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silvergeek · 6 years ago

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The Tale of Mister Robert “Bob” Gray.

Full fanfiction is located here.

At this time, dear readers, we must take a moment to break away from our narrative at hand. Because, at this time, we need to focus on a different narrative to understand the current story, the stories we've read, and the stories we will, someday, read.

Pennywise the Dancing Clown came from a story widely known – widely loved. But as it were, the words jumped off the pages of that book and landed in a collection of minds – a hive of thoughts. The named “Robert 'Bob' Gray” became a topic of focus, for so little had been officially written about him. The monster took the name, true as gold, and that was the word of God – or rather... that was the word of the monster's creator, Its author. Beyond that name, not much else was known about Mister Gray, and certainly nothing else was ever, or had ever, been explained.

Bob Gray became the start of a question. “Gray” was a query, a thing of mystery that so many desired to solve. Through readers' own suppositions they did conceive various tales about “Mister Gray” – who he was, what he did, and how he became an urban legend.

Mister Gray.

Bob Gray.

Robert Gray.

Each of those whispers, those quandaries, those theories, those amateur fictions... they led to arguments, debates,and essays – but none of them were one hundred percent accurate.

However...

None of them were one hundred percent wrong, either.

A good story is an amalgam of half stories. Tales pieced together like an epic foil ball, containing only the most compelling bits carefully cherry-picked from the bunch.

So this, dear readers, is the actual, true-to-god, story of Mister Robert “Bob” Gray. Would I lie to you? Me? Your storyteller? Why yes – that's what any good storyteller would do. So, as I'd said in the beginning: If you don't trust me... then stop reading. Are we ready? Let us begin...

The Tale of Mr. Robert “Bob” Gray (better known as) Pennywise the Dancing Clown

Gray was a man between the age of thirty and thirty-five, and he was a tall man with sandy-brown hair and striking blue eyes. True enough, his hands were large, his fingers long, and his legs put him around six and a half feet tall. He wasn't a heavy man, but by no means was he scrawny – not at his height and certainly not at his age.

Gray was indeed an immigrant from Sweden who had, at the ripe age of seventeen, sailed over to the northeasternmost region of the great United States of America. He did indeed come over to the land of the free with little else but spare change and a willingness to work – even if it broke his back. Now, understand this... his name wasn't Bob Gray back in the old country. No. His birth-given name was Robert Grå. Just like that, with the funny circle above it and everything, or so the Americans said. Hell, it meant the same damn thing between the languages, but those American types sure relied heavily on everything being spelled out in English. And so... Robert Gray it became – or Bob if someone was feeling particularly informal.

By his twenties, Bob had made a name for himself in the township of Derry, Maine. In so much that he was the man you'd call on if you'd needed odd jobs done. Some farm work here. Some machinist work there. And every year there'd be a carnival that rolled through Derry, as sure as rain. The event lasted through a long, summer weekend, and when it was over, those carnies packed up that carnival like stuffing socks in a suitcase. You'd better believe Bob Gray was willing to help out with the odd jobs at this event. It was only for a weekend, but the coin was good.

A carnie – a real leathery fella – by the nickname of Carnie Ron had been the one who'd personally tasked Bob Gray for the right wages. He'd set Bob to work on various chores like fixing things that went broke and restocking prizes, food, and refreshments as they'd been consumed (maybe once in awhile thieved) throughout the weekend. The downside for Bob was that this carnival only came once a year. A man needed to live the rest of those twelve months. Regardless, he took what he could, worked his duties, and collected pay from Carnie Ron.

It wasn't until Bob's third year that things had changed. One of the carnie hands, not Ron, asked Mister Gray to fill in as a clown – something to keep the younger kids entertained while their ma's and pa's drank themselves loose on cheap stout (which made them spend all the more coin for the rest of the night).

And that's just what Bob did. He put on the clown suit, which was little more than a dingy, old pair of men's pajamas, and caked some white pancake makeup all over his sun-soaked face. Then, Mister Gray took a bit of red paint and gave himself a big, merry smile from ear to ear. He looked just like the Cheshire Cat, if that wicked old cat was ever the clownin' type.

“Hand me all those balloons,” Bob had told that same carnie hand, and – boy oh boy – Mister Gray took to being a clown like a duck takes to water. The kids got a dance out of him, silly voices, crazy faces, and each one of them walked away with their own balloon after they'd begged their ma's and pa's (til they were blue in the face, no less) for the extra coin to buy their very own from the clown. Why, Bob even took a paintbrush to the balloons and signed each one of them, like he'd been peddling out his very own autograph. (As if he'd been anything to anyone at the time, but for that measly hour, to those kids, Mister Bob Gray was like a god.) Before he'd signed his first balloon, Bob had to think of a name on the fly. He saw those coins jingling in the youngsters' hands and it just came to him: Pennywise. Pennywise the clown. The clown that danced, even sang a tune or three, and handed off balloons with his signature and everything.

