#I love gushing about Running of the Bulb for many reasons

[ace-angelprincess]

Yes hi, Running of the Bulb is my all-time favorite minigame out of all the Mario Party series.

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by @hinokami-s​

Kamado Tanjiro x OC

- When the days seem gloomy and Hayami’s obviously stuck in a rut, Tanjiro decides it’s on him to make her feel better, but with secret little notes... - 

warnings: none

words: 3.5k

-

And when the world treats you way too fairly, well it’s a shame that I’m a dream…

It hurts. It hurts so, so much. No matter how far she tries to escape it, the visions keep coming back, haunt her during the dragging hours of the night. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Hayami firsts starts to see the darkening bags underneath her eyes, the way her fair skin loses its gentle glow. It’s only a nightmare, she constantly tells herself. That may be so, but this certain nightmare shouldn’t be revisiting her so often, just waiting for her to drift asleep.

Even now, her memories of the dreadful dream run through her head, make her days dimmer than what they should be. How long is this going to last? Hayami desperately needs her sleep, but if this continues, well… She doesn’t know what to do.

On the other side of the door, there’s a gentle knock. “Yami-chan? Are you alright?” Nezuko’s sweet, twinkling voice sounds. “You’ve been in the bathroom for a while, now…”

Oh, yeah. Hayami supposes Nezuko is right; she has been in the bathroom for some time now, absentmindedly staring into the mirror, at her horrified eyes and dark circles. If anything, she looks more like a shell of her usual self.

“Give me a moment!” she calls back. No, she doesn’t want Nezuko to worry. Frankly, she doesn’t want anyone to worry, but the Kamado family has a certain way of creeping into people’s hearts and rooting themselves onto their souls. Quickly splashing some water in her face, Hayami releases a long, shaky breath. Pushing the loose strands of hair behind her ears, she takes one last glance at her reflection before finally turning away and opening the door.

As expected, Nezuko’s large eyes glitter with concern, her eyebrows furrowed. She looks too much like Tanjiro whenever she does it, and it never fails to pull at Hayami’s heartstrings. “Yami-chan, you know I don’t want to pressure you or anything…” she starts, voice small. Tapping her fingers together, she glances around, makes sure that the two of them are truly alone. “But what’s bothering you?”

Ah, there it is – the inevitable question. Now, Hayami’s always been one to turn away her own problems, rather choosing to focus on the other people around her, but when the tables are turned… Well, it leaves her feeling icky, to say the least.

Still, Hayami forces a smile, both for her own sake and for Nezuko’s. “What do you mean?”

Nezuko sighs, much like she was expecting this exact response. “You look… tired. Dead, even. And, well, your hair is down, so I thought…” Trailing off, Nezuko shifts her weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable and unsure of how to approach the subject. Like Tanjiro, her senses are keen; she’s able to pick up on the slightest of troubles, but she usually stays to herself, not wanting to bring discomfort to others.

It’s one of the things Hayami admires about her, but at the same time, she wishes Nezuko would drop it. She has a point, though; instead of her usual ponytail, Hayami’s long hair hangs loose, brushes against the entirety of her back. At times like these – at times of unease­ – her hair is the closest thing she has to a shield. Granted, only few people know of this so-called “habit,” so she can’t necessarily blame Nezuko for asking the reason why.

“Don’t worry about it, Nezuko,” Hayami tells her, albeit softly. “I just haven’t been sleeping well. It’s no big deal.”

Nezuko opens her mouth, seemingly ready to complain, but then she’s abruptly cut off by excited squeals. Shigeru and Rokuta come barreling down the hallway, cowboy hats on their heads and horse figurines in their hands. A chorus of neechan! greets her; both boys hop up and down in their spots, beaming grins on their faces.

“Neechan, play outlaws with us!” Shigeru exclaims.

“Yeah! Yeah! Outlaws!” Rokuta echoes, his voice a bit more chipper than Shigeru’s.

“Now where are those sneaky no-good-doers?” a voice drawls. Tanjiro comes into the hallway, then, a cowboy hat of his own sitting on his head. His face instantly flushes upon seeing Hayami. “O-oh… Yami-chan, how are you feeling? I was afraid you fell ill or something!”

“Uh-oh, the cop’s here!” Shigeru yelps. Both he and Rokuta scramble to hide behind Hayami, giggles spilling from their lips.

Hayami can’t help but laugh, the unease settling over her heart dissipating for once. Nezuko’s expression softens at that, but the look in her eyes still yells concern. Hayami ignores it, opting to forget her woes, even if it’s just for a little bit.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she says to the two boys behind her. “I’ll keep him distracted while you two make your getaway! Go on, hurry!”

And, just as fast as they appeared, the boys take off again, proclaiming their gratitude as they scurry down the hall. With an amused huff, Tanjiro walks over to the girls, pushing his hat further away from his face in the process.

“Thanks for that,” Tanjiro says, a smile spreading easily on his features. “I swear, it’s like everyone else in this family wants you to be the eldest sibling rather than me sometimes.” His eyes flitter over Hayami’s loose hair for a moment; the smile on his face flattens into a straight line, the happy gleam in his eyes melting away into something sadder. “Yami-chan…”

“Listen,” Hayami interrupts, putting her hand up, “is it okay if I can crash here for the night? It’s just… Things are a little trying at home right now. I could really use the company.”

Cocking his head, Tanjiro seems bewildered by the sudden request, but the surprise quickly dwindles away. Sharing a glance with Nezuko, he nods his head, that familiar, soft expression coming back to his face. “Of course you can. You know you’re welcome here anytime, right?”

At that, Hayami’s heart flutters, both from gratefulness and well, something else. “Thank you, Tanjiro.”

-

Now, Tanjiro may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he does have heart. His empathetic nature is one he was born with, one that developed into something strong once his younger siblings graced his life. And, considering that he and Hayami are extremely close, it’s only natural for him to pick up on her continuous crestfallen behavior. He doesn’t want to push it, though, because he knows that she’s just like him, always willing to put others first and ignore her own problems for the sake of others.

He still wants to support her, no matter what. And so, he does the only thing he think that might actually help…

-

“A note?”

Both of Hayami’s friends – Shinobu and Mitsuri – say it simultaneously, although in different tones. Mitsuri’s in more whimsical, romantic; Shinobu’s is more or less skeptical. Hayami nods at them, feeling just as confused as they are. It was mysteriously left in her locker this morning, and it had no name on it whatsoever. No initial, no hint, nothing. In fact, if it didn’t have her name on it, Hayami would have thought it belonged to someone else.

Granted, finding something so… special… waiting for her sent her heart flying into the clouds. The note itself was made of pink construction paper, neatly folded and even tied with a white ribbon. The sheer amount of effort put into the outside of the note only left impatient wonders for what could possibly be written on the inside. Hayami has already reread it, like, three times, but that’s not the point.

Handing it over to her friends, she watches as Mitsuri eagerly pulls off the ribbon; she’s practically shaking with excitement at this point. Knowing Mitsuri as much as she does, Hayami is more than aware of her romantic side. She’s not surprised as Misturi releases a delighted squeal, a lovely blush blooming on her face.

“Calm down,” Shinobu tells her, but a shit-eating grin is on her own face. “Let me read it.” Taking it from Mitsuri, she holds in before her, clearing her throat before she begins.

|Hayami,

I know things haven’t been the best lately. I can tell you’re hurting, but I just want you to remember something important. You’re important to so many people (me included) and you’re truly incredible. It pains me to see you without that beautiful smile of yours, but I’m not sure how to help. You always keep your pain hidden, and I want nothing more than to take it away. I want to see you smile again.

Sunny days are coming, I promise.

<3<3<3<3 xoxoxo|

“Oh my gosh!” Misturi gushes. “Look! There’s even little doodles on the paper!”

“Is that… supposed to be a cat?” Shinobu asks, cocking her head and squinting her eyes. “I don’t wear glasses, but I might need my eyes checked out after looking at that.”

“Shinobu!” Hayami squeaks. “Don’t say that!”

“Yami-chan, you have a secret admirer!” Misturi continues. Clutching her hands to her chest, her eyes glaze over with a joyful, love-stricken glow. “Think about it! Somebody is just waiting out there, wanting to confess their love to you! This is great!”

“Okay, but don’t you remember Valentine’s Day?” Shinobu interjects, a neat eyebrow raising on her forehead. “She got – what? 23 different people confess to her?”

At that, Hayami scratches her cheek in embarrassment. While it is true that she’s had so many people confess to her throughout the years, something about this note strikes her as different. For once, it doesn’t outright say that the anonymous sender holds any romantic feelings for her, but the choice of words leaves much food for thought. At most, this person is only wanting what’s best for her – pure, unadulterated happiness. It’s sweet, nonetheless.

Mitsuri pouts. “But this is different! This is secretive! Clearly whoever sent it doesn’t want to be outed for their feelings just yet. They’re giving chase! I say we try and figure out who it is!”

“Isn’t that a bit… irrational?” Hayami says. “There’s so many people who go to this school-“

“I agree with Mitsuri,” Shinobu cuts in. Hayami does not like the mischievous expression playing on her face. “We can single out the person who wrote this. Look at the handwriting, for example. Whoever left it obviously took their time writing it – it’s neat, but their natural handwriting still shines through. It’s messy.”

Both Hayami and Mitsuri gawk at the other. “You got that just by looking at it?” Mitsuri exclaims. “That’s so cool!”

“Hang on. Aren’t you two taking this too seriously? I doubt it’ll lead to anything more…”

Shinobu rolls her eyes. “Oh, to be young and naïve. It’s only because you’re super popular and have people practically drooling at your feet to have a chance with you. If we can find out who sent it, it shouldn’t be a problem. Like you said, it probably won’t lead to anything more.”

“Except that it will!” Mitsuri says with a giggle.

Hayami doesn’t know why her friends are so adamant about something so trivial – silly, even – but she supposes they have a point. Though, in the back of her mind, she’s almost positive that it’s some random admirer, just like the others. However, there’s another part of her that’s saying the exact opposite.

Either way, her friends have set their minds to discovering the so-called “culprit” or whatever their selected codename is. If one thing’s for sure, it’s that the hunt is on.

-

By the end of the school week, there’s still no obvious suspect.

Shinobu and Mitsuri are still hellbent on figuring out who’s leaving the sickeningly sweet notes; they’ve been popping up every day, much to Hayami’s secret pleasure. Something about them makes her heart soar, the overwhelming sense of joy and love flooding her very being. The feeling can only be described as beautiful.

Even now, she stares down at the folded piece of pink paper, the darling white ribbon wrapped neatly into a bow. Heart beating furiously against her ribcage, she gently pulls at the end, loosening the ribbon and opening the note.

Like usual, the various doodles decorating the edges catch her attention first. Pictures of cherry blossoms, mochi, crude cats… They’re all so delightful, and Hayami cherishes each and every single one of them. Little stickers join in alongside them: fluffy little animals, Sanrio characters, cute things like that. Whoever’s been leaving these notes obviously knows what Hayami likes, that much is clear. The attention to detail makes the note so much more special; worrying her bottom lip, she flicks her gaze over the neat-yet-messy handwriting, absorbing each and every word carefully.

|Hayami,

I’ve noticed you’ve been wearing your hair up again! Things are looking up, right? You always had this habit of wearing your hair down when something’s bothering you… Not that I mind (I think your hair is really pretty!) but it’s nice to know that your old self is coming back. I’d like to think these letters are at least bringing a smile to your face 😊 You’ve always been special to me, you know that? I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t my friend. We should have frozen yogurt at my house sometime this weekend! I think I have some strawberry froyo in the freezer… You like strawberry, right? I can always pick up another flavor if you don’t!

<3<3<3<3 xoxoxo|

That’s just… so cute!

Holding the note close to her chest, Hayami suppresses a squeal. How could somebody be so sweet? Pulling it away, she rereads it over and over, the smile on her face growing to such a point that it hurts her cheeks.

Now that she’s really looking at it, it says that she and the anonymous writer are friends. Plus, they mentioned frozen yogurt, and not many people know that’s one of her favorite treats! Does this mean that this mysterious person is going to give themselves up? If they were going to follow through with their plans and invite her over for froyo, then they’d have to, right? It only makes sense.

As much as she doesn’t really want to admit it, her curiosity is getting the best of her. Maybe – just maybe­ – if she follows in Shinobu’s and Mitsuri’s footsteps and plays detective herself, she can find out who’s been leaving the notes! It shouldn’t be that hard…

Right?

-

And so, at the end of that very school day, Hayami sets her little “plan” into motion. Well, it’s not really a “plan,” but it’s pretty close. Instead of going on a whole shebang of deciphering handwriting and dusting her locker for fingerprints (and yes, Mitsuri did think of that idea), she’s choosing to sit and wait. Call it intuition or simply a gut feeling, but the person whoever was responsible for the notes was bound to show up again. And, if they were going to show up and invite Hayami to their house, this is the time to do so.

As the last stragglers hanging around in the hallway finally take their exit from the building, Hayami slings her backpack her shoulder. A mix of anticipation and excitement boils within her blood, makes her nerves frantic and tingly. She isn’t quite sure how she should she go about this; after a moment or so of silent thought, she decides to hide around the corner and wait for this “knight in shining armor.”

Time passes – seconds, minutes, hours, Hayami doesn’t know. All of it feels like days to her. Before long, she’s mindlessly scrolling through her phone, debating whether if she should ditch the plan or not. With a sigh, she slips her phone away, drawing herself to a stand. Her knees ache from crouching so long; taking a moment, she winces at the slight pain, but then she immediately clamps her mouth shut at the sound of footsteps drawing near.

Slapping a hand over her lips, Hayami peers around the corner, her long ponytail swinging behind her. Wait, wait – are her eyes deceiving her? Tanjiro? What’s he doing here?

And if that wasn’t enough, Tanjiro glances around, seemingly checking out for any bystanders. Hayami ducks away just in time, her breath going still in her lungs. She watches on as Tanjiro shucks his backpack off his shoulders and brings it around his front; digging around inside one of the front pockets, he pulls out a folded-up piece of pink paper, a white ribbon wrapped neatly around it. Quickly, he walks up to Hayami’s locker, pops it open, and then gently places the note inside.

It was Tanjiro the whole time…?

The revelation sends Hayami’s heart wild; forget about the clouds, the clear blue sky. Her heart is flying through outer space, becoming one with the millions of stars shining through the darkness. Her best friend, this sweet, sweet boy… Now that she knows, it doesn’t seem surprising. Actually, she should’ve figured that it was Tanjiro the entire time, considering how his personality is.

“Tanjiro,” Hayami calls out, stepping away from her hiding place.

Upon hearing his name, Tanjiro flinches. Whirling around, he drops his backpack, his jaw dropping once he sees who it is. “Y-yami-chan!” he stammers, his face immediately heating up. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Hayami says, a delicate smile coming to her pretty face. “Tanjiro… Have you been the ones leaving the notes behind?”

If possible, Tanjiro’s blush turns even darker. Rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, he looks away, a sheepish smile spreading across his lips. “I… I can’t lie, and there’s no point if you saw me…” Clearing his throat, he dares to look at Hayami. “…It was me. It’s just… You’ve been so bummed lately, you know? And I wanted to do something to help you out – gah!”

Hayami suddenly slams into him, then, her arms snaking around him as she buries her face in his shoulder. Although she’s taller than Tanjiro, their bodies fit well together, almost like two long-lost puzzle pieces. He’s warm, delightfully so, and he smells like the bread his family’s shop makes.

“Thank you, Tanjiro,” Hayami mutters. “Really. Those notes you left… I love them. They mean a lot to me.” She squeezes him harder. “Thank you so much.”

Tanjiro releases a pent-up sigh. “Of course,” he says, his arms wrapping themselves around Hayami’s form. “You know that I’ll always be there for you, right? No matter what it is, thick or thin… I’m here for you.” He pulls away, then, just far enough that the two are looking face-to-face. “It hurt to see you so sad like that.” His face crinkles with concern. “I didn’t want you to be sad anymore.”

