxie addressed the group. “Arcade, you've got supplies ready for first aid on any injured people that make it back, right?” Arcade nodded and then his attention to Veronica. “You've got the medical bag and some bladed weapons, right?”

“Yeah.” Veronica gave a firm nod. “I'll go with you up to Caesar's tent, give you the medical supplies and then go back to arm the slaves, along with Cass, right?”

Cass looked up from checking her gun when she heard her name. “Right. I got the guns, so you give the knives, I'll give the guns and then we get outta trouble, right?”

Then Maxie's attention turned to Evanna. “Your part's the most important. So what do we do?”

“Right. Guys, listen up.” Evanna cleared her throat. “I'm gonna give each of you some of these small devices. The small ones go on the locks of any slave cages.” She held up the device as she spoke, handing a few to Cass and Veronica. Then she held up a larger device. “These ones will go in strategic locations around the Fort. Now I've got a load of old duffel bags here and that's because the devices are gonna go in them, with a few extra grenades.” While she spoke she was packing the duffel bags.

“Who's setting those off though?” Cass asked. “Mean, surely you've got that sorted, right?”

“Yup.” Evanna nodded firmly. “On Maxie's signal, which is... a shotgun blast, I'll set off the explosives on the locks. You and Veronica get the slaves out, make sure they're armed, and get them to the boats. Show no mercy to any Legionaries there. And once everyone we want to save is clear, I'll set off the big bombs.”

“Got it. So we'll set the little devices first, then sneak around and put down the bigger ones?”

“Right.”

“So what's with the shotgun blast as the signal...?”

Maxie looked between Arcade and the three women, holding up a double-barelled shotgun. “This... is where it's gonna get fun. I'm gonna go in the tent as if I'm gonna help Caesar. But I'm gonna blow his fucking brains out, and this gun is LOUD. So that's your call. Evanna, you've gotta be quick on the devices when the gun goes off.” Evanna nodded. “We ready?”

“I'll be waiting for you back here.” Arcade nodded. “Be careful, all of you. And I hope this works!”

~ ~ ~

Maxie, along with Veronica, Cass and Evanna, had made it back to the Fort. Now it was time to put the plan into action. Cass and Evanna had gone to place the smaller explosives on the locks of the cages, leaving a few weapons in easy reach of the slaves, but instructing them to wait until the locks were blown off so they could surprise and overwhelm the Legionaries.

Meanwhile, Veronica had gone up with Maxie to Caesar's tent. She handed him the bag of medical supplies before going to help Evanna and Cass. The hybrid showed the Mark to the tent guard and he was let inside.

“Lucius?” Maxie set down the bag and took his helmet off. “You here?”

Lucius looked up from the papers he was working on, nodding. “Well? What do you have for me?”

Maxie sighed. “Okay. The doctor I knew... he ain't gonna do anything for you. At all. Said he hate what you guys stood for.” As did he, but he kept that thought to himself. “But he did train me and I got a technique down that'll help me get that brain tumour out. I got this.”

“Very well. But if you try anything funny, we as the Legion will not hesitate to kill you.” Lucius led Maxie into the medical tent where Caesar was laying, making sure that the hybrid had the medical supplies. Maxie looked over the man briefly. He did look thin, weak and pale... but if he ever recovered then the Legion would continue their disgusting work.

“Okay, you can go.” Maxie gave Lucius a sharp look. “I can't work when there are other people in the room. Go back to your papers or whatever the fuck it was that you were doing. If you want me to save your leader, I gotta have nobody else here, no fucking distractions. Don't wanna make a wrong move.”

“Fine. But remember what I said.” Lucius said as he left. When the man was far enough away, Maxie carefully pulled out a few surgical tools and placed them on a nearby table, uncovering the shotgun he'd concealed in the bag. Gingerly removing it, he loaded two shells and tried to prime the weapon as quietly as he could.

Then he walked up to the comatose Caesar, shotgun in hand.

“Bitch.”

BANG.

~ ~ ~

The loud noise of the shotgun had all but decimated the near-deathly silence that had fallen over the camp. Evanna quickly reached for one of the detonators and pressed the button. Another series of small explosions erupted throughout the camp as the locks were blown off the cages. Legionaries were running to grab their weapons.

“GO!” Veronica called out. She and Cass began to usher the slaves from their cages, making sure that they grabbed a weapon each on their way out. “Just run for the boats and only fight if you have to!” As the slaves ran, the Legionaries were giving chase. Veronica lunged at the nearest Legionary and drove her power fist right into his gut, forcing him to double over and giving a group of women time to run.

“Hey, you keep going!” Evanna tossed a few weapons over to a couple more fleeing slaves. “Right! Veronica! Can you go find Maxie? Cass and I will be okay back here!”

Veronica nodded and headed for Caesar's tent, punching her way through angered Legionaries as she went.

The main tent at the Fort was now surrounded. Legionaries were rushing inside even as the tents became peppered with bullet holes.

Inside, Maxie had discarded the shotgun as it had jammed up, instead wielding two 10mm submachine guns. The Legionaries that tried to get to him were mown down as fast as they could enter, and then he kicked open the main tent flap, looking around quickly.

“Alright, you Legion fucks! Your shitty ass regime is fucking FINISHED!” Three more Legionaries were gunned down before the magazines were emptied. But before he could reload, he heard a shout.

“BEHIND YOU!” Veronica called out, having seen someone sneak up on Maxie from behind, “WATCH OUT!” But she was too late as Maxie was felled by a strong blow to the back of the head. She ran forward, only to be faced by Lucius.

“I won't allow him to live after this. He killed our glorious leader!” Lucius was aiming his gun at Veronica. “And if you don't back away, then you will die too!”

Veronica stood tall then. “You can't take away what pride I have. I serve with the Brotherhood of Steel. They would see you destroyed. Given what you stand for? They'd show no mercy to you.”

Lucius laughed and moved to aim the gun at Maxie's head. “I'll blow his brains out just like he blew Caesar's brains out.”

“He's already been shot in the head before and that didn't kill him. What makes you think you can do it?” Veronica looked Lucius dead in the eye. “He's worth at least fifty of you!” She ran forward and rammed her power fist in Lucius' gut. The man doubled over in pain and dropped his gun. Removing her power fist, Veronica moved to help Maxie up.

“Ugh... fuck...” Maxie looked up. “Hu-- V-Veronica?”

“It's me. Come on, we have to get out of here. Cass and Evanna have already got the slaves out. Now we need to go so that this place can be blown skyward!” Veronica gently lifted a hand so she could check his head, grimacing when she felt something wet on her skin. “Shit, you're bleeding!”

Maxie grunted. “Just grab a bandage and some gauze from my kit and wrap it up real quick. We ain't got time...” He felt a little light-headed. “I'll go to Arcade when we get back.”

“R-Right...” Veronica found where Maxie kept the kit, grabbing the items and quickly but firmly pressing the gauze to the bleeding spot, wrapping the bandage around it. She was about to get her power fist ready when she saw Evanna running up to them.

“Come on! There's only one boat left and we need to go before-- oh shit, is he okay?!”

“I'm fine!” Maxie rolled his eyes in agitation. “Just grab the submachine guns from over there and keep these Legion fucks off us! I don't think I feel right enough to stand. Veronica, you gotta help me get to the boat!”

Veronica wrapped an arm around Maxie's waist after she readied her power fist again. “Okay. I'll be ready in case one gets too close.” She began to lead her companion back towards the entrance of the Fort as quickly as she could. “What about Cass, Evanna?”

“She's watching that last boat! GO!” Evanna was shooting at the Legionaries while Veronica led Maxie to the boat, quickly getting him in once they got there. When Evanna had boarded, she quickly grabbed the oars and started to paddle as fast as she could.

“Give me the oars!” Veronica motioned to Evanna. “Isn't there one thing you still need to do?”

“Oh, right!” Evanna handed over the oars and took out the detonator. “It's time for fireworks!”

She pressed the button. And as the boat sailed back to Cottonwood Cove, a series of explosions rang out from behind, sending plumes of fire and smoke into the sky.

~ ~ ~

The group were exhausted as they disembarked from the boat. Veronica helped Maxie out while Cass and Evanna gathered their things. Arcade ran up to greet them.

“I've got the rest of the Followers helping with the freed slaves, so they'll be alright soon enough.” He looked over at Maxie. “I thought I told you to be careful?”

Maxie shook his head. “What's one more hit to the head, eh?”

Arcade gently wrapped an arm around Maxie's shoulders. “Now don't go tempting fate. I've grown rather fond of you.”

Veronica watched the two go, smiling sadly. She was gathering up her things and was about to head back to the room that Maxie had in Freeside when Evanna stopped her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay.” Veronica was a little sharper than normal. Then she heaved out a sigh. “Sorry. It's just... I've had a lot on my mind. I was reminded of someone.” Her tone made it clear she was unwilling to go into detail.

“Oh.” Evanna had gotten the hint. “I'll see you later?” She was starting to make her way back towards Freeside.

~ ~ ~

A couple of days later, Maxie had recovered from his injury from his plan to storm the Fort. He was just getting dressed when he heard a knock at his door. “Come on in.”

Veronica opened the door, looking somewhat nervous. “Hey Maxie. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Trust me, this ain't that bad.” He'd just strapped on his Pip-Boy when he loooked over and noticed how nervous Veronica looked. “You okay?”

“I... I wanted to ask you something. Do you think you can look for someone for me?” Veronica's gaze drifted away. “I've just been... thinking about it. Seeing you and Arcade so close reminded me...” Maxie prompted her to continue. “I was thinking of a woman I knew during my time actively serving in the Brotherhood. We were very close. Lovers. But Father Elijah, who was in charge of the chapter here in the Mojave... he hated it.”

“What a miserable old shit. Guess he had nothing better to do than gatecrash.”

“Seemed that way. He wanted everyone in the Brotherhood to be focused on procreating so he split us up. I'd give anything to find where she is now.” Veronica managed to meet Maxie's gaze again. “I know you have your own shit to worry about but I feel that you'd be the right one to ask. Would you... would you help me find her?”

Maxie rested his more human hand on Veronica's shoulder. “Of course. You deserve to be happy. And given how much you've helped me lately? It's only fair that I return the favour. C'mon then, let's start looking, eh?”

“Will Arcade let you go long enough, you think?”

“I think so.” Maxie chuckled, grabbing his bag and making sure he had his trusty .44 Magnum with him. “Besides, he knows I don't do well sitting still for too long. You got any leads?”

“There is an old Brotherhood bunker that I remember Father Elijah using as a base in the Mojave for some time. We can start there.”

Maxie gestured to the door. “Ladies first. And maybe on the way, we can find you a nice dress to wear? I'll bet your lover would adore seeing you in a lovely dress.”

Veronica's face lit up. “That would be wonderful. Let's go!”

[artificialqueens]

we break but we're not broken (craquaria) - dis_connected

AN: Aquaria cares far too much for her friends.

Inspired by this prompt from happylilprompts on tumblr: Person A has had a crush on Person B, literal sunshine that gets top grades, for years. Recently B smiles and studies less, and is even skipping class. A’s the only one who pays close enough attention to see something is seriously wrong au

Read on ao3

Aquaria has given up with school. Well, she gave up with school not long after she started school. But, still, officially now, all she’s doing is focusing on trying to get into the Fashion Institute of Technology, which has been her only dream since she tried on her first pair of her mom’s heels as a kid, and now she’s just trying to keep all her grades at a C so she can successfully scrape by high school and leave it all behind for good.  

Meanwhile, a friend of hers, Brianna, is a model pupil. Aquaria has sat behind her in both History and French since freshman year, watching the way she flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder, how her head tilts back when she’s laughing and her confidence when talking in class in comparison to Aquaria’s stumbling awkwardness. Not that it’s a big deal that she watches her. She’s just hard to miss, with her big personality and even bigger hair, and you know, she’s right there, what else is she supposed to look at?

Brianna is popular amongst the students, like Aquaria, but, drastically opposite to Aquaria, she’s also loved by all of her teachers, thanks to her general friendliness and attitude to study hard in all her subjects. Brianna has truly excelled in high school. As their four years come to a close, she’s on track to go to a great college and have a great future, whereas Aquaria can hardly wait to get out of this hellhole and finally make a name for herself in fashion.

But, leaving behind high school means leaving her friends, and, unfortunately, that includes leaving behind Brianna. And the back of her head. Which is nice. The big, curly hair that the blonde does when she has a bit more time is Aquaria’s favourite, by far. She remembers vividly the day that she did it for the first time.

It’s a Monday. Aquaria spent the weekend in isolation from the outside world, trying to put together some looks for her portfolio, which she has changed and altered a million times, at least. Just last night, she redrew and redesigned a whole outfit she was obsessed with the week before, meaning she was up until the early hours of the morning furiously scribbling, sketching and sewing until her fingers were red raw.

Now, she’s sitting in her assigned seat at the back of Madame Dupont’s class as it starts, her pen tapping on her desk and her eyelids starting to droop already. Concentrating on the boring lectures on the imperfect subjunctive is hard enough as it is, without the added bonus of just two hours sleep. Aquaria is so tired that she hasn’t noticed that Brianna isn’t already sitting in front of her until she walks in, five minutes late, shooting an apologetic smile to the teacher and the usual grin to Aquaria, and hurriedly making her way to seat, the second row from the back.

“Bonne matin, mademoiselle, et qu’est-ce que la raison que vous êtes si tard?” Madame Dupont demands before she has the chance to sit down, even though the lesson has barely begun.

“Je suis desolée, Madame,” Brianna mumbles, her flawless accent still clear as she sits down and starts to pull out her things.

Aquaria is shocked. Brianna has never been late to class before, especially not French. Normally, she has to drag Aquaria by the arm so they’re on time, or she’s already there by the time the other girl decides to finally trudge into the room at the last possible, looking eager for whatever boring grammar shit they’ll be looking at.

“Et pouvez-vous conjuguer le verbe faire au conditionnel pour la classe?” The teacher continues. Brianna does so, perfectly of course, but she seems tired to Aquaria, who stares at the back of her friend’s head with worry.

Obviously, she’s just looking out for her friend, as she would any of them. Aquaria knows that Monét threw a party that she had to decline thanks to her portfolio work, and Brianna most likely went to it, or slept through her alarm, or would rather not be here, which is fair enough, but she still can’t help but worry.

Aquaria almost has to slap herself, as Madame Dupont starts to drone on about when to use the imperfect subjunctive (which is never in real life. Seriously who needs this?). She tells herself that she’s just looking for something to think about in this dull, dull class, and Brianna being late and tired has literally zero significance. People are allowed to be late sometimes, even Brianna. So, she just watches her as she twirls her hair round her finger, hair that she’s just shoved up in a ponytail without even brushing it. Not that she doesn’t look nice, still, annoyingly.

The class manages to end with no incident, and thankfully Aquaria is one of the few not called on for Madame Dupont’s never ending questions, because she wouldn’t have had a single clue what the hell to answer. She never really does.

She’s packing up to go at the end, grumbling to herself, when Brianna turns around, like she normally does to catch up with her friend after class, but today a frown is furrowing her features, as she looks right at the other girl, who does a slight double take at her unusually sad demeanour.

“Hey, Aqua,” Brianna says, slinging her bag over her shoulder and leaning forward on her friend’s desk.

“Hi, Bri, how was Monét’s?” Aquaria asks casually, trying to pretend that she isn’t worried as she shoves her notebook in her own bag carelessly, too tired to give a shit about the state of it.

“Oh, I dunno, I didn’t go,” Brianna seems uninterested. “Do we have history today?”

“Um, no, not until third tomorrow,” Aquaria replies, a little shocked at the unusual bluntness from her friend.

Okay, something’s definitely wrong. Brianna knows her timetable off by heart, she always has done. Aquaria tries not to think too much of it, but it stays on her mind the whole day. She’s ferociously munching her salad at lunch, sat with her friends on their regular table and staring into space as they talk about what happened at the party she didn’t go to.

Brianna is strangely absent; usually she’s the heart of the table, always cracking the jokes and puns and causing their table to be the nosiest in the cafeteria, but today, though the noise of the girls screaming about the party is extremely prominent, one voice is missing. Well, two, but Aquaria’s quietness is never that unusual. Nobody else has commented on the lack of Brianna, which annoys Aquaria slightly, but also makes her think she’s kind of making a big deal out of nothing.

She notices after a while a drop in chatter and a shift in atmosphere and looks up at everyone.

They’re all looking at their friend aggressively stabbing a poor lettuce leaf with her fork like she has a personal vendetta against it, concern and amusement etched across their faces.

“Um, Q, are you planning on eating you salad, or murdering it?” Blair, Aquaria’s best friend, asks her, laughing slightly.

“Sorry,” she mumbles in reply simply, rolling her eyes as the focus remains on her.

“What’s eating you, bitch? Your portfolio?” Vixen, the most blunt and unabashed of the group, asks. Everyone knows the stress that Aquaria has put herself under; her whole life has basically boiled down to this portfolio that is supposed to showcase who she is as a person, and, more importantly, a designer. To say there has been tears shed would be saying the least.

Aquaria puts down her fork and pushes her salad away, no longer hungry. “I’m bored. You’re all boring,” she jokes, rolling her eyes again.

“Well, sorry you’re too focused on your career to come to the best party of senior year,” Monet cheers.