It wasn't long after that day that Bob Gray got to thinking that he could do this for a living. He could entertain, sing, dance, and overcharge for cheap balloons. (And he could do it more than once per year!) So, with the money he'd saved thus far, Mister Gray bought an old, worn down caravan off Carnie Ron. He'd fixed her up and painted a likeness of his clownin' self across her side. Then he wrote the words, as big and as grand as he could: The Great Pennywise – The Dancing Clown. And, sure enough, that had been Mister Bob Gray's modest source of income for years to come.

What Bob Gray hadn't known was ...that in all that time... he was being watched. (And interestingly enough, he'd been watched by two very different sets of eyes.)

The first, and prettiest, set of eyes that'd been watching Mister Gray from afar belonged to Miss Melody Sharp. She was a provocative young woman with a lean build and a face that could charm the skin off a snake. Her hair was thick and golden and often prettily decorated with some ribbons or another. Her eyes were deep and beautiful, like a pair of sparkling sapphires. One look from her and it could melt any man's heart. (Well... almost any man's.) It was true. Miss Melody was a lovely thing, and even lovelier was her soul. She'd help just about any person in need, no questions asked. Miss Sharp was a kind girl with a gentle touch and a soothing voice. Why, her tone was so pacifying that her own birth-given name didn't do it justice. Yes, just about any man in the Derry township could agree that listening to Miss Melody Sharp speak was like being serenaded by a warm, beautiful song.

Now... don't ask me why... but poor Melody, for some unholy reason, had her sweet heart set on Mister Bob Gray. One could theorize that she took to him because he'd been so engaging in his performances. Perhaps he amused her which had, in some way, bewitched the sweet girl. One could also argue that she took to him because, admittedly, Mister Gray was a handsome man with those unconventionally attractive Scandinavian looks. Oh sure – he was tall and strong and his eyes were piercing blue. So blue, in fact, you could swear that god himself plucked two pieces of the sky and stuffed them right in Gray's sockets on the day he'd come squalling into the world.

So, without a doubt, Miss Melody Sharp had fallen for Mister Bob Gray. Unfortunately – because life just isn't fair, even if you are as darling and as elegant as Miss Sharp – the man could have cared less. She came around after his shows while he'd been winding down back behind the caravan, and it was always the same sad story.

“Evening, Robert!” she'd say with the prettiest smile. “I baked you a shepherd's pie.” And little Melody would approach Mister Gray, often times while he was still in his clown makeup, offering the man some painstakingly handmade gift or another. Poor thing. She went a-courtin' after Bob, day in and day out, never quite getting the hint that he was dead set on remaining a lifelong bachelor.

“Thank you, Miss Melody,” he'd always say, without so much as looking at her. His tone was often quiet, unimpressed, perhaps with a hint of eagerness for her to just go away. Now, there was nothing actually wrong with Mister Gray. Nothing criminal about him. He simply wasn't interested. Some folk balked at his persistent indifference to Miss Sharp, and that's how rumors circulated, but – true as gold – Bob only cared about Bob.

Melody didn't see this for what it was. She persisted in her own way, in spite of his antipathy. “There's a dance at the local hall coming up...” That was her usual line when that time of year came around. “Gee, I'd hate to go alone...”

But of course, Bob Gray, with that thick head of sandy hair sitting on that prominent forehead of his would look down at the hopeful, young woman, clear his throat, and say, “I'm sure you'll manage.” Then he'd turn right back around and stare into that mirror of his as he wiped his makeup from his skin.

Melody had taken Bob for a coy man, which was part of her whole denial over the issue. In spite of his day to day vocation, she was convinced he was shy. And that was the long and short of their relationship, if you had the cheek to call it such a thing.

Then... there had been the other set of eyes watching Bob Gray. These eyes were much different from those of Melody Sharp. These had been the devil's eyes. Eyes from another place – a dark place – not anywhere bright enough to be considered another world. It was like an unworld. A void. Nowhere that any man or woman would willingly go. Perhaps it'd been a place that led straight to hell for all one knew. Hell or death. Or perhaps both.

What is known about the Derry township is that a great evil thrived somewhere at its core. This was an unfortunate truth, one that no citizen wanted to advertise, but a truth with which every citizen was all too familiar. Some said the town was cursed. Others said that the evil bore the town, itself. There was no true agreement on the matter, but, true enough, it had been the same evil that plagued Derry in its later years to come. It was the same evil that eventually caused the Ironworks Factory explosion, the same evil that burned down the Black Spot. Hell, it was the same evil that skyrocketed both the citywide death toll and the headcount of missing children at an alarming rate. This evil... It had a mind. It was conscious. It was self aware. And, regrettably, It took notice of Mister Robert Gray.

For a brief time, It merely watched him. It studied everything about Gray – his daily routine, his habits, his apparel, and his performances. It took to him, you see. It took to his likeness. In a way, It envied Gray – how easily he drew in crowds of people. Gray simply saw them as potential meal tickets... easy coin.

But It...

It saw them as potential meals. Plain and simple.