Oh, lord, is this boy an angel or what? Saying such sweet things like that…

“Tanjiro…”

Looking at each other like that, eyes glistening, cheeks rosy, Hayami doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s the both of them, drawn to each other like magnets or something easily as cliché - it doesn’t matter, though. Tanjiro’s lips are ridiculously soft as they slide against Hayami’s; it’s a dream of hers that she’s never dared to speak of, one that she thought of frequently. But to finally be able to live it, to make it a reality…

Her mind goes completely blank as her fingers slink into Tanjiro’s hair. He’s just so soft, so tender, so dreamy. Here’s literal perfection standing before her, kissing her with a gentle passion. After a moment or so, Tanjiro pulls away; eyes fluttering open, Hayami looks to him, to his pleasant smile and mirthful eyes.

“That was nice,” she hums.

Tanjiro’s earrings clank as he bobs his head. “It was perfect,” he chirps. Pressing his forehead to hers, his eyes fall shut. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he confesses, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Something irresistible and warm caresses Hayami’s chest, whisks her away to a world of fairy tales and happy endings. She’s only heard of such feelings in movies and in writing, but to experience it for herself – well, it’s a little off-putting, if she’s being honest, but it’s so wonderful.

“Same here,” she replies. “What… What do we do now?”

Leaning back once more, Tanjiro opens his eyes, a hopeful gleam to them. “I guess… If you want… We can be together? You know, be more than friends?”

At that, Hayami can’t help but release a giggle. “Is the famous Kamado Tanjiro nervous? You’re one of the most confident people I know, and this is what gets you?”

“Hey, don’t be like that! I’m not experienced with this sort of thing…”

“I know, I know. I’m just teasing you, Tanji. I’d love to be more than friends.”

“Wait – seriously? For real? I-I mean… Of course! That’d be great! Yami-chan, I’m so happy!”

Again, that cheek-hurting smile comes back to Hayami’s lips. “I’m happy too, Tanjiro. I’m happy too.”

[angrylizardjacket]

insufferable {Joe Mazzello}

Summary: Joe is the star of the college musical you’re lighting, and all he seems to care about it goofing off, which irritates you to no end. Maybe he’s just an asshole for asshole’s sake... maybe not.

A/N: 2390 words. College AU. No pronouns for reader. Friends, show week fortnight is OVER, so many things in my life have changed in the past two weeks, I have a 3000 word essay due tomorrow, and this literally took me over a week. I’m sorry it took so long, I hope you enjoy it. As always, feedback is appreciated!! Also @sitonmyhot-seatoflove, @cosmicsskies, and  @borhapbxtch 😘

Joseph Mazzello III (or as you liked to refer to him as; Junior, The Second) was the lead of the musical one of your friends had written. For your part, lighting an original, college musical wasn’t exactly how you wanted to spend two weeks of your life, but a promise is a promise, one that you were rapidly regretting with every moment you spent in that little theatre.

The most irritating thing about Joe wasn’t the fact that he could never seem to find his light, or that he liked touching the buttons on the fog machine, or that the director seemed to adore him, it was that he was genuinely talented. The second most irritating thing about him was that he couldn’t seem to shut up for five minutes.

You’d met him at the first script reading; Ellie, the director and another friend of yours, had gathered the whole cast and crew at her little shoebox apartment for dinner, and to familiarize everyone with the script. Joe had caught your eye where he was tucked up against one end of the sofa, eating party pies like his life depended on it. He’s pretty, has a certain aura about him like he’s got some sort of magnetism about him, and everyone speaks fondly about and to him. When he smiles, something about it has your heart beating unexpectedly faster. 

And then he starts speaking.

That’s not to say he’s annoying first off, actually he’s quite funny and charming. He’s the leading man, and with good reason. He gives a good cold read, humming along when Ellie pulls out her guitar to give demos of the songs she’d written, and bantering easily with the other cast members every so often if it fits the scene. He’s warmhearted, well-spoken, and completely affable.

But he also turns out to be a fucking pain to work with.

Maybe it’s that he’s too good with people. You adored watching him in rehearsals, loved hearing him sing along with the band, and enjoyed his company well enough when you hung out with the group. 

But right now, it’s six at night, you’re only halfway through the lighting plot after an already long day, and he’s got the stage manager on his shoulders, chicken fighting his costar, who’s got the AV designer on her shoulders. This is the fourth time you have had to break out the God Mic in the last hour; Ellie is too tired to reprimand her cast and crew for their behavior, not that she would, she hates playing the bad guy.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is absolutely harmless and sweet as you death glare the cast and crew from bio-box where you’re operating the lights from, “am I interrupting you?” You ask, tone sharp, eyes tired.

Joe’s actually the first to look to where you were, and is quick to lower the stage manager back to the ground.

“No, you’re fine Y/N,” he says with a laugh, and that boyish smile that you’re too irritated to enjoy right now, “we were probably interrupting you-”

“Joe,” you cut him off, lips against the microphone for emphasis, “that’s the joke.” You tell him absolutely humourlessly. He obligingly shuts up. For about five minutes.

It’s the most painful lighting plot you’ve ever done; between Joe and the rest of the cast goofing off, the stage manager not writing down cues and having to borrow your copy of the script at the end of the session, and the director not knowing exactly what she wanted but that she’d know it when she saw it (which she didn’t, she just liked whatever you did, and made indecisive noises whenever you asked her opinion), you needed a damn drink.

It seems the rest of the cast and crew have the same idea, however, and they invite you along. You don’t want to seem rude and say no, but if Joe doesn’t shut his damn mouth you’re gonna punch him. He’s not even talking about anything irritating, you’re just sick of hearing his voice.

You found yourself coming to hate Joe professionally, and it seemed that that was starting to bleed into your personal opinions of him too. You made sure to stay well away from him at the bar you all headed to, a few blocks away from campus and within reasonable walking distance of your home.

It's a nice enough night, all of you excitedly discussing the development of the show, all crammed together in a little booth at the back of a poorly lit pub. You've got the director on one side, and you're practically falling out of the booth on the other, but you don't mind too much. Joe, from where he's sitting in the middle of the seat opposite you, will occasionally give you a scrutinizing look when he thinks no-one else is looking, and he's always quick to look away, crack a joke, when you catch him.

Call time for the actors for the tech run the following day is ten. You're there at nine, your phone plugged into the aux cord and blasting your favourite album through the speakers as you refocus a light diligently. It's where you feel most at home, on top of a ladder, on top of the world. 

“You really know what you’re doing up there, don’t you?” There’s something almost awed in the voice that greets you, though it comes as a surprise, and you have to grab the bar you’re rigging the light on to steady yourself when you jump. It’s Joe, leaning on the stage, bag slung over one shoulder. You bite back the first sarcastic response that comes to mind, and you smile, tired.

“Of course, that’s why they pay me,” you laugh, a little put out for being thrown off your rhythm, despite the music still playing.

“We’re not- you know we’re not getting paid, right?” He asks, a little confused. You roll your eyes.

“It’s a joke,” you replied, going back to your work.

“I feel like we have different definitions of joke.” 

“Why are you here so early?” You were quickly losing patience with him, pulling the gates of the light by the bulb out to widen the beam of the light. There’s a moment of silence, of hesitation, and when you look to Joe, he’s looking over the set. “No reason?” You prompted, and it snapped him out of his thoughts enough to look at you.

“Came to go over choreography before the run,” he admitted. That does get you to smile a little, he’s nothing if not diligent. “You?”

“Just fixing a light.”

He’s stretching and warming up, earphones in while you struggle to put the ladder away, and that quiet moment in which you thought he was diligent evaporates.

“I will fade to black in the middle of his solo.” You growl, sitting by the window of the on-campus cafe, watching the steam rise from your drink on the morning of opening night.

“Please do not,” Ellie sighs around her mouthful of granola. You make a face, but she holds up her hand for silence, chewing and swallowing before she speaks again, “listen, if you two could stop bitching about each other for five minutes you’d see that-”

“He’s bitching about me? I’m just doing my job!” You cried, and Ellie looked like she regretted even opening her mouth, not that you really cared; it felt as though your blood was boiling. “I’ll cut the lights before he comes out for his bows, I don’t give a fu-”

“I know you’re joking, but honestly I don’t have the energy to talk you out of it,” Ellie tells you, and she leans back, out of the conversation, her gaze turning to the window as you fume quietly. She’s right, you wouldn’t actually do anything to jeopardize the show, but something about Joe just got on your nerves.

Each show goes off without much of a hitch, and for the sake of the sound operator and stage manager, who are sharing comms with you, you keep your complaints to yourself and focus on your job and enjoying the show. For the record, it’s very easy to enjoy the show; Joe’s even entertaining enough on stage that you forget how much he irritates you. He’s a wonderful singer, an exuberant performer, and the crowd and the rest of the crew love him.

But then comes the afterparty.

You’ve been drinking. He’s been drinking. You’ve had to listen to drunk, emotional Ellie gushing about how he ‘saved the production’. It’s more malicious than you intended, when you spit that he’s an entitled asshole.

“He’s not an asshole! That’s why people love him, okay?” Ellie fires back, expression defiant. She won’t remember this.

“Is that why you’re constantly defending him? Because you wanna bang?” You asked, scowling. Ellie’s expression fell, avoiding your gaze; she’s picking at the label on her cider, because she hates beer.

“I’m defending him because he’s transferring to this course next year, and I don’t want you scarring him off.”

Oh.

You find him by the bonfire, poking at it with a stick, expression contemplative. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence as you stand opposite him, by the fire.

“How was your first show with us?” 

“Do you mean like, with the course?” He asks, frowning, “You’re not even in it, though.” He wasn’t even pretending like he wanted to make small talk with you.

“Yeah,” you forced a smile, “but the course is good, from what I hear, and I just-”

“You don’t need to make small talk, you can tell Ellie and the rest of them that I’m still joining the course. I know you don’t like me.” He added, and your mouth snaps closed, tone turning defensive.

“I don’t not like you-” but you’re cut off by his gentle laugh.

“Dude, do you think I’m an idiot?” He doesn’t let you answer, which your drunk brain wants to. He drops his stick into the fire and finally looks at you. “Don’t answer that; I know you don’t like me; that’s no skin off my nose. The show’s over.” 

Silence hangs between the two of you; his gaze is so intense in the firelight, and for a moment you remember how handsome you’d thought he was at that first table read, before you’d known him.

“You’re talented, but disrespectful.” Tumbles from your lips.

“I’m fun, you’re just too uptight.” He laughs, but he doesn’t look particularly hurt by your words. In fact, he’s smiling. “You know this isn’t a professional show, right?”

“I- I’m used to-”

“No, I know,” he nodded, with a smirk, “I can tell. The way you hold yourself- you know you sound demanding when you’re working, right? Like you expect everyone to be on the same wavelength as you without even trying. They’re not. I’m not. This is fun; we’re not getting paid. We’re just trying to have fun.” He shrugs, before picking up the bottle of spirits he had by his feet that you hadn’t been able to see. “You should learn to have a little more fun.” He muses, before taking a swig of the alcohol, and offering it to you.

“I am fun,” you huff, taking the bottle from him and having a swig. It’s rum, cheap rum, and it burns, but you swallow it.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” he nods with a faux seriousness that makes it clear that he does not believe you in the slightest. You scowl, but take another sip.

“See, you’re still being an asshole.”

“You’re fun to rile up.” He shrugged, before grinning, “but I don’t mean to be an asshole... mostly. You just don’t like me, so everything I say-”

“I did like you, but then I had to work with you.” You pass back the bottle, and Joe actually laughs, and it’s such a genuine and lovely sound.

“Well then, maybe we shouldn’t work together again,” his smile now is much more genuine, and you feel your cheeks heat up, which you can’t entirely blame on the fire, “because I don’t like having you hate me.” He’s making his way around the fire now, standing beside you, looking at the flames as they’re beginning to die down.

“I don’t hate you.” You admit, bumping your shoulder against him. Joe laughs.

“I know.”

“God you’re cocky-” you scoff, turning to look at him, but he’s looking back at you, expectant grin on his lips.

“Yeah, but I’ve seen how you look at me.”

“With loathing?” You deadpan.

“Sometimes.” He agrees, laughing a little. Your heart beats a little faster, with the endeared way he’s smiling at you. “It’s so hard to make you smile when you’re in like, work mode, you know?” He muses, “you just think I’m an asshole.” That you have to agree with. “But when, like, a light hits just right, or someone mentions how hard they’ve been working, or-” he actually flushes a little as he ducks his head, “someone comes in early to practice, say, choreography on their own time? You smile so big, so damn big.” And the fact that he’d noticed, your expression turns surprised. 

Oh. Everything he’s said or done over the past three months suddenly shines in a new light.

“You like me? That’s what all this was about?” You can’t help but laugh, wrapping an arm around him, and Joe snickers, nodding a little sheepishly. “Wait, does Ellie know? Is that why-?”

“Unfortunately she has had to listen to me complain about every time you give me a dirty look in rehearsals,” he sighed, and you feel embarrassment well up within you.

“No wonder she was so ready to go to bat for you,” you murmured, a little horrified with yourself, before turning to Joe, looking both mortified and apologetic. “We can never work together again.” And he’s never agreed to something faster. “I really did - do - like you, I just thought you were being-”

“I know, I know; you’re too professional for your own good, and I’m a fan of goofing off, and that just doesn’t mesh well. Professionally.” He clarified, and then paused, finally looking back at you.

“Professionally.” You agreed, quietly. Your smile is genuine and wide as you lean in to press your lips to his.

[bookwormchocaholic]

Finding Home

A03

Synopsis:  Tilly Jones may or may not have killed someone...she can't remember. But then when she meets Margot, she is able to discover the truth, and she finds love along the way.

Notes: Dedicated to @onceuponanovel.Special, special thanks to @mariequitecontrarie for all of her beta work on this. As well as providing the title for this story.This is my first Curious Archer fic. I usually write Rumbelle fics, but when I saw Curious Archer in Season 7, I thought they were adorable and wanted to try and write for them. Apologies if it falls short in any way.

Tilly passed the large troll beneath the bridge for the third time, uncertain if she should hang around or return to her boxcar. She had been wandering the city for hours and now the dark shroud of night had descended. Feathery brown clouds covered the moon and only the dim streetlights lit her path. She paused for a moment, before she started pacing around the bridge again, her lithe frame too keyed up with unspent energy to be stationary for long. Hugging herself, she sank her two front teeth into her lower lip, tears threatening to sprout.

Images, like quick film cuts, flashed through her mind. They were disjointed and foggy, and she couldn’t be certain, but she may have just killed someone.

She remembered going to the bakery to buy a small cake for herself and the next thing she knew she was standing over the little old lady, with a bloodied butcher knife in her hand. She could easily recall the unblinking eyes of the dead lady, the weight of the butcher knife, and the crimson sheen on the blade. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember plunging the knife into the woman’s frail chest. The last thing she could recall was throwing the knife on the floor and dashing out of the bakery.

I would know, right? If I was a murderer. She gulped. She might not be able to summon the memory, but certainly she would know in her soul if she had taken a life. She would feel different…darker.

Tilly considered crawling up into the troll’s lap and talking to it the way some children talked to Santa Claus, but she knew it was useless. The troll no more granted wishes than Santa Claus did. Not now that The Witch was involved. Tilly shuddered; that hideous creature ruined everything.

She wiped her cheeks dry and shivered again when she detected movement out of the corner of her eye. It’s The Witch, I know it is! The Witch followed her everywhere, taunting and tempting her to join her and her group. Confusing her, stealing her thoughts, and making trouble. The Witch was the devil on her shoulder, a devil she could not shake off.

Home. I want to go home. Her little abandoned boxcar on the outskirts of Hyperion Heights wasn’t much, but it was the only home Tilly ever knew. After spending years in orphanages, unwanted due to her troubles, once she was of age she took to the streets. The Witch had sought her out, inviting her to join her group, but Tilly soon realized that The Witch was not to be trusted. Since then, she battled The Witch’s stronghold on her.

Tilly turned and stepped away from the Troll Bridge and out into the street. The howl of a car horn blared in her ears, but the blinding headlights made her freeze into place.