“Actually, bitch,” argues Asia. “The best party of senior year was definitely my pool party right before school started!”

“Hah, that was before school started so it was technically it was a summerparty and not in senior year, so I win!” Monét laughs back loudly.

Aquaria stops listening. This argument is a regular occurrence between Asia and Monét, who constantly keep a friendly competition with each other. Their group has a specific dynamic, especially as they happen to be the most popular girls in the school, not that Aquaria really cares that much. She’s definitely not a people person.

Each girl in the group seems to have a specific, unspoken role and dynamic, and somehow they all create a powerful sort of clique. There’s no room for anyone else, not that Vixen would let them in anyway, unless they proved themselves to her, a task which few have ever succeeded at.

Which is why Aquaria notices so much when someone is missing, it doesn’t matter who. Just because it’s Brianna now that she’s worrying about, doesn’t mean that if, say, Kameron was acting differently next week she wouldn’t be just as worried about her. Aquaria cares about her friends, so what?

So what?

The week continues in pretty much the same way as Monday. Aquaria picks up on the subtle differences in Brianna, including her lateness to most of her classes, and her lack of makeup. To most people, it’s not a big deal at all, and she could blame it on the stress of nearing the end of the year. In fact, that’s what it would look like to any other person but Aquaria, especially the rest of their friendship group which have failed to notice the shift in Brianna’s behaviour.

God, she is going insane. She starts to drive herself crazy, overanalysing Brianna’s every move, from the back of her head in class, which is unusually slumped and bent over, to her weak attempts at jokes and uncharacteristic quietness at lunchtime, to the bluntness of their normally flowing conversation. It’s ridiculous, and distracting. Especially because none of their other friends have mentioned anything, at least not to Aquaria, and she really doesn’t want to bring anything up for fear of looking like a total idiot.

The worry is crippling to Aquaria, as though somebody is repeatedly whacking her over the head with a huge stick. Every time she tries to forget about it, bam and it’s back. She knows it’s ridiculous, and she blames her own stress. Her mind is clearly looking for something to do, bored to death of her sewing, sketching and designing the same pieces over and over again. It’s insanity. Complete and utter insanity.

But on Thursday, her insanity is justified, just slightly; after the class get a test back in History and Aquaria peers over to see she did better than Brianna, she can tell it’s with due reason. Brianna studies hard. Brianna puts school before everything. Brianna never gets below a B. In anything. And here she is with a C-, not even looking that fazed by it.

It’s like she’s given up. It’s eating away at Aquaria’s brain, so much so that she starts to design a new garment inspired by melting flesh and a revealed skull, and then hates it and screws it all up again. She wants to know why, without having to ask her. Confrontation is not her strong suit, especially when she could be completely wrong.

She’s hanging out at Blair’s house on Thursday night, an excuse to use her mom’s sewing machine, which is a million times better than her own, to test out some material she found that she wants to work with, but it keeps going wrong.

Aquaria is a good seamstress. She prides herself on it, in fact. It’s her thing. But after she fucks up the hem for the millionth time, she screams and rips apart her fabric, throwing it in the air in the most dramatic fashion ever.

Blair looks up from her laptop, where she’s trying to complete some homework, concern and worry etched onto her face as she witnesses her best friend’s outburst.

“Um, are you okay?” she asks, knowing that Aquaria is someone that tends to bottle up her emotions, not scream and throw things.

“I’m just stressed about this whole portfolio shit, I need it to be perfect,” Aquaria lies, rubbing her forehead aggressively.

“Lie,” says Blair nonchalantly, closing her laptop lid and moving to sit beside her best friend, who is trying desperately to stop her eyes from watering.

“Excuse me?” Aquaria says timidly, not looking her friend as she blinks furiously down at the sewing machine.

“You’ve been stressed about this for months. And when you’re stressed you turn it out, not fuck it up. Something else is on your mind and you’re telling me what it is right now,” Blair demands.

“You’ll think I’m stupid.”

“If it’s got you this worked up, it can’t be stupid. Spill! Spill!” Blair starts chanting and it almost puts a smile on Aquaria’s face, who pushes her friend playfully to get her to shut up.

“Okay, fine, Jesus. I’m just worried about a friend of ours who I think there’s something wrong with. She’s just acting really weird and I’m wondering if she’s okay,” she mumbles, trying to play it off as no big deal, which it probably isn’t.

“Who is this?” There’s a long pause whilst Aquaria stares down at her manicured nails in shame. “Aquaria, who?”

“Brianna.”

“Oh for god’s – you can’t let her ruin this for you. I know you’re obsessed with her-”

“Woah, woah, wait a minute, I am not obsessed with her. She got a C- today, B,” Aquaria says dramatically, like that’s supposed to clear everything up. Blair seems unbothered.

“So what?”

“So what?” Aquaria repeats in disbelief, annoyed at the lack of reaction. “This is Brianna. She always gets A’s.”

“Q, I love you, but I don’t think that Brianna getting a C- on one test should be the focus of you little brain right now,” Blair says, gesturing to Aquaria’s sketches that are now littering her room, along with the torn bit of fabric. “Have you even talked to her about it?”

“Well, no, but she’s not really given me much of a chance. We’re not exactly super close anymore, are we?” Aquaria feels her throat close up a little, before shaking her head, her friend giving her a pitying look.

“If it stops you worrying, just grab her after class and ask her if she’s okay. It’s really not hard, babe, it’s just being a good friend, and I’ll bet she’ll be happy to know you’re thinking of her.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to her,” Aquaria mumbles, choosing to ignore the last statement, knowing it probably won’t help, especially as she’s the fucking worst at giving advice.

“Okay?” Blair asks, receiving a reluctant nod in reply from her friend, who picks up her material from the floor in shame.

Aquaria knows how she feels about Brianna isn’t just friendly. She does. Blair might be her best friend, and Monét might be Brianna’s, but they’ve known each other a long time, longer than any of the other girls in their friendship group.

Aquaria recalls the day they met, almost ten years ago. She was always left out and picked on by the other kids; they thought she was way too weird and stupid, always laughing at the things she said and how she acted, which is a huge deal when you’re eight. Aquaria hated them all, and hated school. And then, a new girl moved to Aquaria’s town, and started at the school.

She had the biggest, kindest brown eyes that Aquaria had ever seen, and made it her mission to befriend the quirky girl who preferred to be alone. She sat down next to her whilst all the other kids went out to play, and handed her half her sandwich without a second word.

And that was that.

And then they grew back apart again, after a night which left Aquaria in tears, and unable to look her former best friend in the eye for months. They remained friends, tied together by mutual friends and mutual classes, but it’s nothing like it used to be.

So they’re not the closest of friends, not anymore, but conversation still comes naturally and easily, they can laugh together without it being awkward, and pick up wherever they left off. Aquaria’s quite an awkward person, but Brianna feels like someone who will never judge or ridicule her, who she can always come to for any sort of advice.

Feelings have been brewing under the surface for Aquaria for years now, of course she knows that, she’s just been pretending they’re not there, because a harmless crush is pointless when Brianna has no interest in her in the slightest. Her act of indifference has most people convinced, everyone except for Blair, who can see right through the paper-thin charade and has been teasing her best friend about it ever since.

Aquaria tries not to care. She can admire Brianna in class and be her friend the rest of the time. It’s not that hard, really. It’s not.

Aquaria has French the period before lunch on Friday, so she plans on grabbing Brianna after the class so they can have some time to talk. Her plan, however, is foiled when the blonde doesn’t even show up.

Aquaria spends the whole class sick with worry, unable to concentrate on her work, her nails tapping the surface of the desk rapidly, staring at the door and expecting her friend’s face to poke round it at any second, an apologetic smile pulling at her plump lips. Her mind is in overdrive, and it feels like everything is going off track.

As soon as class is over, she starts to walk to lunch slowly, pulling out her phone and calling her friend once, twice, three times with no reply. Aquaria rakes her hand through her black hair, almost clawing at her scalp.

She needs to calm down. Brianna is probably sick, and that’s why she’s off school, and sleeping, and that’s why her phone is left unanswered. Something in the back of Aquaria’s mind is still buzzing, however, drowning out her attempts to reassure herself and filling her mind with anxiety, like the sea pulling her under on a stormy day.

So, she bypasses the cafeteria and heads instead straight to her locker. Aquaria takes a second to linger over the polaroids decorating the inside of the door, adorned with stickers and hearts drawn sloppily in black sharpie. They’re mostly of herself and Blair, though it’s closely followed by some of her favourites of her and Brianna throughout their ten years of up-and-down friendship, as well as the other girls that Aquaria is friends with, group selfies and candid shots from parties and movie nights. Her eyes stop on a picture the summer before she started high school, of her and Brianna lounging by a pool, goofy grins on their faces, their bodies clad in bikinis. They had been so excited, buzzing with nervous energy about the adventures of high school that were to come.

Aquaria shakes her head and grabs her gym bag, slamming her locker shut and cutting off her thoughts of a simpler time, before she realised what a hellhole this place actually is, and what the hell it did to her friendship.

She storms through school like a lady on a mission. No matter what, Aquaria can always calm herself down through a vigorous dance session, pushing her body to the limit until she’s drenched in sweat and her only thought is of a shower.

She has a free period next, so she changes quickly, shooting a quick text to the group chat to let them know what she’s up to, planning to use all the time she can get to try to push the ridiculous thoughts of Brianna from her mind, at least for a little bit.

The high school is attached to a leisure centre, which the students use themselves in classes, but is open to the general public also, therefore the students have access to private rooms they can use to practise sports, as the public do, considering they pay.

Aquaria makes use of this any time she can, choosing the smaller rooms any time she can to practise her dance in peace.

Aside from a class playing volleyball in the gym, the area is empty as Aquaria walks back to the changing rooms, every single muscle on her whole body screaming out in pain. She loves to push herself or she feels like there’s no point, but today she obliterated the limit, only stopping when her throat screamed for water.

It worked, as well, as she soaks herself in the scolding water of the shower, her mind is taken up by the success of her session and not a certain blonde. As the heat from the water cascades over her body, she lets her mind empty of all thoughts, closing her eyes against the surprisingly decent stream of water and takes her time washing her body, allowing herself to be at peace for a while.

Finally, Aquaria steps out the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around her glistening body. The changing rooms are empty, therefore she is free to take her time to dry herself with the scratchy material of the towel from her gym bag, not quite ready to face the outside world yet.

She still has half of the period left before the next class starts, so, after redressing and pulling her damp hair into a careless messy bun, she decides to head to the library. Not to do school work, of course, just to flip through the latest issue of Vogue in search for inspiration.

Aquaria is happily walking up to her locker through the deserted hallways of the school, feeling surprisingly refreshed, her usually busy mind feeling almost new again, before it will be undoubtedly hit with a new tidal wave of thoughts. Her locker is up in the music block, as that’s where she has homeroom, and she’s just walking past one of the sound proof practise rooms when she happens to glance inside, through the glass panel in the door, and spots a familiar face, distorted by the glass, but familiar all the same.

Brianna.

She’s sitting at the far end of the tiny room, with her feet propped up on a chair, her head bent over a guitar, and she appears to be singing something. Aquaria inches carefully closer to the door, watching her friend who is oblivious to her presence. She looks so sad.

Brianna has always loved music, Aquaria knows that. She taught herself how to play guitar at a young age, and constantly came up with little melodies and songs that went with them, getting her best friend to chip in on the harmonies once in a while. But, to Aquaria’s knowledge, she hasn’t played in a while. And here she is, when she should probably be in class, strumming her old guitar, distinguishable by the old band stickers that faded a long time ago, and the dent from the time Aquaria dropped in on her wooden floor, by accident

And then Brianna looks up, and spots Aquaria standing in the doorway holding a gym bag and a concerned gaze, and lifts her hand up in a sort of half-hearted wave, getting up and placing the battered guitar down. She goes over to the door where Aquaria is frozen in a sort of silent embarrassment at being caught, and opens it.

“Hi,” Brianna says simply, before walking back into the room and retaking her seat.

Aquaria supposes that this as an invitation, and cautiously enters the room, shutting the door softly behind her, before perching on the piano stool close to where her friend is sitting. She studies her face for a second, all the worry and anxiety that she just worked so hard to get rid of flooding back and smacking her across the head again.

“What are you doing? Are you okay, Bri?”

At least she can finally talk to Brianna, again, and settle the matter for good, but the response from her friend is not at all what she’s expecting, her sad brown eyes lifting up to gaze into her own, her mind clearly occupied by something that has been pressing down on her for a while.

“What happened to me and you?”

It feels like a slap across the face, a cold, hard slap with a wet fish. That’s not even dead. And covered in slime.

“What do you mean?” Aquaria’s mouth feels dry, so she runs her tongue across her lower lip, which helps very little. She knows exactly what she means.

“We used to be best friends, Aqua. We were inseparable. Don’t you remember us sharing everything? I stayed at your house, like, every other night. What the fuck went wrong?” Brianna is angry now, and it takes Aquaria by surprise – it’s a rare emotion in the usually laid back, easy going and happy girl that she used to know so well.

“We’re still friends,” Aquaria mumbles, though it’s a poor attempt at reassurance. Is this what’s been weighing down on Brianna the last week? Surely it can’t be? And yet, a small part of Aquaria’s heart, dedicated to Brianna, lights up in hope that it could be.

“Yeah, great. I can’t remember the last time I was alone with you. When did we last hang out that wasn’t at fucking lunchtime?”

It hurts. It really fucking hurts. Aquaria’s chest feels like it’s closing in on her. Brianna doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember the fatal night that caused Aquaria to distance herself from Brianna, gradually, slowly, because the more time she spent with her, the more it hurt, like a dagger twisted into her chest, plunging deeper as the days, weeks, months passed. She had to get it out, even if that meant the end of their friendship, which it almost did.

She sure as hell isn’t going to bring it up.

“I know,” she says instead, shaking her head, hoping that the hurt she feels hasn’t seeped into her voice. “You know I still care about you. Which is why I want to know what’s been going on with you?”

“Don’t change the subject!” Brianna groans, clearly uncomfortable at what she knows Aquaria is about to bring up.

“Bri, you got a C and didn’t even care. You missed French, and you’re in here in a free period! I’m not crazy, something is the matter,” Aquaria says, mostly to reassure herself. There’s a long pause, as Brianna appears to be thinking something over, painfully slowly. Aquaria chews at the inside of her cheek anxiously, enough so that the metallic taste of her own blood seeps into her mouth

“Well, okay,” Brianna says, at last, looking up at Aquaria with a small, sad smile on her face. “Maybe you can help me. I could use your advice.”

“You know I’m shit at advice. You do know I’m shit at advice?” Aquaria says. If Brianna remembered who she was at all she would know that, but the girl just shakes her head, looking at Aquaria as if she holds a cure for all her troubles.

“I think you’re my best bet, right now.”

There’s something about this statement that makes Aquaria extremely nervous, the worry now pounding through her mind, amplified to a million times to what it was before, but how the hell can she refuse now?

“Um, okay, I’ll try my best.”

“I’ve been, sort of, realising some things about myself recently.”

“Things?”

There’s a long, painful, drawn out pause. Brianna can’t even look at Aquaria, who’s staring at her so intensely she might possibly be about to burn a hole through her skull.

“Like, maybe I’m not actually straight?”

Oh. That was not what Aquaria was expecting, at all. She almost chokes on air, trying her best to maintain a neutral disposition as she nods encouragingly, willing Brianna to continue as her mind starts whirring at a million miles an hour. Is this about her? Can she possibly dare to hope that it is?

“You’re… gay?”

“Maybe, god, I don’t know. I haven’t talked to a single person about this yet.”

God, that feels like old times. A bittersweet wave of nostalgia washes over Aquaria. Sitting up for hours and blurting any random thing that they could ever possibly think of. No secrets, no lies. Come to think of it, Brianna did once say that she had an unexplainable crush on the groovy chick girl that adorned her bedding as a kid.

“I just feel so lost, all of a sudden. I’m eighteen years old and I’m only just figuring out that I like girls?”

“Hey, that’s not that old. People don’t figure it out until college normally.”

Brianna laughs, though it’s painfully bitter, shaking her head in amusement, causing her friend to smile, just slightly.

“See, bad advice! What did I tell you?”

“I just can’t stop thinking about it, like, it’s keeping me up at night. And I have to avoid her, which is where you come in.”

“What?”

“Well, she made me realise I like girls at all. I have a huge, ridiculous crush on her.”

“Who, Bri?”

“Blair.”

And, just like that, the world comes crumbling down.

[tisfan]

Exactly Like Hell

Title: Exactly Like Hell Collaborator: @tisfan Link: AO3 Square Filled: B5 -- Skye -- Daisy Johnson/Self-cest Ship: Skye/Daisy Framework Rating: teen Major Tags: Implied Torture, Self Hatred, Ambiguous Ending Summary: Daisy needs information that can only be found in the Framework. Unfortunately, Skye was waiting for her. Word Count: 556

Created for @mcukinkbingo

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here,” Skye said. “I’d hoped, but I didn’t expect it. I’d be disappointed, if I wasn’t so pleased.”

Because it was Skye, not Daisy, not the Inhuman, but the Hacker, and completely faithful to Hydra.

It hadn’t been the plan. The plan had been to reinhabit the body of Skye, to use it to search through the impossible database that was the Framework. But when did anything ever go the way Daisy planned?

Since never.