Bob Gray hadn't been too difficult to drive to madness. No sir. All it took were some whispers in his mind, driving his thoughts to dark places, forcing the man to slowly become unhinged. Gray had begun to question his sanity the night he'd seen himself eat a boy. The creature – It – took to shapeshifting into the very spitting image of Bob Gray. It had strut around, looking exactly like him, right before his eyes, causing the man's mind to snap faster than a stale twig.

“I'm you, Bob!” It had said, dragging around the half dead body of a bleeding and terrified boy. That same boy had earlier been part of the paying crowd that gathered to see Gray's dancing clown performance. Gray screamed, night after night, watching a nightmarish facsimile of himself gruesomely eat away at the flesh and bone of one horrified patron or another.

Tragically, Bob Gray – the man – had become convinced that he, himself, was the killer. Such a thing wasn't true, but try telling that poor son of a bitch that after the terrors he'd been forced to see. Becoming unhinged didn't take long. No sir. Gray's grip on reality had long since slipped clean away and he couldn't live with himself any further. After two weeks of watching the other Bob Gray, Mister Gray fastened a rope up to the branch of a tall tree, secured it snugly around his neck, and promptly took his own life.

The creature... It was delighted. With the real man out of the picture, It was able to take over his appearance, his caravan, and his dancing clown routine. It took over his life. It was the new Mister Robert “Bob” Gray, now. It continued to feed off the patrons who came to see Pennywise do his dance – oh yes – like shooting fish in a barrel. Easy meals – and these types scared real easy, too. It ...Gray... made their meat jump with flavor.

The creature went by Bob's name, who frequently introduced himself as Pennywise, just as his muse (now swinging from a tree) had done. Nothing seemed to be standing in his way to endless meals. No more hunting and starving. No more worrying that he couldn't fill his belly before his long sleep. The whole setup was about as convenient as running a farm.

One day, however, after a few weeks of this delicious convenience, Miss Melody Sharp – oblivious and as innocent as pie – went calling on Mister Bob Gray just as she'd always been apt to do. Melody circled the caravan, peeking around for him, but found that, as it were, he didn't appear to be home. The caravan was, indeed, the man's home. She knew this well. He wasn't the type to stray too far from it for too long. However... without warning – without even a sound – Melody almost jumped out of her own skin when she turned to see Bob Gray just standing mere inches from her, as if he'd noiselessly appeared from thin air!

“Robert!” she'd yelped, raising a hand to her heaving chest. “You startled me half to death. That wasn't very kind, sir.” She chuckled a bit, for there was a part of Melody who had been amused by her own shock, and so her chuckle turned into a laugh. Composing herself, she then beamed a warm smile to the tall man staring her down with intense eyes; a man who sported a grin that didn't seem to sit quite right on his comely face. It looked like the smile of the clown, as if it had been glued, indefinitely, to Gray's lips. It did, indeed, give Melody pause before she continued. “I...” the young woman stammered, “I made you something.”

He stared her up and down – she was dressed in a frilly, sky blue dress with white trim. It was warm that day, so her hair was done up in some fancy knotwork to which only pretty girls like Melody knew the secret method. Gray found her... appealing. Just that brief bounce of shock had sent an appetizing aroma to his sensitive nose – like fresh meat simmering in a spicy stew.

Melody handed him a box. It had been conscientiously gift-wrapped, almost too perfect to tear open. “Go on,” she smiled.

Without a word, Gray nimbly untied the white ribbon around the box, then ripped at the shiny, red paper, peeling it away from the parcel. The box was a simple paper cube, likely something she'd found in her attic. Melody's smile widened as she blushed a little. “Open it up, Robert.”

Gray popped and flipped open the paper flap and looked down. Inside, there was some sort of ivory fabric, pleated and lacy, made from some fancy material or another.

“Here,” huffed Melody, too excited to wait for him to take it out. “Let me.” Miss Sharp removed the item and draped it around Gray's neck. “See?” Ruffs. She'd sewn together custom-made, Elizabethean neck ruffs for the man's Pennywise costume. “I hope you like it.” Still smiling and blushing, she awkwardly looked down.

Gray, he ...It... had never been given a gift before. Certainly nothing intended for the indulgence of his (Its) own vanity. He reached to the back of his neck and fastened the ruffs together, spying himself in one of the makeup mirrors. The ruffs, indeed, looked good. And because Gray looked good, he felt a multitude of good feelings wash over him in that instant. He turned to Miss Melody, clutched her delicate hand, stared into her eyes, and said, “Thank you, Miss Sharp. This is a beautiful gift.”

Melody's blushing cheeks reddened even more. “Will you wear it to your next show?” she'd asked. Some part of her expected Robert to tell her no, rip off the ruffs, stuff them back in that box, and send her on her way.

“Oh yes, Miss Sharp. Melody. Yes I will wear it. I will wear it to every show.” He held her hands a bit tighter, now. Just a squeeze. Then, he let her go.

