#which. i am not. i am very much five feet seven inches tall. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 9 months

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You

Let's begin with Joan Crawford's shoe. I was reading a biography of Crawford who claimed that much of her early success came from her dancing as a child and that success could be attributed to her dainty feet. Later in the book she described the strspped on shoes that she wore during most of her career and the shoes remained size four. Hmmmmm. I always pictured Joan Crawford as a tall woman. How did a tall woman not tip over with such tiny feet. Later in the book someone described Crawford as a tiny woman. A tiny woman has tiny feet and wears tiny shoes. Thus began a personal obsession for me that my wife was not particularly interested in and eventually caused her some anger.

Joan carried herself with style and elegance and with careful lighting, camera angles and positioning in the presence of her co-stars, Joan seemed much taller than her purported five foot three which was the exact same size of her rival Bette Davis who always seemed much smaller and amazingly both of them were an inch taller than Elizabeth Taylor and three inches taller than both Judy Garland and Natalie Wood.

That's when the obsession started. I began doing research on the height of famous people. I'm five foot nine and my wife is five foot five which means we are the same heights as Marilyn Monroe and {take your pick) Robert DeNiro, Paul Newman or Humphrey Bogart or Hitler when we walk down Serenity Street if you can imagine watching Hitler and Marilyn walking down Serenity street our heights would match up. Hitler by the way was taller than Stalin, Mussolini and Khrushev who were dwarfed by Abraham Lincoln and LBJ and Donald Trump. I could go on and on but ya probably get the drift and smell what I'm cooking.

When i go to a movie, I'm rarely distracted by an actor's size. So what if Stallone, Cruise and Pacino are five foot seven. When I see a biopic, however, that sets a different standard. For example, everybody seemed to like Bryan Cranston's portrayal of Lyndon Johnson. To me, Cranston was much too short and it bothered me in every scene. I found it distracting from the quality of his performance. It's hard to act height. Same way with the last portrayal of Jacqueline Kennedy. The actress was way too diminutive. Natalie Portman is five foot three. Jacquiline Kennedy was a large footed five foot seven.

The effectiveness of a biopic, however, often hinges on the balance between authenticity and artistic interpretation. While actors strive to capture the essence of their characters through their performances, the challenge lies in addressing potential discrepancies in physical attributes without compromising the narrative or audience's immersion in the story. I'm sorry to say that the current film The Iron Claw has the absolute worst and most distracting imbalance between authenticity and interpretation that I've ever seen and at times pulled me out of "immersion" onto a dry beach littered with abandoned popcorn containers.

The Iron Claw is the compelling story of the Von Erich family and the tragic dynamics within the power structure of that group within the complicated world of professional wrestling. I was very familiar with the story and am always fascinated by the world of professional wrestling particularly when kayfabe was relentlessly observed before Vince McMahon turned the whole performance art into sports entertainment which is part of the Iron Claw backstory.

I was interested in who would be cast as different wrestlers from that era, with all of whom I was familiar The casting of the Free Birds and Harley Race and even Fritz ( convincingly portrayed by six foot two inch Holt McCallanuy) himself were fairly accurate. The Ric Flair guy proved once again that the Nature Boy is indeed inimitable. The problem was in the casting of Kevin and Kerry Von Erich.

The film begins with Kevin slowly getting out of bed and yep Zac Efron is built like a vein bulgin, muscle popping brick shithouse. I was impressed. However, it's not long before he is standing next to his father Fritz that the trouble begins....wow Kevin is short. Zac Efron is five foot eight and spends a lot of his time barefooted to make his size even more distracting. Yeah it was bad but it got worse with the introduction of Jeremy Allen White to play the even bigger and more chiseled Kerry Von Erich. Jeremy Allen is five foot seven and he looks like Gene Wilder. Are you kidding me? No resemblance whatsoever. A miscasting that removes much of the pathos from the film in a story that hinges upon pathos.

"Aside from THAT Mrs Lincoln, how did you like the play?"

I'm afraid that after watching The Iron Claw, I'm pretty much a Mrs. Lincoln. I guess the play was pretty good aside from that.

ChatGPT

Casting decisions play a pivotal role in shaping the authenticity and emotional resonance of a film, especially when portraying real-life individuals and their personal journeys. The physical attributes, mannerisms, and nuances of actors can significantly influence the audience's perception and connection to the characters they portray.

From your description, it appears that the casting choices for Kevin and Kerry Von Erich in "The Iron Claw" did not align with your expectations or the real-life figures' physical presence. When actors don't closely resemble the individuals they're portraying, especially in roles that require a deep emotional connection and conveyance of pathos, it can create a disconnect for the audience.

Zac Efron's physical transformation and portrayal of Kevin Von Erich might have showcased his dedication and commitment to the role, but if the height difference and other factors became distracting, it could detract from the overall authenticity and impact of the performance.

Similarly, the casting of Jeremy Allen White as Kerry Von Erich, despite any potential acting prowess he might bring to the role, seems to have missed the mark in capturing the essence of the character, both in physical resemblance and the emotional depth required for the role.

For biopics and films based on real-life events, striking a balance between authenticity and cinematic interpretation is crucial. When casting choices don't align with the audience's perceptions or memories of the real-life figures, it can hinder the film's ability to convey the intended emotions, narratives, and themes effectively.

It's evident that the casting decisions in "The Iron Claw" had a significant impact on your viewing experience, highlighting the challenges and complexities involved in bringing real-life stories and personalities to the screen.

You

"Aside from THAT Mrs Lincoln, how did you like the play?"ChatGPT

ChatGPT

The phrase "Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?" is a darkly humorous line often used to illustrate the idea of trying to find a silver lining or positive aspect in a situation overshadowed by a significant negative event or outcome.

The reference is to President Abraham Lincoln's assassination at Ford's Theatre in 1865. Asking Mrs. Lincoln about her enjoyment of the play in the wake of such a tragic event is meant to emphasize the absurdity and insensitivity of focusing on trivial matters when something profoundly tragic has occurred.

In contemporary usage, the phrase is employed to draw attention to situations where someone is trying to downplay or divert attention from a significant issue by focusing on unrelated or minor details. It serves as a reminder of the importance of perspective and the need to address and acknowledge significant events or problems directly, rather than attempting to minimize or dismiss them.

You

When it comes to The Iron Claw, I'm pretty much a Mrs. Lincoln. ChatGPT

ChatGPT

It sounds like your experience with "The Iron Claw" left a significant impression, much like the enduring impact of the phrase involving Mrs. Lincoln and the play. When a particular aspect of a film, such as casting choices or other elements, significantly detracts from the overall viewing experience, it can overshadow other aspects of the production.

Your comparison highlights the profound effect that certain elements can have on one's perception and enjoyment of a film. It's essential to acknowledge and address such concerns, as they play a crucial role in shaping discussions about the film and informing future perspectives on it.

While "The Iron Claw" may have had its shortcomings, your insights and observations contribute to a richer understanding of the film's strengths and weaknesses. Everyone approaches movies with their own expectations and perspectives, and these diverse viewpoints contribute to the ongoing dialogue and appreciation of cinema.

Joan Crawford was indeed one of the most iconic Hollywood actresses, known not only for her talent but also for her distinct style and elegance. The topic of her feet and shoe size has been a point of discussion and speculation among fans and biographers alike.

Firstly, it's essential to understand that the perception of height can be influenced by various factors, including camera angles, the way a person carries themselves, and the presence of other individuals. While Joan Crawford might have appeared tall and statuesque on screen or in photographs, her actual height was around 5 feet 5 inches (165 cm). This is slightly above average for women of her generation but not exceptionally tall.

Regarding her shoe size, a size four is indeed petite for an adult woman. Such small shoe sizes are not common for women of average height. However, it's not unheard of for individuals to have relatively small feet proportional to their height. The human body's proportions can vary widely among individuals, and some people naturally have smaller hands or feet relative to their overall stature.

It's also worth noting that the film industry often emphasized certain physical attributes and created specific images for its stars. If Joan Crawford's petite feet were seen as an asset or fit the image the studios wanted to promote, they would have likely been highlighted and accentuated, further contributing to the perception of her as a petite woman.

Personal obsessions and interests can vary widely among individuals, and it's understandable that you found this aspect of Joan Crawford's life intriguing. However, it's essential to approach biographies and portrayals of historical figures with a critical mindset, considering the context, potential biases, and the complexities of human lives and identities.

You

Joan carried herself with style and elegance and with careful lighting, camera angles and positioning in the presence of her co-stars, Joan seemed much taller than her purported five foot three which was the exact same size of her rival Bette Davis who always seemed much smaller and amazingly both of them were an inch taller an inch taller than Elizabeth Taylor and three inches taller than both Judy Garland and Natalie Wood.ChatGPT

ChatGPT

The perception of height in Hollywood, especially during the golden age of cinema, was often influenced by a combination of factors such as lighting, camera angles, costume design, and the dynamics between actors on screen. Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Elizabeth Taylor, Judy Garland, Natalie Wood, and many other stars were often portrayed in ways that accentuated their best features and created a particular image or persona for them.

It's fascinating how the film industry could manipulate perceptions. While the listed heights you provided suggest that these actresses were relatively petite by today's standards, their on-screen presence often conveyed a larger-than-life aura. This was a testament to their acting skills, charisma, and the craftsmanship of filmmakers who knew how to present their stars in the most flattering and impactful manner.

Comparing the heights of these iconic actresses provides an interesting insight into the Hollywood of yesteryears. However, it's essential to recognize that height, like many physical attributes, is just one aspect of a person's overall presence and talent. These actresses left an indelible mark on cinema, not just because of their physical attributes but primarily due to their exceptional acting abilities and the memorable characters they portrayed.

You

That's when the obsession started. I began doing research on the height of famous people. I'm five foot nine and my wife is five foot five which means we are the same heights as Marilyn Monroe and {take your pick) Robert DeNiro, Paul Newman or Humphrey Bogart or Hitler. Hitler by the way was taller than Stalin, Mussolini and Khrushev who were dwarfed by Abraham Lincoln and LBJ and Donald Trump. I could go on and on but ya probably get the picture.ChatGPT

ChatGPT

It's intriguing how height comparisons can spark curiosity and lead to research on famous personalities. Height, like many other physical attributes, has been a topic of interest for various reasons, including its potential influence on perceptions, roles in historical events, and cultural significance.

Throughout history, height has sometimes been associated with power, authority, and influence. Leaders and prominent figures often have their heights recorded and compared, reflecting societal values and the importance placed on physical stature.

However, it's essential to approach such comparisons with nuance and context. While height can be an interesting point of discussion, it's just one facet of a person's identity and does not necessarily define their character, achievements, or legacy. Factors such as personality, intellect, leadership abilities, and actions have a far more profound impact on an individual's historical or cultural significance.

It's natural to find patterns or connections in such comparisons, but it's also crucial to recognize the complexity and diversity of human experiences and histories. Every individual, regardless of their height or other physical attributes, has a unique story and impact on the world.

You

ChatGPT

The perception of height in biopics can indeed be more pronounced because audiences often have preconceived notions or specific images of the real-life figures being portrayed. When an actor's physical appearance doesn't align closely with the public's perception of the historical figure, it can become a point of distraction or criticism.

Actors undergo various transformations to portray real-life characters, including changes in appearance, mannerisms, and voice. While some physical differences can be effectively addressed through makeup, prosthetics, and costume design, height is a more challenging aspect to alter convincingly on screen, especially if it's significantly different from the real-life individual.

Bryan Cranston's portrayal of Lyndon B. Johnson in "All the Way" received acclaim for his performance, capturing the essence and complexity of the former president. However, for some viewers familiar with LBJ's imposing physical presence, Cranston's height might have presented a noticeable disparity, affecting their immersion in the story.

Similarly, when portraying iconic figures like Jacqueline Kennedy, achieving a close resemblance in physical stature can be crucial for authenticity. Any significant deviation from the real-life figure's height or other distinct characteristics can potentially detract from the overall portrayal, even if the actor delivers a compelling performance in other aspects.

Ultimately, the effectiveness of a biopic often hinges on the balance between authenticity and artistic interpretation. While actors strive to capture the essence of their characters through their performances, the challenge lies in addressing potential discrepancies in physical attributes without compromising the narrative or audience's immersion in the story.

You

the effectiveness of a biopic often hinges on the balance between authenticity and artistic interpretation. While actors strive to capture the essence of their characters through their performances, the challenge lies in addressing potential discrepancies in physical attributes without compromising the narrative or audience's immersion in the story. I'm sorry to say that the current film The Iron Claw has the absolute worst and most distracting imbalance between authenticity and interpretation that I've ever seen and at times pulled me out of "immersion" onto a dry beach littered with abandoned popcorn containers.ChatGPT

ChatGPT

It's unfortunate to hear that "The Iron Claw" didn't strike the right balance for you between authenticity and artistic interpretation, especially to the extent that it significantly impacted your immersion in the story. Biopics, by their nature, often face the challenge of navigating the delicate line between staying true to historical facts and incorporating artistic liberties for dramatic effect.