“Wasn’t exactly like I had a choice,” Daisy muttered. She struggled with the cords, but they were some sort of adaptive material and they held her fast no matter which way she turned. “You know none of this is real, right? You’re not real.”

“No? I’m not the sum of my experiences, the results of my choices, a consciousness given form?” Skye wondered. “If a meat and blood shell is what makes me real, I can probably arrange that, too. But if I’m not real, then you’re not real, in here, either. Your mind is in here, with me, and your body won’t survive without it. If I kill you in here, bang, you’re dead. So, who’s real and who is not, those are interesting questions. How long do you think it’ll take them to notice that you’re not the one who came back?”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Daisy demanded. She tried to reach for her ability to quake, but she couldn’t it, she couldn’t reach, it was like a broken arm that she couldn’t move.

“Oh, stop that,” Skye told her. “Do you think I’d let you into a body that had been through terragenesis? When you tried to shut this world down, tried to pretend that the other world was the only thing that mattered, did you think the survivors of that apocalypse learned nothing?”

Daisy huffed out a breath. It was hard to look at herself. The young idealist, a hater of inhumans, a tool of Hydra. A lie. That was all Skye was, she was a lie. She was something stretched and changed and distorted, built on the same base that had made Daisy, but twisted, somehow.

“I am you,” Skye said, getting up close and personal, right into Daisy’s space. “I am you! You think you’re so much better, but you’re not! I am you, and I will be you, and I will get out of this hellhole of your making.”

“If I’m you and you’re me, then we made this hellhole together,” Daisy pointed out.

Even the ringing slap that Skye delivered didn’t quite wipe the smirk off of Daisy’s face. She spat a mouthful of blood and just grinned, knowing what she must look like.

“That’s what you’ve got? Pain?”

“I think you’ll find out that it’s an adequate method of persuasion,” Skye told her. In here, we have all the time in the world, and all the pain that I can give you, that never touches your physical body, your body in that other world will just go on and on. And you can’t come out unless leave here on your own. But when you leave, you’re going to take me with you.”

“Like hell,” Daisy snapped. She struggled again, because she couldn’t not.

“Exactly like hell,” Skye responded.

[hush-falls-the-evening]

The Devil in camp

Characters: Edward Nygma (Detective), Jonathan Crane (???), scriddler

Rating: T Words: 4,262  

Chapter: 2/??

Misc Info: Murder/Mystery/Fantasy au, Slowburn, Scriddler

Synopsis: Detective Nygma had no say whether he wanted any part of this. What was supposed to be a case of missing people in a small town quickly turned into a most bizarre affair. 

There is no way to tell whether the threat comes from the forest cradling them in its overwhelming embrace... or if true evil lies where everyone can see.Whoever Edward decides to believe, the people who sought his help or the shadow haunting his dreams... 

There is one thing the detective knows for sure.

There's something very, very wrong with this town.

Follow the story on AO3

Small towns. Edward never bothered with small towns.

Glory Hills was, contrary to what its name might suggest, a rather humble town. It might had seen success a long, long time ago when it was first founded toward the late 19th century, but that qualification hardly applied on this dying town, slowly bleeding out of its younger population who preferred seeking opportunities in distant cities. Smart kids.

It was rather isolated from the outside, for a start. The town had settled its economy on various resources over the years. A bit of lumbering. A bit of mining. A bit of hunting. Farming was not the most efficient with the type of soil they were living on but, somehow the land had never failed them, or so he’s been told. They tended to rely on themselves foremost and only required, or sought, external assistance for the occasional lack of said necessities. The closest neighboring town being 20 minutes away on the highway is probably one of the reasons they set to be self-reliant on the first place. That, and a stiff stubbornness in regards of modernization. 

They did have Wifi though. So that was a comfort. It was spectacularly spotty, however.

Though, it could be said the scenery was quite compelling at various time of day, if you had a thing for that sort of rustic aesthetics. The slight groove it was built into was cradled by hills and the looming forest furnishing them. There was a creek originating from the dark folds of said woodland. Since his arrival, he had been told that if everyone stopped and paid attention to it, they could hear the sound of rushing water, humming like a voice. compelling, growing, engulfing....  

.... Moving on. to Edward’s annoyance, the town’s inhabitants were not particularly warm to outsiders. Or perhaps it was the late September’s chill affecting their manners and.... hospitality.

There was, however, one thing Edward did knew about small towns. They kept their history very close to their chests. 

All he had to do, was ask the right questions.

“And here we have a painting of Mayor Mansfield, who was in office for nearly 20 years before passing his seat to his son-in-Law, Mayor Redfields Senior, who you might recognize as our current Mayor’s grandfather.”

“Ah yes. Tell me, Mrs. Redfields. Did you-”

“-And finally, here we have a portrait of the Redfields’ Manor, up on the eastern hill. You see, Glory, as we call it, had a change of heart in the 20s, and we were extremely lucky to have a type of soil that favored certain kind of flowers. The Mansfields, who originally built the manor in 1923, made the economy boom through commercialization of our local variety. That business lasted... oh, ten years? Give or take. Then the flowers actually spread outside of the area and, it’s been regarded as little more than weed by the locals. Still, every spring, you can see them everywhere, particularly on your way up the hill to the manor! It is luxurious and rich and covering the lands like the blood of our nation!”

Edward nodded amiably at the stout woman, tightening his fists behind his back as he awaited for his client to finish “an important call”. Mrs. Redfields must had been in her late 50s, with a obvious habit of smoking for the looks of her teeth and a subtle yellowing of her fingers... Unless the nearby spittoons were actually indicative of a tobacco chewer. Either way.

Her eyes were somewhat sunken deep in her skull. They were alert and alive with the newfound opportunity of sharing the history of their town to any politely inquisitive visitors, and had commandeered the conversation ever since Edward had uttered his first unfortunate question. 

At any another time, perhaps Edward would had enjoyed this kind of tour. But he had the growing impression that his client had either forgotten he was expecting to see him or, plausibly, that the lady herself had not actually informed her husband of his arrival as soon as she saw the possibility to ramble the excess of information held into her thinning cranium and never had the chance to spill at any of the jaded locals.

Which, to an extent, Edward sympathized with. However, he was not above hypocrisy. 

Before he could make his 5th attempt at placing a word in the conversation, the tall doors leading to the Mayoral office opened on a balding man with a permanent wrinkle up on his forehead. His brows were knitted as he ran his eyes across the hall. “Margaret, have you seen- OH! Oh, Detective Nygma, welcome! I was expecting you earlier, I was worried you might have gotten lost on your way here...”

Edward tried not to shot his eyes through the lady next to him who, he could see from the corner of his eyes, was puffing her chest, standing as tall as her height permitted. Shamelessly daring anyone to question her reasoning.  

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Redfield.” Edward crossed the distance swiftly, shaking the man’s hand. His palms were sweaty and left a sticky sensation over his own.

Mayor Redfields briefly grinned apologetically, though it was not very convincing a grin. Everyone was quite aware of that, and he did not try further. “Let us begin, then. Please, come in. Have a seat.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The Mayor’s Office was, in a similar taste as the rest of the house, old-fashioned with a hint of decay around its edges. Edward made sure not to point them out and focused on the content of the office itself, which featured books and papers at various places obviously not made for books and papers. It was messy, is what he was trying NOT to say.

Many pictures of those infamous red flowers as well, whom the redhead could recognize as Morning glories.

The detective sat in a pink-cushioned chair with his legs crossed, his hands patiently folded until he heard the ridiculous favor he had been asked to perform for this man.

“I must say, Mr. Redfields, your friends were... quite convincing when I was told I was required to assist you in this.... case.”

“Ah... yes. It’s been quite a thorn in my side for the 2 past years-.”

“Which I’ve come to understand,” Edward cut him, grinning unpleasantly. “has to do with disappearing citizens? Would you mind elaborating on that, or should I go the old-fashioned way and interview each and every single one of your constituents? However, I trust you could offer some valuable insights?”

He should had been mindful of the condescension in his tone, but his patience had ran thin until this conversation. He had lost valuable time, and he would gladly appreciate a quick briefing on what he needed to know to begin his investigation and get done with this hellhole.

He saw the other man straightening himself, leaning his elbows over the desk. “Of course... Well, there have been a few... disappearances, in the past few years. Some we just assumed people who left and never returned, having shown signs of those kind of behaviors in the past. However..... We recently found how... one of our most skilled hunter have met a most... dreadful end. It-... It has been a week now so, of course our police department have investigated the crime scene and removed the corpse from it’s.... confinement.”

“Confinement?” The detective emphasized, observing every detail of the man in front of him. From his shifty eyes to the shaking of his hands.

Redfields fetched a cloth he used to wipe the pearls of sweat on his forehead, rising to retrieve a folder from one of his drawers.

“We took pictures of everything, of course. I’ve... not looked at them much myself. It is a rather upsetting sight for me. Acker was a good friend of mine...” he trailed off, looking anywhere except at Edward’s perceptive glare.

Edward leaned to take the folder, opening it to reveal.... a rather peculiar death.

Well. 

“Intriguing.” Edward carded through each pictures. Taking a moment to notice the details of every frame. “Mr. Redfields?”

The older man turned to him in mild astonishment, as if he had only noticed him now. “Yes?”

“Has this ever happened before?”

Edward kept a close eye on the man, and what he saw only made him more.. curious.

“No! No... This is, not anything I have ever seen. You.. You can clearly see the branches had gone-..... oh god”

“It’s quite alright, sir. Please sit back down.”

And the man did just so, looking particularly upset. He resumed wiping at his bald head while Edward looked at the pictures a second time over.

Admittedly, if this murder had been staged, which it must had been... someone had put incredible efforts to make it look like a tree had somehow engulfed the man into its trunk, branches and leaves sprouting out of his permanently escaping corpse. His arms reaching out for an escape he had obviously no power to reach...

What was most striking was the utter look of terror in the man’s expression. If all of this was true, the hunter had seen some unspeakable horror.... Well. Theoretically, dying in that fashion would be quite horrifying, you didn’t need to be a genius the likes of him to know that much.

Which was nonsense, really. But, a possibility.

“Any idea how he had got himself stuck in there? Unless that is a hobby around these parts...”

“Oh, no, no... We, truly do not know.” 

Something in his voice made Edward shot his eyes back on him, this time, the mayor found himself pinned from a severe glare. 

This was the second time the man had lied to him, and he was itching to find answers.

“Truly?” the detective repeated, irking a brow at him.

“Well..... well there is...”

“I need all the information I can work with, Mr. Redfields. So I suggest you tell me what’s troubling you so much.” He kept his sight on him for a spell, then tilted his head. “Unless you want me to find out for myself?”

Redfields didn’t answered right away, but managed to mutter an explanation.

“It all started when my great-grandfather became mayor of this town...”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Something new had come into Glory Hills.

From the depth, It hummed to his ears like a rumor through the leaves. It traveled like shimmer through the thickest of branches. 

It pulled at his core, at the bones at his feet, at the roots feeding on them.

From the Unseen to the cursed... and in their silence, bound into completion. 

It led him back to their civilization, breathing in the foul stench. 

And his whole kingdom inhaled as one.

Something new had come into Glory Hills.

The air tasted of rust. Stained those who stayed too long on these grounds. It moved around them, it moved from them. Seeping into their clothes and drowning their thoughts with the promises of mortality and decay.

The time had come again.

But this year would be... most memorable.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“So what you are telling me... is how this town has been haunted by a creature of the woods for the last century?” the redhead was incredulous. He was also irritated. He was going through a lot at the moment.

Folk tales..... of all things.

“Well... It never came to this before. They stayed near the perimeter of the forests... Acker was a good man, he would had never gone to... to that place...” Redfields rubbed both of his meaty hands over his tired eyes. He looked near exhausted. “They never bothered us like this before.”

Edward made a note to... entertain the idea. Although the thought alone was royally insulting his intellect. He let the silence grow between them until the other man managed to look at him again. 

“That place you’re referring to being the crime scene?”

“Yes...”

“I suppose you were not expecting me to shy away from a crime scene on the account of it being haunted?”

“It isn’t haunted, Mr.-”

“-Detective.”

“.... Detective Nygma, but no... Despite my beliefs, I know we must find answers first...”

Edward nodded at his conclusion. The mayor filled him in on additional details, showing him a map of the events which Edward borrowed shamelessly as he stood to take his leaves. The sun was setting and he had half a mind to go back to his...... “residence” before going to the next logical step of his investigation.

Hitting the local bars.

“The answer is evident to me, Mayor Redfields,” Edward approached almost amiably, putting on his emerald green coat and favored bowler hat on, a cane he had begrudgingly left behind when Lady Redfields had pried it out of his hands with aggressive hospitality. “do you believe the disappearances are connected to this affair?”

“Oh no well, not all of them I’m sure... We do lose a few kids every year to the appeal of the city.” He tried to grin, like this was some kind inside joke which Edward did not have a witty banter to reply with. 

“I will see you tomorrow at noon. Until then, Mayor Redfields.”

The man offered once more that esquisse of a smile as Edward turned to open the door, leaving behind this troubled man who, even if he hated to admit it, had quite a mystery on his hands.

Perhaps, aside for all the nonsense of it, Edward has found a puzzle worth his time in this dreadful place.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

As the eccentric "detective” left the driveway of their home, Geordan Redfields stood where he was last seen for as long as he could hear the sound of wheels on the crumbling pavement. As he turned to walk back into his office, he found his wife Margaret standing there with a basket of fresh baked goods, a look of disgruntlement as she held it with one hand, the other on her bony hip.

“You forgot the basket, Dan.” She sighed, almost dropping it carelessly on a table-stand. “How is he going to stay plump if you let him run around so much?”

“Patience, my flower.” Geordan’s attitude at completely changed as soon as the man left. He exhaled loudly and ambled back to plant a kiss between her brows, her eyes throwing lightnings at him, he had no doubts. 

“We still have a month ahead of us, do we not?”

Author’s notes: Hey guys, thank you for reading this. I owe a great lot to my friends and those who encourage me no matter the moods. 

I'll see you guys on the next cliff hanger. I love you all, please stay warm <3<3<3 

ps: Comments are appreciated. Dammit. I love ya’ll but give me some damn feedback so I know what you want. 

[stars-of-kyber]

And Light To Meet it

This is my first Reylo fic, I’m writing with a friend. 

Summary:

The fight between the First Order and the rebellion intensifies. While Rey must help the rebellion to gather allies, she sends a puzzle to Kylo as he faces an unexpected trial to help him understand if Ben Solo is really dead. And he must discover it alone.

Read it on AO3

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away….

"Civil war rages in the galaxy. The rebel forces grow as General Organa continues to mobilize old and new allies and partners of the former New Republic.

Rey, the last of the Jedi is a know beacon of hope for the entire galaxy, but with powerful force users on both sides of the dispute, the war seems endless.

As the dispute for territory and trade routes grows more intense, the Supreme Leader goes on a quest to affirm the First Order's presence in the galaxy and establish control over the Outer Rim..."

It had not been five minutes since his ship had approached Felucia’s system and Ren already wished Starkiller base had destroyed the whole planet when it had the chance. The weird-looking hellhole of a jungle seemed as if located in the farthest possible place from any hint of civilization, and yet its strategic location for trade had proven itself essencial during the clone wars and for the Empire, and now with the new civil war raging in the galaxy, it became crucial that the First Order made its presence felt on planet.

Of course trade wasn’t the only reason why he had chosen to take this mission. No. That had more to do with the little golden box over the control panel that seemed to mock him ever since his officers had delivered it to him. Sealed shut, the Jedi holocron wouldn’t open no matter how much he tried. On its surface only two words were visible, engraved in the metal: For Ben.

He didn’t have to open it to know that was Rey’s writing.

“Supreme Leader.” A voice called out behind him, clearly higher pitched than it would normally be.

Kylo turned around to face the skinny pale-faced officer. Sweat was dripping from his forehead and even if Kylo was not force sensitive, the terror in his eyes when he addressed him was visible. And irritating.

“What?” Ren barked at him. He was in no mood to deal with whatever it is that their incompetence would throw at him now.

“I’m afraid we have detected a large rebel presence on planet. They appear to have taken control of the eastern First Order base.”

Kylo snapped, his hand shooting up, as the rage took over him. The officer reached for his own neck, his feet lifting from the ground as if an invisible hand pulled him up by his collar.

“And why is it” Kylo spoke pausadly, his ear buzzing ‘that I am only hearing about this NOW?” he released the man, barking the last word at him

The officer fell to the ground on the bridge, coughing and gasping for air. He didn’t dare look up as he answered:

“Sir, the Rebels have taken control of one of our transmission towers on the planet. Today, it seems.”

“Change the course. Turn the ship west. We need to regroup with our remaining base and wipe the rebels out of this jungle.”

“Should we signal General Hux ordering reinforcements?” The officer asked nervously.

“No. Let’s assess the situation before we call any sort of backup.” Kylo waved his hand dismissively. “Now do as I said!”

The man rose, slowly regaining his composure as he saluted.

“Right away sir.”

The cruiser made a sharp turn west, and Ren turned to the front panel again, this time focusing on their attack plans. If the rebels had taken control of the transmission it meant that once they were on planet, the rebels would have the advantage to call on reinforcements. They must not let their presence be known, and the tower should be their first target.

Not a minute after thinking that, he sensed something shifting around them. He knew what the admiral’s words would be before he said them.