Melody's heart nearly melted. Meanwhile, Gray excused himself, but unlike in the past, he did so warmly, with a tone that seemed to say, “Oh Melody... please do come visit me again...”

And so... she did. Miss Sharp, bless her innocent heart, did not realize the man called Robert Gray – to whom she'd devoted the remainder of her free time on Earth – was truly not the same man as the one that snubbed her again and again. No. She visited nightly with a foul thing. A skinwalker that had been asleep for billions of years, only having recently awoken within the last few hundred. Thereafter, It followed a sleep cycle of twenty-seven years only to emerge, hunt, and eat on the flesh of Derry folk, before returning to Its rest.

Melody was none the wiser, but she sure was tickled to see Mister Bob Gray hungrily wolf down her shepherd's pie for once in her life. She wondered... did his feelings change for her? Had Robert finally warmed up to her advances? And oh how he wore her hand sewn neck ruffs! Each time she caught his act, he'd faithfully had them wrapped round his oh-so-handsome collarbone. Melody was elated. Robert had finally taken to her.

Now, this is the point in our tale, dear reader, where one might think this wicked creature had depraved plans for the likes of poor Miss Melody Sharp. Did the thought cross Gray's mind to plunge the delicate young maiden into her deepest fears and then proceed to eat her alive? Oh yes! This thought did indeed cross Gray's mind – and more than once, assuredly.

But...

Melody had a certain something about her. Even all the Derry men could agree on that. Perhaps even some of the Derry women, if you can open up your mind and wrap your head around such a thing. Sure enough, that certain something, that unconditionally giving nature of Melody's, well... it was powerful enough to transcend barriers even of the dark, extradimensional kind. People like Miss Sharp don't come around all too often. This dark tale goes to show just how much of a rarity she'd been. Perhaps her certain something failed on the real Robert Gray, but... on the likes of this entity... on this creature... it sure hadn't failed in the least. Gray's ability to probe deep into Miss Sharp's psyche and read her every whim had, unbeknownst to her, enchanted a monster. Not an easy feat to do. Sometimes it was what was on the inside that counted... and in this case, it counted for one's very life.

Gray complimented Melody's shepherd's pie each and every time she'd brought it around, singing the utmost praise to its delicious texture and taste. The animal meat within had been seasoned just right, almost enough to rival the scared, savory flesh of a quivering child.

“They say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” Miss Sharp would laugh.

Gray laughed along with her, oh how he laughed and laughed. Sort of a haunting giggle, really, but Melody cheerfully paid no mind.

One night, Miss Sharp came to Gray, very nervous, hoping to ask him the same question she'd asked each year. The dance. She wanted him to accompany her to the dance at the local hall where all of the township would surely be in attendance.

“Will you do me the honor?” she'd asked. “I know, I know. I ask every year, but–”

“What about now?” said Gray.

Melody quirked a half smile. “N-now?”

Gray took her small hand in his, cupping his other hand to her slender waist. “Would you kindly dance with me now Melody Sharp? Out here? Under the moonlight?”

On cue, her cheeks flushed and she smiled. “Of course, Mister Gray.” Miss Sharp couldn't believe it – she had won this man's heart.

Gray pulled her close, swaying gently, leading Melody along with his graceful strides. He rested his chin on the curve of her head as she felt the soothing heave of his chest against her face. For some time their quiet waltz continued, silently but beautifully, beneath the glow of the moon above, until Gray lifted her innocent face to meet his eyes. He leaned downward and gently kissed the young woman on her velvet, soft lips. She tasted as he'd imagined – sweet and fresh. Gray found himself unable to unlock his mouth from hers. Melody pressed against him in her own, eager way – meanwhile her small but firm hands cupped the rugged contours of his jawbone and neck.

Gray lifted Melody from her feet, still embracing, forever trapped in the perfect kiss. And the two eventually found themselves back inside his caravan, clothing off, making love on a bed roll stuffed with down. Melody had never lain with a man in all her life – and as far as Gray knew, she was assuredly his (Its) first, as well. Their lovemaking was raw, but slow, bathed in a soft light provided by a neighboring kerosene lamp.

Gray had hunted the humans... had fed on the humans... but this...

“I love you,” Melody Sharp had whispered against his lips, now wet from her kisses.

It had been a phrase the humans said to each other when their affections had... blossomed. Gray, for all his evil and wickedness, could only hear himself utter those same words back to her.

“I love you too...” Even though this monster had spent centuries playing deadly tricks on people, this was indeed no ruse. The creature that had driven Bob Gray to suicide, stole his life away, and murdered those who paid to see him dance, deeply felt love – of all things – for Miss Melody Sharp.

And as she moaned and panted against Gray as he bucked his hips into her, he resolved to himself that while almost all humans were potential meat – Melody Sharp certainly was not.

Time went on and the two continued their trysts, but as all stories have a beginning, there must come the inevitable end. Whether Melody Sharp knew it or not – she'd trapped the heart of a monster. Not a small victory, which undeniably makes her the hero of this tale. In spite of how everything shall boil down in the end, Melody Sharp was the one who had saved the monster inside of Mister Robert “Bob” Gray.