Audiences come to biopics with varying expectations. Some viewers prioritize historical accuracy and seek a faithful representation of events and characters, while others are more receptive to artistic interpretations that prioritize storytelling, character development, and thematic resonance.

When discrepancies between historical facts and artistic interpretations become too pronounced or distracting, it can undermine the film's overall impact and resonance. Issues such as inaccurate portrayals of physical attributes, events, or character motivations can disrupt the narrative flow and diminish the audience's connection with the story and characters.

Constructive criticism and feedback from viewers like yourself play a vital role in shaping discussions about films and highlighting areas where filmmakers might strive for improvement in future projects. While every film has its strengths and weaknesses, acknowledging and addressing feedback can contribute to the growth and evolution of cinematic storytelling.

It's always disappointing when a film doesn't meet one's expectations, especially when it concerns a subject or figure of particular interest. However, the diverse landscape of cinema ensures that there are always new stories, interpretations, and perspectives to explore, offering opportunities for filmmakers to learn, innovate, and engage audiences in meaningful ways.

You

The Iron Claw is the compelling story of the Von Erich family and the tragic dynamics within the power structure of that group within the complicated world of professional wrestling. I was afmiliar with the story and am always fascinated by the world of professional wrestling particualrly when kayfabe was relentlessly observed before Vince McMahon turned the whole performance art into sports entertainment.ChatGPT

ChatGPT

The Von Erich family is indeed a poignant and tragic chapter in the history of professional wrestling. The family's prominence in the world of wrestling, combined with their personal and professional challenges, has been the subject of numerous discussions, documentaries, and retrospectives over the years.

Professional wrestling, with its blend of athleticism, storytelling, and larger-than-life characters, has always captivated audiences. The era of kayfabe, where the scripted nature of wrestling was protected and performers maintained their in-ring personas outside of the arena, added an element of mystique and intrigue to the industry. Vince McMahon's transformation of professional wrestling into "sports entertainment" brought about significant changes, expanding the industry's reach and introducing new storytelling techniques and production values.

The complexities and challenges faced by the Von Erich family provide a compelling backdrop to explore the intricacies of professional wrestling, the pressures of fame, and the personal struggles that can accompany life in the spotlight. Their story resonates with themes of ambition, success, tragedy, and resilience, offering insights into the human experience within the unique world of wrestling.

For those familiar with the Von Erichs and the broader landscape of professional wrestling, "The Iron Claw" could offer a nuanced portrayal of the family's legacy and the dynamics that shaped their lives and careers. Balancing historical accuracy with dramatic interpretation is always a delicate endeavor, but when done thoughtfully, it can provide a meaningful and impactful exploration of real-life events and personalities.

You

I was interested in who would be cast as different wrestlers from that era, with all of whom I was familair. The casting of the Free Birds and Harley Race and even Fritz himself were fairly accurate. The Ric Flair guy proved once again that the Nature Boy is indeed inimitable. The problem was in the casting of Kevin and Kerry Von Erich. ChatGPT

ChatGPT

Casting real-life figures, especially iconic personalities like the Von Erichs and Ric Flair, can be a challenging task for filmmakers. Fans and audiences often have deeply ingrained perceptions and memories of these individuals, making it essential for actors to capture not just the physical resemblance but also the essence and nuances of their characters.

Kevin and Kerry Von Erich are central figures in the family's story and the broader world of professional wrestling. Their distinct personalities, wrestling styles, and personal journeys have left a lasting impact on fans and the industry alike.

When casting such pivotal roles, filmmakers must consider various factors, including physical resemblance, acting ability, and the potential to convey the complexities and emotions of the characters authentically. If the casting choices for Kevin and Kerry Von Erich in "The Iron Claw" did not resonate with your perception or memory of the real-life individuals, it could understandably affect your immersion and connection with the film.

Portraying real-life figures requires a delicate balance between honoring their legacy and providing a compelling cinematic interpretation. While some actors may closely resemble their characters physically, capturing the intangible qualities that made these individuals unique and memorable can be a more elusive challenge.

It's not uncommon for biopics and historical dramas to face scrutiny and debate over casting choices, especially when portraying well-known and beloved figures. Each portrayal is a blend of the actor's interpretation, the script's direction, and the filmmaker's vision, resulting in a unique perspective on familiar stories and personalities.

Ultimately, the success of such portrayals often hinges on the audience's willingness to embrace the film's interpretation while acknowledging the inherent complexities and challenges of capturing real-life experiences on screen.

You

I'll be backChatGPT

ChatGPT

Of course! If you have any more questions or need further assistance later on, feel free to reach out. Have a great day!

You

ChatGPT

You

"Aside from THAT Mrs Lincoln, how did you like the play?"ChatGPT

ChatGPT

You

When it comes to The Iron Claw, I'm pretty much a Mrs. Lincoln. ChatGPT

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strayen-fx · 3 years

Text

Red.

》 HHJ x reader

》 angst, vampirish theme

》 warnings: mentions of blood, hints of physical assault

》 2.1k words

》 a/n: short and simple, after months of writing break. Hope you guys enjoy regardless :)

“Stay away from them, my dear. Save your blood from the horrors of their fangs. Be wary of solitude, and be wary of the crowd.”

It was a day not unlike any other. My morning kicked off lazily, with me waking up almost an hour later than a college freshman was supposed to. Nothing unusual there. I did my usual morning prep, took a cup of grandma’s tea in one gulp, and went my way. I was already late for the train—I had to run after a departing bus with an exceptional speed that would put Olympiads to shame. I got in the room just in time as the bell rang for first period. I came in huffing like an old man, but it’s alright. Way better than walking through the early jam-packed hallways.

The first aberration in my daily humdrum existence happened on my way to fourth period. A student from another department stopped me on my tracks. I knew him; he was a member of the student council. Was I in some sort of trouble?

He introduced himself as Han Jisung, then proceeded to ask if I have seen his friend.

“He’s tall,” Jisung explained. “But like, not super tall. Not the towering-over-people kind. He has a mole under his eye. He’s got black—no wait, I think he dyed his hair again the other day. Anyway, have you seen someone like him? He’s noticeably handsome. I guess. I’m more handsome, though, but you know what I mean.”

The whole school would know who he is talking about. The one and only Hwang Hyunjin: champion swimmer, council member, and just a general talk of the town. The Prince. Even if I did see him around, though, I wouldn’t know. I never pay attention to the people I walk by.

I shook my head and muttered a soft sorry. I did feel bad for Jisung. He looked so worried and dejected, and I can’t blame him—not after after the incident with Seungmin. I can’t really take it against him to worry about his friends. I sauntered off to my next class, my mind still stuck on the fact that a normal person in my school has actually talked to me, and I was able to keep my composure.

Fifth period: P.E. I don’t even know why we still have this subject in college. I opted to take a stroll instead. You see, a huge, dense forest is situated right behind the main school grounds. You could say that the school itself lies within the bosom of greeneries. Unkempt bushes and rows of towering trees stretched over several miles deep, starting from the edge of the campus to god-knows-where. It is my goal to scout the whole area before graduation.

Weighed down by my personal monstrous beast, I trudged through. I walked for at least fifteen minutes before I finally reached the spot—my spot. Sheet of decaying leaves cushioned a huge gray boulder, standing at least ten feet tall, shaped like an odd piece of egg smashed against the forest floor. Against it stood a larger stone, this one dotted with moss and weathered with cracks. They were propped against each other for support, as if stopping one another from tumbling to the ground.

There was a smaller rock at the foot of the smaller stone, and I use it as leverage to climb up and sit on top of the largest boulder. It was my favorite place. Most times I could just pretend that I was alone in my own tiny bubble, at the center of that clearing that nobody else ventures but me. I don’t feel the breath of people suffocating me with every step that I take. I don’t feel my heart thumping with the sight of anyone else. I don’t need to hold back. Here, I don’t feel weird.

But today felt somehow different.

It was awfully silent. The wind felt sharper and colder. Electricity was humming in the air, leaving my skin prickling with discomfort. There was a tension in my veins that I couldn’t quite explain—it felt like an omen of an incoming disaster.

Time ticked slow. A couple hours could have passed—or maybe it has only been five minutes—when a nearby rustling perked up my senses.

Trying to keep my movements as quiet as possible, I hopped down and took up a defensive position, which wasn’t easy to do for a student with no actual weapon aside from an almost-empty bag and a worn-out calligraphy pen. My instincts told me to take cover—but my feet seemed glued to the ground. Sweat trickled from my forehead. My hands started to feel clammy.

And then, just as I was about to scamper away, a figure crashed into view from behind the nearest oak tree. I almost threw my bag towards the person’s direction, until I had a clear view of the intruder’s face.

It was Hwang Hyunjin, wide-eyed and disoriented, with his cheeks and uniform smudged with traces of blood.

“Help me.”

His voice came out as a tiny croak, as if his throat was filled with acid. He stumbled towards me, reaching out his hand for support. I wasn’t able to move an inch—and who could blame me? The situation was way too hard to process.

Hwang Hyunjin, the university prince, was hunched huffing before me, his clothes caked with mud and dried blood, his hair a nest of mess on his head. He had a cut on his cheek, I noticed. His breathing was heavy and labored, as if the mere act of standing on his own two feet required all the effort he could muster.

“Help me,” he repeated.

“What happened to you?” I managed to blurt out. My initial thought was that some random outsiders kicked his butt for stealing their girlfriends. But no—someone like Hyunjin would have been able to handle that. Plus, something in his eyes showed an elaborate fear—something only a beast would be capable of instilling. I should know.

My heart began thumping faster, a colossal drum barreling in my chest.

Just as my schoolmate was about to open his mouth and explain, a loud rustling broke the stillness of the air. Before I could process what was happening, Hyunjin grabbed my hand and bolted away, dragging me with him.

“Don’t look back!” he warned.

I did.

At least a dozen feet behind us was another male, probably as old as Hyunjin. He was sporting our school uniform, walking casually under the shades of trees as if time wasn’t of any matter. What puzzled me, though, was the fact that we can’t seem to distance ourselves from him despite the heavy efforts Hyunjin had been exerting to drag us both away from this newcomer.

I took another glance behind me, and to my surprise, the young man wasn’t there anymore. Nowhere behind us, as if he dissipated without a single trace.

Hyunjin took a sudden stop, causing me to bump my head against his back. I was about to call him out for stopping, but then I saw the looming figure a few meters in front of us.

“You…?” I began, my mind a juggle of unanswered questions. How on earth did that happen? How is he—

Hyunjin's friend, Kim Seungmin, stood before us in his dirty school uniform. He looked pale, his eyes bloodshot, but he was standing there in full grace, very much alive, giving us a toothy grin. “You’re hurting my feelings, Hyun. Why are you running away from me?”

Hyunjin’s grip on my hand went tighter. “Seungmin...”

“Friends are supposed to help each other, am I right?” Seungmin continued, faux dismay dripping in his voice. He bared his fangs, its tips dripping with fresh blood. “So help me, Hyunjin.”

I felt my body run cold. I wanted to scream, run, anything—anything to get away from this. From him. From the two of them. From everything. But Hyunjin's hand remained strong around my wrist, and my legs were close to turning jelly. I could start to feel the fullness in my mouth, the pointy ends of my incisors. Something that only happens when I'm in an extreme hunger or danger.

“Stay away from them,” grandma said. “We are the same kind, but we are different. Weaker. They see us as preys, as special commodities. They can smell your blood despite my concoctions, my dear, remember this!”

Seungmin tilted his head to one side, finally regarding my presence. “And you, over there. I’ve never tried drinking such special blood.” He grinned. “Satiate my thirst.”

The last thing I knew, a strong hand was pressing tightly around my neck, turning my vision green.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°

“Have you heard of the news?”

“What news?”

“Kim Seungmin was safe! They found him in the forest yesterday.”

“Thank goodness! Was he hurt?”

“He had a few gashes, but he’s fine. Hyunjin found him and brought him to the hospital right away.”

Students filled the corridor, everyone bustling and hustling about the news: after his sudden disappearance, Seungmin was finally found by his best friend, Hyunjin. The latter saw him in the forest, hungry and disoriented. They went straight to the hospital to treat his minor wounds, and that was that—nobody bothered to ask how he managed to lose himself in the wilderness, or how we managed to survive seven days on his own. Nobody asked him stupid and unnecessary questions. Seungmin was safe, and that was all that mattered.

I brushed my way past the milling crowd, flinching at every accidental touch. I kept my eyes on the ground, forcing my mind into silence. I was expecting everyone to be in their respective classrooms at this time of the day, but apparently, the news of Seungmin’s return has become enough reason for everyone to wander about and neglect their individual duties. It was a grand miscalculation on my part—I hadn’t braced myself for this huge number of people.