“Sir, rebel ships approaching.”

“Jam their signal. Prepare the cannons to fire at sight. I want them all down!”

Seven x-wings approached in V formation. That was a good sign. The fact that they hadn’t sent out the entire present fleet meant that they probably hadn’t been noticed by the main rebel base.

Red and green laser bolts started flying all around them creating a patch of colorful deathly rays among the stars. One x-wing got hit and was blown to pieces by their heavy cannons before the screams of the pilot could be heard through the coms, but even with all of the cruiser’s heavy artillery their ships were too small, and maneuvered their way to target the cruiser’s shield generators.

“Keep firing on them. Send the TIE fighters.” He yelled, picking up the the holocron and attaching it to his belt as he walked away from the main bridge “Prepare my TIE silencer, I will deal with this myself.”

They dared not contradict the Supreme Leader as the sound of his heavy steps disappeared from the bridge into the hangar. Though it had seemed strange to them at first that he would jump on a fighter himself, he had worked with the Leviathan ’s crew for some time now, and they were getting used to him flying alongside them by now. They had been used to cowardly leaders, hiding behind lower officers, sending people to obvious death sentences while standing safe in the bridge. But if there was was thing that Supreme Leader Kylo Ren wasn’t, was a coward.

He slid into the Silencer with ease. He felt more comfortable alone in there, guns in hand than aboard any destroyer having to deal with the failings of his crew. He watched through the panel as another X-wing was taken down. Good. One less to go. Now there were only 5 left to deal with.

“All TIEs, follow me.” He ordered, using the comm link “Get those ships away from the shield generator.” He spun, dodging from shot after shot coming from the X-Wings behind him. By his side, two of his pilots struggled doing the same thing. Four enemy ships were behind them and the other one delve below the cruiser, headed towards the shield generator.

He pulled his TIE up, taking a ninety degree turn upwards. His body leaned forward as the ship looped around it’s edge. Angled directly above one of the X-wings, he gave them no time to react to the sudden shift, immediately locking on target and firing on the first one. The X-wing blew into a million pieces, clearing the path for the TIE pilot to defend the generator.

The three rebel ships bellow him scattered in different directions, breaking formation. He took a sharp turn to follow the one that headed closer to the cruiser. Through the silencer’s glass panel he could see that an X-Wings had managed to take down one of the fighters. Kylo didn’t even flinch. He was spinning, dodging and diving and it was the most natural thing in the world for him. He could feel the force flowing through him like an open flame, igniting at every turn, sensing every presence, every shift. He could feel it’s raging fire tearing apart his enemies one by one as he fired flawlessly on target. It was power. And it was all consuming.

The rebels were down to two ships. One of them was after the other remaining TIE and the other was knocking the generator hard. The fighter managed to dodge the X-wing’s attacks while Kylo engaged them, but by the time they did so the generator had suffered too much damage. The cruiser’s shields were down. One welll aimed direct hit now could take down the whole thing.

Kylo’s hands tightened around the controls, rage pumping through his blood. He pulled the ship back and in a matter of seconds he was just behind the X-wing that had taken down the generator. The rebel pilot tried to evade him, but it was of no use. The force user was like a missile flying straight to his target. A green laser bolt and a flash of bright light and the x-wing was reduced to space dust.

He made a sharp turn to face the only rebel ship left. This X-Wing’s flight was more precise, and you could tell it was flown by a better or more experienced pilot. It chased down the TIE pilot who zigzagged through space clearly lost as how to disengage. The supreme leader didn’t even mind when their last TIE was finally taken down. The First Order was only as strong as their weakest link, afterall.

Now there was only one left. One remaining enemy craft against him and the entire cruiser. In their place anyone would have jumped to lightspeed an ran as far away from them as they could, but Kylo knew the Rebels and understood them better than anyone from the First Order ever could. They were reckless and harsh. They made absurd decisions and took on impossible tasks. They would say to each other may the force be with you on the blind hope that they would be able to accomplish something , anything. The X-wing pilot was going to throw themselves at the cruiser. They must have known they wouldn’t survive, but they insisted on at least taking down their ship with them.

There was something to be said about their spirit. Unfortunately for them though, the force was with Kylo, and he was locked on target.

Ben?

One second. That’s all it would have took for Ren to take out the last of the rebels and continue their mission as scheduled. Instead, at the sound of the familiar voice that called to him, he couldn’t help but turn to his side to see the face he hadn’t seen in such a long time. She had her hair down and her brown eyes seemed to pierce through his soul, as always. He had almost forgotten what that felt like to be regarded by her… Like being truly and deeply seen for the first time.

Rey?

Three seconds. That’s all it took for the rebel X-Wing to throw itself onto the cruiser and for everything to go up in flames. Suddenly regaining his focus, he managed to steer the silencer away from the explosion, a piece of metal scrap from the wrecked ship hitting the craft just as it was being pulled back, pushing it further towards Felucia’s gravitational pull. The TIE’s left wing was badly damaged, unbalancing the entire ship.

As he came spiralling down towards the planet, Kylo Ren wondered who really was the First Order’s weakest link.

[scrollingkingfisher]

A Foxy Problem

In general, Gabriel avoided hunters. Pranking humans wasn’t so fun when there was a chance that it might end with a stake in your back, even for an older, more cunning kitsune like he was. However, sometimes he had to make an exception to the rule. John Winchester was that exception.

Or, Gabriel tries to get a little revenge, and ends up with more than he bargained for.

My September entry for the Gabriel Monthly Challenge! The prompt I used was ‘He could hear him banging around in the kitchen, probably making a mess’

@gabriel-monthly-challenge, @archangel-with-a-shotgun, @lacqueluster, @ashiewesker, @revwinchester

AO3

Words;  2474   

Rating;  Gen- all the fluff

Tags;  Kitsune, Creature Gabriel (Supernatural), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Child Neglect, John Winchester's A+ Parenting

In general, Gabriel avoided hunters.

They weren’t worth the hassle. Pranking humans wasn’t so fun when there was a chance that it might end with a stake in your back, even for an older, more cunning kitsune like he was. He wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to pin all nine of his tails to their wall, even if some of the more sanctimonious ones were just begging for a lesson in humility.

However, sometimes he had to make an exception to the rule. John Winchester was that exception.

Gabriel had been more than willing to leave the man be. He hadn’t even been tricking the hunter. He’d been minding his own business, pulling a prank on three of the local douchebags when Winchester had showed up in town and started harassing him.

And okay, so sometimes he took his pranks a little too far on the harmful side of things. And sometimes they went wrong. And there was that time when he accidentally pranked that lady's twin sister. That didn't mean he was inherently evil!

But apparently that didn't mean anything to John-frickin-Winchester. Because before he knew it the guy was tailing him across town, and seeing as he could teleport, that was no mean feat. Within a day and a half the hunter had found his two temporary dens. Not his main one yet, thankfully, that had too many layers of protection. But still, that was getting uncomfortably close. John Winchester deserved to be taught a lesson not to mess with things that didn't concern him.

Which was how Gabriel found himself lurking in the shadows outside the motel room where Winchester was saying. His info said that he had a kid as well (Gabriel wondered how raising a five-year-old fit into the hunting lifestyle), but the tyke should be at school at this time. He raised his sharp snout into the air; nope, no one in. Perfect.  

Looking at the motel, it seemed even more run down than what hunters usually went for. And that was saying something. He sniffed experimentally and grimaced at the odour of mould, rust and neglect that lingered around the place, even more potent in his fox form than it would have been in his human one. But nevertheless, it was time for Winchester’s day of reckoning. He would rue ever setting eyes on Gabriel.

The wards were almost too easy to get through. One little nudge and they snapped like wet paper towels, letting him sneak through the door, invisible to passers by.

Gabriel slunk silently into the room, his paws making less noise than a mouse as he padded gently across the faded carpet. The curtains were drawn, and the low light made the room look even gloomier than it was already, but Gabriel’s sharp night vision let him pick out the details. He glanced over the unmade beds, the guns, the wall covered in newspaper and string, the rest of the hunter’s paraphernalia littered across the room. He wrinkled his sensitive nose at the smell of cheap whisky and gunpowder.

What should he do first? Should he start with the full-out chaos, or something more subtle? He could always switch around all those map pins, that would throw him off the scent for a while. Gabriel licked his sharp canines and contemplated, one foot raised delicately.

Just as he was thinking, he heard a rustle. He whipped around, all his tails bristling out in aggressive display, a snarl already on his face. His eyes locked on his target, his magic tensed and ready to land a deadly blow, and then he froze.

On the floor, between the two beds, there was a baby.

Round hazel eyes were watching him curiously, without a hint of fear. The fine, wavy brown hair on his head was matted into a cows lick over his forehead. The boy could only have been a year old. At the sight of Gabriel, his chubby face split into a beaming grin, displaying a mouth full of pearly milk teeth.

“��Ox! ‘Ox!”

The toddler pulled himself up on the nearest bed and tottered forwards unsteadily towards where Gabriel was still watching, dumbstruck. The kid made it most of the way towards him but then he tripped over the toes of his onesie, tiny arms windmilling. Before Gabriel could even think about it his tails had whipped around to cushion the kid’s fall. He frowned down at his wayward appendages in confusion as they curled around the boy like a red-gold fluffy cloak.

Not seeming the least put off the toddler squealed happily, grabbing hold of one thick tail. Gabriel winced. Carefully, he extricated himself from the grasp of tiny fingers before transforming back into his human form in a flurry of fur.

“Okay, kiddo, no more of that.”

He bent down, pulling the boy up to his eye level by the armpits, much to his squeals of delight. Gabriel smiled back, helpless. The kid’s laughter was infectious.

There was something bothering him, though. This was definitely John Winchester’s room. There was no way it could have been anyone else’s. He had double checked. He had known about the first kid, Don or something? Dean? Dean, that was it. So how had he not known about the second son?

He shook his head. Okay, Gabriel, focus. Put down the baby. Get back to work. He had a hunter to inconvenience.

But as soon as he put the kid down, those huge eyes filled with tears and the kid let out a wail of misery that could have put a banshee to shame. Gabriel scooped the kid up again, desperately shushing as he tried to get the little brat to quiet down. He couldn’t have the neighbours trying to break in to see what the noise was.

He took a better look at the gloomy room as he walked up and down, gently bouncing the kid. The more he saw, the more the bad feeling he had about this whole situation grew. The odour to rot and mound lay heavy under the other hunter smells, as well as- now he was closer- the unmistakable odour of a filled diaper.

What kind of monster left the kid in a decrepit motel all day, no food, no water, sitting in his own filth? There was no doubt, this was neglect. And it looked as though this was hardly a one-off issue either. The room was full of things that were more than hazardous to a human toddler. There were knives on the table, for god’s sake.

This was so far past wrong. Gabriel thought for a second, looking down. The kid yawned widely, tangling chubby fingers in his jacket, and he felt his heart swell warm and solid as a glowing coal lodged in his chest. He couldn't leave the poor little tyke here.

He could call human social services. Unfortunately, he hadn't heard great things about them. The ankle biter would probably be dumped in some crappy group home somewhere. His older brother, too. And it was unlikely they’d let them stay together. Or…

There was another option.

“Okay, buddy, you’re coming with me,” Gabriel murmured quietly, hoisting the sleeping kid more securely onto his hip. Kidnapping wasn't usually his gig, but this was less of a kidnapping and more of a rescue.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he strode over to the door. He peeked out. There was a couple unpacking their car in the lot, a cleaner two doors down. As casually as he could, Gabriel strolled across the blacktop and into the woods on the other side. Nobody even glanced his way.

.o0o.

A trip to supermarket sorted the diaper issue, and baby food, and everything else that wasn't on Gabriel's usual shopping list. It was a slightly surreal experience, stealing from the baby aisle rather than the one holding all the candy. After that, it had taken him over three hours to baby-proof his den. Why did babies feel the need to stick their fingers into plug sockets? It was like kids were trying to die or something.

The problem, he contemplated while watching the toddler happily ricochet off his furniture, was what to do about the other one. If he was going to do a good job here he should really get the both of them. Collect the whole set of baby Winchesters.

“What do you say, kiddo? Shall we rescue your brother from that hellhole?”

“Aaaaahhhhhh!” Said the kid, beaming and holding up a bouncy ball for him to inspect before running off to another room. Gabriel grinned after him.

“Just what I was thinking.”

Besides, he persuaded himself as he hacked the street cameras, the more kids he rescued now the fewer there would be trying to pin his tails to the wall in fifteen years’ time. Yeah. That was totally why he was doing this.

Well, at least the one he had now was having a good time. Gabriel could hear him banging around in the kitchen, probably making a mess with the play-dough he’d given him to keep him entertained. Getting hold of his brother, however, was going to be more difficult.

.o0o.

Gabriel went back to the motel that evening, leaving the kid tuckered out at home. With a flick of his tails he was invisible, carefully tucking himself under the windowsill to listen in on the conversation going on in the room.

“But Dad, what about Sammy?” The voice was young, high; definitely Dean. So the kid’s name was Sammy, huh?

An irate sigh, then a gruff voice said, “Dean, I've told you already. Your brother’s the one lead I have on this thing. We need to use him to draw it out.”

Gabriel's whiskers quivered with indignation. What kind of being would just give up on his kits like that? The boy had only been gone hours! Any other parent would have been combing the place for him, but apparently Winchester had stopped low enough to use his own brats as bait.

“But dad, what if he kills him?”

“He’ll be fine, but we have to use our heads about this, Dean. That's your brother’s best chance. Anyway, kitsunes don't hurt kids.”

Yeah, thought Gabriel, but what if I did? Not that he ever would, of course. The midget already had Gabriel wrapped around his little finger. But Winchester senior obviously thought it was a risk worth taking that Gabriel was definitely a kitsune and not some other type of baby-eating shapeshifter. He supposed that waiting for him to emerge was the most logical thing to do in the situation, but that was the thing. Humans weren't meant to be logical, not when their young were involved. It gave him chills to hear John talking about his own son so dispassionately.

“We’re hunting the creature my way, Dean, and that's final. It's not just Sammy’s life on the line, remember? You wouldn't want anyone else to die, would you?”

Dean muttered something else, but Gabriel had heard enough. If John Winchester cared that little about his second kid, then he couldn’t care that much about Dean either. He sat back on his hind paws and waited.

Sure enough, Dean emerged from the room not too much later, change jingling in his hand and a stressed frown on his face. Gabriel quickly manifested his human form next to the can machine.

“Psst, kid. Dean.”

Dean tensed, his skinny shoulders hunching as he turned. Gabriel saw him reaching for the back of his waistband, and really, what kind of parent have their five-year-old a knife? Not that it would do anything to Gabriel.

“How do you know my name?” Already suspicious. Good- that would serve him well in their world.

“I'm someone who wants to help.”

He saw a flash of fear on the boy’s face. He bit his lip, eyes darting nervously. “You're not gonna tell the other people about us, are you?”

Social services, Gabriel guessed. So he wasn't the first to have noticed.

Gabriel decided to drop the act. At least this would make things simpler. “No, I'm not.” He relaxed his human form a little, letting his ears grow pointed and tufted. The shadows of his tails swished behind him, stirring the air with their half-condensed shadows.

The boy’s eyes went wide, then his frown grew deeper as he pulled the knife out. “You're that kitsune dad’s been hunting.”

Gabriel whistled, holding his hands up. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Dean just glared at him harder. “Look, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you or your brother. Kitsune, remember? I don't hurt kids. But your dad isn't fit to look after a goldfish, never mind two children. But I bet you know that already, don't you? It's been you who's been looking after him, isn't it?”

The kid puffed out his skinny chest. “I can take care of Sammy!”

“I bet you can, Deano. Not arguing that. But you shouldn't have to. And what's Sammy gonna do now that you have to be at school all day, huh?”

Dean was quiet, biting his lip.

Gabriel could feel John’s life force moving around in the motel room. It was only a matter of time before he came to see why it was taking the kid so long to buy a can of pop. He had to settle this fast. “Here's the deal, Dean. You can go back to your dad, I won't stop you. But Sammy can't stay here, he's coming with me. Or, you can come with me too. What do you say?”

Gabriel could literally see the thoughts floating around the boy’s head, wisps of don’t wanna and but Sammy. Finally, he came to a decision.

“I'm coming with you.” Then he fixed Gabriel with a glare so dark that he almost felt threatened. “But if you hurt Sammy, I’m gonna gank you.” The kid would have been one hell of a terrifying hunter.

Gabriel shrugged. “Fair enough. Alright, hold tight, kid.”

He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and snapped his fingers, warping the world until they touched down in his den.

Dean immediately staggered away from him, disorientated. Sammy looked up, chocolate spread smeared over his entire body, and let out an excited shriek.

“De’!”

“Sammy!”

Dean rushed forwards to his brother, hugging him with skinny arms. Gabriel couldn't help grinning at them. Human children were adorable. Already he could feel himself becoming attached to them. It had been too long since Gabriel had had kits.

Dean didn't trust him yet of course; he hadn't expected him to. Trust had to be earned. That would come eventually. First things first, he’d have to move the entrance to his den. He couldn't have John Winchester finding them.

He was going to raise these two right.