Now, Gray, for all that he (It) was... had been a cloud of malevolence cast over Derry. Perhaps, Melody did not perish by the wicked creature's hand in of itself – Its influence was still the death of her. Gray's corruption spread like a disease through the hearts of Derry residents far and wide. Murder. Rape. Arson. All accounts of such heinous deeds increased in frequency, namely when the creature's eyes were open.

Gray waited for Melody that night, as he always had each and every night. How he missed her when she was away. But Miss Melody never came to the caravan that night. She'd taken her usual walking path – oh yes – but this time some men had been waiting for the poor girl. They'd been watching Miss Sharp, memorizing her routine over the course of some time. These men knew that the young lady had coin on her and they were, unfortunately, the desperate criminal types in a rush to leave the great state of Maine. Now, be aware they didn't violate Miss Melody – no they did not. As previously stated, they were in a rush. The thoughts had crossed their ugly minds, sure, but the coin was all they wanted. Truth be told, had Melody handed over her purse, then everyone would've walked away in one piece. But Miss Sharp, deep in her gracious heart, was a hero – she was a fighter. And, bless her efforts, she tried to fight off those men, but she lost that battle. She lost it hard.

In fact, it had been in that very moment when one of the men – whose eyes Melody had nearly clawed from his face – stuck his knife deep in her belly that Gray looked up at the moon above and gasped in sync with Miss Sharp's final breath. Those awful men ran off with her coin – they even took her shepherd's pie. All the while, Gray raced across the Derry landscape, moving faster than any mortal man could do. Though he hadn't moved fast enough and, in the end, he found his love lying flat on the wet earth, bleeding red through the center of that sky blue dress of hers.

Gray took Melody in his arms and shushed her as she choked. Blood bubbled from the corners of her mouth and he held her closer, knowing all too well when a human's death was near.

“R – Robert...” she'd managed to say.

“I'm here,” he croaked in reply, his once smooth voice changing under the duress of watching her die. As Melody's life slipped away, all the affection Gray had for her sunk downward, deep into a forgotten place where he locked away his (Its) sensitivities. Gray's affection was replaced with a heavy layer of malice and hatred for Derry. Hatred for the humans. Hatred for their children. Oh how... how... he would make them suffer. Make them scream. Make them into his food forever and always. They took her from him. Miss Sharp could have been the one to quell his urgency to always consume – but not anymore.

Gray hugged Melody's limp, delicate body close and rocked her. He shuddered with grief so fiercely that he began to lose his form. Tendrils inched out from his spine as he arched forward, cradling his love. But... deep down... that affection still lingered. It was still there... somewhere... buried within a monster who wept into the night. Melody Sharp may have died, but her long lasting impression on Mister Robert “Bob” Gray never did.

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aj-the-psycho · 5 years ago

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The Band of Rotten: Chapter 8

CAUTION

Summary: Roman and Patton finally stepped out of the desert. It won't be long until they reach the coast. Baylen, Remy, Logan and Virgil tried to come into an agreement.

Ao3 Link

United States, 1860

It had been days after their odd evening in the unnamed town, warned of murders. The following morning, they rode quickly away from the town and never looked back. The last few days had been similar to the days before; uneventful under the scorching heat. Fortunately, midday had passed behind them as the evening approached. As the sun sinks lower, they entered a foreign land. The dry soil of the desert no longer crunch under their feet. Instead, they would see the occasional shrub and bush. And soon, they encounter rows of trees and greeneries. The desert was no longer their travelling companion.

Patton sat on the saddle with his ever-present smile—at least it appeared ever-present to Roman. Perhaps he just has a generally kind appearance. The air felt different—cool and a tad heavier. It was still bright when they entered another town, this one much bigger than the last and surely more crowded. A wooden gateway guarded the town with a big sign, Buxcastle. The town was bustling with sounds and movements.

“Excuse me!” A man shouted as he walked past them quickly with a thick rug rolled on his shoulder.

“Comin’ through!” A young woman followed with two big boxes of what looked to be loaves of bread. “Flynn, slow down, would you?”

“Be quick, Mr. Crowley isn’t as patient as he was five years ago!”

Without hesitance, Patton followed the two from his ride, leaving Roman to trail along. He would need to acquire some small information.

“Hey fellas,” Patton greeted. The two strangers jumped in surprise. The girl looked at the rider with wide, bewildered eyes, while the boy pressed his lips thin. “Might need ta ask a question from y’all.”

“Um…” The girl hummed, glancing at her companion who rolled his eyes. “Be quick, we’re in a hurry.”

“Well, how far are we from the coast?”

“Five days. A week at most with your horse,” the boy answered quickly. “Sorry, we have to go now. Come along, Lev, we don’t got much time.”

“Thank you!” Patton shouted as the two strangers continued their way. Quite rude of them not to smile or even say hello, but it was no problem at all for dear ol’ Patton. He rode back, catching Roman’s fatigued look. “Ya wanna ride the mare now, pal?”