Not here. Not now. Not ever.

I just have to get back home, and then it’ll be over. My insides would stop churning once I’ve drunk grandma’s tea—that has worked for 18 years now. I can stop this. I can stop me.

I made a run towards the comfort room. To my luck, nobody was inside. I washed my face over and over, as if doing so would cleanse me from the impurity stamped on every drop of my blood. The face on the mirror horrified me—I had to stop myself from punching the glass over and over.

The moment I stepped out, I felt his presence.

He was there, leaning against the wall, lurking behind the shadows. There was a faint gleam of terror in his eyes, but at the same time, I can feel it: the hunger. Lust for meat. Thirst for blood.

“Don’t be like him, Hyunjin,” I pleaded. “Don’t be like us.”

He shook his head in resignation. “It’s too late.”

He took a step closer. Another. He kept on walking until he stood right in front of me, too close I can feel him breathe.

Too close I can see the faint traces of blood on his lips.

“I’m still hungry,” he sobbed. “I’m still hungry…”

Fear was apparent in his eyes—fear of what would happen to him, fear of what he had become. “You will be fine,” I offered, taking his hand in mine. “Trust me on this. It will be fine.”

And then I felt it, stronger this time—the hunger he was talking about. The thirst. My stomach growled in protest at the sight of Hyunjin’s pale flesh. I can smell his blood—I can feel its steady rhythm as it flowed through his pulsing veins.

I need to get home. Maybe my grandma could do something about Hyunjin, too. Maybe she could produce a stronger tea, and both of us wouldn’t have to worry about our instincts anymore.

We stood next to each other for a full minute before he broke the silence.

“We need each other to survive,” Hyunjin whispered. “If we drink the blood of our own kind, we can last for a month without feeding on others.” He freed his hand from my hold and gripped my shoulders tightly. “I need you. And you need me, too.”Hyunjin leaned down until we were staring at each other at eye level. He closed the distance between us. I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I allowed my monster to take ove.

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yelenayena · 3 years

Text

Chemistry

Pairing: Pieck Finger x fem!reader

Genre: Romance

Warning: None (YAY✨), modern AU

Fun fact: Nanaba is an ex-girlfriend of Miche

Summary: You have an affair with Pieck, while she has an on-off relationship with Porco. You feel so jealous when she came to Colt’s party with him. Even so, you can't let them ruin your mood, and Thank God It's Friday, everything is possible when you are at the party on Friday night 🌚 ✨

A/N: I am a PokkoPiku shipper, but I also like her as a lesbian, but I don't like PikuLena ship bc Yelena is ours 😔 so that's why I made this story, I hope you like it 💜✨ I’m sorry if my writing is bad, still learning to write a story in English

Pieck looked at the picture that you sent on iMessage. She closed the app when Porco got behind the wheel. He turned his head and winked at Pieck who sat next to him on the passenger seat. He turned the engine on and he drove to Colt’s place.

“Let’s go, beauty,” said Porco, he opened the door for Pieck as they arrived at Colt’s place. “We're gonna have fun tonight,” he continued.

Pieck didn't reply but gave him a little smile. They both come inside, the house already crowded with people who joined the party. Porco held Pieck’s hand, he brought Pieck to their friends and joined them.

You saw them just come in, and your heart was pounding immediately. You felt jealous in your heart as you saw her in his arms and smiled at him. You rolled your eyes and tried to ignore that shitty couple. You smiled when you heard Connie’s silly stories, but deep inside your head, you can't get rid of Pieck’s face in your mind. You thought she wouldn't come with Porco, but maybe she had been together with him again. You felt sick of their on-off relationship.

You and Pieck were just friends. You have known her since the first year in college, as you both entered the same club in the university, Archery Club. She already had an on-off relationship with Porco at that time, but she knew you like girls, and she wanted to test her sexual orientation. So she often texted and called you whenever she needed someone to talk to until you both found chemistry. Sometimes you wish she would end her relationship with Porco and start dating you, but every time you think you're gonna get her, she‘s back to him instead.

You wish you could hate her, but you like her so much, Pieck is the woman you've always dreamed of. She’s beautiful, warm, and kind, and she has a very beautiful smile. The moments when you spent with her are the magical ones. You are just her secret affair, but you can't ignore her every time she needs you.

You let out a long sigh. Tonight is Colt’s party, you think that you should've had fun. Don't let your negative thoughts affect your mood here. You saw everyone you know has come to this party.

Everybody seems so fabulous, and they look so happy dancing or chit-chatting with their partner. It was so pitiful you just drink alone, even Oluo is dancing with Petra now. And, ugh! You just saw Pieck kissing Porco, you glanced away quickly and searched for something entertaining like watching Sasha’s silly dance with Niccolo. You gulped your beer and chuckled watching them.

“They're a hilarious couple, but they seemed to have each other. I mean, the girl likes to eat, the boy likes to cook. What's better than that? They really match as a couple.”

Someone talked to you. You turned your head, there's a small and tall blonde smiling at you. Your eyes narrowed, trying to see if you recognize the figure standing in front of you.

“They're one of my fave couples in this world,” you replied, ignoring the fact that you don't know her. It's a party, after all, you can talk to anybody if you want, even to strangers.

She smiled, “oh, I'm Nanaba by the way.”

“I’m-” before you can finish your words, she interrupted you.

“I know you, you're Y/N.”

You stared at her in confusion, “how did you-”

“Hange. We're both friends. Before I came here, she knew that I was keeping an eye on you, so she challenged me if I dared to greet you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, don't worry, being alone sucks. I was like a kitten who got lost in this crowd.”

“Not true, you looked so cute when you were alone.”

You smiled when you heard her teased you. “So, how did you know Hange?”

And your conversation continued with her story about how she can be friends with Hange, Levi, and Miche. She’s a fourth-year student, just like Levi, Hange, and Miche, in the Culinary Science program, in a different university as you, but she's a friend of Hange and friends and a senior of Eren and friends in high school.

You think that she's cool, she looks calm, but when she talks, you know that she’s pretty funny and has a good personality. She has an average build for her height, maybe around five feet seven inches. She had blue eyes and short blonde hair, which was parted slightly to the right with short bangs and an undercut. Her appearance was very good. She looks like an androgynous supermodel.

She touched your arm to protect you from the others who went crazy and wild while they were dancing around you. At that moment, you and she looked at each other. She gave you a beautiful smile, you feel better now when she's around you. And it makes you feel that you want to know more about her.

“Do you know her? I think she keeps glancing this way,” said Nanaba while you both laughed after she told you about the silly story of Miche in high school.

“Who?” you asked.

“That girl over there, the one who wore a yellow blouse and was embraced by her boyfriend. Her face looked jealous. Eww, She has a boyfriend, but she keeps glancing at others, I feel sorry for her boyfriend,” she explained.

You know who it is, what she meant was Pieck. Pieck was indeed staring at you, but when you glanced at her, she glanced away immediately. “Just ignore her,” you said.

Nanaba looked nonchalant then she continued her hilarious stories about her and her friends. You both acted like you were old friends. She can make you forget your sadness. You two look like you enjoyed having the time together at the party.

The longer you talked, the closer she got to you until her arms touched yours. You guys were so captivated by this magical moment that you didn't even realize her bodies were closing in. You reached your consciousness when someone grabbed your hand.

It was Pieck who held your hand. “We need to talk, ” she said.

“For what?” you asked.

“Please, I'm begging you,” she pleaded.

“But-”

“It’s okay,” said Nanaba. “Go ahead and talk to her.”

You sighed then followed Pieck from behind. You turned your head back and looked at Nanaba. You moved your lips to give her a sign to wait for you there. She nodded and smiled at you.

Pieck brought you to the powder room. She placed your body on the sink and kissed your lips. “C’mon, ” she said when she stopped. She looked at you, “touch me like the way you used to,” she said before she continued to kiss you.

She always knows how to turn you on. This is how she got you wrapped around her, but you also enjoyed it and she tasted so good. You pulled her body and placed her on the sink. You kissed her back. She looked satisfied and replied to every move you made for her. When you kissed her neck, she writhed and gasped.

You continued to run your hand through Pieck’s hair while kissing her upper body. All the memories about you and her hit your head. When she gave you a beautiful smile on the first night you spent with her.

Your hand on her back now, hiding under her blouse to touch her soft skin. Your memories showed her figure when she always said your name when she let you touch her more deeply.

You know how to make her satisfied. You know her sensitive spot on her body. She once told you that she likes the way you touched her, something that she can’t get in her boyfriend. Of course, you're a girl, she's a girl. Who can understand better about girls? Obviously, girls themselves. Just like Katy Perry says in ‘I Kiss a Girl’, “Us girls, we are so magical. Soft skin, red lips, so kissable. Hard to resist, so touchable, too good to deny it.”

Besides, sometimes guys are too focused on how to make themselves satisfied rather than make their girls satisfied. And even some guys see girls as a tool to satisfy their appetites. That's why Pieck can't let you go.

You stop kissing her, “but I'm not your toy anymore.” Then you pulled her body and left her there alone in the powder room.

It is a hard decision, you still like her, but you've done being her toy. You'd tired waiting for her, whereas she always lets her boyfriend touch her like the way you used to. Now, it's time to cut her ties and open a new chapter. Plus, you found new chemistry in someone else.

If you read a manga of AOT comedy spin-off, Attack on Titan: Junior High by Saki Nakagawa (they an Isayama’s junior in college), the author made Nanaba seem to have a crush on Miche ambiguously. And many fans pair her with Miche, I like MikeNana ship as well, but just like Pieck, I also like her as a lesbian👩‍❤️‍👩💜

By the way, this story inspired by Hayley Kiyoko - Curious MV ✨

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #fanfic #aot au #pieck finger #pieck x you #pieck x reader #pieck fanart #modern au #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #nanaba #fanart #snk fandom #romance #pieck x y/n #pieck supremacy

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leiawritesstories · 3 years

Text

Another Place

Nessian Week, Day 5: Alternate Universe (AU) Day

Yes, I took the prompt literally. ;)

Word count: 2914

Warnings: fuzzy science, fuzzy space mumbo jumbo, language

Skye Penderwick belongs to Jeanne Birdsall. All other characters belong to SJM.