Suddenly, a hand clasped around her forearm and she was jerked back to the safety of the sidewalk. Tilly came face to face with a girl near her own age and size. The hairs on her neck stood up on end when she felt the girl’s cinnamon scented breath on her cheek.

“Are you all right?” The girl dragged Tilly into the light. Her bespectacled gaze flittered, as the girl looked her over. “He nearly hit you!”

“I’m fine.” Tilly gave a nervous laugh. Relief flooded her, that it was not The Witch or some unknown copper hauling her off to jail. She tilted her head in amazement and took her time to study the girl. “You see me? No one sees me.”

“Really?” The girl made a face and shook her head. She was pretty, in a modest way, but it was hard to tell beneath the layers of clothing she was wearing. Her small face was peeking out between her knitted cap and a thick scarf. “You’re kinda hard to miss.” The girl’s slim fingers were still on Tilly’s wrist. It was the first time in a long time that someone had willingly touched her. On the very off chance that people noticed her, they tended to avoid her. She couldn’t help it, but for some reason she made others uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Tilly nodded. “Yeah, just Crazy Tilly lost in her own head again.” She rubbed at her temple and blushed, wondering if she were really as crazy as she sounded. “If my head wasn’t attached to my shoulders, it’d be rolling around on the ground.”

The girl locked eyes with her. “They say the craziest people are the best.”

Tilly drew in a breath, wondering if the girl could see inside her soul and detect the truth. If she was a murderer or not. When the girl smiled and compressed her hand, Tilly sighed with relief. The bakery lady, the knife, the blood…it was all a dream. I dreamt it up! It had to be a terrible nightmare. Yes, that was it. She sometimes had difficulties differentiating between reality and her dreams.

“Thanks for not letting me die.” Tilly gushed, gently squeezing the girl’s hand in return. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the girl what her name was, but then Tilly noticed The Witch.

The Witch was across the street, demurely waving at her. She was difficult to ignore, in her long, dark flowing robe and her flaxen hair partly braided and partly hanging free. Despite the vehicles barreling past, The Witch approached, taking excruciatingly slow steps, weaving in and out of the traffic.

Tilly disengaged herself from the girl and retreated. “Right. I have to go now.”

She broke off into a run, barely hearing the girl call out, “See you around!”

Tilly prayed to whoever and whatever was listening, that The Witch wouldn’t follow her home.

#

Tilly pushed the sliding door of the boxcar open, climbed inside, and after flicking on the light, she slid the door closed. She sighed and flopped onto a picnic chair, thankful to be back in her little sanctuary. No one knew the boxcar was her home. The neighborhood overlooked it as much as it overlooked her. Rustic and musty from being constantly shut up, she had decorated it herself to the best of her scrounging abilities. Trash days were her days; uncaring people cast off so many useful things. One man’s trash was another’s treasures. Her fold-out cot, work desk, and metallic shelf had been found on trash days. Her other furnishings had also been picked out of the trash, found left out on the street, or bought from the Goodwill using her savings from the aluminum cans that she sold to the recycling center. Cold in the winter and hot in the summer, with one leaky corner, the boxcar was still her home.

Her attention was diverted to a shiny, glinting object she couldn’t remember leaving on her work desk. Rising to her feet, she moved toward it with outstretched fingers, then jerked back and swallowed a yelp.

It was the bloodied butcher knife!

Tilly grabbed it and held it up to the dimly lit bulb. “Oh God!”

The knife jutted in her shaking hand.

She had distinctly recalled leaving the knife on the floor of the bakery.

“The Witch!” Tilly hissed and scanned the boxcar, but the spiteful creature was nowhere in sight. But she could still feel The Witch’s presence. “You did this! I know you did, you can’t fool me.”

The Witch knew where she lived and could come for her at any moment.

The wail of police sirens closing in made her jump. I have to get out of here. Tilly tossed the knife back down on the desk. I have to get out of the Heights. If the police suspected her of murdering that lady, they’d lock her up and throw away the key. Crazy Tilly, that’s how the police sees me! Grabbing her bookbag, she pitched in all of her smaller treasures, and her measly savings of fifty-some odd dollars she had tucked away in a cracked cookie jar.

She shrugged into her old green army coat and was about to head out when she stopped. Tilly chewed on her lower lip, hard enough to make a hole in the flesh. If she left the knife, someone would eventually discover it. It had her fingerprints all over the handle.

Snatching up an old towel, she wrapped it around the knife, and stuck it into her bookbag. Then she zipped it closed.

Tilly took a deep breath, left her boxcar for one last time, and ventured out into the dark abyss.

#

Tilly’s fingers tightened around the straps of the bookbag hanging off her back. She was used to toting around a huge pack, but somehow with the bloodied knife buried beneath, it was heavier. People passed her by, barely giving her a second glance, completely unaware that she had a murder weapon on her. Scrunching her forehead, she knew there was nothing on her brow, but she felt as though she were wearing some kind of mark that branded her.

The bus station. If she could make it to the bus station and skip town, then she’d be all right. At some point she would have to dump the butcher knife, but once she disposed of it, she would be on her way to starting over. She’d lose herself in some big town and be happy there.

Tilly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and knew that she was not alone. She could sense her presence. Slowly turning on her heel, her suspicions were confirmed when she found The Witch a few feet off.

“Hello, Tilly,” The Witch greeted warmly.

Tilly scrambled in the opposite direction, and she didn’t stop until stabbing pains pierced her sides and she was gasping for air. She was nowhere near the bus station, but at least she had escaped The Witch. For now. The creature seemed to follow her wherever she went. With her luck, The Witch would find her in the next town.

“Hey!”

Tilly raised her head up and smiled as a girl strolled over. Not just any girl, it was the girl who saved her life the evening before.

The girl paused a couple paces away, and now that it was daylight, Tilly could better appreciate the girl’s appearance. Tall and lean, the girl’s dark blonde hair was drawn back in a braid and its plait dangled over her shoulder. In a khaki jacket, a dark green peasant blouse and jeans, she possessed that tortured artist look.

“It’s you! Tilly, right?” The girl grinned.

Tilly blushed and bowed her head slightly. No one remembers my name. Since she had been on her way to skip town, she never expected to see the girl again. Joy swelled within her chest. Due to living on the streets and due to her problems, it wasn’t often that she felt she had an instantaneous connection with someone.

But with this girl, it was different.

The single bleep of a police siren ruined the moment.

Tilly glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t see any squad cars nearby, but she could hear them coming. “I have to go.” She drew back, hating to run away from the girl again.

“Again?” The girl rubbed her chin and her light eyes brightened. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” The girl didn’t wait for a response and grabbed Tilly’s hand. “C’mon, this way!”

They ducked into an alley and hid behind a small wooden fence that connected the two buildings. The police car drove on down the street and the bleeping siren faded. Tilly and the girl peered out from behind the small fence simultaneously, like two tiny bunny rabbits.

Tilly released the breath that she had been holding and slumped against the brick building behind her.

The girl studied her, crossing her arms under her chest. “The police are looking for you, huh?” The girl continued before Tilly could come up with an excuse, “Do you need a place to hide out? I’m crashing at my Aunt Roni’s while she’s out of town.”

It was on the tip of Tilly’s tongue to accept the girl’s offer. She liked this girl, she couldn’t help it. But she wasn’t born yesterday. No one did anything without expecting something in return. Especially for a homeless person. People tended to be afraid of the homeless and they looked down on them. Besides, it would be foolish for her to go off with some girl she barely knew. Even if the girl did save her life and helped her hide from the police.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Tilly licked her cracked lips and crossed her arms as well.

“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? The name’s Margot, by the way.” Margot lifted her chin, and added, “Margot with a ‘T.’”

“Targo?” Tilly asked, thinking that didn’t make any sense.

Margot giggled, rolling her eyes. “‘T’ on the other end.” She sobered and looked thoughtful. “Look you can take your chances on the streets if you want, but whatever it is you’re running from, its bound to catch up with you. Trust me, I know from experience. So, you coming or what?”

Tilly knew it was foolish to go off with someone she barely knew, but she also figured her chances with Margot were better than skipping town. If she laid low for a while, it would give her some time to decide where to hide the butcher knife and to figure out how to resurface without drawing any suspicion. And perhaps, The Witch, would lose interest in her and plague some other desperate soul.

Tilly nodded. “Okay.”

Tilly climbed out of the alley way after Margot and fell in step beside her. She couldn’t help but notice how right it felt to have Margot next to her. It left her wondering if Margot could ever feel the same way about her.

#

Tilly began to unwind after she heard the “snick” noise of Margot locking the door. She hung back, waiting for Margot to take the lead.

Her new friend motioned for her to follow and waved her hand, spanning the area of the apartment. “Make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s plenty of food in the fridge. Or if you want to grab a shower, be my guest.”

As if on cue, Tilly’s stomach growled and she yearned to stuff herself until her belly pooched out. Living on the streets, her stomach was often empty and she had to ignore those gnawing hunger pains. Whatever food she could find, she wolfed down immediately. Rarely did she have the time to savor a single morsel. But a long, hot shower…that was a rare treat. The showers she took at the YWCA, were quick and could not be enjoyed, for fear someone would discover her and realize she didn’t belong.

Tilly took a small stroll around what served as a living room. She shrugged off her bookbag and slumped down on the couch. Bobbing up and down on her rear, she tested the couch. The cushions were flattened, but soft and this couch was far more comfortable than her fold-out cot in her boxcar. Kicking her feet up on the coffee table, she crossed her arms behind her head.

“Do you often invite strange girls over to stay with you? I could be a serial killer for all you know.” Tilly couldn’t help but quip.

It was an odd joke to make, considering she had a bloody butcher knife hidden in her bag, and the nuns at the orphanage repeatedly scolded her for her warped sense of humor. Unfortunately for her, the things that rolled off her tongue often led to trouble.

Margot chortled, not at all put-off by her joke. Of course, then again, she didn’t know what was in her bag. “What’s the chance that we’re both serial killers?”

Tilly eyes widened and then she giggled.

Margot joined in laughing and shook her head. “I always trust my gut and my gut is telling me that you’re a good person. Eccentric, but good.” She stepped around the coffee table and sat down on the edge of it. Leaning forward, she braced her elbows on her knees. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Why are the cops after you? Did you steal something?”

Tilly felt the blood drain from her face, but she nodded. “Something like that.” She drew her legs down and stood. “I’ll take you up on the shower now.”

Margot rose and quirking her index finger, she brought Tilly to the bathroom. After showing her how to operate the shower, pointing out where their soaps and shampoos and towels were, Margot gave Tilly her privacy.

Tilly turned on the faucet and let the hot water run for a couple minutes. She peered in the bathroom and for a split second, she saw The Witch leering at her. Squeezing her eyes shut, when she opened them once more, she was relieved to see only her own reflection staring back. She looked wild; her light blond hair was crinkly and her round eyes had deep shadows beneath them. Sleep evaded her far too often. Despite her rough life, she looked far younger than her twenty-five years. Her two front teeth settled on her lower lip. Bunny girl. They used to call her at the orphanage and to this day, she did resemble a bunny. She couldn’t recall the last time she truly smiled. Until she met Margot.

Margot… Her eyes began to water.

This new friendship with Margot wouldn’t last long. Nothing in her life did. The Witch would ruin it as she ruined everything else.

#

Tilly was partially stretched out on the coffee table, staring at the ceiling, her legs propped up on the couch. She patted her flat stomach as though she were playing the bongo drums, bopping to the song stuck in her head. Margot was downstairs, working in her Aunt Roni’s bar, leaving Tilly with far too much time on her hands. Having spent her recent years outside, enclosed places made her feel trapped. It had been three days since she took off with Margot. She should have brought her Rubik’s cube or a deck of cards to pass the time. Watching TV was out of the question. The unfamiliar voices confused her and she began to hear other voices in her head.

Her heart skipped a beat when the front door opened and Margot swept into the room. The girl giggled and hung her head upside to meet Tilly’s gaze.

“I know you’re technically in ‘hiding,’” Margot made air quotes when she said the word ‘hiding.’ “but I thought it might be nice to get out. You can wear your jacket and keep the hood up.”

Tilly swung her legs around and scrambled off the table. “Yes! I’m dying of boredom.” She exclaimed, wishing that she could kiss Margot for coming up with a brilliant idea. She grabbed her heavy jacket and struggled into it. Then she plucked up her bookbag slid her arms through the straps. Finally, she drew her hood up. “Ready!” she chirped.

“So, do you take that thing everywhere with you?” Margot eyed her bookbag, her small mouth quirked into a purse.

“It has all of my treasures in it.” Tilly charged forward, eager to draw Margot’s attention away from her bag. She really needed to dispose of the butcher knife, but she didn’t know where she could without it leading back to her. “Race you downstairs!”

Since Margot had been so good to her, Tilly let her win.

After grabbing a couple of coffees, she linked arms with Margot and kept in step with the girl. She was over joyed when Margot directed her into a little bookshop. It had been ages since she read a new book. Not long after she was released from the orphanage, Tilly tried hanging out at libraries. They were warm and dry and safe, but the old librarian didn’t like her loitering about, talking to herself. The other patrons had complained.

“I come here all the time.” Margot sighed and leaned against one of the wall shelves. “What’s your favorite book?”

In the orphanage, she read everything she could get her hands on. Reading came easier to her in those days, but that was when she was on medication. Those pills were a mixed blessing; at times they helped her focus, but other times a dense fog settled in her mind. The last book she read was “Alice in Wonderland” and it fed her imagination like no other, but now her memories of it were fragmentary.

“Wow, that’s a hard one.” Tilly took a long drink of her coffee. She loved the chocolate flavored sweetness that coated her tongue. “It’d be like choosing a favorite star out of the heavens.”

“I feel the same way. Though, I’ll always have a soft spot for ‘Robin Hood.’” Margot handed off her coffee for Tilly to hold and held up her index finger. “Oh, wait here. I’ll be back.” She dashed off, heading to the front of the store near the cashier’s counter.

Tilly shrugged and followed the trail of colorful books leading to the rear of the store.

“Hello, Tilly.” A deep, earthy voice greeted.

Tilly swung around and came face to face with The Witch. Her coffee fell out of her quivering hand and hit the floor. Tan liquid spewed and saturated the carpet.

“How?” Tilly pressed herself in the corner, shaking her head from side to side. Stupid, Crazy Tilly let her guard down! The Witch had been waiting for her prime opportunity to pounce. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” She brought up her arms to fend off The Witch’s touch. But The Witch’s hands were like talons, closing around Tilly’s wrists in a painful grip. “Stop it! Go away!”

“You belong to me, Tilly.” The Witch pried her arms away and caressed her cheek. “You always have and you always will.”

“No, get out of my head!” Tilly squeezed her eyes shut and dropped to the floor, crushing the heel of her hand to her brow.

“You need me, especially after what you did.” The Witch’s words sounded fainter, but they continued to ring in Tilly’s ears long after The Witch vanished. “Only I can protect you. Join me.”

I need Margot. In the three days she spent with Margot, The Witch had stayed away and the voices in her head were barely above a whisper. The second Margot stepped away, The Witch returned and now there was a chorus of voices buzzing in between her ears. Margot will help me; she will make it better.

Tilly sucked in a ragged breath, got to her feet, and rushed to the front of the book shop. Her bookbag swatted her upper thighs with each stride.

She found Margot paying for a hand-woven bracelet and chatting with the cashier.

Margot swung around and held out the piece of jewelry to her. “I saw this and I thought of you.” Her sharp gaze focused on Tilly and she grew serious. “What is it?”

Tilly lifted her gaze to look Margot in the eye, but she caught some movement in the store display window. The Witch pressed her face against the glass and wiggled her fingers.

“Oh God, stop it!” Tilly hissed and stomped her foot. “Go away!”

Tilly, Tilly, Tilly! A chorus of voices chanted. Like The Witch, the voices were powerful and could send her into a tailspin. The voices would give her commands, commands she knew were wrong. She would do her best to fight against them, but she wouldn’t always win. They made her do awful things.