“I will be fine, Patton,” Roman said with bravado, puffing out his chest dramatically. “A march such as this is not a hassle for me. The military was a lot harsher with me.”

Patton only smiled, hiding his own exhaustion behind a cheery exterior. They walked through the town, neither feeling any sense of rush or the need to get to their destination in a hurry. It was busy in the town, especially when they reached the market place. There were crates of produce everywhere they looked—rarely any kind of meat. It was a refreshing sight after weeks of sweltering desert. They were finally walking on damp soil, fertile enough to grow food—or any kind of plants for that matter.

The wind was cool over their warm, sweaty skin. There was a fountain, grey stone with some part covered in green moss and algae. Still, it was a beautiful sight to see so much water in one place after having to befriend the desert. Orchard dipped her head into the fountain, taking a drink of the cold water. The children who ran pass them giggled and laughed at the mare. Patton gave them a smile while Roman charmed them with his chiseled jaw and quick winks. It took them another hour to reach the other side of town, dodging past people who were walking and running here and there.

“What would you say about that little warning we were given, Patton?” Roman asked as a random thought crossed his mind. “The murders, I meant.”

“Ah, those…” Patton trailed off. He had tried to forget that odd conversation in the small unnamed town. It was a shame Roman brought it up. Though perhaps he needed the reminder to stay on guard. “I dunno, ta be ‘onest.”

“Don’t you worry. If danger was to come, I would defend both of us.”

Patton gave a small huff of amusement but made no other comment. They walked some distance away from the town, but not too far. The presence of other people around them was comforting, especially with the dangerous threat they might be faced with. This was not a friendly environment, no matter how beautiful the evening sky looks or how the wind carried with it the slightest smell of flowers. There were too many things for them to be cautious about that they couldn’t stop to enjoy the graceful evening.

He could still remember the way his guns move and jolt in his hand every time he shoots. He used to go to the fields with his sisters, play shooting with their father’s empty glass bottles that were filled with whiskey not too long before they were shattered with sharp bullets. The last time he fired his guns, though, did not end too well. It was not a good move, nor was the whole day a pleasant memory in Patton’s mind. Guilt had been haunting him ever since he galloped away into the sunset never to return.

They sat with a fire under a massive tree—one they hadn’t seen during their travel. Roman was no stranger to killings, murders. It was not a friendly or agreeable thought. It had been one of the reasons why he left. In fact, he had left for many reasons. The army, while welcoming at first, was not something appealing to Roman anymore. Not after he saw how the army treated those they claim to serve. He had been young and naive to ever think it was an altruistic role to serve the military. Surely it is, but he could see his country only wanted things for themselves—raid and pillage for the betterment of their own and leave the barren land to suffer.

“We need ta sleep, pal.” Patton’s voice broke through the night. They could still hear the soft murmur of the town a distance away. “It’s not too late yet, but we might need ta pick up pace, ya know what I mean?”

“Surely I do. Good night to you, then, dear rider.”

“And to ya, soldier.”

**********

France, 1860

Baylen paid attention to the details of the man standing before him. His dark blue coat and his black hat were neat, and his dark leather briefcase looked well taken care of. This man is very obviously someone with a true purpose. An intellectual he was, with his dark hair peeking through his hat and framed eyes. His companion, though, was not as impressive-looking. He was small and scrawny, pale as the moon though not as friendly looking—he looked pale even in the darkness of nighttime. There were traces of dirt and mud on his torn trousers and tunic visible even in the shadows. The thin shoes he wore had seen better days. The dark coat was the only thing presentable.

He thought things through in lightning speed. He had planned to trick Remy into joining him so he could secretly return the nosy nobleman to the noble family and collect his rewards. Seventy thousand Lira was not something he could pass up easily. Yet, while his mind long for that flowing gold, his heart shouted at him at the premise of going to America. There was one thing he was still looking for—one thing he won’t give up even after nine years of failed attempts. Yes, this one was closer to heart. He was torn.

“What news could you possibly offer us?” the glasses-clad man asked. This man speaks with an air of superiority, though with no trace of arrogance or condescendence.

“I have a ship myself and am the captain,” Baylen answered with a seemingly genuine smile—though Remy knew better. “And coincidentally, we were planning to sail to America just as the dawn greets us in nine hours.”

“Actua—” Remy hadn’t had the chance to utter a word before he was interrupted by the captain. He sent a small glare to Baylen only to be ignored.

“Our ship is fairly quick. It would be four weeks of a shorter trip than most of the bigger ships.”

“That does sound rather appealing,” the intellectual said again with a raise of an eyebrow. The man’s companion had been silent, not uttering a single word. In fact, he looked rather lost.

“It does? Why, thank you. I also offer a cheaper price, unlike those corporates and shipping vessels.” Baylen smirked, knowing his trick was working well. Having this man in his ship would be highly beneficial. Having more brains in the ship would be better—although there was a big chance this man won’t cooperative. As for the dirty companion, he didn’t look useful at all. “I do try to be reasonable for pricing.”