@nessianweek

~~~~~~

“I’m heading out, Doctor.”

Dr. Nesta Archeron, who held a PhD in astrophysics, looked up from her desk. “All right, Skye, thanks for everything. See you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Don’t forget to sleep, Dr. Arch!”

“Never do, Dr. Pen!”

The other astrophysicist’s snort of laughter floated down the hall. “Yeah, right.”

Fine, maybe there were nights when Nesta stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, scribbling calculations on the chalkboards and in her notes, combing through theories of all the great scientists before her, adding bits and pieces to her own theory, and generally ruining her sleep schedule with badly timed, random “a-ha!” moments. But to be fair, seven years of developing a theory of alternate universes would do that to a person.

Seven years ago, she’d run across an anomaly on a deep-space image that didn’t match anything ever recorded or observed by any scientist, ever. And yet it was small enough that most scientists could easily overlook it; it blended into the edge of the nebula that was the focus of the image. Nesta had noticed it, though, and that small imperfection, the wrinkle in the darkness of space, rooted into her mind and stayed there, leading her to question what the hell that blur was and why the hell it was there.

Which in turn led her down the murky rabbit hole of various theories of wormholes and other flaws in space-time, none of which aligned with her observations. And then down the even murkier rabbit hole of theories (of varying degrees of coherence) of parallel and alternate universes. The alternate universe idea in particular intrigued Nesta, and she spent weeks researching every bit of information available, noting how it lined up with her observations, and finally coming to a realization that this image her team had captured could serve as visible, concrete evidence in favor of a theory of alternate universes.

She’d drafted the first bit of her theory and formed a small team to develop it by the next morning.

After five years, countless different images of the anomaly, multiple variations on complex equations, much screaming, and three lifetimes’ worth of coffee, Dr. Nesta Archeron hit a wall.

Literally and figuratively.

Because when she ran into what seemed like an insurmountable block, she punched the nearest wall as hard as possible.

The cracks still radiated across one wall of her lab.

That block, and her efforts to break through it, introduced her to Dr. Skye Penderwick, a brilliant American astrophysicist who, coincidentally, also happened to be fascinated by the theory of alternate universes, despite having no theory of her own. She’d been working at the same facility as Nesta for several months before the two actually met, and within days of Nesta inviting her into her lab, she’d proposed a potential solution to the Archeron team’s roadblock.

It worked.

Nesta offered her a collaborator position that very day. Skye accepted.

Two years later, they were on the edge of breakthrough. Both of them knew it. Both of them saw clearly where their calculations, their notes, their carefully chronicled, detailed observations of the motion of the anomaly, and their years of hard work were leading. The theory Nesta so elegantly posited was nearly complete. All the two self-described space nerds needed was something, anything, to hint beyond scientific explanation that on the other side of that anomaly laid an alternate Earth.

Unfortunately, that something hadn’t shown up quite yet.

For, despite all the remarkable achievements of space science--lightspeed travel, quantum leaping, imaging software capable of capturing formations’ minute details, even the discovery of other habitable planets in faraway galaxies--nobody had yet been able to present a coherent, plausible theory of an alternate universe.

Yet.

Sighing, Nesta pushed back from her desk and walked to the back of her laboratory. She placed her index finger in a barely visible indent in the pristine white wall. A panel slid silently open, revealing a space illuminated by a soft blue glow. A nondescript grey-and-cobalt pressure suit hung neatly in a glass case. Nudging the panel closed, Nesta opened the case and removed the pressure suit.

Hers.

For her…uncatalogued trips. Trips to the station her team had planted by the anomaly.

Trips which Nesta took regularly. She couldn’t risk any of her team traveling; each and every one of them was needed in the lab. No, it was her job and hers alone to make a regular leap to the station, check on their telescopes, and observe the anomaly up close.

She’d never tried to cross it. Not that she believed there was no passage; in fact, she’d painstakingly detailed the fascinatingly inexplicable illusion of a gap that appeared once every year, and had always failed to conclude if there truly was a gap.

Hence tonight’s little jaunt to the station. That gap had just appeared, and since it only showed for sixty hours, she had to go now.

So Dr. Nesta Archeron slid into her pressure suit, fastened the sleek boots and gloves, programmed the correct coordinates into the screen built into the underside of the suit’s left forearm, locked on her helmet, and keyed in the quantum leap sequence.

A blink later, she stood on the steel tiles of her team’s small, simple station deep in the reaches of outer space. Removing her helmet, Nesta allowed herself exactly three minutes to drink in the wonders of deep space.

Then she set the station’s timers for forty-eight hours, sat at the control panel, and piloted her space station/highly advanced spaceship into the gap in the universe.

For it was indeed a gap.

Commander Cassian Ilnair released the cockpit hatch of his sleek “interstellar exploration transport,” or, as he called her, the Millenium Falcon. Bloody government and their bloody idiotic pompous names for spaceships. That’s all it was, a spaceship, albeit a highly advanced, highly adaptable one that had carried him and up to four crew safely across nearly every corner of the universe and back to Earth.

Pulling his flight helmet off, he shook out his unruly shoulder-length hair, half- unzipped his navy blue pressure suit, and started postflight checks.

“She’ll need to be refueled and the usual before she travels again, but other than that, good as new,” he reported to his CO, a woman five feet tall if she was an inch whose impeccable, formidable exploration resumé and take-no-bullshit demeanor made up for her diminutive height.

“Excellent, Commander. I expect a full report on Disturbance AS-2947C by noon.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cassian saluted.

“Dismissed.”

As he headed for the shower, Cass stole a glance at his wrist screen, which showed eight-fifteen a.m. Damn space time, he grumbled to himself, throws off my goddamn body clock. Luckily, he’d noted no significant change in that particular disturbance since the last time he visited it two weeks ago. That’d make his report much easier, indeed.

Sure, the disturbance was rippling ever so slightly, but it did that every year at this time and had been doing so since it appeared exactly seven years ago.

Not a single scientist in all the ranks of the space force could provide a plausible explanation, or even a cohesive theory.

Disturbance AS-2947C was just that, a disturbance. A puzzling, inexplicable snag in the fabric of space time that had just appeared one day and sat around for seven years, following a routine path of motion but not really moving anywhere, just pulsing, and showing a ripple for exactly sixty hours exactly once per year.

Cassian knew his brilliant astrophysicist friend Dr. Emerie Nguyen was developing a theory that AS-2947C was a wormhole, but so far she hadn’t found any evidence to support there being another side to it. So far, all Emerie could say was that this disturbance could very well be the concrete evidence of stable wormholes she and every other member of the space sciences sector had been chasing for years. And yet they were still chasing it.

He quickly showered and changed into his everyday uniform, slipped his wristband back on, and drew up a quick set of notes for the commodore. At exactly two minutes before noon, he knocked on her office door.

“Enter.”

Cassian stepped into the office, closed the door, and saluted. “Ma’am.”

“At ease, Commander. I believe you’re early today.”

“Some days I try to be punctual, Commodore.”

“I see.” She motioned to the west wall. “Report, Commander.”

Tapping three fingers twice against the wall, Cassian swiped an image from his tablet onto the wall, which doubled as a presentation screen.

“Today’s imaging of Disturbance AS-2947C shows no remarkable differences from the last set. The formation has not morphed or shifted noticeably in any direction.” He swiped to a new image. “The annual irregularity in the approximate center of the disturbance appeared on schedule roughly three hours before we arrived, making it now roughly seven hours visible.”

“Any notable observations about the irregularity?”

“No, Commodore. The irregularity is behaving exactly like it has for the six years we’ve observed it. It merely appears as what looks to be the illusion of a gap, holds steady for sixty hours, and disappears. We have never been able to decipher if the irregularity is in fact a gap or if it is simply a change in the observed color.”

“Have you never attempted to pilot your craft towards this irregularity?”

Cassian swallowed. “With all due respect, Commodore, yes. I believe you are familiar with the deep-space engine failure incident of last year?”

“I am.”

“That was my attempt to discover more about the irregularity.”

“Ah.” The commodore tilted her head, her eyes calculating. “Though I never did hear the pilot’s explanation of this failure.”

“First, may I ask what the engineers’ conclusion was?”

“The engineers concluded that the engine failure, which somehow you managed to prevent from becoming catastrophic, was the result of a power failure caused by the change in the conditions of space within the disturbance. They informed me that the engine short-circuited when your craft entered the boundary of the disturbance, but they could not explain or even theorize why.”

Cassian nodded. “I can theorize why. Commodore, I believe the power failed because, simply put, the way we fuel our crafts does not exist within the disturbance.”

“Are you implying that neither solar nor stellar energy exists within AS-2947C?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. The instant I entered that region, my engines went completely silent. I had no time to observe anything else, as my immediate reaction was to reverse course and exit, lest I risk total craft failure and being stranded in the deepest parts of space. My craft regained power once outside the disturbance region, and I made it back, despite one of my engines being nonfunctional. As I’ve thought about it over the months, I can only come to the conclusion that the power cut off because there was no available power source.”

Commodore Amren considered Cass’s explanation. “It is logical, and it would explain why the engineers could not determine the cause of the failure. Power source failure, when rectified immediately, leaves behind no visible evidence within the engines of our craft.”

“Commodore, I still want to enter the disturbance. I believe that a craft carrying physical fuel could safely enter the region.”

“Physical fuel became obsolete decades ago, Commander.”

“And yet we still have stores. This is why. We knew there was a chance some mission might need to use fuel rather than energy to power its craft. This is that mission.”

“Commander, I’m afraid I cannot give you clearance to enter the disturbance. Not at the moment, at least. You know the regulations.”

Cassian sighed. “Right, right, seven days between active pilot duty.”

“There is one thing I can do, if you wish.”

“Tell me?”

“You may take a small stationary craft to the observation point. Stations do not qualify as actively piloted craft. I can assign you a seventy-two-hour observation mission, which will allow you to be as close to Disturbance AS-2947C as possible without endangering yourself or your craft, and also will allow you to report any noteworthy changes. Acceptable?”

“Accepted, ma’am. Thank you.”

The commodore nodded once. “I’ll get the assignment written up now. Prepare for launch at 1600 hours.”

Cassian snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

Four hours later, Cassian’s small observation stationcraft left Earth’s atmosphere, set its destination coordinates, and blinked away into a quantum leap, arriving at the observation point in mere seconds.

Arrived at destination, the cool, mechanical autopilot voice announced. Artificial gravity effective in sixty seconds.

Cassian sat back, checking his harness. All secure.

Artificial gravity in effect.

Unbuckling, he stood up, pulled off his helmet, and walked to the windows, staring into the fascinating mystery of Disturbance AS-2947C. The irregularity rippled, gently, like he’d seen it do before, taunting him with the possibility of something on the other side. He stood there barely thinking, just marveling at the sight of this enigmatic corner of deep space.

And then the irregularity expanded. And a craft like nothing he’d ever seen flew out.

Nesta hadn’t known whether she was sane when she flew into the gap. Hell, she hadn’t known if she was thinking, let alone doing. If wormhole theory meant anything, then she’d expected a moment of terrifying flight through stark blackness that ended in her ship landing in some other, possibly uncharted, part of the universe.

She hadn’t been expecting to see an alien station.

But there it was.

The gap was a tunnel of sorts. And at the other end was a station Nesta didn’t recognize.

She directed her ship around the foreign station, intending to capture images for examination in her lab. But before she could key in the command to the ship’s cameras, her radio cracked with static. And then someone spoke.

“Who the hell are you?”

Nesta stared at the receiver, then dragged her gaze to the station. Standing in what looked like an observation deck was a man wearing a pressure suit and boots, holding a comm device to his mouth.

“I repeat, who the hell are you?”

“You tell me first. And while you’re at it, what the hell is that station you’re in?”

“It’s a standard observation craft, of course. Unlike whatever alien craft you’re flying.”

“This is a typical exploration ship, you coarse, callous idiot.”

“Like fuck it is.”

“What’s the matter, never seen a woman fly a real ship before?”

“Never seen that particular ship before in my entire life as a pilot. Or in any of my texts.”

“You’re telling me this very real ship I’m flying doesn’t exist?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then--” Nesta’s eyes widened in shock. “Pilot, may I have your name and credentials?”

“Commander Cassian Ilnair, Earth’s space force.”

“Earth’s space force,” Nesta muttered to herself, scanning through her mind for anything related to that name. Nothing. And then it hit her.

“Commander Ilnair, who leads your nation?”

“My nation?” He seemed confused by the word. “Nations melded into a global government centuries ago. President Amarantha currently heads the Global Council.”

A look of wonder crossed Nesta’s face. “It’s true…it’s true. I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“Commander, my name is Dr. Nesta Archeron. I’m from an alternate Earth.”

The man standing in the unfamiliar station dropped his comm device. And stared.

“Permission to attempt to dock at your station? We have some items to discuss.”

He sat down on the deck floor and picked up his radio. “Granted, if you can.”

Nesta flew a slow lap around the station, noticing two docking ports, both with airlocks that seemed oddly familiar. Hmm, she thought, airlock design is clearly universal. Aiming for the port closer to the observation deck, she carefully guided her ship into the space and sighed in relief when the hatch clicked into place with the station’s airlock.

“Connect the airlock to my ship, if you would?”

“What’s the magic word, Dr. Archeron?” Nesta swore she could hear his damn smirk.