[qqueenofhades]

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XXV

summary:  Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXIV

The first thing Jim Hawkins was aware of, once the pounding in his head and other disorientation that accompanied his recent excursion into unconsciousness had somewhat worn off, was that he was in the brig. Which brig exactly was a matter of consultation, but he had unfortunately seen the inside of enough of the things to be sure. He was sprawled on some rather squalid straw, still soaking wet from his plunge into the ocean – he remembered falling from his rope after the sound of a gunshot, was momentarily afraid that it had hit him, but he was fairly sure it hadn’t. Then he had woken up on a deck with a lot of shouting and blurs, someone who unfortunately did not look like Geneva standing above him, and someone else dragging him off to the ongoing commotion of a brawl behind him. He thought he could pick out a familiar voice – that someone who sounded like John Silver had been shouting for him – but couldn’t be sure. That, combined with the dragging, and of course the overall result of the brig, seemed to confirm it beyond a doubt. He wasn’t on the Rose. He was a prisoner on the Hispaniola, under Lord Gideon Murray’s dubious mercies, and also beyond a doubt, heading for Skeleton Island. Is this where you get that annoying little saying about being careful what you wish for?

Jim shifted position with a grunt of discomfort, having unpleasant flashbacks to that week he had spent trussed up in the bowels of Bristol city gaol with Liam Jones, falsely accused of burning down the Benbow. That reminded him, he still owed Lady Fiona Murray a punch in the face for that, and if anything useful was to come of being ambushed and tricked by her total brat of an adopted son, they might be able to catch up to her. Also, or at least he hoped, if she was remotely in a position to do so, Geneva would be chasing them with the Rose. Had her uncle made it back? Or was he still here somewhere as well? Perhaps put into more stringent confinement, or –

As it was reasonably plain that Thomas was not in the brig with him – in fact, lucky for Jim, he got the place all to himself – he had to hope that Thomas had made it off, as the alternative was not pleasant. Jim didn’t think that Gideon would risk shooting such a valuable hostage point-blank, but then, he had rather abruptly lost control of the situation. If he was trying to ensure that his threats had teeth… perhaps Jim should have wanted Geneva to lose her much-loved uncle, some sort of twisted payback for his father, but, as was fairly clear, he didn’t. Didn’t want that, and did want several other things. MacSweeney had better keep his freckled mitts off her, or alternatively he could try, which was certain to be very amusing for all parties not named MacSweeney. A wry grin pulled Jim’s mouth. Too bad I’d miss that.

With that, he sagged back against the wall and groaned. Of all the times to admit that you were seriously in love with the girl whose father had murdered yours, this had to rank near the bottom. Of course it had been a crush from the start, albeit tempered with a never-ending series of misadventures and unhappy revelations, but this… well, this was different. If even this couldn’t make him be mad at Geneva for more than a few days, it was plain that there was nothing he would ever be able to hold against her, nothing he wouldn’t forgive her for, and the way she had been looking at him… perhaps it wasn’t quite so unrequited as all that. There could be a chance, a real chance. Assuming I get out of this damn hellhole. Wasn’t love supposed to make a man do great things? If he got up and ran at the bars right now, would they burst aside in a glorious shower as he charged forth, hair blowing, to his fair lady? Probably not. Worth a try, though?

Jim squinted up through the slats, trying to work out what time it was. Early morning, maybe, though it was hard to be sure. It was ominously quiet above, which was probably a bad sign. At least no shooting, which he had a feeling he would have noticed, distracted state or not. Would they be trying to sink the Rose outright, now that Geneva had blown the lid off the little Jacobite secret (God, she was so bloody clever, he had no idea how she’d put that together, but of course she had) and there was no more objective need for them? It certainly seemed an unnecessary risk for Gideon to run if he was trying to scoop the Skeleton Island hoard for the Stuarts, and Geneva had caused him more than enough trouble. Jim didn’t think he was here in an attempt for Gideon to coerce her, but rather to keep Silver’s arm twisted. Somewhat less effective at the task than Thomas and Madi, but then, that had gone sideways. And Jim had thought Silver liked him, a bit, once. There was no way to know if that would extend to risking himself again to protect him.

Jim stared up through the dim timbers, supposing it was too much to hope that someone was deputed to feed the prisoners. He wondered where Geneva was, if she was all right. He was just considering if it was worth it to shout until someone showed up, when he heard a creak on the ladder and the slow, deliberate thump of a descent. Someone made their way through the shadows, then reached the bars. “Hawkins.”

A very unhappy shock of recognition went through Jim like a broken spar. “You?”

Israel Hands grunted in sardonic amusement. His damp, grizzled hair was knotted out of his scarred face and seawater was still dripping from his beard like some vengeful incarnation of Poseidon as he leaned on the grate. “Aye. Me. Was the one pulled you out of the water, boy, after you fell from the Rose. That ginger cunt of an Irishman let me out, when he was putting the redcoat in. Fuck of an irony, wouldn’t you say?”

Jim didn’t answer. He hadn’t known who his rescuer was, being unconscious for most of the excitement, but he’d thought at worst it was one of MacSweeney’s lads, or one of Gideon’s, seizing the opportunity for a new hostage after the others were escaping. This added an entirely new and completely unwelcome wrinkle to his presence aboard the Hispaniola, and he did his best to affect a cool stare. Hating to ask Hands anything, but still needing to know, he said, “Thomas – Thomas Hamilton, what happened to – ”

Hands shrugged. “He got off. That’s why they’re keeping you close. That Lord Gideon, he’s promised me a full pardon if I assist in the recovery of the treasure for His Majesty, King James Stuart of Great Britain and Ireland.” He sounded the names out with a mocking tenor that left Jim in no doubt of Hands’ actual feelings on the subject. “That’s where you come in. You get our friend, John Silver, to tell you where the cache is, and anything else that I might need. He knows, he bloody well knows, and you have half a chance at winkling it out of him.”

“You think so?” Jim scoffed, trying to sound appropriately dismissive. “Me get it from him? Much less pass it on to you? Why do you think I’d ever – ”

Hands grinned a rather ghastly, tobacco-juice-stained grin. “You’re the one behind bars now, boy, not me. And by my lights, don’t have a terribly good chance of getting out alive, unless you decide to be useful. Even if Silver was so foolish as to try to spring you, you think you’d get far, him hopping on one leg? As I said. You get him to tell you where the cache is hidden, and I’ll let you out. I’ll cut you in on a share of the money, and put in a good word for you to Lord Murray. Otherwise, I’ll tell him all them things I heard about you in Bristol, get him to drum up some charges, and have them hang you on a branch.” He shrugged. “Deserter from the Navy, was it?”

“Discharged,” Jim growled. Dishonorably discharged, in fact, but that was a very pertinent distinction, as outright desertion was indeed punishable by death. “And aren’t you just a bloody little ray of lunatic sunshine, same as ever?”

“I told the Jones chit, back on the Rose,” Hands said. “Whatever is there on Skeleton Island, it’s mine, and if Lord Murray needs to think I’m helping him get it, that is what he’ll think. As I also said, I won’t have John Silver fucking it up. The last thing we need from him is where to find the treasure, otherwise I’d have bludgeoned him to death with his fucking leg already. He’s not telling me, so…” He trailed off significantly. “He’s telling you.”

“And you think we’re working together, why?”

“Because you’ll rot down here forever if you don’t. Seemed obvious, and you a bright lad. Don’t want to get back to the lass at all?” Hands took a goading step. “Or I could shout for the redcoats and tell ‘em you’re useless as a hostage. Should I?”

“Jesus,” Jim said. “You’re the fucking worst.”

Hands did not appear terribly ruffled by this assessment of his character. “Just trying to live, boy, the same as any man in this world. I’ve no reason to bear a grudge against you particularly, but I’m not one to risk you stopping me. Easy, eh? Easy. I’m sure Silver will find an excuse to drip down here like piss down a leg. All you do is get him to talk – that one fucking loves to talk, shouldn’t even be that hard. Then I kill him, we retrieve the treasure together once we arrive on the island, and lie low until the Rose gets there after us. Imagine it will, after all. You’ll be reunited with the bloody girl and have plenty of money for it. In’t that what you want?”

Jim didn’t answer. Yes, he did want the money, not least to rebuild his mother’s inn, and yes, he very much did want to get out of this briny hellpit and see Geneva again, but even that was not enough to make him overlook the clear and patent danger of entering into commerce of any kind with Israel bloody Hands. Not that he presently had many other options, but still. Silver had told him about his father’s death at Killian Jones’ hand in an apparent attempt to sow division between him and Geneva, and then of course God knew what had gone on with the mutiny, so it wasn’t as if Hands was asking him to buy this with some unforgivable death. Long John Silver, the pirate king. Even Billy Bones had feared him, otherwise why worry that he might follow him? Jim remembered seeing Silver shoot the mutineer easy as anything in the hold of the Rose, and then stamp Job Anderson to death on the deck. But he helped me save Madi. Trusted Geneva. For what reason, or if he’s switched sides yet bloody again, I don’t even know.

“Think fast, boy,” Hands advised. “I’ll be down here again in a few hours – we’re not that far out from Skeleton Island, according to Silver. Could be landing by nightfall. You’ll want to know what you’re doing. Till then.”

With that, he turned and stumped off, as Jim watched him go balefully and thought of several really excellent and profane things to say under his breath. He leaned back against the fetid straw, heard some scratching that sounded like rats, and got to his feet instead, pacing the few steps allowable in the cramped floor space. At least his clothes were almost dry, as if that counted as an upside. He was just about to see if any other prisoners had left a rind of cheese or heel of bread somewhere in the straw, though the rats had most likely gotten to it first, when he heard more footsteps on the ladder, and the slow clunk of a peg leg. Oh, bloody hell, here we go.

Jim sat back down, as if to look less as if he had been waiting for this, as John Silver limped into view, face well lacerated with cuts and bruises that he must have taken while being swarmed by half a dozen redcoats earlier. He reached the brig, steadied himself as the Hispaniola rolled unexpectedly beneath them, and then held out a piece of hardtack and a withered apple through the bars. “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s not much.”

Jim was hungry enough that even this modest offering looked like manna, and he tried not to run too fast to retrieve them. He flicked a maggot out of the biscuit and sucked on a corner, trying to soften it to the point of edibility. They stood there in silence for several moments, one on each side of the grate, as Silver looked away whenever Jim tried to catch his eye. Finally, when the hardtack was gone except for crumbs, and the apple had been gnawed to a core, Jim tossed it into the straw, heard the rats start to fight over it, and said, “Well.”

Silver grimaced, rubbing the back of his ringed hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have ended up here. I’ve tried to convince Lord Gideon to free you when we reach Skeleton Island, but he suspects – rightfully, I imagine – that you would run back to the Rose as swiftly as you could, and give away our position. So – ”

“Like with the mutiny?” Jim tried to keep his voice level, but anger ran rough at the edges. “You said you’d go out to talk them down, and then instead you appoint yourself their king and try to carry it through to all ends?”

“I did what I had to do.” Silver reached out to grip the bars, almost as if he was willing himself to be behind them instead, that he and Jim should trade places on the instant. “Even I am not a sorcerer, could not change their minds altogether. Why not make myself their – as you say – king, and ensure that they vented their spleens without harming you, Geneva, Madi, or Thomas? Tempers would have cooled, sense would have returned – or I would have made sure that it did – and then I’d hand the ship back to Geneva. That was the idea. You yourself threw somewhat of a wrench in it, when you set off the flare to alert this very vessel.”

“Forgive me for not miraculously understanding that you had a wise plan to save us by betraying us first,” Jim said coolly. “Then again, isn’t that how it seems to work with you?”

“You are…” Silver paused, chewing over his words. “You are not incorrect, I suppose,” he said after a moment, bitterly. “I blame none of you, least of all you yourself, for the notions you have formed of what I do, and who I am. That was no lie, after all. You saw Long John Silver, and you were right to be afraid of him. That mask and mantle is one I put on at the uttermost end of need, and each time it poisons me a bit more. Perhaps the day comes – perhaps has already come, long ago – when the mask is all that remains. And that is the last thing in the world that still frightens me.” His grip tightened. “I do not expect nor merit your forgiveness.”

Jim regarded him silently. “So you will. . . get me out, if you can, once you have already handed me over to Lord Murray? Or do you just intend to – ”

“If I can at all get you back to Geneva,” Silver said, “I will. No doubt you have further questions as to why I acted in regard as I did with the two of you, which we, frankly, do not have time to delve into. We will, by my estimate, reach Skeleton Island by nightfall. I lost sight of the Rose some while ago, but I would be quite sure they are still on our tail somewhere. We are coming into the island from the east, so someone else could be on the western side. That won’t do them much good, the Walrus wrecked on the east side, so we’ll not be far from the cache when we land. If it’s still afloat, that is. Otherwise, Flint’s chest is slightly inland, by a distinctive rock. Hopefully, it will take Murray long enough in retrieving it for Geneva and Thomas to catch up.”

Jim’s stomach turned uncomfortably. He almost wanted to warn Silver to be careful, that Hands could be skulking behind a bulkhead and waiting to glean this exact information; he had not even asked for it explicitly, but did that make him complicit in Hands’ schemes? He and Silver remained looking at each other; Jim was several inches taller, but he still felt as if he was standing in the older man’s shadow, somehow. Finally he said, “So I’m supposed to trust that, am I? Just wait here in the brig until, at some point, you’ll be back to fetch me, and – ?”

“Then we will assist Lord Murray in his valorous mission, of course.” Silver looked at Jim for a long moment, head cocked to the side, almost as if he was waiting for him to understand something else. “I’ll see if I can bring some more food. Otherwise, yes. Don’t try anything reckless. Promise me that.”

It was on the tip of Jim’s tongue to ask what good Silver could possibly think would come of him promising, or why it mattered, or what theoretical reckless thing he could even attempt in his current predicament. He already knew, however, that he was not about to get any answers. As Silver turned to go, however, Jim blurted out, “Don’t you think someone could – ”

“Do I think someone could what?”

“Kill. . . you.” He wasn’t being very subtle about this at all, but the time was past for playing it conservatively. “If you’re the only one who knows the location of the treasure stash, and then you tell them that, they don’t have any further use for you, they – someone might – ”

Silver smiled, which never reached his eyes. “Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Hawkins. Thank you. We’ll speak again shortly, then? Good day.”

With that, he moved off, as Jim watched him tensely, half-expecting Hands to jump out at him and open his throat with a whaling knife on the spot. But Silver climbed up the ladder, back toward the deck, so surely Hands couldn’t murder him there in full view of everyone? Jim was left with the unsettling sensation that he had missed something, or there was some sort of current at work beyond the obvious, though he was at a loss to say remotely what. Silver had not defended his actions in the least, but nor had he apologized for them, or definitively renounced Long John – if anything, he had given Jim a veiled warning that that part of him would only continue to grow stronger. And what does that mean for any of us, but woe?

Time continued to crawl past, the weak grey sun appearing and disappearing through the cracks. A cabin boy appeared at some point with something more resembling food, which he shoved at Jim without speaking. Once he had eaten it, Jim was quite sure that the finite pleasures of captivity had now been exhausted, and kept looking up sharply at small creaks or cracks. It had to be going on late afternoon, and the ship’s pace had slowed in a way that meant they had to have spotted their destination and were preparing for a cautious approach, when the unwanted shadow once more darkened his door. “You, boy.”

Jim let out an irritated breath. He had thought about lying down and trying to sleep, as it was plain that he would soon be needing his energy one way or another, but that seemed liable to get him eaten by rats or fleas, so he had been propped uncomfortably against the wall, half-dozing. “You,” he said, just as coldly. “We there yet, then?”

“They’ve sighted the island, yes. Should be ashore in less than an hour. So.” Israel Hands folded his arms. “You have something to say to me, boy?”

Jim could not help but be reminded of Captain Smollett again, whom he had generally gravely disappointed during his time on HMS Adventure – not that Smollett and Hands had anything whatsoever in common except that sneering, disapproving way they called him “boy.” It got under his skin, even knowing that was the exact point of it: that he was a boy, a gullible, aimless, useless child, who could not aspire to true manhood or respect or valor. Hands had already threatened to snitch on all Jim’s misdeeds in Bristol, which he must have heard over the grapevine, as if every merchant and longshoreman and quayside whore in the entire city had nothing better to do than gossip about James Joseph Hawkins Junior’s manifest inadequacies (though the whores, at least, wouldn’t have personal experience). As if Killian Jones hadn’t ruined Jim’s life by depriving him of a father, at least not directly. No, the full and sole responsibility for the dog’s breakfast he had made of his life would, in that estimation, rest with him. Boy. It kept ringing like a far worse taunt. Boy.

“Well?” Hands prodded, into the silence. “You go deaf?”

“I – no.” Jim threw his shoulders back and stared defiantly at Hands. “Silver told me.”

“And?”

“You think I’m an idiot? I’ll tell you when we’re on shore. Otherwise, you’ll pole-ax me here and leave me for the rats.” Jim smiled, trying his best impression of Silver’s sleek, dangerous demeanor. “Tit for tat, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

Hands’ face went slightly purple, a vein twitching in his temple in a way that made Jim hope for a fortunate apoplexy. No such luck, however. After a moment, he growled, “And how do I have any proof you aren’t lying?”

“Well,” Jim said. “You don’t. But aye, you can go ahead and take the risk, if you actually feel like killing me before you’ve made completely sure. Good bloody luck trying to get it out of Silver after that, but perhaps you like a challenge.”