“Would you introduce yourself?” Remy asked quickly before Baylen had any chance to interrupt him. “I am Remedio Arlotti. Just Remy is easier.”

“I am Logan Kosko, and this is Virgil.”

Logan was starting to doubt the captain’s claims. The deal he was proposed seemed a little too good to be true. How could a ship that moves faster demand less pay? It did not make logical sense.

“What vessel do you own exactly?” Logan was gaining some confidence with his French. He merely needed a little push to get his linguistic muscles to come alive again after so long out of practice.

“It’s a private ship,” the captain answered. “I do not take passengers too often, but on some occasions such as now—when many are looking to travel—I do offer for a few to come aboard.”

“Where did you two come from?” Remy interrupted the conversation. The question seemed out of place to Logan, but he didn’t mind answering.

“Virgil here is English. I am Greek.”

“In that case,” Remy said with a deadly tone as he sent the captain a glare, “think twice about your options.”

It was a surprise when Remy blurted out in English—not only to the captain, but also to Logan and especially to Virgil. The little delinquent had been harboring suspicions on the captain despite not understanding the conversation. The way he spoke and move was unsettling. There was a certain glint in his eyes Virgil noticed, and it told him of danger. He had dealt enough with dangerous men in his early life, enough to know how to differentiate those who intended to be good and those who are bad.

“What do you mean?” Virgil asked hesitantly, feeling out of place when he suddenly could understand.

“Well, he’s—”

“Attendez un moment,” the captain almost shouted. “Qu'est-ce qui se passe?”

“Bay—” Remy was interrupted again.

“No, what are you doing?” The captain lowered his voice, speaking to the nobleman with alarm.

“What are you doing?” The nobleman asked in retort. “I am not letting you—”

“Gentlemen,” Logan acquired, cutting off the argument, “may ask what is the matter?”

The noble and the captain froze. Remy could not live with himself knowing he could save two people from a trick—a dangerous trick—the captain is playing. He knew he could do the right thing and have these two strangers walk away from Baylen’s clutches. At the same time, he didn’t want to be alone. On Baylen’s ship, he would feel like a captive, being deceived and used. If he could have one or two companions, it wouldn’t be too bad. ‘But that’s selfish!’ he thought, trying not to claw at his own scalp. He gave himself an internal sigh, letting Baylen win.

“I apologize,” the captain said as he cleared his throat. “It was merely a small misunderstanding.”

“Hey, Logan… I don’t know if this one can understand me,” Virgil spoke up with unease and malice, “but I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t even understand what he is saying, Virgil.”

“True, but the way he speaks does not sound trustworthy to me.”

“Let me stop whatever it is you are saying,” the captain interrupted yet again. “I assure you everything is fine, and on that note, this is the last time I am going to offer you my ship.”

Logan turned to the little thief standing next to him. Virgil was looking at him like a child who was going to let out a temper tantrum. And in all honesty, Logan felt pity for him. He looked like he was barely an adult—a child who was forced to grow up too quickly. Of course Logan understood Virgil’s concerns, but there was no other choice he could see. He looked down on the crumpled money Virgil gave him from his thieving.

“Listen, Virgil, you know what this money is, correct?”

“I am not an idiot, smarty! I know what money is.”

“That is not what I mean. You took Pound Sterlings. We are in France, and Pounds do not work here.”

“I can try again.” Virgil stepped away, ready for another steal. He was stopped by a strong grip on his collar. He really was no match to Logan’s surprising strength. “Let me go.”

“Virgil, that is enough.”

“Alright,” the thief said with contained anger and frustration. “When the worst thing comes, you will regret not listening to me.”

“Are you really sure of your decision?” Remy asked after being mute the whole time. He hid his internal conflict well. After all, he’d had enough practice of hiding within himself when he was at home. “Think again.”

“I am not sure if you want us to join you or not.” Logan furrowed his brows.

“That is not at all what I meant. I only wanted you to be sure.” Remy ignored Baylen’s light kick on his leg.

After much thought, Logan decided it was right to join the captain—though with hesitance. The whole exchange had been promising and quickly turned confusing which became suspicious at the end. But Logan was desperate. There was no other way, and he surely couldn’t go back the way he came. The idea of stepping into the New World was something he couldn’t pass up. He couldn’t lose anything else, so he will have to try no matter how difficult.

Virgil was more reluctant. He almost suggested that he’d be left alone while Logan boards the suspicious captain’s ship. Though without Logan, he was a little lost. He knew nothing of foreign travels. It was true that he’d only known Logan for one day, but the man was not too unpleasant albeit a little too talkative at times. He didn’t want to admit he was dependant on Logan, but it was the truth. He gave a sigh as he finally agreed with much concern. Perhaps excessive concern, but perhaps not.