Maybe they made me stab that woman.

“What?” Margot clutched Tilly’s shoulder. “Stop what?”

“Shh! The voices…” Tilly cupped her ears, a desperate attempt to keep out other noises and tried to reign in her thoughts. But they were like shooting stars across the dark expanse of her mind. “There’s a witch after me. She’s trying to steal my soul.” She whimpered.

Tilly realized that the shop had grown quiet and that both Margot and the cashier were gaping at her. Margot appeared pensive, but the cashier looked disgusted by her behavior.

They’re staring like I’m a freak! Her face crumpled and she muttered, “I have to go.”

Tilly jerked open the front door of the shop and ran out into the street. She didn’t stop until she made it back to the safety of her boxcar.

#

No sooner did Tilly slide the door of her boxcar close, did it open again. She spun around on her heel and an audible gasp escaped from her. Margot! She blinked several times, but it wasn’t her imagination. Margot was there. Despite her episode at the bookstore, Margot had come after her. No one had ever done that before. In the past, whenever someone had witnessed one of her episodes, they avoided her afterwards.

Then again, Margot had only seen a meltdown. She had no clue about the murder weapon in the bag. She’d run for the hills if she knew about that.

Margot furrowed her brow. “Is this where you live?” She rested her shoulder against one of the walls.

“I’m losing my mind.” Tilly hugged herself, her lower lip trembled despite her resolve to remain strong. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you scared of me?”

“What is there to be scared of?” Margot took a couple steps forward and then paused, smiling gently. “I’ve been places and seen things. Trust me, you’re not that scary.” She raised her hand and held it out to Tilly. “Here, take my hand.”

Tilly frantically grabbed her friend’s hand, as if it were her only lifeline. And in many ways, it was.

“It’s going to be okay.” Margot cradled Tilly’s hand between her two. “Will you come back with me to Aunt Roni’s?”

Tilly’s heart swelled. She was tempted to jump at the opportunity, but she couldn’t. Not without Margot knowing the full extent of her mental problems. “Margot, I’m never quite sure what kind of day is gonna be. Sometimes I wake up, and the whole day is good, and then… sometimes it’s not. And I don’t want you to see the not-good days, not yet. Because it can be a bit too much for some people.”

“I get that.” Margot nodded knowingly but appeared nonplussed by Tilly’s little speech. “But you don’t have to worry, because it won’t be too much for me. No matter what kind of day it is.” Margot released her and rummaging around in her jacket pocket, she withdrew the woven bracelet that she had bought in the bookstore. “Here.”

Tilly grinned and held out her wrist. “Put it on me?”

Margot encircled the bracelet around Tilly’s wrist and tied it on.

Tilly continued to hold out her arm and admired it. Then she wiggled her fingers at Margot and cheered inwardly when Margot slid her hand into hers and they headed back to Aunt Roni’s.

#

Tilly rolled onto her side and reached out, blindly searching for Margot. Instead she found the other side of the bed sadly empty. She opened her eyes and sighed. The sweet memories of her and Margot talking throughout the night resurfaced. They discussed everything. For the first time in…years, Tilly felt she didn’t have to be ashamed to be herself. Best of all, they weren’t rushing into things. They were taking their time, getting to know one another. They were building their friendship first, which was the best foundation for any relationship.

Tilly scooted out of the bed, yawned and stretched, and then meandered out of the bedroom. She licked her lips; half-hoping Margot had gone out for breakfast with plans to bring back some of those scrumptious coffees. Afterwards she’d shower and together they would see what adventures lay ahead of them today.

She entered the living room and stopped short at the sight of her bag on the coffee table. Its contents had been dumped and spread out, the bloody butcher knife was in the center.

And Margot…Margot was perched on the edge of the couch, her face blotchy and eyes red-rimmed.

Tilly tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was too big. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. “You went through my bag!” She balled her fists and stamped her bare foot. “How could you?”

Margot…Her best friend and true love. Love. It was love. She loved Margot. They had only known each other a few days, but Tilly knew in her heart that it was true love. But now it would never be. Not because of what Margot had done. Margot had betrayed her trust, but she could forgive that. She could forgive Margot of anything.

It’s me. Tilly swiped her cheek dry. The truth was out now. She was a murder suspect. There was a possibility that she killed someone. The Witch may have prompted her to do it, but she did the actually stabbing.

“I was curious.” Margot explained, her voice raw from what Tilly assumed was from hours of crying. “You always have it with you and I thought you might need to take some medication, but...”

“No! The pills make me foggy.” Tilly shook her head, her wild bed head becoming more and more untamed. “I’m not me when I’m on them and I got rid of them.”

Margot’s eyes widened as large as her glasses frames. “Tilly, an old woman was stabbed a week ago. Did you do it?”

“I don’t know.” Tilly shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t remember. Why did you help me? Why did you invite me to stay here?”

“I liked you.” Margot stood and began to pace, her pretty features scrunched up. “You were different. I thought you stole something and maybe you had some problems, but everyone deserves a second chance.” She paused and gestured towards the butcher knife. “But I never expected this.”

Tilly understood. She had let Margot down and she hated herself for it. The best thing she could do now was be as open and honest as possible. “Listen,” She edged closer and cringed when Margot flinched from Tilly’s nearness. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “The Witch is behind this. She’s been after me for weeks. She wants me to join her and the others. I wouldn’t have done this if The Witch hadn’t made me.” Her eyes locked with Margot’s and she whimpered, “You have to believe me.”

“The Witch?” Margot repeated and after blinking a few times, she declared, “Tilly, if someone is after you, then you have to tell the police.”

Tilly pressed her palm to her heart, grateful that Margot believed her. She hated to go to the police. They didn’t like her and she could tell they whispered about her behind her back the few times she interacted with them. But if Margot thought it best to make a report to the police, then that was exactly what she would do.

#

Tilly dragged her feet as she and Margot walked to the police station. In the past, the police had been none too friendly to her. She had lost count the number of times they shooed her off park benches and away from entrances to buildings when she needed a place to sleep. That was before she discovered the box car and made it her home. They were the ones to cackle at her and call her “Crazy Tilly.” She doubted they’d believe her if she told them about the old lady and the bloody butcher knife.

The bookbag hung loosely from Margot’s shoulders. Tilly couldn’t take her eyes off of it, knowing the knife was in there.

 She noticed Margot casting several glances at her; her eyes a mixture of concern and fear. Her friend’s mouth was drawn into a deep frown.

They paused across the street from the police station. Tilly’s skin began to tingle and she shivered, feeling as though someone was watching her.

Tilly surveyed the area and her eyes narrowed in on the space between the police station and the other building. The Witch was lurking there, peeking around the corner, smiling in her direction.

Her lungs contracted and she grabbed Margot’s jacket sleeve and jerked on it. “There she is!” Tilly cried out frantically, “The Witch is going to kill me.”

Margot gasped, her mouth swinging open. “Oh my God, I see her too. She’s not a witch, Tilly.” She gave Tilly’s hand a comforting squeeze. “She’s that freaky cult leader, Mother Gothel.”

Margot swung the bag off and tossed it to Tilly. Before Tilly could stop her, Margot charged across the street, ignoring the cars slamming on their breaks and the blaring horns.

Tilly rushed after her friend, pleading, “Margot, don’t. She’ll kill you!”

Once safely on the other side, Tilly’s body grew rigid and she was unable to move a muscle. Fear had taken possession of her, fear that The Witch would destroy them both. The Witch was powerful; she was stronger than any force in the world.

“Hey, I see you!” Margot charged up to The Witch and shoved her away from the building. “Did you kill that old woman? You can’t have Tilly, I won’t let you. Stay away!”

The Witch, having been caught off guard, recoiled and backed away from Margot. Tilly watched, dumbfounded, as The Witch hissed and then retreated in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, you better run!” Margot cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “We’re going to tell the police everything.”

The Witch was soon out of sight, as if she had vanished into thin air.

Tilly’s heart soared. Margot had chased her demons away.

“You saw her too?” Tilly asked, as Margot returned to her side. “All this time I thought I was crazy, but you saw her, too!”

“Of course, I saw her. And you’re not crazy, Tilly. You’re not!” Margot grasped Tilly’s shoulder and drew her in for a hug. When they parted, Tilly was relieved to find her friend smiling once more. “C’mon, we have to talk to the police. It’s going to be okay now, I promise.”

Tilly nodded, trusting that Margot knew what she was doing.

She had a feeling that life would be very different for her from now on.

#

ONE MONTH LATER

Tilly wrung her hands anxiously and shifted from one foot the other, as she lingered outside of Roni’s bar. She could see Margot through the window, behind the counter, drying glasses.

It had been a month since the whole debacle with The Witch – Mother Gothel – went down. Through Margot’s encouragement, Tilly explained everything to the police and thanks to Margot’s own encounter with Mother Gothel, they were able to prove Tilly’s innocence. A kind, older detective with a cockney accent had taken an interest in the case. Through finger print analysis and DNA, he was able to place Mother Gothel at the crime scene. Mother Gothel was arrested and was behind bars.

The detective encouraged Tilly to seek help and she did. Thanks to counseling and medication, her mind was clearer and her behavior was a little less erratic. She would always be impetuous and imaginative - it was part of her personality - but now that she was regulated on her meds, she could hold down a job and function the way others did. Some of the memories of her past returned to her; of how after she had left the orphanage, she had spent some time in Mother Gothel’s cult. Mother Gothel claimed she only wanted to mother those without a mother, and that she considered all of the lost souls in her care her children. Tilly had managed to escape one night and had remained on the streets until Margot took her in. According to the detective, Mother Gothel believed if Tilly was a suspect in a murder investigation, she might return to the cult for protection. Mother Gothel knew Tilly’s routine, that she stopped every day at the bakery because the owner gave her the stale cakes. The old lady had simply been at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Tilly stared longingly at her friend through the glass door of Roni’s. She had missed Margot. They had seen each other a few times since Mother Gothel’s arrest, but she had wanted to get better before she entered into a true, romantic relationship. She sighed and told herself, It’s now or never.

Tilly pushed her way through the door and into the bar, bashfully waving when Margot’s head snapped up.

Margot ran around the counter and hurried over. “Hey, you look great!” she exclaimed, clutching Tilly’s hands.

“Thanks.” Tilly basked in her friend’s touch. She never wanted to let Margot go. “I’m back on my meds again, so things are a bit clearer. And I have a job now.” She raised Margot’s knuckles to her lips and kissed them. “Margot, thank you for believing in me. You saved my life.”

Remorse crept over Margot’s lovely face. “I have a confession to make.” She dropped her head, unwilling to meet Tilly’s gaze. “When I found the knife, I was going to turn you over to the police. It wasn’t until I saw Mother Gothel that I knew you were telling the truth. That she was your witch.” She sniffed and shook her head from side to side. “I’m sorry, Tilly.”

“Hey, you fought for me, like no one else.” Tilly insisted and she dared to reach over and touch her friend’s cheek, stroking it. “You saw me when I was invisible.”

Margot exhaled and she looked relieved. “I- I’ve been apartment hunting and I found one that I like. It’s a one-bedroom.” She slid her hand into her jeans pocket and pulled out her cell, giving it a little shake. “Um, I have pictures on my phone-”

“Don’t need to see it.” Tilly dismissed it with a shrug. “I love it. If it has a built in Margot, that’s all I need.”

Margot opened her arms and Tilly fell into her loving embrace. She tilted her head and her heart felt as though it might burst when Margot kissed her.

Everything was going to be all right, Tilly decided. She had finally found true, unconditional love and a home. There was nothing else on earth that she could ever want.

[division-m]

The Merge [3] - Sweet Pea

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Paring: Sweet Pea x Reader

Genre: angst | AU

Word Count: 2,649

Part [3] Warning: Violence, Swearing.

Part [3] Brief: ❝ In which the silver moon was high in the sky giving off the only light over Riverdale, apart from the lampposts whose rays died inches from the dirty tungsten bulbs, and Sweet Pea held a rage the power of a wildfire, you could practically see the flames roaring in his eyes, ready to ignite anything that he came in contact with. We learn [y/n] is an enigma - not like that of books where words are so plainly written out and flow from page to page, but of books torn, frayed, and indecipherable.❞

Masterlist

[y/n] was currently lounging around with youngest Cooper just like old times;

[y/n] admired Betty’s room.

Her room was like a princess wonderland. The walls were a baby pink that pulsed in the light, sprinkled with various pictures, mostly of friends and a few celebrities, [y/n] noticed she still kept the montage they made together of them since they were 6 up to the age of 14. Her comforter was pulled over her bed. It was messy as they both laied on it together, this resulted in lumps of varying sizes and shapes to form on the comforter.

A desk sat in one corner, littered with wadded up pieces of paper and pens. A few shelves were pushed against the walls and filled with books. Some books sat on the floor in front of the shelves. How does Betty manage to make a mess of books look like they are perfectly placed? [y/n] will always wonder. 

"Simple, I heard the devil call out my name" [y/n] said in response to Betty's question;

"Why did you leave Riverdale two years ago? you just got up and left, it broke my heart”.

Betty's eyes shifted to the side and they soon became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As she blinked, they dripped from her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip tightly in attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from her mouth; my heart sank.

Seeing Betty like this really broke my heart, all I want to do is protect her, that’s one reason why I left in the first place.

[y/n] whipped the tears from Betty's eyes.

"Betty.." [y/n] cooed,

"I'm back now and I'm staying, trust me, its like everyone born in this town in bound forever to it".

Betty accepted that response, however [y/n] didn't want anymore questions around why she left, so she changed the subject.

"Betty.. Chic seems nice.. Considering his current situation, I mean I can understand why he is a bit crude, he just reconnected with the family that gave him up, but your dad, he seems to hate him?" I inquired, really curious to why this is.

Betty shook her head "[y/n] I have no idea, mum loves him already and if im honest its like shes trying to make up for all the years she lost with him, but I can't understand why dad doesn't want the same, its like-" Betty was cut off by her mum entering the room with a huge smile.

"[y/n] its getting late, are you going to stay over?" Alice asked politely.

I always loved Alice, she was like a second mother to me when I was little, if I wasn't at my house, I was at hers, if I wasn't eating at my house, she always made sure I was feed.

"That’s okay Alice, I should be getting back to my Grams now, I'm sure she’s getting worried, iv been out all day" I refused politely much to Betty's dismay.

[y/n] hopped off Betty's bed and gave her a warm embrace and told her she'll see her tomorrow at school and made her way home.

[y/n] walked. She walked as her hair fluttered in the air, her clothes clung to her body, arms tightly wrapped around her. [y/n] felt cold wind stroking her skin, wanting to rip her clothes off her, as if she were its enemy. 

She lifted her hands to the air to feel short bursts of rain.

As she walked she couldn't help but remember that cursed night, that night her family left for Greendale, [y/n] remembers this path, because she ran it that night, remembering passing Betty and Archie's house at an ungodly hour, never knowing when she'll see them again.

*Flashback*

Being chased was nothing like the movies. The stars look heroic, sexy and in command of the situation. Reality was far removed from that pretty version of running to save you skin.

I'd had no time to put on shoes or even grab my jacket, my parents pulled me from my bed whispering to me;

"It's no longer safe".

Panic took over my expression. I could only think one word.

Hunters.

They travel to innocent towns, looking to exterminate unwanted family's. At the time Riverdale was innocent. 

Greendale on the other hand was not. It was known for its mystical nature. Hunters wouldn’t dare enter, it was the only safe place for our kind.

The mundane fear the town over Sweet Water River, ever heard the saying;

'you should know better than to be caught in Greendale after midnight'

Usually you would run from the town, yet the crescents were sprinting towards it.

My souls crashing into the asphalt a few times before I transitioned to the balls of my feet. My face is flushed red and my expression is pure panic.

The crescents managed to make it into the forest, the moon was at its peak and spooky doesn't quite cover it and eerie is an understatement of this situation.

I've seen darkness before, the kind that makes this forest look like an old fashioned photograph, everything a shade of grey. This isn't like that. This is the darkness that robs you of your best sense and replaces it with a paralyzing fear.