Hands ground his teeth, but it was fairly apparent to both of them that Jim had called his bluff. He considered, spat, then produced a large keyring he had clearly stolen, unlocked the cell, and collared Jim roughly, pulling him out and toward the fetters hanging on the wall nearby. Once he had locked Jim’s wrists into a pair of these, he grabbed the chain and marched him toward the ladder, a low commotion of voices audible from above. Jim climbed awkwardly with his cuffed hands, and finally stepped out onto the deck of the Hispaniola, where Gideon, the redcoats, and Silver had gathered to witness their final approach. A broad white-sand beach stretched across the mouth of a shallow bay, palm trees dark in the lengthening shadows, and beyond, a wall of dense jungle rose almost straight up into the interior, with the summit of some distant green mountain just catching the last of the light. It looked like any other remote Caribbean island, hardly worthy of its mystic and legendary pedigree, and Gideon surveyed it narrowly. “Are you sure this is it, Mr. Silver?”

Silver arched an eyebrow. “Believe me, the one subject on which I can be trusted unconditionally is Skeleton Island. As I said, we are approaching from the east, so it looks different to what you may expect. If you want to put together an expeditionary party – and surely these irons are not necessary for Mr. Hawkins – we can get on with retrieving the treasure.”

Gideon turned with a look of some annoyance. “Who put him in irons?”

“He did,” Jim said, rattling them in Hands’ general direction. “Really sure you want that one sneaking around your prisoners?”

Gideon’s lips went thin, but he made a brusque motion, and one of the redcoats removed the fetters. Jim, Silver, and Hands were loaded into the ship’s boat with Gideon and a dozen redcoats, and as the soldiers started to pull the oars, crossing the wine-dark water toward the beach, Jim did his damndest to come up with his next move. Hands would probably try to pull him off into the trees, to improve the chances of him alone hearing the location of the treasure stash, but if Silver then told the entire party, that wouldn’t do him much good, as they would all know where to go. Hands could definitely kill Jim anyway for frustrating him, but –

In a few more minutes, and with Jim having figured out exactly nothing, the keel of the longboat ground on the shore, and the redcoats jumped overboard to haul it clear of the waves. Jim stepped over the side, boots touching Skeleton Island sand for the first time, and tilted his head back to look at the impressive prospect of the trees. They were thick and dark and still as a solid wall, until he had no trouble at all imagining that this place could gulp up a man, a hundred men, and keep them confused and wandering for months or years, never coming across each other and never remembering where they had already been. All at once, Jim wasn’t terribly sure that he wanted to go in there himself. The place seemed almost sentient, and far from friendly.

Silver got up slowly, cautious on his peg leg, and climbed out of the boat, watching as the redcoats slung muskets on their backs and scouted for suitable branches to make torches. “I would not advise a nighttime expedition into the jungle, gentlemen,” he said. “This place is hard enough to navigate in daylight, you’ll get yourself miserably lost if you try it in the dark. There are all sort of hidden perils – caves, ravines, waterfalls, poisonous serpents, mud sloughs, the lot. Scout it briefly, but I’d advise returning to the Hispaniola for the night, and starting tomorrow.”

“First,” Gideon said, pointing at him. “You tell us where the treasure is.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Hands tense. By the way Silver shifted position, almost imperceptibly, he must have noticed it as well. Then, with a significant look at Hands, he said, “Well, since there’s no sign of the Walrus, it must have sunk after all, which means that Flint’s cache is the only one that remains. It’ll be about half a mile inland from here, more or less true west, by a distinctive-looking rock. Nothing that a man with a peg leg could not walk, so if you find yourself in rough terrain, you’re off course.”

The redcoats glanced at each other, then huddled up for a conference, as Gideon stared into the trees and Silver casually tilted his head at Jim and Hands. Both of them started after him, Hands reaching for the pistol tucked into his waistband and Jim’s heart pounding in his throat, until they reached a slightly hidden spot behind a tall rock. The instant they were out of sight of the redcoats, Hands drew the gun and cocked it. “You were lying about the location to those sons of bitches, weren’t you? I’ll have the proper spot, and now.”

Silver raised his hands slowly, eyes on Hands’ trigger finger; after all, they had learned back on the Rose not to underestimate the damage he could do if he got off a shot. “Perhaps,” he said. “But you claimed to be aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge when Blackbeard was killed by Woodes Rogers, and that by default, the portion of the lost treasure was yours. You know, of course, that Rogers then sailed the Revenge to Skeleton Island, so surely if you were aboard at the time, you would be much more certain of the exact coordinates?”

“No more talk, you oily motherfucker.” Hands trained the gun on the center of Silver’s forehead. “No more tricks. Where is it?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Despite the gravity of the situation, a grim smile twisted up Silver’s mouth. “You’ve never been here. You don’t know that the Walrus did in fact sink on the western side, not the eastern side, so it wouldn’t be here even if it was still partially afloat. You don’t know – well, now you do, I suppose – that Flint’s cache isn’t on the eastern side at all. You’re a liar, Israel Hands, and you have no more entitlement to Blackbeard’s share of the treasure, if it could even be retrieved, than you do to be king of England – though given our hosts’ political sympathies, it seems that office is once more up for grabs. Am I wrong?”

Hands stared at him, the vein going more furiously than ever in his temple, eyes bulging. He did not, however, rush to shout Silver down, and in that silence, Jim could hear the truth. Finally Hands said in a grating rasp, “Fine. I was exiled from Blackbeard’s crew before the Revenge and her bloody captain met their end here – and a fucking good thing I was, otherwise I’d have been killed by Rogers and the Navy scabs too. But you are wrong. I’m still the last survivor of Blackbeard’s cohort, so the treasure’s mine anyway. And now you’re going to tell me, or – ”

Silver’s eyes flicked to Jim, then back to Hands. “You see,” he said. “You would have been correct if you said you were the last survivor of Blackbeard’s crew. But at the time of Blackbeard’s death, he was sailing in cohort with the Walrus – and I need not remind you of my own position aboard that vessel. So we’re both survivors of Blackbeard’s cohort, and there’s the fact that Billy Bones is, at last report, alive as well, so that makes three of us. You’d have to kill us both to actually be the sole inheritor of the treasure, and while I am directly before you and available for such an opportunity, Bones’ whereabouts are unknown. The redcoats are going to get rid of you anyway, as you’re a mad dog, so frankly, you’ve failed. Comprehensively, in fact. You’re not going to get to that treasure, not if anyone can help it, and now, Jim, NOW!”

Jim had been poised on his toes, not knowing where this was leading but ready for the signal nonetheless, and with that, he jumped at Hands, tackling him flat just as he was about to shoot. He and Hands hit the sand together, rolling and struggling furiously, as Hands grappled for the dropped pistol, but Jim got to it first. The world seemed to slow, stretch out, as he snatched it, whirled it around, and saw in his mind’s eye Hands shooting at Geneva, the fact that he would have blown up the Rose, everything, all of it. He had never killed a man before, but he did not hesitate. Pointed, cocked, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion of the gunshot made seabirds rise in a screeching swarm, echoing off the trees, as Hands fell backwards, a red-black hole drilled into his forehead. It was followed by the shouts of the redcoats from down the beach, realizing that they had let their hostages wander out of sight and start playing with firearms. Still operating purely on instinct, Jim grabbed the extra pistol from Hands’ belt (of course he wasn’t the sort of bloke to half-ass it with one gun) with one hand and Silver with the other, yanking them backward into the thick drape of moss. There was a narrow channel of hard-packed sand, clearly a tidal rivulet, and it provided firm enough footing for them to both to run, so to speak. Silver kept slipping and struggling even so, and Jim was not about to be caught again on account of him, so he slung Silver’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him. Just ahead, there was a dark hole at the foot of a large rock – judging by the high-water marks almost to the top, this would all be submerged when the tide came in – but they didn’t need to hide for long. Jim dragged Silver down into it, and they landed with a splash in a foot of briny, stagnant tidepool, just as the redcoats ran past, shouting.

The fading light flickered weirdly on the weed-wracked boulders that tilted over their heads, and Jim could hear his harsh breathing echoing like the ghosts of a hundred more men, crammed impossibly into this tiny space. He could not quite straighten up all the way, and even Silver had to stoop, the two of them staring each other down without speaking, tense all over for any sound of the redcoats returning. Then Jim pulled out the second gun and aimed it at him again. “What the hell,” he managed, still panting, “did you do?”

“You’ll need to be more specific.” Silver sat down heavily on one of the slimy rocks, the current eddying around his mismatched legs. “Careful, Jim, another shot and they’ll – ”

“I’m aware.” Jim didn’t lower the gun. “So what you told Hands about the location of the treasure was a lie. You told me the same thing back on the Hispaniola. Why?”

Despite himself, Silver looked rather grudgingly impressed. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. “I suspected Hands would try to use you to leverage me for information,” he admitted at last. “I told you so you would have something to pass onto him, and either prove or disprove my theory – proven, as we saw back there – that he had in fact never been here before. I couldn’t risk doing it any other way. You had to believe what you were telling him.”

“And if I had told him, he’d likely have killed us both.”

“Yes.” Silver leaned forward. “But you didn’t. You don’t have to trust me, and I am well aware you have every good reason not to. But if nothing else, both of us – Geneva, we have to – ”

“Did you see the Rose? Do you know if they’re chasing us?”

“They fell out of sight a few hours after Gideon’s men pulled you and Hands out of the water.” Silver’s eyes flicked up at the hole above their heads, clearly listening hard. “If Geneva is clever – and she is – she’s luffing or lollygagging, trying to make them believe they lost her.”

“Unless they did lose her.”

“I doubt it,” Silver said. “And so, I think, do you. Besides, before I was taken off as a prisoner, I took the liberty of concealing a copy of the coordinates for Skeleton Island in Geneva’s surgical kit. She’s the only one who’s been using that, tending to Eleanor, and it’s the one place the fucking redcoats, stripping the place down for extra money, won’t have looked. So even if the Rose genuinely did fall behind, they will know how to find us again.”

“If Geneva finds those coordinates, and realizes what they are, in time.”

“I believe in her,” Silver said simply. “Do you?”

“Aye.” Jim answered without hesitation, and their eyes met in a moment of brief, poignant mutual understanding, Then they glanced away, both going hurriedly silent at the sound of tramping footsteps overhead. One of the voices came perilously close to the hole, but then moved away. It took several minutes after it had faded for Jim to speak again. “So that’s our plan? Hide out here from the angry redcoats, until Geneva hopefully reaches us and we can find a way to get back to the Rose and off this island? Just… that?”

“Not entirely.” Silver glanced down at the water, which had been around his ankle when they entered, and was starting to creep up his calf. “The tide is coming in, Jim, we can’t risk getting trapped down here. We – all right, all right.”

“I’m not finished.” Jim brandished the pistol, which had been what made Silver sit back down precipitately. “Is that the plan?”

“In its broad strokes, more or less.”

“What about the money? The treasure? The whole reason we came here? Flint’s cache, what might be the only remaining chest from the 1715 treasure if the Walrus is gone? Where is it?”

There was a very long pause, as they heard the continuing hiss and sigh of the incoming tide. Then Silver said, “I don’t know.”

“What? This whole time – Skeleton Island being the ‘one subject on which you could be trusted unconditionally?’ What else was this for, if not – ”

“This was never about the treasure.” Silver almost looked as if he had not meant to say that, but couldn’t stop himself. “My interest in a venture to this place was never about retrieving it. It was about catching up with Billy Bones, and knowing that this must be where he was headed, the one priceless piece of information he had to trade. It was knowing that if he was alive, he would try to hurt or kill James Flint and his family. I was trying to save them. That is what I wanted.”

Jim opened his mouth and shut it. Finally he said, “Why do you owe that to Flint?”

“Because I – ” Silver looked down at the rising water, clearly desperately uncomfortable that he had no escape hatch, physically or otherwise. If Jim didn’t help him climb out, he would be stuck down here to drown, if Jim didn’t shoot him first. There was no way to back out or avoid the subject, and he closed his eyes, as if commending the tattered remnants of his soul to whatever god could be bothered to have it. “I killed him here. Not physically, but in all other ways. He had decided to die before we left Nassau, because he had lost Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy both, back to back, and felt he had nothing more to live for. He would have taken us all down with him; if I had not arranged for the Rose to switch sides, Emma Swan and myself and all his men would have been stranded here or shot by the redcoats as well.”

Jim gave a brief start of surprise at hearing the name Rose, at which Silver nodded tersely. “Emma took it over after Skeleton Island, she passed it to Geneva, her daughter, when she was eighteen. In any event, we had come here to stash the Spanish treasure before the battle of Nassau. Woodes Rogers tricked and killed Blackbeard and took command of the Queen Anne’s Revenge to follow us. Flint went ashore with a chest while the Revenge, under Rogers’ command, and the Walrus, under Emma’s, were shooting it out. I followed him in a row boat, snuck ashore unnoticed in the commotion and went into the woods. When I caught up to him, he must have already buried the chest. He asked what I was doing there. I said that I had come to…” Silver paused. “I said I had come to ensure that no matter what, he did not return.”

Jim nodded once, indicating him to continue. The tide was now close to his knees, even standing, and seemed to be increasing its pace, they did not have time to spare. “And?”

“We saw the Walrus burning,” Silver said, almost dreamily. “Flint had already sworn he wanted no more of the war and wanted to go and die – though his death, as I said, would have meant all of ours as well. But seeing his ship aflame ignited that old hunger for vengeance in him, and he would have gone back to continue the fight. He told me that his last wish of Emma had been for her to save me, and I should go now, where there was still time to honor it. And that was when I had to look him in the eye, draw my gun, and tell him that first I had to kill him.”

Silver paused for breath, then plunged on. “We said several things to each other. There is not time or necessity to recount them all. I reminded him that all his loved ones – Thomas Hamilton and Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy – were dead. I reminded him of what a monster and a madman Flint was, how the only thing he had ever brought to the world was woe and terror, and how he had to drown that man in the sea, as he had once said he so dearly wanted. I said that if he made any move to follow us, I would have to shoot him like a dog then and there, and I wanted no part of that crime, but I would take it upon myself at uttermost need. At any price, including my own soul, Captain Flint was not returning to the world, or to Nassau, or to myself and Emma, and the lifeline I had fashioned for us on the Rose. In a few minutes, I destroyed our entire relationship of months and months, everything we had done for each other and with each other, in service of some mad promise of a future for everyone. It was an absurd gamble. The battle of Nassau was being fought at that very moment, but not yet won. We could have returned to a world where Gold and Rogers and their ilk were victorious, and I had just, by my own hand, destroyed our last and most fearsome commander. I could have subjected us all to the noose if I was wrong. It turned out, of course, that I was not.”

Silver stopped, looking wracked and ruined, rubbing both hands across his face and clearly silently begging Jim to leave it there, but Jim still did not budge. So he gulped a final breath and finished as tersely as possible. “Suffice to say. Flint did not follow me. I left him there, knowing full well he was likely to die anyway, stranded on a dangerous island far from anywhere, while I had consciously kicked out all of the crutches he clung to in order to walk, as much as I cling to mine. I made my way back out to the Rose, and returned with Emma to Nassau. That is Long John Silver. That is what he – what I did – a cruelty that perhaps even Flint never quite achieved. I have lived ever since haunted by the guilt and the madness and the question of it, if there was any other way, if there was any other choice. And of course, I was, as ever, a liar. Miranda and Thomas were not dead. Flint survived, escaped Skeleton Island, reunited with them, and has lived many happy years since. I am glad for it. But my crime is not atoned.”

“So?”

“I don’t know where the treasure is.” Silver looked up at him. “I bought you all with the promise of something I once again cannot pay. More lies, more trickery, in an attempt to erase the cost of the previous lies and trickery. I can’t help you find it, or rebuild your mother’s inn, or anything else you thought you were gaining from this absurdly dangerous venture. I brought you and Geneva and the others here to be sure that Billy Bones was stopped. Instead I’ve done – ” He swept an unfathomably bitter hand at them underground in the boulder cave, the water licking at their thighs, the gun Jim still had trained on him. “I’ve done this.”

There was enough of a silence to hear the rush of the tide. Jim’s finger trembled on the trigger, very close to pulling it, to dispatch this man freely admitting he was as bad as Israel Hands in his way, if not worse. At least Hands made no secret of his indiscriminate destruction, while Long John Silver’s was of a more protracted and poisonous and personal sort, slow and baneful, like the waves scouring a sandbank out hollow until it collapsed beneath your feet. He didn’t know what to say, how to react. This seemed so absurdly beyond anything he had any right to pass judgment on that he wanted to ask to be recused. But it was him. It was this. It was them.

Jim paused a moment more, then stuck the gun through his waistband, waded through the rush, and grabbed hold of Silver, lifting him toward the opening of the hole. Silver snatched for a slimy root, trying to get enough purchase to pull himself out, as the water was now coming in full-throated and climbing with every second. Then he grappled at the rock as the root broke in his hand, and Jim thought perhaps they would in fact both drown together here, deserved or otherwise. But then Silver clawed out the dirt, pulled himself free and onto the ground overhead, and reached both hands back down into the hole. “Jim. Jim!”