As the four walked to the boat, Remy almost shouted in frustration and guilt. He felt something burning in his chest that he so desperately wanted to claw out, but couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to spend four weeks entirely alone as the captain’s captive toy. He needed someone, and knew this was not the way. He couldn’t see any other option. Remy clenched his fists tightly, willing his misty eyes to dry. This was not right. None of it was. Yet, he couldn’t let out a single noise other than an almost-inaudible squeak. He could see the captain’s mischievous smile. This was a trap, he knew, set up to catch new prey. There was nothing he could have done. At least that’s what he let himself believe.

As they climbed into the boat, René and Collette looked at the two new additions in bewilderment. It was lucky Baylen didn’t forget about the fruits at all—they settled with buying plums and apples.

“What are you up to?” René asked the captain in a whisper. “This isn’t right, Bay.”

“And us being pirates is right? Stop being so naive. You know nothing is fair.”

“We didn’t have a choice. You know how you become the way your are.” René scrunched their forehead in anger. “Did you actually want things to go the way they did?”

“That’s enough, you two.” Collette squished herself in between her two friends. “Honestly, I don’t care whatever you’re doing, Bay. I only worry because you’re going to bring all of us into your game.”

“No, no!” René’s whispers were starting to gain volume, though no one aside from their friends heard. “You don’t understa—this is not honest work.”

“And raiding merchant ships is an honest work to you?” Baylen challenged, his arm not forgetting its task to row the boat farther into the sea.

“I—”

“I know we didn’t choose to be here,” Baylen said with a gentleness so rare. “But we have to survive. And this is how we do it.”

The boat was quiet after that. The three pirates were stuck in the memory of their unwanted past. It was lucky the three of them had found each other. If not, who knew what would have happened to them.

The stars hid that night, covered by thick clouds. Slowly, the firelit windows of the captain’s cabin on the ship became more visible. And soon, the entire ship was revealed from the cloak of darkness as they drew nearer. Virgil, who had been quietly sulking in his head, stared in awe at the ship. It didn’t look as beautiful as the ship which sailed him from Britain to France, but it was impressive all the same. It looked clean enough, though the outer wood was not as sleek. He was taken out of the moment when he saw the name imprinted on the side of the ship. Le Destin Doré. Surely he’d heard of that somewhere. He tried digging up his memories. Perhaps he knew something he didn’t know he did.

Something clicked in his head.

The sudden laughter spilling out of Virgil’s tiny frame was a surprise to everyone. It was not a laughter of amusement or joy—that much was clear. His hoot of laughter sounded almost menacing. Hostile. He stopped his laughter abruptly before everything fell silent. Virgil shifted on the boat, his gaze boring into Baylen’s eye.

“Logan, remember when I told you I used to steal from merchants?” His gaze never left the captain, only sharpening with every passing second.

“Uhm… uh, yes.” Logan’s answered was hurried and unsure. He could not deny the fact that Virgil looked almost demonic with the hard expression of anger on his face. “Are you quite alright, Virgil?”

“So, you’re the captain aren’t you?” Virgil ignored Logan’s question. His voice was laced with deadly sarcasm, as if each word dripped with venom of anger and animosity. “I don’t think I caught your name. But that won’t be necessary, because I know your name.”

“Uh… what is happening?” Remy whispered to Logan who answered with a shake of his head.

“In Britain, merchants discuss their shipping routes for two things.” Virgil did not at all sounded like himself. “One, to see which route is the cheapest and most efficient. And two… to avoid your pirate ship, you bastard!”

“I really did not expect this to happen,” Remy whispered again casually.

“You’re a pirate?” Logan asked Remy in confusion and anger. Virgil was letting his wrath known to the three pirates.

“I’m not a pirate,” Remy answered. “But the others are. I was deceived.”

“Your name, Captain Baylen Delacroix, is known to be a bad news!” The words were said through gritted teeth and clenched fists that even when the pirates didn’t understand Virgil’s words, they were still intimidated. “However it is you pronounce your name, I don't care! You bellend.”

**********

United States, 1860

“Find a man with the name of Luciano D’amico. He was my apprentice back when he was younger.” He remembered the master’s words before he left. “I sent him to the New World years ago. He leads our team there, called the Black Rose. Find it and find him. He will tell you what to do. Do well, boy. Find him.”

He stood in front of a big garage, painted dark green like moss. According to the letter he was given by his master, this was the address he was supposed to go to. Hesitantly, he knocked on the metal door. The sound of clanging metal rang through the space inside, clattering and echoing horrendously.

“Coming!” Came a gruff voice from inside.

When the door rolled opened, he was faced with a massive man. He wore a suit on top of a black shirt. His chest was wide—and really, everything about him was wide.

“To whom does the red crow answer?”

“To the Black Rose it shall give, and turn the red dark.”

The man gave him a smirk. His eyes were a cold void of nothingness.

“I have been waiting for you.”

__________

Frenchy french time!! (correct me if I'm wrong): Attendez un moment [Wait a moment]

Qu'est-ce qui se passe(?) [What is happening(?)]

Prologue Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7 Ch 9

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