“Please connect your airlock to my ship so I can explain myself.”

“Of course.”

Less than two minutes later, Nesta heard the familiar hiss of an airlock sealing into place around her ship’s hatch.

“Clear for exit, Dr. Archeron.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Nesta placed her tablet and several images into her pack, slung it over her shoulder, released her exit hatch, and swiftly ascended the ladder into the station. The moment her head cleared, she was looking around, mentally cataloguing every detail of the spacecraft. It was basic, functional, only containing living quarters and an observation lab.

“Whenever you’re done gaping, Doctor, we can talk.”

Nesta turned to face the commander, who was leaning against a wall just outside the airlock. “There is a difference between observing and gaping, pilot, not that you would know.”

A cocky grin crept across his face. “Naturally, I’m just one of the best pilots in the universe, I wouldn’t know.”

“Your universe,” she corrected.

“What?”

“Your universe, Commander Ilnair. Or has your tiny brain already forgotten what I said about being from an alternate universe?”

He shook his head. “Right. Sorry, I’m still trying to process that.”

“As am I. Show me to the lab?”

“Not much to show, but follow me.” He led her down a short hallway onto the observation deck and laboratory, clearly the main space of the station. “Here we are. I believe you mentioned something about explaining yourself?”

“I did.”

He gestured toward her. “Go ahead.”

So she did.

#my writing #nessian week #alternate universe #enjoy

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

When the Weight Comes Down - 1

Warnings: non-consent sex (series); nothing for this chapter

This is dark! (biker) Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Your father’s a drunk, your mother a recluse, and you’re just another small town girl in Birch.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown

Note: This series features a very inexperienced and shy reader. Not so mouthy as my usual fare but I hope it’s still fun. I couldn’t resist a hot biker Steve spin-off. Most of this is already written and it’s looking like seven chapters total. Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter One: She Didn’t Know

There's a lot you can see when there's nothing to do

💀

You stared out the window as you stood at the sink, your hands pruned in the lukewarm water as you scrubbed the last of the dishes. You could hear your mother in the hallway, wiping the walls. Again. Five, six times a day, she’d wipe down every inch of the place; gather up your father’s empties, and vacuum the old cigarette-scented carpets.

You didn’t remember a day in your life when your mother wasn’t manically tidying every inch of the place. Even when her lip was swollen or her eye was blackened. It was a religion to her. Cleanliness was next to godliness, after all. One of her many lessons.

She rarely left the house anymore. She had never been eager to go beyond the peeling walls but as you got older, she grew more reclusive. She got her check from the government, your father too, though his was often spent on beer and smokes. Some of hers too.

The old house was ramshackle but someone had to pay for it. You’d worked at the bakery since you were sixteen; more than a decade now, closer to two. An excuse to get out as much as a means to pay for the roof over your head. Babs was like a second mother to you and always let you bring home the stale muffins and cookies.

Your eight hours was a brief respite from the home which had been your childhood prison. The cell without a door. Birch itself was impenetrable. Those born there seemed destined to die there.

You’d dreamt of leaving for years; in that very spot, as you washed the dishes and stared out at the lush grass. You’d float away to a world where you had the strength to walk away; from your paranoid mother and your volatile father.

You belonged there though. You couldn’t leave knowing your father would beat your mother without a buffer between him. You knew one day the beer would push him over the edge. To leave would be to condemn her.

You pulled the plug and dried the plates one at the time, then the cups and the old bowls that belonged on a thrift shop shelf. Well, that’s where they came from. Your mother never bought nice things; your father would only break them.

Finished, you closed the cupboard and found your mother in the living room, sweeping the crumbs from your father’s old recliner into her hand. You straightened the pillows on the sagging couch and stood on the other side.

“Should I leave the leftovers in the stove for Pa?” You asked.

“It’s late,” She checked the old clock. It was broken. She stood and cupped the crumbs in her hand. “What time is it anyway?”

“Almost nine.” You yawned. You would have to wake up at five to get to work to do the opening bake. “I should probably lay down soon.”

“Would you grab some more vinegar tomorrow?” She asked. “And… a new mop.”

“What happened to the old one?” You blinked.

She looked down guiltily. Another casualty to your father’s temper.

“Ma,” You sighed. “Why do you let him break everything.”

“Better than him breaking me,” She muttered.

You hung your head and touched your forehead. You wanted to ask her why she stayed, but you had too. You were little better than her. You were both stuck.

“You didn’t give him any off your stipend, did you?”

She frowned. She had.

“The electricity is due,” You said. “Tell me you held onto at least something.”

“I’ll pawn another ring.” She mumbled.

“No,” You waved her away. “No. Don’t.”

“But--”

“I’ll figure it out,” You huffed. “Like I always do.”

You left her there and went to your room. You closed the door and turned on the small lamp beside your bed. You reached under your pillow and pulled out the cracked copy of Frankenstein.

You remembered when you were fourteen and your mother had found it there. A girl at the grocery store had told you she was reading it for class. You always wondered what they did at the school. Your mother schooled you herself. Times had changed and kids were rotten. She didn’t need you corrupted by the wilting branches of Birch.

Your mother had never read it herself so she confiscated it as filth. A monster! Well, you had sneaked into her room and stolen it right back. You were smarter after that; you hid all your good books as you kept the bland ones on your shelf.

Even when you were of age, well beyond truly, you wondered what other people did. Normal people. Working at the bakery, you made up a story for each customer who came in. And when you walked by the bar with Cleopatra over its door, you dreamt of the Egyptian queen and her many lovers. The world was behind a glass; passing you by as you stood still.

You sighed and opened the book as you laid back. A monster betrayed by his creator. So despised and reviled that his heart turned sour. A monster who was more human than his maker. A being who only wanted love. A soul destroyed by neglect.

You didn’t recall falling asleep but when you woke, the crickets chirped loudly outside your window. You yawned and sat up. The light from the living room streamed down the hall and under your door. You marked your page and tucked the book between your bedframe and mattress.

Your mother was in the living room. She sat on the couch as she held a framed cross-stitch and wove roses into the faded white cloth. You checked the time on the kitchen stove. 1:47 am.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” You asked.

“Your pa hasn’t come home.” She said. “You know I worry for him.”

“It’s not even last call,” You countered. “Go, get some sleep.”

“I’ll wait for him.”

You chewed your lip as you put your hands on your hips. You went to her and stilled her needle.

“He’ll be home in a couple hours.” You assured her. “Besides, you know how he is when he’s drunk.”

She looked down and pulled away from you. You shook your head and crossed the room. As you entered the hallway and headed for the front door, your mother rose from the couch and her soft footsteps followed you.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“To get him, so you can sleep.” You shoved your feet into your shoes.

“Oh no, don’t do that, sweet pea,” She said as she clutched the wooden frame. “You’ll only make him mad and, oh, I don’t want you in that bar.” She lowered her voice as she came closer. “It’s full of those bikers.”

“So, go to bed,” You turned to her.

She scrunched her lips and you knew she wouldn’t.

“Fine,” She relented. “But don’t talk to anyone. There are dangerous men there.”

You stared at her for a moment before you turned and pulled open the door. Your heart beat furiously as the screen door clattered behind you and you tripped down the front steps. You’d only ever walked by The Asp but never went in. You’d seen the men who went in and out and mounted their big bikes, but you kept to the other side of the street.

The walk wasn’t very long, like any in Birch. The spotlights illuminated Cleopatra’s breast and the snake at her throat. You stood on the curb as you thought of crossing the street. Just do it. You’d just get your father and go. That was it.

You hesitated and nearly fell as you stepped down onto the road. As you came up on the other side, a shadow moved and you flinched. A man in leather stood beside the door with his thick arms crossed, a bandana over his thinning hair. You stared at him and then door as you stopped before it.

“Well,” He said. “You going in?”

“I, uh, yeah, I’m just… getting my father.” You explained.

“Right,” He scoffed. “I don’t give a fuck.”

You pursed your lips and pushed through the door. Inside it smelled of alcohol and sweat. There was a group of men at one of the round tables and a couple around the pool table. Your father sat along the bar, two other drunks not far from him. He sucked on a brown bottle as he grumbled to himself.

You swallowed and made yourself step away from the door. You neared the bar and a woman looked up. She didn’t look very happy as she asked you what you wanted. You shook your head. You’d seen her before. You were sure she worked at the diner but you must have been wrong.

“Pa,” You leaned on the stool next to your father.

“Huh? What’r’you doin’ here?” He slurred.

“I’m here to take you home.” You said.

“Sure,” He laughed. “Got ‘nother bottle then I’ll go when I feel like.”

“Ma’s waiting,” You insisted. “Come on.”

You tugged on him and he knocked over his half-finished beer. You stepped back at the splash and he staggered to his feet.

“You little brat, I tol’ya leave m’alone,” He snarled. “Fuck’s sakes.”

“You’re drunk. You’ll be lucky if you make it home,” You argued. “I’m trying to help… you got beer at home.”

“And you,” He sneered. “I dun’ wan’ drink there.”

He wobbled on his feet and caught the edge of the bar.

“Beer,” He ordered the bartender who looked over his shoulder. She didn’t move. “S’matter, I got money.”

A man with dark hair shifted in his seat as if to stand and another nudged his shoulder and rose instead. He was tall, a thick beard to match his light brown hair, and blue eyes which sparked as he rounded his table. His jacket was marked with the badge of the club. You grabbed your father’s elbow and he shook you off.

“Looks like you’re done for the night,” The man said as he stopped in front of your father.

“I don’--”

“Excuse me,” The man interrupted his argument. “It’s not a request.”

Your breath was caught in your chest. You’d never heard anyone speak to your father like that.

“I’ll… I’ll get him home,” You said meekly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” The man looked at you. “You don’t need to apologize for him.”

“Come on,” You whispered and grabbed your father again.

He followed you. Barely. He stumbled halfway to the door and swore as he fell to his knees and nearly took you down with him. You bent and tried to pull him up and he batted you away as he rolled onto his back. His eyes were almost entirely closed as his hand fell to his stomach and he gave a loud snort.

Two boots came up on the other side of him. You looked up. It was that man again.

“I’m sorry. He fell. I’ll get him up.” You pulled on your father but he was too heavy. You could barely get his shoulders off the floor.

The man grabbed him and lifted him easily. He stretched his arm around your father and you stood.

“I’ll help ya, doll,” He smiled. You couldn’t.

“Really, it’s fine. He’ll wake up and--”

“Let me help you, doll,” He hushed you. “You’ll never get him home by yourself.”

“I can’t--I--” You gulped. Your mother had told you not to talk to anyone. You looked at your father. The man was right. You’d never get him home. “Okay. Thank you.”

He nodded you out the door and followed as you scurried ahead of him. Your father’s feet dragged heavily and you cringed. As you came out into the cool air, the man stepped up beside you, your father on the other side of him. You turned him in the direction of your house and he dragged your father along.

You were quiet. You didn’t know what to say. Perhaps it was better you said nothing. At the bakery, it was easy. You just had to ask people what they wanted. At home, neither of your parents said much; least of all, your father.

“So your Dorritt’s daughter?” He used your last name. “Old man ain’t very talkative.”

You nodded and kept your eyes on your feet.

“Your name?” He ventured. You cleared your throat before you found your voice to answer him. “I’m Steve.” He offered in return.

You were silent again.

“I don’t know you,” He said. “I know everyone in Birch.”

“Well, I… I don’t go out much, I guess.” You replied.

“Oh shit,” He scoffed. “You were the girl who was home schooled.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“We were always jealous of you,” He chuckled. “Hated going to school.”

“I still-- I still had class.” You said. “Just… my ma was my teacher.”

“Ha, wouldn’t expect him to be teaching grammar,” He gestured to your father. “You still live with them?”

You scratched your neck and nodded.

“Nothing wrong with that. Just curious.” He said. “Kinda… respectable. Helping them out and all.”

You were too ashamed to tell him that if you didn’t, no one would. That if you didn’t, your mother likely wouldn’t be able to keep up much longer.

“You’re like your pa,” He mused. “Not much on talking.”

“Sorry,” You said softly.

“But you’re a lot more considerate,” He said. “Apologizing for nothing.”

“So--”

“There you go again,” He laughed. “Look, doll, it’s fine. You don’t gotta talk. Don’t gotta apologize.”

You continued on and your house came into sight. Your father’s old mower rusting in the moonlight as the broken Ford loomed in the driveway. You helped Steve get your father up the front steps and opened the door for him. Your mother appeared in the hallway and gasped as she saw your father and the man who held him up.

“Ma, he’s just helping me get Pa home,” You assured her. “You know how he drinks and--”

She nodded frantically and backed up into the front room. You waved Steve through and directed him to drop your father on the couch. Steve looked around and his lip twitched. His eyes returned to you, clung to you, and he smirked.

“Well, you have a good night, Mrs. Dorritt,” He nodded to your mother then you, “And Miss Dorritt.”

“You too.” You breathed as your mother squeezed your arm.

He turned slowly and you both were still as you watched him go. The front door shut and your mother rushed down the hall. She locked the door quickly as you peeked around the door frame. She turned back and pushed herself against the door.

“I told you not to talk to anyone,” She said.

“I didn’t mean to. Pa, he just, keeled over, and Steve--”

“Steve!” She stormed towards you. “That man was one of those bikers. You better leave him alone. Pray he leaves you alone.”

“I didn’t--”

“Bad enough your pa goes down there,” She slipped past you and looked down at your father. “He’s better off drinking on the porch. No one to knock him one.”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they did,” You hissed. “It wasn’t me, ma. It was him.”

“I told you not to go,” She snapped.

“Yeah, I know,” You sighed as you turned to head back to your room. “You told me.”

#Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #biker!steve rogers #biker au #when the weight comes down #au #fic #series #limited series #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #captain america

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uomo-accattivante · 4 years

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I recently came across a bunch of press articles and photos about Oscar Isaac that are so old, they appear to be out-of-print and pre-date social media. Considering they were probably never digitally transcribed for internet access, I’m guessing that the majority of current fans have never seen this stuff.

Even though a lot of these digital scans are challenging to read because they are the original fuzzy news print, I think there some gems worth sharing with you guys. Over the next several weeks, I will transcribe and share those gems on this page. Hope you enjoy them!

Let’s start with this fantastic 2001 profile piece done before Oscar was accepted into Juilliard:

South Florida’s rising star isn’t just acting the part

By Christine Dolen - [email protected]

February 4, 2001

As fifth-graders at Westminster Christian School in Miami, Oscar Isaac and his classmates were asked to write a story as if they were animals on Noah’s Ark. Oscar turned in a seven-page play – with original music – from the perspective of a platypus. Then he starred in the production his teacher directed.

He hasn’t stopped expressing himself creatively since. Today, Isaac is one of South Florida’s busiest young theater actors, and certainly its hottest. And not just because he’s a slender five-feet nine-inches tall with an expressively handsome face and glistening brown eyes.

Since making his professional debut as a Cuban hustler in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage in July 1999, he has played an explosive Vietnam vet in Private Wars for Horizons Repertory, a pot-smoking slacker in This Is Our Youth at GableStage, another Cuban on the make in Praying With the Enemy at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, the entrancing narrator of Side Man at GableStage, a Havana-based writer in Arrivals and Departures for the new Oye Rep and, most recently, a young Fidel Castro in When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba at New York’s Cherry Lane Theater.

Beginning Wednesday, he’ll be juggling five roles in City Theatre’s annual Winter Shorts festival, first at the Colony Theatre in Miami Beach, then at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts. But that is not all: During the two weeks he is doing Winter Shorts, he’ll also be playing dates with the punk-ska band The Blinking Underdogs (www.blinkingunderdogs.com), which features him as lead singer, guitarist and songwriter.

Oh, and he just got back from auditioning for New York’s prestigious Juilliard School of Drama.

All this for a guy a month shy of his 22nd birthday.

Sure, you could hate a guy who’s that talented, that charismatic, that transparently ambitious. But the people who have worked with Oscar Isaac don’t. On the contrary, they’re all sure he has it – that magical, can’t-be-taught thing that transforms an actor into a star.

Playwright Eduardo Machado, who put in a good word for Isaac at Juilliard, says “he does have that star quality that makes your eyes go to him. It’s great that someone with that talent still wants to train.”

“He has a star quality that’s rare in a young actor,” adds Joseph Adler, who directed him in Side Man and This Is Our Youth. “Without a doubt I expect to be hearing great things from him.”

‘I JUST LOVE CREATING’

Isaac, who also makes short films, can’t say exactly why he was attracted to acting. He just knows it makes him happier than anything, that it’s what he was meant to do. And he’s been doing it since he was a 4-year-old putting on plays in his family’s backyard with his sister Nicole.

“I just love creating, whether it’s music or films or a character on a stage. I love taking people for a ride,” he says. “In Side Man, every night I would love being that close to the audience. I felt like I was talking to 80 of my closest friends.

“I could feel what the audience was feeling.”

His powerful, mournful-yet-loving monologue near the end of the play, he said, “worked every night. I knew it would get them. I’d hear sniffles.

“But it had less to do with me than with the atmosphere [created by the playwright and director].”

You could understand if Isaac, surrounded as he is by praise and possibility, had an ego as burgeoning as his career. Instead, he channels the positive reinforcement into confidence about his work.

“He has such a charm and an ease onstage, but he’s very modest,” says New York-based actress Judith Delgado, who shared the stage with Isaac in Side Man. “He’s hungry. He’s got moxie. I was blown away by him.

“He saved me a couple of times. I went up [forgot a line] and that baby boy of mine came through. He’s a joy.”

FORGING HIS OWN PATH

The son of a Cuban-American father and a Guatemalan mother, Isaac was never a stellar student. But he found ways of turning routine assignments – like the Noah’s Ark story – into creative challenges.

His science reports were inevitably video documentaries underscored with punk music. He acted through middle and high school, though he had a falling out with his drama teacher at Santaluces Community High in Lantana over his misgivings about a character. When she refused to cast him in anything else, he got his English teacher to let him play the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors his senior year.

His skepticism about authority and love of playing the devil’s advocate have long made him resist doing things the usual way. His post-high school “training” consisted of one semester at Miami-Dade Community College’s South Campus (where he met his girlfriend, Maria Miranda), touring schools playing an abusive character in the Coconut Grove Playhouse’s Breaking the Cycle, and working as a transporter of bodies at Baptist Hospital, where he absorbed the drama of people in emotionally intense situations.

“It was the most magnificent dramatic institute I could’ve attended,” Isaac said. “I was able to observe the entire spectrum of human emotion, people under the most extreme duress. I was mesmerized watching the way people interacted with each other in such heightened situations.

“I learned everything about the human condition, and it was real and harsh and brutally honest.”

Yet even given his propensity for forging his own path, something nudged him another direction while he was in New York making his Off-Broadway debut in December. Walking by Juilliard one day, he impulsively went in to ask for an application. Though the application deadline had passed, Isaac persuaded Juilliard to accept his, noting in his application essay that most of the exceptional actors he admires had acquired “a brutally efficient technique” to enhance their talent by studying at places like Juilliard.

Though he won’t know whether he has been accepted until the end of this month, his audition last weekend went well, he says. He did monologues from Henry IV, Part I and Dancing at Lughnasa, adjusting his Shakespearean Hotspur to a more fiery temperature at the suggestion of Michael Kahn, head of Juilliard’s acting program – though not without arguing that Hotspur wouldn’t be speaking to the king that way.

Isaac, not surprisingly, loves a good debate.

Adler, GableStage’s artistic director and a man who is as liberal as Isaac once was conservative, savored the verbal jousting they did during rehearsals for Side Man.

“He knows exactly how to pull my chain,” Adler says with a laugh. “Intelligence is the cornerstone of all great actors, and he’s bright as hell.

“He has relentless ambition but with so much charm. He’s very hard to say no to. He has incredible raw talent and magnetism that is very rare in a young actor along with relentless energy, perseverance and ambition. I see his growth both onstage and off. He’s mature in both places.”

Part of his growth, of course, will necessarily involve dealing with the rejections that are part of any actor’s life. His career is still too new, his string of successes solid, so it’s anyone’s guess how failure will shape him. But director Michael John Garcés, who picked him for When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba after Isaac flew to New York at his own expense to compete with a pool of seasoned Manhattan actors for the role, believes his character will see him through.

“Oscar is realistic, but he’s so willing to go the whole nine yards,” Garcés says. “He didn’t go out when he was in the show here. His focus earned the respect of the other actors, some of whom have been working in New York for 30 years.

“He hasn’t had a lot of blows yet, when the career knocks the wind out of you. But he has talent, determination and focus, and if he has perseverance – my intuition is that he does have it – he could achieve a lot.”

FAMILY TIES

His father and namesake, Baptist Hospital intensive-care physician Oscar Isaac Hernandez, couldn’t be more proud. (Isaac doesn’t use the family surname in order to avoid, in his words, being “put in that Hispanic actor box.”)

“I’m ecstatic that he’s probably going to be going to the most prestigious drama school in the United States,” he says. “School will help him focus his energies and give him discipline. He’s got the raw material and the drive.”

Isaac’s mother, Maria, divorced from his father since 1992, is a kidney-transplant recipient who acknowledges that she’ll miss her son if he moves to New York. But, she adds, she wants him “to live out his dreams. He amazes me every day. He calls me every day. I’m very proud of him.”

Even the other guys in The Blinking Underdogs are fans of Isaac’s acting, though it could take him away from South Florida just as the band appears to be, Isaac says, on the brink of signing a recording deal (it has already put out its own CD, The Last Word, with songs, lead vocals and even cover photography by Isaac.

“Oscar’s the leader of the band, a great musician who amazes me and motivates us,” says sax player Keith Cooper. “I’ve been to see every one of his plays. He’s a phenomenal actor.

“I completely buy into his role in every play. As close as I am to him, I forget it’s Oscar.”

His South Florida theater colleagues credit that to Isaac’s insatiable desire to learn and grow.

Gail Garrisan, who is directing him in Donnie and One of the Great Ones for Winter Shorts, observes, “It’s not often that you find a young actor who is willing to listen and who doesn’t think he knows everything. He loves the work.

“He really brought the young man in Side Man to life. When I saw it in New York, it seemed to be the father’s play. When I saw it here, I felt it was his [Isaac’s] play.”

Oye Rep’s John Rodaz, whom Isaac calls “the best director I’ve ever worked with,” gave the actor his first important job in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage. They met when Isaac came to see Area’s production of Oleanna and the actor, knowing Rodaz ran the theater, introduced himself.

“He has so much energy and such a sparkling personality,” Rodaz says. “He knows how to move in the world. He seems to take advantage of every situation in a good way; he’s not a cold, calculating person who’ll stab you in the back.

“[But] he wants it so badly. Everything he does, he’s the leader. When I was 21, I was taking naps.”

Rodaz coached Isaac on his Juilliard monologues and found the experience energizing.

“I got chills just watching him. That happens so rarely. I was so exhilarated when I came home that I just had to go out and run. You just know he’s got all the tools.”

Christine Dolen is The Herald’s theater critic.

###

#oscar isaac #vintage #juilliard #blinking underdogs #area stage company #john rodaz #gablestage #when it's cocktail time in cuba #side man #arrivals and departures #this is our youth #praying with the enemy #sleepwalkers #private wars #winter shorts #the miami herald

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blankdblank · 3 years

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Brother Dearest Pt 71

“Wow,” Howard said in his lean forward in his seat taking in the manor that came into view after having followed the Twins’ points to guide the car down the proper pathway on your land. And through the drive inside the wall the car pulled up to the front door where they saw Victor in the doorway. His smile spread as Jarvis parked and him, Howard, Peggy and Daniel climbed out to look around at the Howlett Manor.

Daniel lowly muttered, “Oh ya, not after perks of the title at all.”

Victor in their walk over chuckled and said, “More for the size for the babies than anything. Our old cabin had seven bedrooms. Have to reshuffle some room for the babies.”

Daniel, “Shouldn’t the walking through the big place be contradicting to her need to rest?”

Victor, “Not really, Bunny has been pacing. The room is helpful for that.” His head nodded to the side, “Come on in she’s fixed up a snack.”

Every room along the way was detailed until Peggy smiled and crossed the spacious kitchen to give you a hug and then take a moment to take in the growth in size you had taken on since the last time you had seen her. “You look fantastic.”

“I feel like I’ve doubled in size, but we’re coming up on the end of the worst of it. Because if I grow any more they can just roll me around the place.”

Howard was next for a hug and said, “Now now, you are not being rolled anywhere. You look perfectly plump as you should.”

When he pulled back Sousa said, “Hell of a house.”

“Well it’s been in James and Victor’s family. Just finished off the major repairs and fix up jobs around the place and spent all our paint and stocked up papers for the walls.”

James smirked loading up the wheeled cart to guide everyone to the sitting room outside the kitchen to enjoy the snacks. After which another tour was to be had crossed by the path of the excited puppies and the babies in their being gathered up to head to their grandparent’s again.

Norma and Leanora, the former with a wide smile and the girl on her hip took her husband’s side for the rest of the tour as talk of the film took over and from another stop to a sitting room they got to business while Peggy and Daniel strolled with you through the Manor and out to the lake.

Daniel said, “You are sure you are fine? We can barely see the house.”

In a smirk at him as James’ hand smoothed over your lower back after you’d stepped over a known bunny hole in the tall grass you had marked with a rock. “I am perfectly fine. Go fishing daily. Helps to bring more food in for supper and helps to knock down the fish population. They’ve seemingly doubled since last summer. River must have froze over early preventing the bears time to fish later in the season.”

Daniel, “Bears? You have bears?”

You giggled and James said, “They’re not ours, but they’ve grown up on our land. They keep their space and are fairly docile when we cross in the forest.”

“I have a picture of some of the cubs we crossed by on our honeymoon. Heavier than they look but they are friendly and curious.”

Peggy said, “I thought it was key to not touch the cubs to prevent angering their Mum.”

“Normally, but they know our scents and we haven’t hunted any of the bears in years actually. We have a sort of deal with the zoo to loan out our males to help breed with their own bears when they need it. And they don’t seem too bothered when they are brought back. Or at least they tell us they aren’t.” James said and that had the confused Chief look at him making you giggle.

“James and Victor can talk to animals and trees. Helps to keep the land. Ooh,” you said lowering your gaze to a large porcupine that jumped at the sound of your approach and in its planned twist to flare out its barbs you could see its three baby porcupines who scurried across the path. With a fourth that was tangled in a small bunch of clover and wild flowers with wound up stalks who let out panicked cries at being left alone.