The water level was close to Jim’s chin, and he reckoned he only had about another thirty seconds until it was over his head. He gulped a good breath and fumbled for the same handholds Silver had used, boosting himself up in an attempt to grab Silver’s arm. There was a look of something close to sheer terror on Silver’s face, as if his penitence would be to watch someone else he cared about die in front of him on Skeleton Island, and he leaned in as far as he possibly could, almost losing his balance. Their wet hands slipped and skidded, and Jim was almost dislodged from his precarious grip on the rock by the slap of the water against his back. He had only one more bloody crack at this – again, Geneva in his mind’s eye, as when he had shot Hands, Silver saying, I believe in her, do you, and the ease and unanimity of his answer.

Aye.

Jim threw his strength into one almighty leap, grabbed hold of Silver’s hand, and shot out of the hole like a greased weasel, somersaulting onto mud and sand and rolling. The world was open again, unfurling to every side rather than the confined space of the rocks, and the tide still crashed and boiled hungrily below, clutching up for him. Then Silver hauled him to his feet, both of them looked around madly, and fled up the bank, into the dark jungle beyond.

Thus far, Samuel Jones’ view of the vaunted and mysterious Skeleton Island was mostly fog. It cleared here and there in a few places, revealing the high, steep headlands that bracketed each side of the deep channel they were rowing down, or rather that Billy was rowing down. He pulled the oars with curt, tireless strokes, as if he didn’t presumably hit land again, he’d row right out into the Atlantic Ocean and probably across the damn thing to boot. Frankly, Sam would not have minded if he did, only that would mean he was stuck along for the ride. And after all this nonsense, he was not intending to get on a godforsaken sailing ship again for as long as he lived. His family would just have to be disappointed.

Conversation, to say the least, was minimal, there not being a great deal to chat about between oneself and the crazy revenge-bent bloke who had kidnapped you. Sam didn’t exactly think that Billy would be brimful of eagerness to fill him in on whichever of his plans this one was, and tried to stare off into the distance haughtily, as if he didn’t care anyway. Anything to distract him from the throbbing pain in his arm; it felt as if he had a red-hot poker in place of a bone, no thanks to Lady bloody Fiona and her dagger of heart-eating insanity. Better hope I don’t have to throw anything at anyone, eh? Surreptitiously, he tried to pull the bandage away to see if it was healing at all, and grimaced horribly as the cloth stuck to the gash. Yeah, never mind that.

He managed to keep up his mien of more or less dignified silence until they rounded a bend in the channel, and saw a ship on its side in the water – masts cracked and splintered, boards missing from the sides, and the remnants of the sails tattered and bleached and torn. It clearly had been a wreck here for a while, and Sam tried not to look at it too closely, in case there were still bits of its crew scattered around. “What the – ” It came out before he could stop it. “Well, that’s just bloody charming, isn’t it?”

Billy glanced at him with grim amusement. “What, you think people never tried to find the place before, what with all those rumors of incalculable riches? Some of them even made it.”

“And then they died, clearly.” Sam glanced at the ship’s broken mizzen where its colors would have flown, trying to determine if it had been English, Spanish, French, or something else, not that it mattered. “What, is the place called Skeleton Island because it’s got an army of the undead defending it?”

Billy snorted, not bothering to dignify that with a response. But after a pause, he said, “I was trapped here for three years. In that time, I saw at least two ships arrive. Intended to go down and beg passage off. Both times, before I even got close, they were already destroyed. I’m not even sure what happened. Nobody comes here and leaves unscathed, or without a terrible price.”

“Well, that’s just grand,” Sam said. “Bloody reassuring. I feel much better about everything now. So what, you came back? Didn’t get enough of the place the first time?”

“I didn’t come back because I ever wanted to see this fucking shithole again.” Billy kept rowing, sculling them past the broken shell of the ship and onward into the channel. “I came back to settle everything it left undone. And you’re going to help me do that.”

“Bite me,” Sam said. “Because I won’t.”

“We’ll see.” Billy didn’t appear terribly concerned. “Lady Fiona will follow us down here, at least, and she has Gold on board. And don’t tell me your family isn’t on your tail. They’ll all come back one last time, mark my words. And as I said. This place is – well. It’ll do the rest.”

“Cursed island. Got it. Everyone dies.” Sam, despite his flippancy, felt cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. Hard to tell, however, if that was fear, or the fever he was fairly sure he was starting. If his arm got infected… well, he had plenty of other ways he was liable to snuff it, as Billy had made abundantly clear, but that would definitely be one of the most miserable. “Can’t accuse you of not being thorough. But on that note, one other question. What happened to Jack?”

Billy’s expression flickered, but it was hard to say how. “What about him?”

“Did he…” Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to cry, not now, not here, not in front of this big blond bastard. “Is he dead?”

Billy paused, then shrugged. “Aye.”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. It felt as if someone had crumpled something cold and sharp and unhappy in his chest, too hard to breathe around or ignore, just hurting and hurting. Tears stung his eyes, and he shook his head, looking back at the distant, fog-shrouded cliffs. All his clever barbs seemed to drain out of him like a leak, and he remained silent as Billy kept rowing. Some time passed in silence, broken only by the cawing of circling seabirds high above. Then they rounded one last bend in the channel and beheld the eye of the skull, the blue hole at the heart of the island, with the water that was hundreds or even thousands of feet deep. And still visible close to the shore, twisted and hollowed, was the shell of a blackened hull that Billy clearly recognized, to judge from the expression on his face. Sam twisted around to look, and felt a chill go bone-deep down his back, “Is that – the Walrus? Is it?”

“That was the Walrus, yes,” Billy said, after a long pause. “Apparently part of her has managed to remain afloat all these years. Characteristic for the tough old bitch. She did not go down easy.”

Sam glanced at him sidelong, wondering if any residual affection for the ship and his friends among the crew might remain for Billy, even given his all-consuming hatred of Flint. But if Billy had gone to the Navy and offered to help Woodes Rogers to kill those friends point-blank, evidently not. Sam stared hard at the mangled wreck instead, trying to imagine it in its glory days as the most feared sight in the Caribbean, Captain Flint and his murderous fiends beneath the dancing skeleton, swarming aboard to reave and raid and pillage and do other pirate sorts of things. That had also involved a lot of shooting, and other less savory activities, but Sam could not help a brief and morbid fascination with this living (well, so to speak) bit of family history. It all mostly felt like stories to him anyway, but it was real. It had happened.

Clearly less enthused by the sight than he was, Billy indeed did his best to act as if it was not there, and in another ten minutes or so, they were riding and bumping up on the empty, eerie beach. Sam sat where he was, not feeling in the least like being cooperative, until Billy barked, “Out of the boat, Jones.”

Sam glared at him, then slowly and deliberately got to his feet, the world feeling somewhat farther away than usual. He stepped out of the boat, heard something crunch under his boots, and looked around to see that in regard to this at least, Skeleton Island was well named. This beach was where the battle between Woodes Rogers’ redcoats and the crew of the Walrus had been fought, where the pirates had been shot en masse as they were exposed and defenseless, and it was a literal boneyard. Scraps of decaying fabric clung to yellowing rib cages, grinning skulls polished to a macabre sheen by twenty-five years of tides and scavenging seabirds, bits of vertebrae and other smaller pieces heaped up with the weed wrack and shells and spent musket balls, broken debris washed up from the Walrus, and other detritus. They must be literally standing on the bodies of Billy’s old friends and shipmates, all those men Sam had just been trying to imagine in their heyday. Billy Bones among the bones. Gorge rose sharp and foul up the back of his throat, and he had to swallow hard. Almost none of his grammar school catechism had managed to stick, but he wanted to say some sort of prayer anyway, to get the transparently haunted air of the place off him. Cursed no longer seemed nearly such a stretch.

For his part, Billy bent over the boat and slung as many of the guns over his shoulders as he could, until he looked more like a small walking armory than a man. When Sam reached for one of the guns himself, Billy made a sharp move to stop him. “No.”

“Come on, mate. Look at this place. You’re not going to let me have a gun?”

“No.”

“I can shoot,” Sam said. “I was a soldier in Governor Oglethorpe’s army.” That seemed ten thousand years ago, and several worlds away. “And if it’s not just dead men here – you’re expecting them to follow us, remember? Besides, my arm is manky enough, I probably can’t actually shoot it. Maybe give someone a smart club over the head, though.”

“You think I’d let my prisoner have a weapon?”

“Look,” Sam said. “It’s clear to both of us that I definitely can’t row all that way back. I kill you, there is no way off the island for me. So you can leave me unarmed if you really think one injured kid is that much of a threat to you, or you can let me have a motherfucking pistol.”

Billy looked almost impressed for a moment, though that was probably the fever hallucinations. Then he reached in, pulled out something that looked small enough for a lady to hide in her stocking, and tossed it to Sam. “There. Feel better?”

“Not really.” Sam tried to think where to stash it. Putting a gun through your belt always felt like an invitation to accidentally shoot off your balls, but there was nowhere else obvious. Finally, he made sure that it was not cocked and slung it at his waist, trying to exude more casual, menacing competence than he remotely possessed. Billy still had about fifty of them anyway, so this toy used for threatening cheats at cards was not any actual danger. “So now what? More hiking?”

Billy grunted in answer and set off across the beach, bones cracking underfoot with every step, as Sam debated the merits of using his single shot to hit him in the arse, just for hollow satisfaction. That would probably get him killed faster, though, and he might need it later. Instead, thinking bitterly that the entire point of human civilization to date had been to get man as far away as possible from nature, and that on the remote chance he survived this, he intended never to be more than ten miles away from a city again, Sam followed him.

They made it into the trees and climbed steadily, following some faint track in the undergrowth that Billy seemed to know – if he had been here for three years, he was most likely familiar with the island’s hidden bogs and byways. If he’d had any breath, or actually gave a damn, Sam would have asked how he had escaped, but Billy would probably think that was some cunning trick to work out how to do the same for himself. Not that cunning, really. As Sam had already freely admitted, he had no chance of rowing back out alone with his wounded arm, and if someone (such as his family) did sail down the channel after them, he still needed to get away from Captain Vengeance here and pray that they all got out without something else horrible happening to them. Jesus, this place gave him the creeps. As soon as they were inland enough from the shore to mostly be away from the birds, a choking, preternatural silence fell, barely broken by the usual rustling and croaking from thick jungle underbrush. Presumably there were animals here, or something else that Billy and Grandpa had eaten while they were marooned, but if so, Sam saw no sign of them. The canopy hung thickly to every side, blocking sound and sight. He had wondered at first how you stayed sane here, and then realized quickly that you didn’t.

At last, after a long, legs-burning climb, they reached a high point from which they had a fairly good vantage point over the harbor below, their boat looking tiny on the sand and the burnt-out shell of the Walrus more black and desolate than ever. There was a small waterfall here, which Billy allowed Sam to drink from, and while it tasted faintly of sulfur, it was wet and decently cold, and he gulped it gratefully. “So what?” he said, starting to wipe his mouth with his bad arm, wincing, and using the other one instead. “We wait here until everyone arrives, you shoot at them if they attempt to climb up, and I – what? Provide moral support? Reload your guns?”

“I’d rather not kill you,” Billy said, after a slight pause. “But as hostages go, you’re useful. Nobody will risk storming my position if there’s a chance of killing you, and anyone who does, well, I imagine we both want them dead. I’m not taking any risks this time. I have to see the bodies with my own eyes, before I will believe the job is finished.”

“And then what? Piss on their graves?”

Billy paused, then shrugged. “I don’t expect to leave this place alive again,” he said simply. “For all intents and purposes, I died here anyway, long ago. One or another of your family or Lady Fiona’s men or someone else will most likely kill me. But at least I’ll know it’s over.”

“That’s bloody pointless,” Sam said. “Die so they can die, kill knowing they’ll be killed. My mum was friends with you. Friends. You protected her and brought her to Nassau and started her off as a pirate with Flint’s crew. You’ve already admitted you don’t terribly want to kill me, and it must be because of her, because it’s damn sure not for Grandpa. Couldn’t you listen to your better judgment, for the first time in the last what, two decades? You used to be a good man, Billy. Better than most people in that world, by the sounds of things. Now – what, you want to be the worst? You can still make a different choice. I told you back on the Titania, get me home to my family, and they – ”

“And I told you,” Billy said, “that Flint was just as likely to kill me anyway for it. That he hasn’t forgotten our grudge, and therefore there was no safety or point in me doing the same. Besides, Fiona Murray, Robert Gold, James Flint – they’re all terrible people, they’re all threats to everyone whose paths they cross, they’ll never stop burning and burning until there’s only ash. Why is it wrong to dedicate myself to destroying them, if it means the world will be saved from everything else they could do to it? I know you’ve grown up with Flint, you can’t see what he is, but trust me – ”

“Actually,” Sam said. “I can see just fine. Seen him for most of my life, while you, by your own admission, haven’t seen him since your last fight on this island almost a quarter century ago. Could you possibly admit that sure, Gold and Fiona are bloody mental – not that I’m entirely sure that gives you unlimited license to kill them – but you’re mistaken about Flint? That all right, he used to be like that, but he’s changed?”

“No.” Billy’s jaw tightened. “I’m not mistaken about him, and he hasn’t changed. And I’m not forgiving him, so don’t waste your breath. Sit over there and stop talking.”

Sam paused, then spun deliberately on his heel and went to perch on the fallen log indicated. He watched as Billy set up a sniper’s nest, stacking bits of leaf and wood and moss to conceal his spot from all sides, lining up the guns regimentally. Sam had a sour, sick feeling in his stomach, only incidental to the continued pain in his arm, the knowledge that his worst fear was likely going to come to pass in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn’t exactly physically overpower Billy – he could try, but that was clearly going to end in abject failure. What else? Shout a warning to anyone trying to get up here? Make a break for it? But where? Where? Any ship that appeared in the channel was as likely to be an enemy as miraculous salvation, and even if his family did come here, there was almost no chance that they were all leaving alive. The bones scattered on the beach below made that gruesomely clear.

Several hours passed. Billy finished his fortification, scouted out some fruit – a pair of underripe mangos – and tossed one at Sam. It was green and grainy, but he was hungry enough that he ate it anyway, juice dripping off his chin. It had to be going on late afternoon, but the light had remained so uncertain, his sense of direction completely shot to hell, that it was difficult to be sure. It finally started to fade, receding off the tops of the thick-crowded trees, dusk creeping along in its wake, chill enough that Sam hugged himself hard. “No fire, I suppose?”

“No.” Billy looked incredulous that he had to ask. “We’ll wait, until – ”

Just then, the eerie silence was broken by the faint, distant crack of something that had to be – that absolutely was – a gunshot. Where or how far away or in what place exactly, Sam had no idea. But he realized all at once, just as Billy did, that it meant they were not, in fact, alone here. Someone could have sailed up on the other side of the island, or from the south, or from any other approach rather than down the channel, and – Sam didn’t have a fucking clue who it was, obviously. It could be Lucifer and a band of ancillary demons up from hell for a lark, at this rate. But it was something, it was a chance, it was someone, and with that, he made up his mind.

As Billy wheeled toward him, Sam dove for the sniper’s nest, grabbed one of the muskets, and swung the butt-end at the older man as hard as he possibly could. Billy had expected him to try to shoot the tiny pistol, and thus he left himself completely off guard for a blow, which cracked against his temple with a horrible splitting, juicy sound. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went down hard. Nor did he get up. He was out cold.

Sam didn’t even think about staying around long enough to finish off an unconscious man. All he wanted was to get out of there. He whirled and ran, battling through the clinging trees, in what he thought was the direction that the shot had come from. His breath punched him in the cut-up chest, and he did not dare look over his shoulder for fear that he would see Billy – or worse – charging after him. He ducked under low-hanging branches, lost his footing on wet rock and plunged headlong, and slid uncontrollably on his arse into a fast-moving stream. The stream, in turn, deposited him over a small waterfall and straight into a crack in the rock beyond, which – as Sam realized as he was falling again – was in fact the entrance to a cave. He flailed, hit the green terror soup below with an almighty splash, and was completely engulfed.

After a wild moment, he surfaced, unable to fight the current and swept along with it toward the mouth of the dark passage beyond. It was clear that he was about to go underwater, with no telling whatsoever when he was going to come up, and he gulped a desperate breath of air as he was dragged under, bumping and banging against solid rock in the pitch darkness and bitterly regretting his decision to hit Billy over the head and run. Just when he thought his lungs were going to burst, however, he shot free and into the sump below, nearly braining himself on a sharp stalactite. He sucked more ragged gasps, bobbing like a cork, with just enough time to recover before the process thereupon repeated again. And again.

Sam was finally washed out into a lower chamber, who knew how far from where he had gone in, with a crack halfway up the wall that indicated a potential spot to climb out. He managed to paddle to the large stalagmite nearby and grab hold of it, letting his legs sway beneath him, eyes stinging from the blood dripping into them from the all-new gashes on his face. He snorted and snuffled, determined not to cry but racked with dry sobs nonetheless, shaken and terrified and completely alone in a cave on a cursed island with a crazy man behind him and doubtless even crazier men ahead. If he panicked now, and completely lost his head, he was done for.

Sam allowed himself a few more moments of muffled sobbing, until he hauled in a rattling, both-lung-gasp of air and did his absolute damndest to pull himself together and think about this logically. Right, he was going to swim over, climb up to that crack, and – oh Jesus, sweet Jesus, was that a skeleton across the way, staring directly back at him? Mother fucking hell.