I only know my eyes are still there because I can feel myself blink, still instinctively moisturizing the organs I have no current use for, since the darkness was blinding. The only way I am getting through these thick trees is the hand of my father pulling me along.

By my genes I am a predator, I have the front facing eyes and brain enough to hunt, but I feel like prey in this utter black.

The dawn is hours away and until that precious time I can only run for my life. 

Hunters, they are skilled, deadly skilled, yet still mundane, and don't have the senses of my parents. Hence why they hunt us. And why they will always hunt us.

*End of flashback*

The memory sent shivers down [y/n’s] spine, as well the now pouring ice cold rain.

However the rain was the least of her problems in this moment, as she heard the revving up of motorcycles, she found herself in stumbling into a civil war.

There was stillness on both sides. If hatred was visible the air would have been scarlet.

Screams broke out. The men rushed forward, the attack was fierce and efficient.

[y/n] wasn't foreign to battles, she fought many herself, hence why she decided to climb the tree to her left and perch herself up on nearest branch. Ready to watch this turf war commence.

'This should be interesting' she entertained this thought.

As the fight was happening, [y/n] noticed a certain tall dark and handsome serpent throwing punches left and right.

'He is a good and confident fighter, its like he is trained.. Riverdale needs more of that' she smirked as she studied his fighting skills. 

A certain red head crashed a punch into Sweet Pea's stomach, a sudden gush of pain jolted throughout Sweet Pea's body. His stomach ached, his arms lost tension and his legs began to weaken.

[Y/n] studied the look on his god like features, its like she could read him like a book.

"He will not get the better of me" his features read.

His tongue was soaked in the taste of blood. Bruised and winded, with a leg in agony, he grabbed the foot of the captain and pulled him to the ground. His head was pounding. He brought a fist to the captain’s face, snapping his nose into a state of grotesquerie.

It pained [y/n] to see Archie this way but she commended him, he grew up over this past two years. 

'Least he is out here throwing elbows, thats my boy' she praised him internally.

"Listen here Northsider!" Sweet Pea demanded loud enough for the whole street to hear, as he man handled Archie's letterman collar.

"Normally I would give you mercy, however you think you can come to my house, stick a gun in my face, and there wouldn't be any payback? You're stupid. You blame the Northside for all the problems in this town! Watch us be declared innocent then see me come out fighting. I've thrown one punch at you and I already see you quiver. How weak you are? This isn't cruelty Andrews, this is justice. You cannot control your actions and so I’ll control you. Continue to fight me and you know I'll win, or maybe you like gambling? It's a sin, you know"

I sat there with my jaw dropped in utter shock at Sweet Pea's monologue.

'What the fuck have you been up to Archie, i thought he knew better than to mess with the Serpents.. Jesus' I internally battled whether to stop this, Archie can clearly fight but facts are facts, Sweet Pea could easy take him out.

Just as I was about to come down I heard my name being called.

"Veronica?" I whisper yelled.

She looked as though she had been running due to her flushed cheeks.

"What the hell are you doing here" She asked me wide eyed.

"Being entertained" I deadpanned.

"[y/n] that’s Archie out there, with the serpents fighting, we need to stop this right now!" Veronica rushed towards the madness but I grabbed her by the arm to pull her back to me.

"Veronica no listen, they are hand to hand combat right now, running in there unarmed or just running straight into those muscle pigs will get you hurt" I warned, Betty informed me Archie and Veronica were an item, and I also know Archie.

He would be beside himself if she got hurt.

"Oh but sweet [y/n] I am armed" Veronica pulled out a gun out of her obsidian hooded cape.

[y/n] studied the gun, it was, small, discreet and deadly. The metal was cold in Veronica's hand, icy perhaps.

"Oh Lodge you really are a paradox but I am not going to ask why you have that right but If you want to stop this fight I have a plan".

"Shoot, what's the plan" Veronica was serious about stopping this fight.

"That’s exactly the plan, shoot" I deadpan once again.

"What! Are you crazy we can't just-" Veronica panics.

"No no not at them! up into the air! It's a small gun but trust me it will be loud enough to capture everyones attention, but once you do that, you have to run and get Archie out of here! if the cops aren't already on their way they will be now, then once you’re safe get rid of that fucking gun!" I carefully yet firmly explain to Veronica as i hold her shoulders, she is smart she understood every order and was on bored.

[y/n] gave Veronica a encouraging push.

Veronica ran between two cars, now her senses sharpened with adrenaline, Veronica held her breath, still straining to focus with every ounce of her concentration is focused on making this right. Cool air whispered through her body, she breathed in;

She fired.

Not too long before Veronica fired, [y/n] ran over to where the Serpents kept their motorbikes, knowing Sweet Pea will run this way out of instinct.

[y/n] was right, once that gun was fired he sprinted in her direction, she took this oppotunity to grab his arm and drag his weak state into her side.

"Listen to me, the cops are on their way, now unless you want to be hauled in by the police you should follow me, I'll help you" [y/n] said with utter seriousness.

In this short moment she wasn't admiring him from afar, she was inches away from his heated body. For a moment it shattered her to see his features this way, He's a bloody mess, nose bleeding and his right eye black and blue thanks to Archies left hook. His arms are wrapped round his guts like he's holding them in. he's beat so bad.

"We don't have all day!" [y/n] raised her voice in fear as she saw him contemplate.

"Why do you want to help me" he didn't say with a raised voice, it's like he's speaking while being choked, he must have taken a few hits at his throat while [y/n] was with Veronica.

"Remember when you saved me from falling on my ass? Yeah well lets call this me paying back my debt to you okay, now let me help you this time". [y/n] made her point, a broken chuckle escaped his busted lip.

The sirens were becoming louder the cops were coming, it was time to get going.

[y/n] snaked an arm around his waist, he slung an arm over her shoulder, instinctively, almost like it was a natural fit.

Their bodies were much different in height and stature, yet that didn't stop [y/n] from easing any type of pain she could.

My feet slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves as I round the corner, the cold night air shocking my throat and lungs as I inhale deeper, faster. It wasn't easy having Sweet Pea lean on me. Sweet Pea was 6'5 and very heavy in this weak state. 

With each footfall a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee through Sweet Pea's legs, this was evident as I kept hearing him hiss.

"C'mon we can't slow down, lean on me more if you need to" [y/n] aided him with words.

He let out broken "mhm's" and “ah’s” in response. His mouth continuing to fill with an Iron taste as his teeth bit into his lips, clearly trying to stop himself from moaning in pain every second.

Due to this he kept spitting blood onto the ground.

"I'm sure you're leaving a trail with the amount of blood you're spitting" [y/n] sassed him.

"Well princess I can't swallow It can i? if I was Dracula, I would" He still managed to sass back even though he's seconds from passing out.

I'm confident I'll get Sweet Pea back to Grams safely, I know this estate better than they do, those cops are just pretty boys in uniform, shipped in from the nicer end of town. They're weighed down with guns, batons and electrical stun devices, all of them useless unless they get a clear shot, which they won't.

I can hear them panting with the effort from three hundred yards behind, that's how freakin' noisy and slow they are. Conditioning from a tread-mill with a stop-watch will never beat real-life training on the streets.

[y/n] knows that better than anyone, and if anyone can understand her street training, It would be Sweet Pea.

He wouldn't have trusted her with his life unless he had a feeling she knew what she was doing.

And Sweet’s had an intuition that was never wrong.

A/N: ahhh! This was so fun to right, I didn't want to end it! But I have to keep you guys wanting more hehe. How are you guy's enjoying so far? I'm mixing the current Riverdale storyline and the storyline from past episodes, so I hope you can understand that. And oooo what do you think about little miss crescents past?  Feedback is always encouraged and welcomed :)

Be well x

Also should out to @sweetypeaimagines <3 go check out her work its so lovely! And she is so sweet! She deserves all the recognition she gets.

[thatwhichmovesthestars]

Chapter Two: The Dreams That Came

Chapter 2

The Dreams That Came20 March 1823Seven years later…

Waiting in the antechamber of her mother's sickroom with Sir Walter, Beatrice stared out of the cottage's main window in a trance: it was the first day of Spring. When he and Logan arrived minutes before, she opened a window to let the sweet scent of an overgrown honeysuckle shrub find its way into the home. On the edge of the window rested three tightly sealed jars, each with different colored glass. Inside of the jars were leaves, herbs, and berries of different kinds melding together to make sun tea. Behind the jars, a wind chime that Beatrice made for her mum played simple melodies with the breeze. Through the window and past their yard, an ocean of bluebells near the Brightwall Library swayed harmoniously with the wind and seemed to dance with the chime's music. While we love her every season, Beatrice thought of the old maxim, it is springtime in Albion that makes the blind wish they could see again.

And it was the exact reason her mother requested to live out the rest of her days in Brightwall, rather than stay at the castle in Bowerstone. When Beatrice asked why she wanted to move to the country town last Spring, her mother replied, "My love, because the bluebells are to die for," with a wry smile. It was now eleven months later and the violet-blue bulbs were appearing yet again, although Beatrice knew this would be her mother's last season. She had been dreading this day. Beatrice could not shake the feeling that her mother's indomitable will to stay alive these past few weeks, despite being at the peak of her illness, was for the sole purpose of seeing the flower in bloom one final time. She felt a heavy pull in her chest as she stared into the rich blue blossoms; it was only a matter of time.

"Beatrice," Walter interrupted her thoughts. "I know this is hard for you, and I want you to know that I am always here. Before your father left, he asked me to take care of you and your mum until he returned," he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "and I have done so with honor. So, tell me kid, is there anything I can do?" He gave her a serious look, "Because honest to Avo, you look like you'd jump out the window next to me if I weren't here to grab you."

She took her eyes off the bluebells and smiled weakly at Walter, "I'm sorry, I wasn't meaning to ignore you. It's that…everything hurts like it did when Papa went missing." She squinted her eyes and searched for words, "Even, even the flowers, Walter…I wish I could pause the sun and stars for one day." He nodded his head in sympathy. He is too kind to me, Beatrice thought to herself about her companion. Since her father left, Sir Walter had graciously filled the empty spot in Beatrice's life. Most days he trained her in combat, some days they would walk the gardens while she asked him questions and he shared war stories. He escaped to the provincial village to visit her as often as he could, and she knew he was too busy to come as often as he did.

He had been her listening ear when work consumed Logan. The arms that reached her during her darkest days and placed her on her feet time and time again. A shoulder to cry on when Jasper explained to a young Beatrice that, "feelings for the housekeeper's son are natural, but he is not of your class." The calloused hands that escorted her and her mother to their seats at royal banquets when others had their husbands and fathers to fulfill the duty. The heart that took in his king and closest friend's children when he had not asked for the task, when he had not had children of his own. None of this was lost on Beatrice and she was eternally thankful for his unconditional love. Knowing that her mother's death was coming and that Sir Walter would try to take on the role of both parents, her gut became heavy with guilt.

"There is something you can do for me," she said to clear her mind. "Don't let Logan leave for Aurora. We need him here. I need him here. I imagine it will only be days when he is no longer prince regent and crowned the new king." Her voice was rising in anger with each word. "What could possibly be so important that he would leave at a time like this?"

"You know your brother. When his mind is settled, it is impossible to move him. He is like a boulder," Walter said before lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "Beatrice, you and I both know he hasn't been himself lately. Like you, he too is in pain. He busies himself to cope," Walter stood up and motioned for Beatrice to do the same. He held out his arms to her and she could not help but want the comfort of his embrace. She didn't make a noise as she rested her head on his shoulder. He squeezed her tightly and, when she closed her eyes, it was as if she was hugging her father again.

"Have you gotten taller?" Walter asked.

"I think so. I'm fourteen, soon to be fifteen, you know. Logan is almost as tall as Papa was, maybe I will be too," she replied.

"Wow, only fourteen, huh? And to think you're more mature than me," he laughed.

Beatrice knew he was trying to distract her, trying to make her feel better for even a moment. But she couldn't stand it, not when she wanted answers and certainty. She cleared her throat and asked, "Are you going with Logan to Aurora, Walter?"

He paused and responded, "No, I'm staying in Albion. We've already worked it out." Softly, he stroked the back of her head.

Beatrice let out an exhausted sigh. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chanted. Pulling back and cupping her hands around his in appreciation, she gushed, "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Thank your brother then. It was one of his many pre-departure plans," Walter replied. Now that she was more grounded, Beatrice could sense a cloud of resistance growing within him.

"What other plans does he have?" she asked.

Walter shook his head in exasperation, "Logan has scheduled a meeting with our favorite business advisor. He wants to give him complete control of industry while the soon-to-be king is away. It's an absolute balls idea, but he cannot be convinced otherwise."

"Does that mean Reaver will visit Bowerstone more often?" she asked.

"I suppose. I know that he is having a manor built in Millsfield, so he'll be physically closer." The reaction of the princess surprised Walter. It was the first time she displayed an ounce of energy since he and Logan arrived, "Why? Do you need to see him?"

"Oh no, I'm just shocked is all. I cannot believe Logan is sharing any of his work burdens, especially with the likes of Reaver." Beatrice was lying, but Walter failed to notice. Unbeknownst to anyone except her mother, Beatrice had been trying to contact those that would be able to help her find her missing father and Reaver was on her list.

Beatrice had wanted to search for her father the moment he was declared "dead," but it was as if life circumstance prevented her. Her mother's sickness, which meant she was now living outside of the castle in Brightwall, and knowing Logan refused to discuss the subject, left Beatrice few options. She tucked her desire to find her papa beneath her duty as her mother's caretaker and did not mention it again.

She had been living in Brightwall for exactly five months when the dreams began.

On the first night, she dreamt that she was a child again, sleeping in her bedroom at Bowerstone Castle. Her papa stood in her doorframe and beckoned her to follow him. She struggled to keep up with his long stride while they wandered the hallways. Finally, reaching their destination at the doors of his office, her papa turned around and smiled at her. Walking toward the bookshelves that lined his walls, he knelt, grabbed her small hand, and ran her fingers over the spines of his books. Suddenly, she was back at the start of the dream and her papa stood in the doorframe once more. The dream repeated itself for the rest of the night.

When Beatrice awoke the next morning, she quickly reached for the dream journal she kept near her bed. Everything had felt so real – as if it were a memory rather than a dream. Thumbing through pages and pages of entries for that year, she looked for any mention of her father. Not once had she dreamed of him; instead, her entries were riddled with nonsensical images and the same recurring nightmares from her childhood. Beatrice wanted to believe it was a sign, but as the excitement of seeing her father again settled down. She told herself that his "visit" was simply a product of missing him.

Yet the next night, she dreamed of him again. She knew she was in a portside town when salty air filled her lungs. A large stone building was to her right. At first, she thought it was a castle in ruins, but as she approached she realized it was a stadium. Roads were muddy and houses were unkept, and most townspeople around her mimicked their surroundings in both attitude and uncleanliness. She could feel that she was taller and more powerful than her waking self; she must have been older. Beatrice looked around for her papa, but he was nowhere to be found. An overwhelming sense of panic filled her and she began running up the hill towards a wooden tower that overlooked the town; any reservation she had was gone as she desperately looked through the crowd of people for her father.

"Papa! Papa!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, but it was not her voice she produced. She stopped in her tracks right before hitting the tower. Beatrice felt a hand on her back and she swiveled around.

"Ah, Sparrow! There you are," the man said with a large grin. "Got that 5,000 gold for me yet?"

"Who are...?" Beatrice replied.

"You'll be well-pleased with the results, Sparrow. This area is ripe for expandoration!" The man laughed again and Beatrice stared at him incredulously.

"What did you call me?" she asked.

"Sparrow? That is you, innit? You look the same as ever," his mouth relaxed into a straight line. Beatrice reached behind her and immediately felt the hilt of a sword. Pulling it over her head, she gazed into her reflection. Looking back at her, in the polished metal of the blade, was the face of her father. She was him.

"Do you see it?" the man asked.

Beatrice returned her sword to its rightful place, "I think I do."

"No. Do you see it?" He asked again and pointed to a pocket on her chest.