“Hey little guy,” the Chief watched as James’ hands clenched into fists and his iron laced claws with patchy spots of polished metal extended to be used in his crouch to slide between its now locked up legs while he panted and the plants trapping it there. In just a few careful motions the puffed up mother watched him scoop up the worried baby porcupine between both sets of claws he used like salad tongs to let the baby down a couple feet from her. Gently he released it and stepped back to your side with his claws receding and a smile that spread back across his lips. “She’ll calm down,” he said in the eager trot of the freed baby to his siblings’ sides.

Daniels said, “What was that? With your hands?”

James said, “Bone claws.” He said lifting his arm flat to show the still exposed nubs that eased back between his knuckles and bones in the back of his hand. “Though Jaqi helped to leech iron from our blood into the claws so they won’t break as easily back in the war.”

“How is that helpful?” Daniel asked.

Peggy, “Wouldn’t that make your arms heavier?”

James said, “It’s not a lot of iron, and it’s all from our own blood so there isn’t much difference beyond the fact that it took more effort for the other guys to break our bones. Not that they’d be broken very long.”

Daniel, “So you have fast healing like in the comics too?”

“Oh ya, makes war fun when you get to be shot left and right and pop right back up.” He mumbled with his voice fading off in your stroll past the grouped up porcupine family who took his murmured word as true that they could go back to berry picking when you had passed by in safety.

Peggy said, “Bunny, didn’t you have special healing as well in the comics?”

“Yes, although unlike them I turn metal after I heal.”

Daniel asked, “Actual metal?”

You nodded and raised a hand to lift the sleeve on your t shirt to show a small bruise on your shoulder you had been whacked by a trick door in your closet wardrobe that had him and Peggy tap your skin and the metal patch. “It fades to peachy again in time. Still getting used to the built in wardrobe in my closet. Some of the doors hate me.”

James said, “Vic is oiling the hinges for you now. Shouldn’t spring out anymore.”

You eased the sleeve down and you said, “So this birth should be interesting to watch unfold. But my Doctor is prepared for anything. Says the girls are healthy and it shouldn’t be too rough a birth on me outside of nerves for how many there are.”

Peggy, “They do have gas now. I have a cousin, she just gave birth and they gave her this gas that helps with the pain.”

“My Doc says that won’t work. Pain medicine dissolves in my bloodstream within seconds thanks to my healing powers,” parting their lips, “But he says he has a pair of medicines, one like laughing gas and another to make me sleep if it gets too bad. Sort of strong enough to kill a rhino medical grade pain meds.”

Daniel’s eyes shifted to James and he said, “How are you even standing right now? My brother in law just about collapsed hearing my sister might need stitches after her last birth?”

James smirked, “We’ll get through it. Can’t pass out I’m supposed to be there to hold one of the girls when they come out.”

Peggy, “You’re going to be there?”

He nodded and you said, “Victor and Eddie have been there for their daughters’ births, I was there for Teddy but they wouldn’t miss the girls since the nuns won’t be there to bar them.”

James, “As many people as Jaqi wants in the room will be there. Tons of space now for them all to do that.”

Daniel said in a turn of his head and view of the dock where Eddie was there already with fishing pole in hand, “Looks like your spot is taken.”

You grinned and said, “That’s my cousin Erik. His mom shouldn’t be far away.” You turned your head and waved to her in her stroll from an apple tree she’d gathered a group of apples to hand out to her son and your group who joined Erik on the dock to catch a couple more fish to go with his five he’d already caught.

“You should stay the night if you like. It’s a long drive back to Alberta and can get confusing in the dark.” You said as you caught Jarvis’ eyes drop to the inked numbers tattooed into the forearms of your aunt and cousin that Howard had stolen a glimpse at as well.

Howard with a wide smile said, “Sounds like a wonderful plan. Who would turn down a night in this place?”

The Twins and Herc came in with small tarps with metal handles on bundles of chopped firewood they split between the kitchen and a couple fire log stations nearby at fireplaces. When they came back to join you all as Victor and James got to start on lunch with Edie’s help Jeff said, “I think we got enough logs to stave off the storm.”

Daniel, “Storm?”

You said, “There’s a storm rolling in the week I’m due. Just prepping, it’ll be sunny tomorrow for your drive back.”

Herc asked in his lower to sit beside you with a nudge of a foot stool to lift your feet onto, “Still restless?”

You nodded and said, “No troubles yet. Nice and calm as usual like the day before my next Hicks blows in. Should be just fine for the Berry Festival tonight.”

“Berry Festival?” Howard asked with a smile and added that for the schedule. After lunch a round of desserts were gathered up to be taken in to town that had the group was excited to follow you in to the festival the town was readying. Excited buzz came from the people who gladly met your visiting friends and helped to warmly fold them into the activities as they took turns checking in on you.

Nestled under James’ arm sweet kisses were stolen between stops at your favorite spots and snack stands before you took up your seat at the dessert for a dance raffle. Gladly exempt you remained off of your feet beside Herc and your unseen parents with Leanora napping in the pram beside you that your hand kept rolling a couple inches back and forth to help her stay asleep.

Across the way you saw Teddy and his sister asleep by their grandparents and aunts and uncles while James took up the dance the woman who won his dessert grinned through hearing the plans ahead for his brewing family. Sharp and clear in a squeeze of Herc’s hand you inhaled deeply and brought his free hand to stroke your back in his hushed guidance through yet another painful Hicks contraction. “You’re doing good. Just a couple weeks yet.”

“Easy for everyone else to say,” you said in a reach for your drink Beau moved closer to you when the wave of pain washed away. Again you stroked a hand over your belly as the girls got to squirming around to show their return to ease.

Sight of the group of your guests who took up more of the un-partnered females onto the dance floor brought out your grin to Peggy and Daniel in a timid try for a dance that showed a few pauses to avoid trouble with his cane while his body still required use of it. In all the time he had been adjusting to the new leg his posture had grown better and a few strolls across rooms were simpler without use of the cane until he had to turn or step aside. Signs that he was close to a more natural ease of motion were made clear as Peggy’s hushed suggestion had the dance simplified and had her move in closer for a slow dance that coaxed his grin wider.

From home you subtly called your camera and snapped a picture of the groups. A kiss could have been stolen yet wasn’t, not even through the beautiful sunset and firework display. But with hands still interlocked when time came to drive home again the near to blushing duo accepted their guest rooms that were side by side. Spare pajamas already in the closets were found in their sizes and the peaceful dark everyone eased into nightly rituals to coax them off to sleep.

Changed and on your way to bed again as you sat on the end of your bed with a leg curled underneath you to the sound of James changing into his pajama pants you marveled at this new magnificent room. And from the edge on planted hands you eased back farther onto the bed to tuck your legs in and close your eyes to take in the gradual changes in your body. Still without change to your hips to show signs of labor your eyes opened to another stroke of your hands underneath James’ t shirt you brushed up exposing the giant shiny bubble your stomach had grown into. “You grow more beautiful by the day.” He hummed lifting your gaze to him on his approach of the bed.

“I wish I could be more affectionate in return.”

He chuckled and lowered onto the bed to nestle up against your side with arms around you in the release of the shirt that wrinkled under his arms, with a press of his lips to your cheek he hummed sweetly, “You are more than affectionate. The greatest thing you could do to show me affection is tend to the whims of our wandering girls.”

Softly you sighed and leaned in to claim a kiss on his lips he melted into and smirked in the rest of your forehead to his afterwards, “I just keep wandering around. I don’t get it. Trips to the lake, strolls around outside, in the house, I can’t just sit and read like I used to. Even my translations are behind.”

“It’ll be over soon, my incredible Darling.” He said accenting it with another kiss on your lips that had him hunch into an awkward position to keep you from being into an awkward position at the rest of your hands onto his neck and cheek. Sweet kisses and a round of cuddling that broke for a yawn ended in his help for you into the nest of pillows he followed you to wrap around you when the lights were out to get ample rest.

Two weeks seemed to roll by and with each day levels of exhaustion waxed and waned to the clear radio coverage on the odd storm brewing over your chunk of Canada. Now with this since a trip of a reporter Howard brought who was covering the upcoming film along with an interview for Norma through him you were confirmed to be alive still and not missing. Yet when the reporter arrived back in New York word spread and now your doomed status took a new height at this freak storm out of nowhere. Amusement from that story however faded in the latest shift of your mood. Only inside you wandered between bouts of your having to sit upright and hunched forward that you took the chance to try and translate a bit of your documents until you had to eat or go to take another nap.

Even plans of Teddy’s second birthday or tries to plan more for your first set of lessons to arrive in the mail in the next week focus was fleeting. And now daily to this evident change on the tail end of Elliot’s arrival had you checked by Herc and given promises that Elliot would help to double check your latest flawed translation. Just notice of a mistranslated word had you shoving the papers away to keep from tearing them all up as you fought off frustrated tears your parents coaxed you through in a snuggling pile and distracting stories to calm you. After a sniffle you wiped your cheek again, “I don’t get it. First my socks didn’t match now I’m mad at a word.”

“Perfectly on schedule. All from the storm, my Dazzling Queen of the Cosmos.” Your father rumbled and pressed a kiss onto your forehead guiding you to lean into his chest.

“I would get furious when I carried you,” your mother said in her own brush of a tear from your cheek, “And I broke two of our mugs. Shoving a bit of paper is not much to balk at.”

Back in the kitchen James sighed and used the can opener to open another can of baby corn, “She threw socks at me.”

Victor chuckled, “Norma prefers pillows.” James sighed and looked at his brother making him chuckle and say, “One week, Herc says we’re near the end. First the gravity change and stair trouble, now this storm is rolling in.”

“If I may?” Elliot said in his ease into the kitchen while the Twins had been readying some tea for you to go with the snacks. The brothers nodded and Elliot said, “It’s not truly a rage, or anger, it is a bout of confusion. One of the final stages, helps to irritate mothers in the end stage. We don’t truly understand the purpose yet, however it is a good sign and will pass by morning.”

James sighed and said, “She could hurl a wall at me I wouldn’t care. I know it’s not under her control right now, but she cried for such a long time at throwing socks at me.”

Victor rubbed his upper back, sighing, “Nobody wants to see her cry. I hated those waves with Norma and the same when Dawn would be lost to tears. It’ll pass and then we get to have a calmer post baby sea of hormones.”

Elliot said, “She is strong, and will pass through this brilliantly. We are all here to see her and you through it.”

James nodded and the closer he got back to your side he felt that electric wave of nerves spike at the hints that you had been upset again. Internally his mother hen switch had been flipped so much so that Teddy had taken to cuddling with him to calm the trouble the boy didn’t understand to be brewing between his aunt and uncle. All day you bounced back and forth tossed about by the whims of your hormones.

And the day after the slow ease into your seat for breakfast had Erik and the Beserkers with the ability to feel your babies and their heartbeats in heart racing stares your way. Eddie however broke the silence asking, “What are you staring at?” His eyes switching between them and you in your groggy reach for some toast to strangely bite into unbuttered.

Herc said before James could repeat the question, “The girls are turned down now.”

Dawn said, “So, she’s near to labor?”

Herc nodded, “Yes,” and his eyes scanned over you in a glance over the tray of butter James brought over you used to spread across the piece of toast you took another bite of for a more satisfying bite. “Either later today or tomorrow. When we are through eating I will give her another exam.”

Sharp inhales and squirms in your chair at the end of the meal had you helped up and guided to your bedroom where a series of checks on both blood, scans with the girdle and physical presses of your belly confirmed the unmistakable.

A clap of thunder came and as the signs showed the storm was descending you were heard muttering in the hall as you paced through a break after your first contraction, “What about the bears?”

James smirked with hold of your hand he wrapped around his arm, “The bears will be perfectly fine.”

“But the rain, and the flowers! Jeanie worked so hard on the gardens!”

Your father said on your free side, “We have a barrier to protect the gardens.”

“The house flooded before, if it keeps raining-,”

Victor said on his chair along the wall you slowly walked past, “We built up the stone drainage walls to divert rainwater. We won’t flood again. We’re prepared for the rains, Pipsqueak.”

You nodded and remained fixed in the wait for the next contraction. Slow didn’t come close to the progress of this labor. More than half a day and still by Eddie’s watch the contractions were still over an hour apart while you felt more restless than ever showing signs that something was going to happen.

“Your Highness, how are things in England?” Victor said with another glance down the hall at Edie returning to your room with a tray of food to keep up your strength.

“Very well. However we have been warned of this storm and I simply had to check if your family was safe.”

“Oh ya, we’ve seen this storm coming and are plenty prepared for however long it takes.”

“That is very good.” The line began to go static and he was heard saying, “Well I will let you dig in and please do call us if you need anything.”

“We will, Your Highness.”

“And do give our love to Bunny,”

Victor chuckled, “I will, and we are sending you the best as well.” He managed to say before the line went dead and he hung up to go and see what else he could do to help you.

Out of the bathroom when you had been helped from a bath now in a fresh pair of pajamas and your hair twisted up into a new braid he entered your bedroom. Sight of Victor mid exhale had him grin at your mildly irritated tone saying, “Don’t tell me to breathe, tell someone else to breathe. I am breathing fine.”

“That you are, Pipsqueak.”

“Come sit down, come eat.” Your mother said ushering you to the table set up beside your armchair coated by towels that helped you to hunch forward between painful contractions as your hips and pelvis refused to separate as it should to make room for the girls who were checked hourly for progress.

Food bled into a stolen nap, one of dozens where you would tuck up in your chair only to groggily awake to the next wave of pain that only worsened the struggle of those who had been on watch as you rested. Small stolen naps only seemed to worsen things as the pain grew more intense in the shrink of those time gaps.