It was indeed a skeleton, clearly other some poor sap who had wound up in here and not been able to get out. It was tangled up in the vines just across the way, and given that one of the vines was moving, it was almost definitely a snake. This was almost ludicrously terrible, like every nightmare he had ever had mashed up together, and Sam breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, on the hopeful off chance that he would wake up in bed at home. He, however, did not, and remaining in here with Mr. Boney and his slithering friend had abruptly lost whatever meager charm it possessed. Right. He was getting out. Now.

Sam kicked off and managed to make it across the chamber to the slippery flowstone at the far side. The crack was just above him, five or six feet out of reach, and if he jumped for it and missed, he’d probably fall and break his neck. Trying very hard not to speculate unduly about how Mr. Boney had died, he eased out onto the rock, having to grab a stalagmite in order not to slide straight back in again. Maybe he could use a vine, if that wasn’t also a snake. The bandage on his arm had torn off during his crash course through the cave passages, and the gash was bleeding again, looking less pleasant than ever. It twinged terribly when he raised it above his head, and he hissed. Once more, he did his best to survey his options in a logical and cohesive fashion, and to ignore the small screaming voice in the back of his head. You’re trapped. You can’t climb out of here. You’re trapped.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Someone, anyone else would know what to do here. Not him, not like this, when there was only one thing left to try, and of course, he was not good enough.

Sam sucked in a breath. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, “HELP!”

He could hear it ringing away in the darkening jungle beyond, bouncing off the trees. No sound, no stirring or shouting in return, answered him. He waited a few minutes, then yelled again, with it taking absolutely everything in him not to give in to total despair. Might as well just go back, tie himself up next to Mr. Boney, and wait for the –

It was faint, so faint, that Sam couldn’t be sure he’d heard it. But he thought he could discern a crunching sound, like heavy footsteps through bracken, and then it was closer still, and closer. Then something dropped down through the hole: a twisted vine, strong enough to use as a rope, and Sam didn’t waste another moment with questions. He grabbed hold of it, ignored the now-screaming pain in his arm, and braced his weight, walking up the wall until he could grab hold of the mouth of the crack and pull himself out onto mercifully solid ground. He lay there, coughing and shaking, until he finally got himself together to look at his rescuer – and recoiled.

The man was gnarled and grizzled, wearing a ragged brown jacket that was spattered with blood on cuffs and sleeves, but that was not the most alarming feature of his appearance. It looked as if someone had tried to shoot him in the head at close range, but the bullet had bounced off his skull and traveled just under his scalp, causing it to bleed a lot but not do any permanent or fatal damage. It definitely had bled. One eye was almost gummed shut, and the other stared out from under craggy brows like a spark in a depthless pit. He had two rifles slung on his back that appeared to be British Army standard-issue, and that, combined with the blood, led Sam to conclude that this insane-looking literal headcase had been murdering redcoats recently. But what the – what the fuck – Jesus, was this ever going to –

The madman regarded him appraisingly through his one good eye. Then he let out a low, rasping chuckle. “You must be Geneva Jones’ brother,” he said. “Look just fucking like her. The name’s Hands. Israel Hands, at your service.”

The moon was starting to rise by the time they passed under the eaves of the cliffs and bumped against a rocky spit of deserted beach. Jack barely noticed. The whole world felt like a blur. Flint let go of the oars with a muffled curse, and they sat there in silence for several moments, before Jack recollected himself, swung out of the boat, and pointed the gun sharply at Flint when he failed to follow. “Well? Let’s get the fuck on with this.”

Flint glared at him. “I’m sixty-seven years old, you just punched me three times, and I rowed us all this way with you threatening to shoot me. Forgive me if I’m not racing like a Royal Ascot winner.”

“Just don’t talk.” Jack felt like a dish that had been thrown from a high cupboard, to smash into a thousand little bits on a stone floor. “Get out, lead me to this famous hidden cache of yours, and then we can get this over with. Now!”

Flint paused as insolently long as he dared, then slowly stepped out of the boat as well. “I see,” he said. “All this time, and the treasure actually is what you want? I’m surprised. Back to the Spaniards, is that it? At least the ones you’re already betraying can’t betray you, is that how it works? Or perhaps you feel if you can bring it back to purchase their goodwill, at least somebody actually believes in you?”

“I swear to fucking Jesus I will shoot you.” Jack pointed the gun dead between Flint’s eyes. “But I’m not interested in wandering all over this island for months or years like you did. So – ”

“So if you’re going to kill me once I show you where the treasure is, why the fuck do I have any incentive to do that?” Flint folded his arms. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve been held at gunpoint on Skeleton Island with someone promising to shoot me if I disobey them, or if I don’t agree to martyr myself. I was the terror and the storm last time, but this time, you are. Listen to me, Jack. Listen to me. There are sins you can’t take back. If you kill me, you’ll lose whatever you do have left. I’m not saying that on my own behalf. I’m old, I’ve lived my life, and I died here once anyway. Perhaps it was always going to end like this. But Sam won’t forgive you.”

Jack jerked as if Flint had physically hit him. “Sam doesn’t need to know.”

“So what?” Flint almost laughed. “Murder me and lie about it to his face, is that your brilliant plan? As if the identity of my killer will somehow be a mystery to my family, after you were last spotted punching me and dragging me overboard at gunpoint? Perhaps you think if you weep and say you are very sorry, they’ll soften toward you, if we’re such a blind and weak bunch of fools? They won’t, and they aren’t fools. Do you think you’re the only man in the world to want vengeance, or vengeance on the Navy? Do you have a fucking clue who I am, or who Killian is? Or were you just sticking your fingers in your ears and humming when he was talking to you?”

“Fuck you,” Jack said reflexively. “I know, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, it – ”

“Shut up.” Flint took a step, daring Jack to pull the trigger on him. “Shut the fuck up and listen to me. I’m sorry that you were robbed of your vengeance, that your wife lied to you and broke your trust, and you didn’t get to look into your father’s eyes as you killed him. I am. But this isn’t going to solve any of that. I know who you are, I have been you, I have stood in your shoes, I’ve felt there was no way to go on after losing the man I loved, except by wreaking blood and terror on the world that took him away. But I did. I did, I found him. One of them, at least.”

“Wh – ”

“Please,” Flint said. “Don’t expect me to believe you’re not in love with my grandson.”

“I… that…” Jack struggled for breath. “That’s beside the point, I – ”

“Then,” Flint said, “you’re a fucking idiot, and for better or worse, I don’t think you are. So tell me, if you weren’t going to hand the cash over to the Spaniards, what were you going to do with it? Exactly?”

“I…” Jack wrestled the words like a great strangling serpent around his chest. “I was going to give it to Lady Fiona and Billy.”

This time Flint did laugh aloud. “Never mind. You are a fucking idiot. You think it’s the money they want?”

“I don’t know,” Jack snarled. “I didn’t care. I was going to trade it for Sam.”

Flint raised both eyebrows so far they were in danger of escaping into his hair. “Oh? But of course, you aren’t in love with him?”

“It doesn’t matter either way. Buy his freedom, they can have their precious money, I don’t give a shit what they do with it. Dump it in the sea, for all I care. That way, we’re done, we’re square, Sam’s life is saved, we can go our separate ways. If they don’t want the money, I’ll trade them you. Billy wanted me to kill you, did you know that?”

“Really?” Flint said, voice dripping with enough sarcasm to fell an ox. “Couldn’t possibly have seen that coming. Let me have a moment to recover from the shock. Why not him?”

“Because,” Jack said, not knowing if this would hurt at all, but determined to find out. “Because I’m, as you fucking well know, Sam Bellamy’s nephew.”

That did – he wasn’t sure what, but it was something. Flint went very still, the reaction of a man who had just taken a very serious wound and was trying to avoid letting it on to his opponent, so he wouldn’t know at once where else to attack. He turned his face away, struggling for his previous cold glibness, unable to muster a response for several moments. Jack tried to enjoy the fact of a formidable opponent brought to his knees by such a simple sentence, but it just hurt, a dull, constant throb like a diseased tooth. His hand was shaking, so he tried to steady it. Flint must not think for an instant that he was off the (ha) hook.

“I see,” Flint said, after close to a minute of that hideous, suffocating silence. His voice was less than steady. “I nearly have to give Billy credit. That’s a level of cold bastard to which even I didn’t think he could aspire. Yes. The only thing more poetic than killing me was to have Sam’s ghost do it. My last punishment, for that and everything.”

“I still could.” Jack raised the gun, even though his hand was shaking more than ever. “I could do it right here.”

“You could,” Flint agreed. “And there is certainly an argument to be made for my deserving it. Of all the people that – that he told me I had lost, last time on Skeleton Island, your uncle was, it turned out, the only one that I truly had. I found Thomas and Miranda again, in time. But Sam, no. Sam was gone. The ocean had taken him, and it never gave him back. Until it did, just the other day. Until you emerged from it, and we thought for the briefest, most foolish of moments that we somehow had him back. It transpired, of course, that we did not.”

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it. “So? Did you just think that I – ”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, you fucking bastard!” Flint exploded, finally provoked beyond all endurance. “We loved him! All of us! We loved your uncle, and yes, like humans, we saw him in you! I’ve lived for over twenty years with the guilt, the grief, the loss of him, of knowing what I did to him while he was alive and that it was never what I should have, the fear that my wife wished she died to be with him, that it was me that killed him! Killian, Emma, Miranda – they all loved him too, and they were easy with him, they gave him what he deserved, they were soft. I was the hard one, I was the selfish one, I was Flint! I drove him away, I was the reason he felt that he had to leave us, that he sailed into that tempest in Cape Cod and he never came back! I’m the reason, as I always was, that I lost someone I loved, that I betrayed, and now you stand here and tell me to my face that you want to do the same thing – that moreover, it is to my grandson, who carries that man’s name, and his legacy! Fuck you. Fuck you!”

Despite himself, Jack was caught off guard. He wanted to bark back, but all his clever reprisals seemed to have deserted him for the moment. He struggled to steer the confrontation onto any ground he knew, could control, and gestured at the beach. “Is this where the Walrus wrecked? It doesn’t look like it.”

“No,” Flint said. His eyes were lethal emerald slits, glowing like a cat’s in the night. “I took us further down the coast in order to avoid the dangerous passage I was warning everyone about, back on the Griffin, before you staged your little abduction fancy. This is somewhere southeast of that. So you see, we’re not actually near anywhere near the cache. If you’re going to shoot me, get it over with, and happy searching. I’m not lifting a fucking finger to help you. Fuck you. Good thing, in fact, that your uncle is dead. You’d break his goddamn heart.”

Jack was about to fire back, as ever, that he didn’t care, but the words got caught on his tongue. He knew that likewise, Flint had thrown the gauntlet, that if he didn’t kill him right now, it was clear that he wasn’t going to, couldn’t follow through on his threats. So what – kill him anyway, to prove he was not to be trifled with, that he was capable of this vengeance, that he was not that small and scared and hurt boy, that he was a man? Kill him, and lose everything else?

The silence stretched out, taut and twisted and terrible. Then Jack stalked forward and pressed the barrel of the gun to Flint’s chest, staring down his nose at him. “Lead me to the cache,” he said, “or I take you back to the Griffin and shoot you in front of your family, so they don’t even have to be in any question at all about it. That’s your choice, and unless you want to fail your grandson like you failed his namesake, you can – ”

“About that,” a voice said from nearby, about a dozen yards down the dark beach. “Put down the gun and turn here. Hands up. The both of you.”

Jack and Flint both froze, the tension between them still surging almost at breaking point. Then they turned – and went absolutely motionless.

Some completely mad-looking individual in a bloodstained brown coat, one eye swollen shut, forehead and beard stained with more blood, and grizzled hair pulled back in a ragged topknot, was facing them, lit ghostly by the silver moon. He was holding a large gun in one hand, and Samuel Jones with the other, the former cocked and pointed at the latter’s head. Sam’s face was white and stunned, staring at Jack and his grandfather locked in preparation for mortal combat, eyes the size of dinner plates as the madman gripped him with gnarled fingers. “You make any sudden moves,” the madman went on, “and I will blow his brains out for both of you to watch, how about that? Couldn’t have fixed it better. You’ll be Captain fucking Flint in the flesh, just the man I was looking for. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Skeleton Island. No better place for them, wouldn’t you say.”

Jack and Flint remained frozen. Then, very slowly, Jack backed away and put down the gun, letting the lunatic see him do it. He and Flint, beckoned by another impatient jerk of the head, raised their hands. Sam’s eyes kept flicking madly between them, burning with confusion and betrayal and disbelief. “You – ” he managed. “Jack, how, how are you – ?”

“It’s a fascinating story,” Flint said. “Involves quite a bit of trying to kill me and stabbing the rest of our family in the back, I’ll fill you in later. And who would your… friend be?”

“Hands.” The lunatic leered. “Israel Hands. Reckon you’ve heard of me?”

The name meant nothing to Jack, but it clearly did to Flint. His nostrils flared. “That frothing dog Thatch drummed off his crew, once upon a time? Yes, I’ve heard of you. Too insane for Blackbeard, now that’s an accomplishment. How the fuck are you here?”

“Likewise. Fascinating story.” Israel Hands grinned. “Taking it you haven’t seen Mr. Silver yet. Oh yes. He’s here too. That will be an enjoyable reunion, won’t it, if one of you doesn’t kill the other first. Now. You’re going to lead me to the cache, and any other treasure on this entire fucking island, or I shoot the boy without demur. Is that clear enough for you?”

Flint was rigid from head to heel. He took half a step, then another. Hands grabbed Sam harder, free arm crushing his throat, and Sam uttered a strangled whimper, struggling for air. Then Flint raised his voice and shouted over Hands’ shoulder, “Hey! HEY!”

Hands spun to look, and in the split-second of distraction, both Flint and Sam moved. Sam stamped madly on Hands’ foot, grabbed his arm and twisted out from his grip, slamming the gun out of his hand, as Flint dove for it, snatched it up, whirled around, and fired, all in one fluid, ruthless motion. The sound of the gunshot echoed across the shore, and Jack thought he should move, should do something, but he was paralyzed, transfixed. For a wild, terrible moment, he thought Flint had hit Sam. Then Israel Hands touched the spreading wet stain in his chest, looked confused, and toppled face-first into the sand.

Flint didn’t stop moving. He grabbed Jack’s fallen gun, aimed it, and shot Hands again, this time in the back of the head, so his skull exploded in a brief, grisly shower of brain and bone. He twitched, gargled something indecipherable, and went limp, blood pulsing in slow, shallow ripples across the sand, dark as ink in the moonlight. Smoke rose in gentle curls from the barrel of the pistol, still clutched in Flint’s hand as he pointed it. Nothing else seemed to breathe.

Sam, finally, was the one to break the spell. He hurtled across the beach and flung himself into his grandfather’s arms, and Flint hugged him tightly, still staring balefully at Hands as if expecting him to get up and keep fighting. He didn’t, given as he was quite thoroughly dead. Finally, Sam let go, but just enough to clutch Flint by the forearms and stare at him. “How – the others, are they – look, it’s a trap, over by the bay, Billy’s set up a nest, I don’t – ”

“We’re going to sort it out,” Flint said grimly. “We’re going to sort out everything. Come on. Someone will have heard that.”

As they bent to retrieve the two rifles that had been slung over Hands’ back, Jack took a convulsive step. “Sam.”

Sam paused, straightened up, and stared at Jack as if he had never properly seen him before. There was a hot, strange look in his eye, an oddly restrained fury, when he spoke. “Billy said you were dead.”

“Aye, well, Billy lied, didn’t he?” Jack likewise wanted to be out of here. “I – ”

“So were you on the Titania the whole time?” Sam, just for a moment, looked very much as his grandfather had when shouting at Jack earlier. “I thought if you were alive, if you had the choice, if you were able to at all, you’d come back. Billy said you would too. So what? You – you actually listened to Lady Fiona? And earlier – what was – was that the plan? Billy told you to kill Grandpa and then he’d – I don’t know, tell you whatever you wanted to know about Howe? As long as you stayed out of sight and let me think you were dead?”

“No,” Jack said, feebly, instinctively. “No, Sam, that wasn’t – ”

Sam kept staring at him with that fixed, glassy expression, more than slightly feverish, and altogether furious. Finally he said disbelievingly, “You lied to me.”

“Sam. Sam, listen to – ”

“Tell me,” Sam said, low and hot and terrible, “the truth.”

Jack felt a sudden and terrible realization pass over him: that he had done to Sam exactly what Charlotte had done to him, that he had betrayed his confidence and his trust in the service of his own revenge, and let him think the worst, never bothering to correct his suffering and his misapprehension, so long as it was useful. He took another step, desperate. “Sam!”

Sam raised the rifle he was holding. “I don’t think I want you to come with us.”

“Believe me,” Flint said, “you don’t. Leave him here – if it’s true what Hands was on about and Silver is also on the island, I’m sure they have a use for each other. Sam, come with me, I’ll get you off this godforsaken hellhole somehow. Your mum and dad are here, they’ve been looking for you. The whole family has. You’re almost home.”

Sam did not need telling twice. He scuttled straight to his grandfather’s side, and Flint put a protective arm around him, drawing him close, with one final, burning look at Jack warning him that he followed at his peril. Jack could not have moved anyway. He stood there, Israel Hands’ corpse still sprawled at his feet, watched them go, and only heard, in his head, the screaming.