"Oh!" Beatrice slipped her hand into the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper along its single crease, revealing a photograph.

"Do you see it?" The man was smiling again.

Beatrice studied the photo; it was of her Papa and a woman. And despite the woman being older than she was now, Beatrice knew it was her. They stood next to each other, stone-faced, directly facing the camera. Their bodies were identically postured, with one glowing hand to their side and another hand rested on the hilt of a long, uneven sword balanced on its tip. The man before her stepped forward and ran his finger back and forth over the crease in the photo. He placed his hands over Beatrice's, folding and unfolding the photo before her eyes. She realized that when folded, her father laid perfectly on top of her. They were mirror images. One of the same.

"I see it now," she whispered.

Beatrice hit the ground beside her bed with a hard thud. Moments passed before she realized where she was and her mind was racing. Grabbing her journal, she stumbled through the dark to her desk. After finding a match to light an oil lamp, she began sketching furiously. She drew the face of the man from her dream, the town she had visited, and in as best detail as she could, the photograph. Trance-like, it wasn't until she had finished that Beatrice took stock of what laid before her. None of it was recognizable, but she knew it held significance.

The third evening, Beatrice was jittery with anticipation. She was afraid that she had overthought it – that she ruined the possibility she would dream about her father again because she wanted it so badly. She closed her eyes and concentrated her breathing to lull herself to sleep. Four breaths in, six breaths out, she thought as her chest filled and deflated.

Soon, Beatrice found herself standing at the top of a tall peak. Her senses were heightened and she was filled with wild anticipation. She looked down at her hands; they were her hands. She felt her face and ran her fingers through her hair; it was her face and her hair. She was dressed in the same chemise she had gone to bed in. Looking around the gray rock on which she stood, she could see figures materializing to her left, front, and right, but it was difficult to concentrate on any single object.

"Beatrice, what exactly does Lucien want?" said a familiar voice to her right. In complete disbelief, she turned toward the direction from which the comment came. Standing face-to-face with Reaver, Beatrice did not immediately recognize him. He was leaner, youthful even, with blue eyes that were intense and unnatural. There was no foreboding discomfort. No air of malaise. No hint of existential ennui. It was not the dark figure to which she had become accustomed. Beatrice was bewildered that he seemed to have asked a question for which he did not already know the answer.

"Reaver…are, are you okay?" she asked.

"Aside from godlike power? Hmm, that's a tough one," said a woman to her left, who Beatrice immediately recognized as Hammer.

It dawned on her. She knew enough history about the Heroes of the past, including her father, to know the story that was playing before her eyes. It was the night her father defeated Lucien. Her eyes scanned the darkness and soon, as she expected, the foggy image of Garth began to form.

"That kind of power is a means, not an end. What does he want to do?" Reaver replied.

The apparition of Garth had turned into a corporeal being. He spoke, "When I knew him, he wanted to resurrect his family. Probably still does. But, give a beggar a million gold, he'll buy food – until he's full. And then he realizes bread isn't the only thing for sale." Beatrice could not believe it – the stories of her childhood were coming to life before her and it felt so very real.

"Now we can begin…" came a woman's voice from behind her. "Stand in the center, Beatrice. You represent that which binds the three together: Strength, Skill, and Will." Cautiously, Beatrice stepped toward the area asked of her by the voice. She looked at the Heroes that surrounded her. Auras were forming around their bodies and it wasn't until she heard the scraping of Reaver's boots against the stone that she realized they were being lifted from the ground. Each, floating in the air, was held in place like stiffly shifting animals caught in a trap.

"Gaze into them, Beatrice," the voice felt closer, as if inside her own mind. "Gaze into them in the way that I know you can."

Closing her eyes, Beatrice felt a cracking stone under a hammer, the recoil of a discharged pistol, the hanged man's snapping rope. Her head broke the surface of their tepid inner waters and she drew in a sharp breath, her first breath. She opened her eyes and felt the flutter of eight eyelids. Staring in front of her, she saw herself from three perspectives while still maintaining her own line of sight. She looked down and saw Garth's hands, Hammer's hands, Reaver's hands, her hands before her. She felt their rage and her calm, their fear and her excitement, their strong push and her stronger pull.

Becoming faint, Beatrice concentrated all eyes to the center of the circle and stared at her own body before her – this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, she thought, and the words echoed through four minds harmoniously. Her body, her true body and not the others she currently inhabited, rotated its neck and the three necks around her moved in complete synchrony. She balled Garth's fist and all the other fists followed. She pushed Hammer's foot into the ground and felt the ground push back four times over. She ran Reaver's hand down the length of his other arm and felt the sensation hundreds of times over, as both the one touching and the one being touched. It was an exponential combination of limbs.

And it dawned on her; Beatrice was not controlling them, no, she was experiencing them. I represent that which binds, they all thought while a smile spread across their four faces.

"Good evening, princess."

Beatrice shot up from her deep sleep and stared at the end of the bed. She felt nauseous as her focus adjusted to being only a single set again. She tightly closed her eyes and placed her palms on her temples as the room spun around her.

"Good evening, princess," the voice called out again and she knew it was real. Beatrice's eyes shot open to reveal her bedroom illuminated with a bright light. It was as if someone had sucked the pigment out of the entire room. Everything was a shade of gray.

A hooded woman stood at her footboard, her hands clasped before her. "I would introduce myself, but I do believe you recognize me."

Beatrice studied the woman as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her heart felt as if it were in her throat. "Yes," she whispered, "you're Theresa. It was your voice in my dream."

"That it was," Theresa replied as she stood still as stone. "I realize you could not have expected me. My presence on the night of Lucien's defeat did not make the history books."

Beatrice nodded, "I know you from my father's journals. He was an excellent artist."

"Much like yourself," Theresa moved a single arm and beckoned for Beatrice to follow her. As if being pulled by an invisible string, Beatrice's body immediately reacted.

"Is this a dream?" the princess asked.

"Does it feel like one?"

"No, but neither did my other dreams."

"Interesting," Theresa replied as she guided them to the bedroom desk where Beatrice immediately opened her journal and inked the steel tip of her dip pen. "Listen carefully princess, it is time to begin the search for your father. You are the only one capable of leading him home."

"Where is he?" Beatrice wrote in her journal, directly under the area she had transcribed what Theresa had told her a moment before.

"No place that I can reach. But, I believe the three Heroes of your father's past can aid you. Begin with your father's journals, within them lie secrets that only you can decipher." Theresa paused, "The two of you share much more than blood, Beatrice."

And as quickly as she had appeared, Theresa vanished.

Before her mother reached a point of no return in her illness, Beatrice would sneak away from Brightwall to the castle and look through her father's journals for the clues Theresa had mentioned.

Four months before, she found the whereabouts of Hammer, a now central figure of the Warrior Monks of the North. Beatrice wrote a letter to her pleading for her help. Hammer responded and politely declined, sharing her condolences for Beatrice's loss and citing her role as head of the monastery for the reason she could not leave.

Not that I'd expect you to remember, but I was there a few days after you were born Beatrice. I had never seen a man more in love with a little face when Sparrow held you in his hands. Your father was a protective and resilient warrior, Hammer wrote, and if he is out there physically, or spiritually, I know he is still taking care of you in his own way.

A month before, Beatrice located Garth and tried a different approach to his letter. Both being students of Will, Beatrice confessed to him that she had sensed her father's energy well past when he was believed to be dead, and when it did vanish it was not the way one's life force slowly slips away in death. She had received his letter only one week before.

Garth, unlike Hammer, did not express an ounce of empathy. The only good to have come from his letter was an affirmation: he too had interpreted Sparrow's disappearance in a similar manner as Beatrice. Garth suggested that her father had not died but instead transformed. It would explain the supposed evaporation of his life force from the limited spiritual plane that Beatrice had access to at her stage of Will development. He had also warned her that she might prefer not to find Sparrow if his prediction were true, that her efforts could be worthless, dangerous, or unviable. Surprisingly, Garth had invited her to visit him if she had the desire to become his apprentice in all matters of Will. Beatrice refused to respond to him: she was angry and afraid of his prediction. Any hope of finding her father was depleting daily, but she still had one more person left to contact and she was saving him for last.

Despite his role as advisor to both her father and brother, Beatrice had not interacted much with the bizarre industrialist since her father left for his quest in the Winter of 1819. Even before Theresa suggested contacting her father's old friends, Beatrice had thought Reaver was hiding information about her father. He was a man that knew a considerable amount on every subject and going-on under the Albion sun. She had wanted to talk to him, but she suspected that Reaver actively avoided her. And, truth be told, she was hesitant to approach him.

Even when she tried to find him, Reaver was always a room or hallway away, surrounded by others like a shield or had departed alone without a word. She knew he attended royal events and met with her brother regularly, but he somehow stayed just out of her reach like a dark mirage. But despite his distance, Beatrice sensed he kept a keen eye on her every move, whether they were standing inches apart or on opposite ends of a ballroom. And though she still was still unable to read him, she could not mistake the burn of his stare.

After neither her father nor his men returned by 1821, Reaver suggested that Logan stage a symbolic burial for their father and solidify her brother as the future monarch. The closed casket ceremony had taken place a year ago, and it was the last time she had tried to speak to Reaver about her father.

"We need to talk after the burial. Privately," Beatrice had said in a low tone after arriving at his immediate right. She had snuck away from her mother, fought her way through a crowd of admiring men and women, and forced a woman near him to move after giving her a quick shock on the thigh. Despite his not showing it, she knew he had not expected her to approach him; she had broken their unspoken agreement to stay away from each other.

"No," he replied in one short note.

"I was not asking you," she responded.

He looked at her from the side with surprise, scanning her from head to toe. "My, my, how bold you've become, little princess. Your demands are a hard slap across the face, whereas good persuasion should be as delicate as a kiss upon the cheek." He placed one gloved hand on her shoulder and hissed in her ear, "Which do you think I prefer?"

"I do not know," she replied with sincerity. He continued to stand near her in silence. When she looked up to his face, which was considerably closer than when she was a child, he seemed to be waiting. And even she knew Reaver did not wait for long. Beatrice cleared her throat, "May I speak to you, in private, after the service ends?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sighed. "I'm rather busy, but I will think about it during this charade of a memorial." Before leaving her side, he asked, "Do tell, how is your training coming along with Sir Walter? I've seen you practicing quite often during my visits with your brother. His choice in office location allows him to have a full survey of castle grounds from his window." Reaver smirked, "Discovering any newfound talents, princess?"

"I will share every detail you desire after our discussion," Beatrice replied coolly. Reaver let a small hoot, and if she were correct, it seemed as if he were amused by her candor. He nodded his head and tipped his hat to her before sauntering off to his seat where a butler waited with an umbrella to block the sun from his skin.

Once the funeral had ended, she searched for him in the ample crowd of attendees that flooded the front courtyard of the castle. Considering his height, and ostentatious manner of dress, she quickly noticed him walking alone into the castle and toward the gardens. As if he could sense her stare, Reaver turned and looked at her. She knew it was an invitation to follow.

Beatrice attempted to move through the crowd, but mourning nobles surrounded her to express their long-winded sympathies. Her agitation was beginning to show and she was getting short with the guests. She could feel that they were either emotionally vacant or fearful of the coming change in power, not necessarily upset by her father's assumed death.

"Yes, yes, thank you. Yes, it is awful. Absolutely, I understand. Okay, thank you. Thank you. May I please get…okay, yes, I know. This is a difficult day for us all, but I need to move…" Beatrice muttered to the crowd while trying to avoid eye contact. The number of people surrounding her seemed to grow by the second. It overwhelmed her.

She struggled to break free from their touch and questions when her fingers began tingling. "Oh no," she muttered to herself and looked at her hands. They felt stiff as if readying for an attack. In her confusion, she could not discern what power was building in her; fire, wind, electricity, or something else entirely? Whatever it was, it was numbing her extremities and made her feel as if she were standing ten feet away from her body, like a specter watching a human drama unfold. She wrapped her arms around her chest as if she were giving herself a hug to ground herself in the present. Beatrice tried to speed her breathing back up instead of slipping into the tranquil state of her Will, where time moved infinitely slower and her thoughts became dangerously singular. She readied to move out of the growing circle of people around her before unintentionally injuring them and outing her powers on the most public day of her life.

Unexpectedly, she felt the firm grip of two hands on both of her shoulders and it snapped her out of her trance. Logan placed his head near her ear and softly spoke. "Beatrice, can you at least act the part today?"

She turned to her brother, arms still wrapped around her chest, and pleaded, "Logan, please. Please, I need to go to the garden, you don't understand…"

He cut her off and spoke through clenched teeth, "No, I think I understand completely. You are a princess, and with the privileged life comes an irrevocable duty to act like one. Right now you are being a child."

"Reaver is waiting for me in the garden, I need to speak to him!" She was raising her voice and he gave her a quizzical look.

"He is not waiting for you," Logan pointed toward the cobblestone road that led to the castle gates, "He is leaving," Just as her brother had stated, Reaver was walking toward his carriage with the quickened gait of someone not returning to their previous place. Her heart sank and any cresting Will left inside of her fell back immediately.

She knew she could run after him. It would have been easy to scatter the horde of people with a burst of fire from her hands. It would have been exciting to leap upon his moving carriage and stealthily slide through the door with grace. And it would have been satisfying to sit across from Reaver and have this full attention. No doubt he would have been impressed, even if he tried to hide it.

Yet, she did not move; instead, she kept up appearances for the sake of Logan and the court. In that moment, as she watched Reaver head away from the castle, she made a promise to herself that changed the course of her life. From that point on, she Beatrice, daughter of Sparrow of Bowerstone and Iris of Woodseed, Hero Princess of Albion, would stay loyal to her own desires and not to the expectations of others. Especially those who demanded arbitrary social order.

Her father's mock funeral occurred the year before and during that time her mother was soundlessly developing a deep sickness. Beatrice immediately felt whatever was growing inside and was terrified beyond words. It was no surprise when the royal physician shared the results of her mother's exam weeks later: she was dying. As months passed, her mother became a shell of her former self. She lost weight to the point of being skeletal, bruised easily with even the gentlest touch, and found it increasingly difficult to breathe with activity. Beatrice tended to her daily. She read her books from the castle library, made her various tonics from the garden, and would lie in bed with her mother and watch her sleep. The reality of her mother's coming death consumed her thoughts and she was obsessed with keeping her well. It wasn't until Theresa's visit those few months before that Beatrice even considered taking up the task of finding her father again. She shared Theresa's prophecy with her mother and it was the first time the ill queen felt hope for a future she would not see.

Despite her death coming soon, Iris asked to be moved to Brightwall to live out her final months. It was where she met Sparrow all those years before becoming Queen, before bearing their children, before she knew what it meant and what it took to love a Hero. They had married in the newly built Brightwall Library, a gift from her fiancé and inspired by her love of knowledge. It was there, as her first act as new queen, she tended to a large vegetable garden that supplied free food for Brightwall citizens. She taught classes on herbology and passed down familial recipes to anyone who would attend. It was that same garden that she had taught Logan and Beatrice about the omnipresent spirit of nature and how to listen to its voice. Brightwall was the place that Logan learned how to swim and Beatrice climbed trees. It was the place that Iris discovered Beatrice could make the same fire as her husband within her tiny hands. And it was the last place she had seen her love, Sparrow, before he left on his final and fated quest. Beatrice knew these details well, and when her mother asked to move to Brightwall during the Winter of 1822, she happily agreed to go with her. It would not be until their mother passed away that Logan would finally gain the official title King of Albion…

"Beatrice," she heard softly behind her. Snapped back to the present again, she turned to see a solemn Logan leaving their mum's room. "I've missed you," he confessed as he approached her. Beatrice immediately felt the urge to run to her brother, but she stopped herself. He looked sick with grief and responsibility. The wrinkles along his forehead belied his twenty-one years of age.

"Oh Logan," she sighed. Within a single hand, her brother could hold all things he cared for, but he cared for them so deeply that he hid them from himself. When Beatrice peered into her brother, she felt his love for family and country and it looked very different than her own. Logan could easily be overwhelmed if he felt those same things he cared for were slipping, like the potential loss of their mother, so Beatrice eased herself into his space. Just as when they were children, Beatrice had to follow Logan's rules if he was upset. Otherwise, he would let his anger get the best of him.

"Don't use your little gift to read me if you hug me," he said flatly.

"Brother, I wouldn't dare," she replied as she walked into his open arms. Trying her best to keep her promise, Beatrice focused on physical senses so as not to "read" him. She felt his warmth, heard his rapid heartbeat, and discerned the difference between the smell of his waistcoat versus the smell of his skin. His body was stiff and she reminded him, "I've told you before, I cannot hear thoughts and I do not see the future. I just sense things, like feelings," she closed her eyes and hugged him closer. "Logan, your face has always revealed how you felt. There is nothing to hide with you because it is already on display," she added, attempting to relax him. It worked.

She felt his body soften a little and he reciprocated the strength of her embrace. What she did not mention was that her little "gift" of reading others was developing quickly. It was no longer just feelings and images she saw when she read someone – now they stayed longer and were in her control. No surprise readings anymore. She could see clearer and search deeper, peeling back the layers of a person's inner world like the petals of a rose. Just days before, she touched an object and successfully detected the residual emotions imprinted upon it. She would not dare mention this to Logan, who she knew would have felt threatened.

"You smell like home," she commented.

"You should come back to Bowerstone once this situation has," he hesitated, "finished."

Beatrice nodded in agreement, but her return would not be the return her brother expected. It would be easier for her to explore her father's belongings and continue her search for him. "Logan, I would love to come back to the castle. Are all of my things there?"

"Just as you left them," he responded.

"And what about father's things? I wish to archive them with Samuel. They are artifacts of our country's history now," she asked with hope.

"Well, yes. Anything that you would consider appropriate for a library has been moved to his former office. I don't go in there often. I have turned the War Room into my personal study."

"That sends quite the message, doesn't it?" she commented. Walter, who had been waiting quietly while the siblings spoke, coughed to stifle a small laugh. For a moment, she thought the remark would upset Logan. Sometimes it was if he regarded every one of her actions as an attack. But, instead, he laughed softly.

"I cannot wait for that wit to return home. How has the castle survived without it?" He replied in jest and walked to his coat. "Beatrice, these past few years have been trying ones. I do appreciate the time you have spent with mother. I hope I do not come off as unaffected." Buttoning up his coat and retying his cravat, he nodded at Walter that is was time to leave.

"You hurt, Logan, just like the rest of us. It may appear differently, but I will never dismiss your feelings because they do not look like mine. I love you." Beatrice sighed, "But I wish you would hold back your voyage to Aurora until after the funeral, I don't want to do this without you."

His signature frustration with her began to arise. "Beatrice, you are not alone. The court will assist you with all arrangements. The staff will wait for your word and properly take care of any issues. You are well supported without my presence. You are turning fifteen soon, you are nearly an adult." She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a single finger. "This is how I wished to see mother last, alive and with her full dignity. She is not upset with me. Unlike you, she is fully aware and understands the duties of a king, just as she did with Father. Albion cannot wait a moment longer."

Beatrice kept her mouth shut tightly. A part of her wanted to fight him on this, point out the error of his thoughts, tell him that she needed him there, not for taking care of arrangements, but for solidarity. But a much larger part reminded her that with Logan's absence, she could return to searching her father's journals without his watchful eye. "I do hope you are more successful than Papa with your campaign."

He ignored her comment until he reached the door. "Do not worry yourself any more than necessary, Beatrice. It isn't good for your health. I will see you as soon as I return," and with that, Logan and Walter left the cottage.

Three days had passed since Logan left for Aurora. Sir Walter had returned to the cottage and brought several of the castle staff with him. They came in shifts; one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one for overnight. Beatrice didn't mind the extra company, although she felt there was not much to be done except wait. Obviously, she told herself, when Mum passes their real work will begin. Beatrice let out a ragged sigh and walked outside to the front of the house. She turned in the direction that she knew faced Bowerstone and felt incredibly empty.

"What will I do without her?" she asked herself. Coming from behind, she heard the pitter-patter of little feet. She turned to see a young girl running toward the house holding a bonnet in one hand and a small parcel in the other. Beatrice walked toward the road to the greet the girl.

"Hello there!" Beatrice said and bent down to meet the tiny messenger at her eye-level. "Are you coming to visit me?"

The girl was grinning from ear-to-ear. She whispered, "Are you Princess Beatrice?"

"Why yes, I am," Beatrice pulled up the sides of her dress slightly to denote a small curtsy while still balancing herself low to the ground. "And what is your name?"

"Martha," she replied and returned the curtsy.

"Princess Martha?" Beatrice responded quickly with an encouraging smile. She loved the energy of happy children. It was infectious.

"Princess Martha!" the little girl mimicked with enthusiasm.

"And what royal business do you bring me today, Princess Martha?" she asked.

"This here is a parcel for you, princess. I was told to run!" Martha handed the package to Beatrice. She turned it over and saw a tag with distinctly untidy handwriting spelling out her name. Immediately she knew it was from Elliot. Reaching into the front pocket of her half-apron, she fished out two silver coins and a small piece of candy for the girl. Martha squealed with happiness, waved goodbye, and ran back in the direction from which she came.

Inside the parcel were four items: a small satchel of dried tulip petals, a needlework bookmark embroidered with from my Heart, a dark green ribbon, and a small note. Beatrice unfolded the paper and read:

My dearest,

My parents and I are swiftly traveling back to Albion. I plan to meet you in Brightwall unless I receive word to do otherwise. The satchel is for your mum and the rest is for you. I have missed you greatly and wished my return was under different circumstance.

Tenderly,

Elliot

She placed the contents of the parcel into her half-apron and went back to the house. Beatrice had not sent for Elliot, although she was relieved to hear of his return. She now knew members of the court in Bowerstone were sending word to those close to their royal family. People were gathering, preparing for a ceremonial transition of power, but she refused to acknowledge it aloud. I wish Logan were here, she thought.

Without saying a word to anyone in the house, she hurriedly ran up the stairs to her mother's room. As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with the scent of medicinal herbs and fresh flowers. Her mother weakly looked in the direction of the door. With every passing day, Beatrice's heart sank while she watched her mother disintegrate in front of her eyes. Her bones jutted out of her skin unnaturally, like poles meant to pitch the fabric of a tent. Her legs had swollen beyond use, leaving her bedridden. It wasn't long before she had stopped eating completely. Unsure if out of solidarity or grief, Beatrice had stopped eating too. As minutes passed Beatrice knew she was approaching her greatest fear: death meant that she and her mother would be eternally separated by the impenetrable void, cast from each other only to be left completely alone. And for what? she found herself asking the silence of her mind.

Since birth, Beatrice was told she was the mirror image of her mother, Iris. Everything about them was fluid. Their round and expressive faces, curved figures, ocean blue eyes, silken hair the color of honey. Both moved their bodies freely like water running down a window and possessed a presence that warmed those around them like summer rain. And now her mother laid before her as solid as a corpse, each gurgled exhale sounding as if she were drowning in herself. Without her mother, without her mirror image looking back at her, Beatrice did not know who she was to be anymore.

"You look beautiful," Beatrice whispered and she meant it. Iris smiled. "Elliot sent a gift for you," she said as she pulled the satchel from her half-apron. "They're dried tulips. The fragrance is pleasant." Her mother did not react but closed her eyes. Beatrice pulled a small stool close to the bed and sat down. She clutched her mother's hand, "Mum, I wish you would eat. If not for you, then for me?" At that, her mother's eyes slowly opened again and she turned her head to face her.

"Trust me," she said so softly that Beatrice almost thought it was in her own head. "I am not leaving."

"Yes, you are," Beatrice spat out through clenched teeth. Her own bitterness shocked her and she instantly regretted her tone.

"I am only…changing," Iris struggled with her words. It sounded as if stones were tumbling around her lungs with each breath. "You are the love of my life," she paused and looked her daughter in the eye. "And that," she exhaled roughly, "doesn't die."

Beatrice leaned forward and rested her head near where she clutched her mother's hand, "I do trust you, Mum."

Iris was ready to depart from this world, and without being able to explain it, she knew Beatrice was somehow keeping her alive. She had no tangible proof, but she had long accepted there were forces at play in this world much bigger than herself. Her daughter, like her husband, was given the gifts of a Hero. Was that not proof enough of the divine? But, there was another power inside of her daughter that was not skill, nor strength, nor an ability to conjure fire at her will. Iris always described it as Beatrice being able to see another's soul, but she did not know her daughter could also reach inside and hold that soul in her hand. She discerned that Beatrice was not aware of it either, at least not yet.

Knowing it was the only way she would be able to move on, Iris asked her daughter what she had wanted to ask as soon as the bluebells bloomed that final Spring, "Let me go? I am tired, my love."

Beatrice noiselessly lifted her head from its place on the bed with a wide-eyed expression. Tears had been cascading down her face since she had laid her cheek to the quilt. The two women stared at each other in complete silence. Beatrice's emotionless face slowly turned into one of realization and Iris did not have to ask; she knew her daughter was reading her in that moment. And she knew Beatrice understood the depth of her request in the way only one who can hold souls can understand.

Delicately, Beatrice pulled her hand out of her mother's, stood above the bed, and kissed Iris on the forehead. "I love you," she managed to say while trying to control the lump growing in her throat. Iris looked up at Beatrice to reply, but Beatrice just smiled and nodded her head, "Sweet dreams, Mum."

"Goodbye, my love, until we meet again," Iris closed her eyes peacefully as if falling asleep. Beatrice silently walked across the room and sat in an armchair that faced the bed. She laid back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the feeling in the room. Her mother's essence was vanishing. If death only changes us, Beatrice thought as the life force across from her faded, I have yet to find the new form of anyone I've lost.

She thought of a young Logan dancing in the kitchen while their mum made rosewater and of Jasper helping her mother fix her crown, which always seemed crooked. She fondly remembered Sir Walter chasing a weasel out of her mother's castle apartment while the children yelled at him, "Don't hurt the little weasel! Sir Walter, be careful, he's so tiny!" and her mother laughing until she produced tears. Beatrice thought of her mother and father and their glances to each other, always with the hint of a smile and always filled with love. And then there was just her mother; the image of her in the garden, wearing her favorite white gown that settled like seafoam at her feet, smiling and opening her arms to her daughter.

When Beatrice opened her eyes, her mother was completely still. She sat for a moment, checking the room again for any sign of her mother's presence, but she could find none. Beatrice exited the room and shut the door behind her softly. She looked at the lady's maid that waited near the wall and solemnly nodded her head.

"She's gone for good."

[greetingsfromthebottomofthewell]

THE PUPPETMASTER’S REGIME: ACT I

[directory]

things could go exactly how you want it. and i could be exactly how you want me to be.

[source] [triggers]

Have you ever heard of the musical "The Puppetmaster's Regime"? Most likely, you haven't. In fact, most die-hard theatre lovers are often unfamiliar with this little production. It was a 1934 stage musical written by anonymous authors of the music, lyrics, and book. It starred upcoming performers such as Timmy "cutie-pie" Wright, Sally Wilkes, Henry Gregory, as well as many others. At the time, it was the most expensive show to date. It was said to be the biggest, most spectacular stage show to San Francisco and back.

From the testament of Tyler Warwick (1901-1983) "I went to see the show about a week after I turned thirty-three. The ticket was a gift from my sister, who knew how much I loved the theatre. I remember the signs, they were huge and rather gaudy. Oh, and the playbill--it was just a single red dot with a doll-like face on it. It seemed a bit melancholy for what I assumed was to be a musical-comedy, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was going to see a Broadway show."

From the testament of Georgina Long (1911-1984) "The cast was made completely of 'new' people. Young children and adults alike who were longing to get back on stage after Vaudeville became old news--it was quite charming really. But I did take a bit of notice to that odd little playbill...all the playwrights and lyricists and everyone were all unnamed, and that design...it was a little red drop with a peculiar little face in it. Not even a title, just that little red dot. I had come to New York with my parents on an impromptu vacation after my grandmother had died...a Broadway musical seemed just like what we needed. (…)"

From the testament of Carl Hannigan (1920-1993) "I do recall most of the first act. Then again, who could forget? The story was a little hard to follow at first. There was a little boy who lived in a puppet shop, or maybe he lived down the street--no, no, he worked in the puppet shop, but he was homeless, so they provided him with a home there. The kid's name was Mori..Mortim...something weird...oh yes, it was Morietum...no, Morietur. Morietur, yes.

Anyways, Morietur's employer was this old man named Mr. Obcisor. I remember his name because his character was unimaginably unsettling--bouncing all around and getting angry and the little boy, all while keeping this nasal, gigglish voice. Anyhow, the production opened to Morietur and the odd fellow getting into an argument over the boy not doing his work, then two of them sang this peculiar number about puppets...it wasn't a normal song...or at least, the musicality wasn't normal. The lyrics were very enchanting, and the music did this odd flowing thing about the room…instruments would get very quiet without losing any power to it; maybe it was just the acoustics--I'm most likely explaining it all wrong. Oh well. But...in time, we got used to it, and the show progressed..."

From the testament of Gabriel Johnston (1919-1976) "This youngster, Mori- Morietur, something like that, was quite insecure about his stay in the puppet shop--very paranoid that his boss would throw him out. I was an aspiring lyricist at the time, and I'd done the lyrics to a few original community theater projects, so I was fascinated with the wording in these songs. I scribbled down a few lyrics after I’d went home. Unless I'm remembering wrong, the little puppet-shop-boy and Mr. Obi-something had a introductory duet, and then Morietur went off and had a short lament in a different, much more somber tune:

If I stay, and do everything right I can live in the day, and steer (stay?) clear of the night Out there in the night, in the dark, there’s a world of why’s (lies?)… I can hear them whisper… And sometimes I can see their eyes…

The ‘eyes’ comment confused me for a moment, but then I assumed that he was meaning the stars. It seemed as though the number was unnecessarily tragic and poorly situated within the show, but it was a minor quibble.

Now, Morietur had a girl friend named Trahunt and a boy friend named Adolebit. After interrupting the final note in his lament, they all gushed about how much they loved puppets...but they couldn’t afford one from Morietur’s guardian’s shop. and so they transitioned into this vibrant little song about joining forced to raise money so they could afford to build their own puppet. After this, the three all headed for school, and the story took a sharp turn in a different direction.

(After several attempts to begin again) Now...they had this really nasty teacher or headmistress named Madame Reperio, or something like that. They had a reprise of the song from before and she overheard them, and at first her remarks about the children's fantasies were somewhat comical...but then the light fixed on her and she sang this heartbreaking little song. What the song was about was up for interpretation. It was somewhat about love, but it had all these strange puppet metaphors. The only lyric that’s stayed with me is ‘Stroll through the wood-cracks, show them your pains/The hole in your throat and the strings in your veins’

Then, she just went on this little breakdown--I assumed it was a poorly-conceived character trait. She started singing off key and went to beat one of the kids. The curtain fell, and there was a scuffle heard onstage. People whispered to each other, but a rising new orchestra piece silenced us. The curtain rose again, and we were right outside the puppet shop."

From the testament of Louis Roberts (1905-1967)

"Morietur and his friends went into the town and sang a song about selling...dolls, I think it was. Because the little girl made dolls in her spare time, and she had to sell them. I remember those strange background characters. The company was so absolutely monotonous...they all wore some form of dark clothing, and each of them were very, very tall. I can remember how they all had their faces covered up by hair or hats or veils...none of them spoke. None of them even sang during the course of the show. They just walked in perfectly straight lines, as if they weren't even part of the production. Anyways, this strange song about buying dolls...it had absolutely no life. But for some reason, these children were putting their all into it. I could see the pain in their faces as they hit those high notes. And something else...as the lyrics went on...they seemed to...get...a little...it is so hard to explain. They all looked like they were...hurting a little. They looked so pale and nervous all of a sudden. Coming from a stage family, I convinced myself it was only stage-fright, but it still made me just a tiny bit anxious."

From the testament of Carrie Laurie (1921-1995)

"The kids all got their money from this strange man in cloak who sang a simple little tune...I still remember the lyrics:

Despite the fall of rain, little kiddies, Everyone needs a little song- Wooden dolls give you pain, little kiddies, Go on, little kiddies, run along...

His character was never really explained. But I remember how truly gripping the melody was...so haunting, it got you right there in the gut. Even the little kid actors seemed a bit unsettled by the new turn of the show. They all kept stuttering over their lines as they spoke and sang, and then a light bulb over the stage went out. Everyone kind of gasped and one man I think even laughed. The noise it made really spooked the little girl, little miss whatshername. All the names were so very strange. All I know is that light bulb had gone out, and the actors were stumbling across the stage...and the whole thing looked like a terrible flop.

When the children reentered the puppet shop, they presented Mr. Obcisor with the puppet pieces they’d acquired when the audience wasn’t looking, singing a braggedy sort of chant, ‘we done/we done/diddy-diddy done-done did it!'. It was obnoxious, but thankfully brief. After that, the light fixed on Morietur, and he began another tune. The song was a dud, and all I remember was that he flubbed the last line. The lyric had something to do with 'the final stroke of light', or some sort of long-winded moon-based metaphor. All I know is that he forgot the words, and all that could be heard in that theater was the sounds of car horns outside the building. The boy...he didn't seemed shocked or embarrassed or nothing, but his posture improved out of the blue, and the orchestra stopped. He projected half of the word ‘sorry”, then suddenly he burst forth in wordless vocalization. The music resumed, and the other characters began to join him.”

From the testament of Marcus Edger (1918-1968)

"...So after that bulb went out, the whole set started falling apart. We, the audience, tried our best to ignore it. But it was near impossible. I saw two sets of very angry attendees get up and leave. The set piece for the puppet shop screeched its way onto the stage, and we could see in the far back the paper sky background falling down. The lights went dim in what we assumed was an attempt to hide the malfunctioning set pieces. The kids, with the help of an oddly monotonous Mr. Obcisor, constructed the puppet...and this strange song played. To this day I don't know what they were saying. It sounded vaguely like Latin, but I went on to study Latin in college the next year, and found that guess to come out flat. I remember how it enchanted me, though. It enchanted all of us. We all began to feel this...thing...course through us. I remember a few people around us who were humming in an attempt to rid themselves of the sound, and I could hear people in the front rows crying out in what sounded like pain.

The actors themselves sounded as though they were about to pass out at any moment. They were doing this odd sort of ballet and they were tripping all over themselves, and a few more lights started flashing and breaking. We all sat and waited for the song to end, when...when...I'm sorry. (pause) I'm so sorry...I can't..."

From the testament of George Frank (1899-1999)

"...The lights were going on and off at random, and we were all praying the damn song would end soon. It had this force going with it...it was sucking us in. We could feel it. The little kids and the puppet man were dancing all around when...well, you see...(pause)...I really thought I could do it. I thought I could do it...I was right there in the fifth row, so I saw…but I can't..."

From the testament of Carolyn Mark (1901-1949)

"...The lighting was completely out of control. It was a mess. And that song...it was awful. But something about it...it was powerful. It had a force. I watched intently as the dancers began to skip around and...and...we...I thought they were...the lights..."

The actual events of the final scene of Act I of "The Puppetmaster's Regime" has been up for debate for many years. Not many people are willing to speak out about what happened on stage during those final moments. Many believe that there is no actual record of an interview with somebody who was willing the tell the story…this is not true, as one testament survives from a Billy Prescott, who was only six at the time of the show. At such a young age, one might assume he was less affected by what he recalls happening:

"...I was just a kid, so I don't remember much. All I can vaguely recall is that song...it was giving me a headache. I turned to my father to ask him if we could leave, when suddenly I saw the stage illuminate with this bright red light. The music stopped as one instrument after another died out, and swear I heard pounding underneath the stage. Everyone was questioning what was happening...even the actors. I remember that teacher lady being pushed through the door of the shop...and then everyone else came flying in from offstage, toppling on top of each other like rag dolls. There were people there who didn’t fit the design scheme of the production--stagehands and technical workers, I assume now. I remember the little girl screamed at the audience, then ran behind the shopkeeper while other actors continued singing. A few people started crying right there on the stage when suddenly this...curtain...came forward.

It's hard to describe what it looked like. It was a clear plastic wall, and it came down from above. Several years later I saw "Carrie: The Musical" on Broadway during one of its few runs...that thing that came down on the promgoers when Carrie was using laser lights to kill everyone? It was just like that. A bunch of set pieces from earlier scenes came down on the sides of the stage, trapping all of the actors in the center. Then chaos erupted.

The actors stopped singing, and were pounding on the plastic wall. Then, for some reason, they began to back away. As if some unseen assailants were coming towards them, they fled to the back of the stage--all except the little boy. The little boy who hadn’t stopped singing. Then, amid all that screaming and crying and shooting, the curtain flew out, and everything was in silence.

Due to that odd abruptness, the audience thought it was just a horrible ending to a terrible musical. We were about to get up when suddenly the curtain opened up again, revealing the stationary plastic wall upon which was a single light fixed on the little boy, Morietur. He had clawed his way through the plastic wall...we could see the blood on his hands...but…(pause)…the way he looked was…(…)

There were strings attached to every part of his body. We could all see his stomach...or lack of, anyway. It was like somebody had put a huge ice cream scooper in his belly. He was sobbing all over the stage, twitching and swinging around. It was a sight so unnatural looking, so painful and twisted and wrong...even now, I can't seem to wrap my head around how, but...(pause)...and so...and so everyone looked at him, not knowing what to do...and then he spoke...

"Help me...please...help me..." was all I could make out, and then he vomited and suddenly collapsed. The plastic wall lifted, and lights all came on. We saw the rest of them.

They were all dead. Every one of them looked exactly like the little boy. Everyone had those strings attached...and we watched as all of them, even the little boy...as their strings were pulled on. Their lifeless bodies rose on cue, and they bowed."

However, we cannot be certain that this a credible account...but unfortunately, it's all we have to work with. "The Puppetmaster's Regime" sparked horrible debate among the theatre companies. Several audience members had to be treated to special therapy for years to come...and the show itself was covered up by the police. For years to come the theatre company, as well as the police department, who had never managed to solve the gruesome murders of the cast and crew of the show, denied that the play ever existed. However, in recent years the story has resurfaced...sparking much new debate on the subject.

The theater that housed the musical still refuses to acknowledge the show's existence, and most theatre historians know nothing about the show in general. To this day, the identities of the anonymous lyric and music writers are unknown, and (to our knowledge) all recordings of the songs and police reports have been destroyed. However, through certain pieces of historical documentation, we can gather a bit of information on the production: The show itself had its first workshop in London in 1928. One of the songs, "Get A Puppet" was recorded with vocals by twelve-year-old Garris Creely. However, this recording has been lost, but is supposedly available in the black market of the internet. Other than that, no official records were ever made. Some ancient accounts say that an illegal audio taping of the final scene of Act I was recorded from backstage, but we cannot be certain that this is anything but a rumor.

As for any official memorabilia, very little of anything has survived. Until her death in 1994, theatrical historian Gladys Masters kept two large-scale posters, which she displayed at charity events--but these have since disappeared. Early costumes by Alice Lively, who had been the costume designer on Puppetmaster until she quit after payment disputes, are on display at the Pickett-Dahny Theatrical Museum in Dover, England. Other than that, playbills from its premiere night were given out, but most audience members destroyed their copies after seeing the show. Legend has it, around ten to twenty survive.

On another note, over the years the show has grown a small cult fan base, and here recently, an off-Broadway revival has been scheduled to premiere soon.

[next]

[finalgary]

Let's do this.

Chaos Avenir debuts as a socially awkward teen(?) who is a huge Choujin and pop idol fanboy. Mantaro encounters him at a kid’s choujin wrestling show and the two hit it off almost immediately after beating up Chaos’ rowdy coworkers. Mantaro, believing Chaos to be a truly great wrestler, The Savior of The Justice Rest, drafts Chaos into the tag tournament. Easily convincing Chaos by appealing to his fanboyism, Mantaro notices Chaos’ possession of the Kinnikuman Great mask and Chaos decides to enter the ULTIMATE TAG TOURNEY as Kinnikuman Great the Third.

Chaos and Mantaro causes quite a ruckus when they debut at the tournament. Mantaro himself for being a show-off and Chaos for dressing like Kinnikuman Great. This act alone infuriates both of The Machineguns, both of them seeing it as disgracing Kamehame. Terryman in particular seeing it as an insult because he felt pressured to match Kamehame’s skill and yet here is this random person just dressing like Kinnikuman Great. It doesn’t help that Chao-Great 3 acts like a huge fanboy by filming his own walk towards the rings, and is acting like a buffoon in general. It doesn’t help that the first chance he gets to show his skill he trips and lands on his head. Chao- Great 3 adds more fuel to the fire by creeping out and/or harassing many of the fellow tournament competitors by doing things ranging from giving them custom figures of themselves to slapping paper on their faces.

Chaos Avenir’s relationships with others is probably the most problematic thing about him in terms of writing. Whether it is the new or old generation he in general is quite rude to them when he isn’t blinded by his fanboy love for said individuals. To describe it for those who may be familiar with American comics, imagine if Kamala Khan gushed about a hero and then spent a whole issue getting upset at them, with some reasons including said heroes being themselves. To be fair, he holds no real personal grudge against the Nisei era heroes despite more than likely seeing the controversial scene of Mantaro (unintentionally) letting Alisa get stabbed by the Death Watch Branding. But that doesn’t mean he likes the New Generation, either.

Chaos’ relationship with most of the Time Warp Choujin varies from contempt to casual indifference to some degree of respect. He never got to interact with Checkmate, save for seeing how messed up Checkmate is after losing his face. Barrierfreeman and Iryuhin also don’t directly interact with him, but are inspired by his skill against Neptuneman to act for his sake. But he does feel sad when he listens to their “final farewell” so that’s something. But he also has a flashback that may or may not have amplified his feelings as opposed to feeling sad due to the severity of the situation, either is really possible. Chaos’ relationship with Terry the Kid varies from being a fanboy spectator to feeling sad when Terry is in pain. But he does seem to respect Terry for being his dad’s son. It’s weird, because whenever Terry is seen and Chaos is around, panels usually focus more on Mantaro reacting than Chaos. But it seems like Chaos doesn’t dislike Terry, unlike some other Time Warp Choujin.

Chaos’ attitude towards the Time Warp Choujin takes a turn for the worse when he sees the Super Trinities (Jade and Mars) fighting against the Hell Expansions (Neptuneman and Seiuchin). When Mars is tagged in while donning his Mask of Madness and begins single handedly dominating the other tag team, it makes Chaos disgusted. Mars’ tactics and Mars’ goal to get the trophy bulbs for himself leads to Chaos stating the New Generation sucks. He sticks with this belief for a bit, to the point he even lashes out at Mantaro. It takes Jade’s heroic nature to turn that belief around for him. But he never really seems to care about Mars after Mars demonstrates his heel-ish attitude. You could say Jade is one of the members of the Time Warp Choujin that Chaos cared about most. He did go out of his way to make sure Jade kept his precious photo. Chaos spends most of his time scared of Seiuchin, but he does follow suit with Mantaro’s speeches about how Seiuchin isn’t actually a bad guy. He also does protect Seiuchin’s folks. So it’s sort of a tossup between Jade and Seiuchin for who Chaos cares about most from the Nisei era other than Mantaro.

Chaos’ relationship with Mantaro is pretty interesting. It puts Mantaro in a mentor role, something he’s never been in before. Mantaro as a mentor coddles Chaos to the point he would take a severe beating for him. Despite the (unexplained) belief that Chaos is human, Mantaro still goes pretty above and beyond for Chaos. Chaos meanwhile, spends at least a good half of his appearance constantly wanting to give up or doing things like ditching Mantaro. It’s almost incredible how much tolerance Mantaro has for Chaos’ childish antics. As time goes on, Chaos shows that he cares a lot for Mantaro. I personally think Chaos helped Mantaro become more selfless. The sad thing is that the relationship is a balancing act between Mantaro shining as a mentor/leading man with Chaos growing from a meek fanboy to the “super powerful plz do not nerf oc do not steal” mad man that he is before his “death”. And when the balancing act isn’t, well, balanced… their relationship seems to get worse. When Chaos is in control, you could say he isn’t really treating Mantaro like a friend, which is depressing considering how much Mantaro has stuck his neck out for Chaos and how much Mantaro clearly enjoys Chaos’ company.

Chaos’ relationship with many of the classic characters, from the moment he was introduced to them, is rocky. He comes off as a bumbling idiot for a good chunk of the tourney, he’s dressed like Kinnikuman Great, and he’s tagged with that asshole that hurt Alisa. Then he makes everyone look bad by basically being a big baby. First impressions are everything, and most of the legends’ first impression of Chaos is he cries often, spends time making figurines in the ring, may get lucky once in a while, spends more time running than fighting, and that he is dressed like Kinnikuman Great. No, rather, he is sullying the Kinnikuman Great line. Chaos himself spends a lot of time being disenfranchised in a way with how his idols behave compared to how he believes they should behave. A key example being most of his fight with The Machineguns is about him being upset that they are behaving in a heel-ish way, something that does not meet his standards. Despite, if he is such a huge fan he should know this, Suguru Kinniku always behaving in ways that can best be described as cheating. For example, stuffing his tights with forks and hammers. But no, Suguru claiming he does things such as bending someone’s finger to get out of a move is too much for Chaos despite Suguru’s past history. That totally ruins Chaos’ reality and… he doesn’t respect his Legends anymore.

Once Chaos loses his meek personality, he doesn’t really show any respect towards those he once idolized. But at the same time, more of his idols grow to respect him due to his skills and nothing else, really. Save for Neptuneman. Neptuneman liked Chaos because Chaos saved him. It overall leaves you with this weird feeling as Suguru cries once Chaos dies, because it feels more like it’s an obligation writing-wise as opposed to Suguru actually liking Chaos. Ramenman also really likes Chaos, to the point he appears in Chaos’ fever dreams sort of like how Jade does for Mantaro and Ramenman communicated mind to mind with Suguru. Although to be fair, Chaos and Mantaro humble Suguru and Terryman (because they apparently needed to be humbled), and also helped save Suguru and Mantaro when they fell out of the mountain ring. So, Chaos does have his positive moments with the legends.

While I have listed some of Chaos’ positive interactions, it’s really tough to say he actually bonded with people. Overall, they sort of felt like “Well, he’s sort of a nice guy…” mentality. He spends a lot more time yelling at people, saying they aren’t great, or just looking shocked. He doesn’t even really get along with Mantaro that well, unless he’s upset. Even Suguru, as petty as he can be, still got along with Kamehame as Kinnikuman Great. Chaos is like Suguru and Mantaro without the charm.

You can argue Suguru and Mantaro behave towards others similar to Chaos. Refusing to cooperate, petty, and quick to hold grudges. But beneath that exterior are two choujin who love their friends and have a very powerful moral compass. You can argue which of the two between Suguru and Mantaro is more of a jerk, but that’s for another day. Suguru and Mantaro thrust themselves into their friend’s problems, sticking their noses in to help out. Their noble personality draws others around them, their empathy is one of the things that keeps people around. Chaos is, from start to finish, Suguru and Mantaro but without their empathy. He spends so much time in his own little bubble despite being right smack dab in the action and panels for people to cry about their friends. This series that focused so much on friendship power just took a screeching stop to introduce this guy who treats almost everyone like crap for a vast majority of the time, everyone who comes to like him likes him after they beat him up, and he doesn’t even have time to care about their problems.

That’s horrible to me. He doesn’t fit in this series, and it really stands out when he’s arguably the main protagonist of all the volumes he is in. He just feels so out of place in this series. I really wanted to defend him, I really did, but after rereading every volume he is in numerous times… I can’t. He can be a nice person, sure, but again: He’s just Mantaro and Suguru without their empathy.