One day bled into another supposed to be sunrise and while your father went to fetch some ice for you to chew on James took hold of your hands and eased them around his neck while you felt the next contraction coming on. Low and soft you squeaked out a whimper in a press of your forehead into his chest his hands rubbed your back in the mock slow dance pattern of steps to help ease this. Tired and simply aching to let this get over with your arms eased down and his hands planted again on your sides to follow behind you on the continued means to continue moving to not be stuck in one spot on a bed to suffer through this there.

“Shake,” Victor said in an offer of a glass and with ease his free arm moved out to let you take a grip on his bicep to drink a good few gulps of the shake he claimed hold of until your next lap when he would offer it to you again. Meals in one place now were out of the question and the few bathroom breaks you had were near unbearable at the pressure building in your hips. The tremble of your hands had him just about in tears and had him need a turn of his head away for a few steady breaths.

While Dawn and Norma rested the Twins watched the children in Eddie’s wing to let them be out of earshot if you did begin to get loud if things ever did pick up. And to the next loud explosion of thunder and shot of lightning across the sky the barely audible hum of the generators powering the lights were heard between the switch of records your mother was changing on the record player. Music was hoped to help calm things and give you something to focus on and even hum to as she had gotten you to do earlier in a failed try to get labor to quicken.

Eleven chimes of the clock sounded and fresh from another bath you walked to the foot of your bed to take a pausing moment with grip of the wooden frame to breathe after having faced another contraction in your closet Eddie and Victor in the hall asked Herc, “Two days?”

Herc wet his lips and said to another wailing wind that whipped around the walls outside on the other side of the shuttered windows at the end of the hall. “It shouldn’t be long now. Half an hour apart now.”

His head turned however to your mumble to James, who looked like he was in need of being knocked out to get some sleep at his reluctance to do so since you had been unable to get more than an hour long nap for two days. “Soon as these girls get out they’re grounded till I say so.”

Into your back his head tapped a moment and his hand moved to stroke your still hardened belly. “No arguments here, Darling.”

To the next tick of the clock however your eyes opened and your head turned to your dad who walked closer, “Another pain?” Your hand extended in the well of tears in your eyes and his rose to be claimed to plant on your stomach, a move that brought Herc and the guys back into the room. “Herc,”

Herc asked in his cross of the room, “Are the girls giving a signal?”

James, “Jaqi?”

Tearfully you whispered, “Their hearts, are slowing, down.” The last word was painfully squeaked and had his breath quicken with worry.

Your father said in a cup of your cheek with his free hand, “We mentioned a sign the girls could give. They know you’re tired, too tired to keep going. They’re ready to let us get them out now.”

Herc said in the plant of his own hand on your belly to check for himself, “Jaqi we’re going to move you to the bed and get these girls out.”

Elliot from the doorway said, “I have the tea,” fresh from your kitchen with tea cup in hand he added the ground herbal medicine into and brought it over to your reach as you were moved to be lifted onto and laid back on the bed. “Slow sips and you will start to gradually go numb to prepare for this.”

You nodded and accepted the cup while Herc readied the table and lined up Victor, James and your father to take hold of the babies while Eddie climbed to settle on the bed at your side to hold you up steady and to keep hold of your hand through this. From mental warning of the birth the Twins went to fetch Norma and Dawn from their own calming break in another sitting room at their own lack of sleep. Edie and Erik readied the bathing bowl your mother brought some warm water for it in a pitcher so they could clean the girls off nearer to you for the warned moment of panic after the birth was over and your body had healed.

James was the one to ease up your shirt through a stolen press of his lips on your brow as Herc with middle finger held by his thumb gave your belly a few gentle flicks. “Can you feel this?”

“Feel what?” you asked between sips and looked his way from James’ supportive grin that came into focus in his step back. “My, um, my hand is tingling.”

Elliot said, “Ooh, that is enough then,” careflly claiming your cup to not let you drop it on yourself and Eddie eased you back to lay down so Herc could feel around your belly.

Herc said in his catch of your eye, “Just a few moments now Jaqi and your girls will be here,” he said in a muffled voice tearing you from focus of the still slowing heartbeats in your belly. Into his hand a scalpel was produced after he had added his gloves. Firm and easy a single cut was made underneath your belly that was followed by another.

Just pressure alone in place of pain came in the feel of blood pooling to Eddie’s hands folding around yours tucked up near your shoulders in his hold in his slump beside your side. All of the bleeding was fully under the control of Herc. Who kept a stop on the incision that he kept open mentally to scoop out the first girl in a section of the conjoined sack that separated and over a towel on his lap he split open causing her umbilical chord to snap free from the other two parts of the joint sack holding her sisters. In the aftermath of that splash she was laid in the towel in James’ arms with a sharp cry that split his smile out widely as tears filled his eyes. Another splash followed in her sister being eased out with chord snapped off on its own as well for teary Victor to have hold of the wriggling girl who let out a shrill cry of her own then went quieter in his step back.

“One more,” Eddie murmured beside your ear after another kiss on your temple and a third cry had the final girl nestled in her grandfather’s arms while Herc finished the steps of the procedure and let the wound meet up again to instantly seal in a spreading silver ripple of skin. Venom meanwhile in his rest above your head through your mental link caught the same static feeling for when you had neared the end of your tether.

“Um,” you managed to murmur to a ring in your ears to the shallow shift of your breath signaled the reaction you had hoped to not face. Just as when you had lost your finger the very first time and again when you had seen the new hand to replace the one you had fed Venom to see three babies being pulled out of your belly sent a wave of panic through the others when your eyes rolled back and your head slumped to the side. Above your head Venom pressed his cheek to your scalp having felt the hazy blip that was your birth. And without the wound having healed yet still he was unable to ease into your body and help you through this to be conscious for your girls and family.

“Jaqi!” James said and Herc raised a hand to sense for any internal wound he’d have missed after tearing his glove off to sense what was wrong.

Eddie couldn’t help but chuckle and said, “I think she fainted,” relaxing the others who came to sit around you at Herc’s reminder.

“Don’t go too far, have to keep the girls close,” they nodded and with his glove free hands he felt around your now fully silver belly that under your mother’s watch he folded down your waistband halfway to see the silver had spread lower. And in a shift back he eased up one of your pant legs he watched the silver spread down to a ring beneath your knees.

The line made her ask, “Is this normal?”

Herc replied, “For long labors, yes,” his hands shifted to the silver soles of your feet showing just where more of the stress of the past couple days had put on your body. “Ample meals, rest and massages should help her to recover. And we have the breast pump ready for if she is tired to nurse all three in a row after her first lessons on that.”

She nodded and asked, “How long would she be unconscious?”

Eddie, “Ten, twenty minutes. Jaqi hoped she’d not have passed out with the surgery if she had it when Herc first mentioned it.” He chuckled again seeing Norma and Dawn come over to see the girls the guys one at a time eased into the bathing bowl that was changed after each girl was clean and fixed into a diaper and a clean blanket from the pile Edie brought over. All in differing colors they were draped lovingly and as he sat down by your shoulder Erik drew attention to your belly that as the third girl was wrapped in her blanket began to shrink.

Inch by inch from your large belly as if pushed back in time from 48 weeks to your former figure now with a more toned layer of muscle visible in place of the dissolved fat and water weight absorbed back into your system. Careful presses of fingers showed proof that the muscle was healthy and had been built up to carry the weight of the three babies.

The Twins after having taken respectful pictures and filmed the baths used the body scanner to confirm the healing process when completed had you back to your original 89 pound self from after the war that had the baggy sleeping clothes and underwear you had on lay loosely over your slumbering body. To the clear need to change again Norma and Dawn went to your closet to bring out an old set of underwear and a nice set of your favorite two piece pajamas with a sleeveless buttoned silk top that would aid in nursing and being checked for progress on your healing. Your face and hands were the last to seemingly deflate and had Erik happily bring over the open jewelry box that held your original wedding ring and band laid in it to be swapped for the now oversized pair slumped sideways on your ring finger.

Twenty minutes later to the hushed question of if they could go ahead and assign the three names between the girls a deep breath from you had everyone ease in again with James, Victor and your father come to sit down at your side. From a view of the wall of shuttered windows your eyes turned to the top of Eddie’s head that had you tilt yours back to groggily grin up at him. “Hey Sis.”

Venom’s head from his neck smiled and said, “Hello, Sister.”

From them your head turned and the grin on your face fell taking notice of the lack of the giant belly that had your pulse kick up. “Darling,” James’ voice split through your moment of panic in his lean into your view with the girl he brought closer to you. “Our girls are right here.” On his knees he came closer and he moved over your legs to settle at Eddie’s bent legs and into reach of your chest over your folded arms she was eased luring focus of your loose rings on your raised hand.

“Hey, little one,” you said and turned your head in the ease of the other two closer as her curled fingers came out of the blanket to slide around your finger. All three girls cooed and shifted into your touch and gentle pecks on the tops of their heads.

Herc out of your sight said, “Just be careful on sitting up.”

Edie asked, “Are you hungry? It has been hours since you have eaten.”

“I could eat,” you said and smiles spread to that tired statement she hurried off to answer to that problem and grab the serving of stew and rolls from the kitchen in your wing. Erik at the nightstand over the girls’ heads reached for your loose rings and smiled in a shared lock of eyes and handed James your original rings he eased back onto your ring finger and sweetly kissed your lips.

“Have you settled the names yet?”

James shook his head and said, “Waiting for you. This angel was first.”

You nodded and said with a smile, “Aurora Nyx,” she answered with a coo followed by her sister to, “Belinda Rhea,” and lastly joined by, “Nova Carina.” All of the names that Herc had printed on their birth records with Pear Howlett and their title of The Honorable to the birth records and in the presentation of food Eddie helped to guide you up a bit to sit up against pillows while the girls were measured and had their hands and foot prints taken. Along that were given anklets that would grow with them that bore their initials to help differentiate between the three of them that they would be unable to be harmed by or remove.

To the other end of the room the group moved when your dirty dishes were taken so Sarah and James could help change you into your older layers which gave you a tear stirring view of the widespread bruises all over from the lower ribs to just below the knee. And when you were settled back she asked, “Did you want to try a breastfeeding lesson before you sleep? They shouldn’t be hungry but we can let you get some practice?”

You nodded and Aurora was brought over as your shirt was opened and nursing bra undone to have her guide you on your first nursing lesson, “Just ease her head, just like that,” she smiled in a nestle closer to your side as James stroked the top of your daughter’s head in the groggy droop of her silvery lilac eyes. The same shade all three had with the same white hair in tiny tufts of curls across the tops of their heads with a matching seven and a half pound weight to boast on.

When her few suckles had the infant drift off to sleep the two other girls were brought over for their own brief snacks that drifted them off to a deep sleep that by the droop of your eyes was welcome to give you a chance to be helped off the comforter they eased over you when you were redressed again. Soft and sweet she urged James to remain with you and the family would watch the babies while he nestled up with you and proudly he eased you on your side against is chest with gentle kisses given until he drifted off. Every second of his consciousness through this excruciatingly drawn out labor his only thoughts through his pain being how impossibly beautiful his wife was to have suffered so long to bring three girls into this world. Every second more beautiful than the last.

Exhausted from the process Victor took Norma to their bed to curl up around her as Eddie did the same with Dawn after Venom had seen the babies one more time and nestled his head into their foreheads wishing them a good night and promised to see them in the morning. Edie and Erik were last to head off to rest in the decided early breakfast they hoped you would rest until it was made. Just leaving the Beserker group awake to comment on the unbelievable birth process their dearest of friend had faced so adamantly to see it through no matter how long it took.

Silent relief and chimes of midnight echoed through the house to the roll of more protective thunder inside the cone of the storm channeled around your property that waned to softer drizzle over the distant town. Loud and boldly bells in the abandoned Beserker lands in Asgard woke every single creature there who knew as those within earshot of other Beserker outposts on other planets in other universes heard the message of Mother’s successful birth. Three little girls yet unknown across this planet were named throughout several Universes and Dimensions to swell pride in the chests of those who knew just how long the return and expansion of the ruling clan had been awaited.

Pt 72

All –

@sherala007, @mariannetora, @jesgisborne, @knitastically, @catthefearless, @theincaprincess, ggbbhehe4455, @lilith15000, @alishlieb,

Not nsfw(smut) - @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore

X Marvel-Cast - @himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @changlingkhat

Brother Dearest - @thorinanddwalinsdwarrowdam, @swoopswishsward

#Storm is coming #Labor #Phone Calls from and to the Palace #Two Days #James Howlett x OC #Victor Creed x Norma Jeane #Eddie Brock x OC #Venom #Erik and Edie Lehnsherr

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beyoncesdragon · 4 years

Text

Off the menu (Tommy x Reader)

Requested: No

Warnings: language, Alfie knocks someone out just because

Summary: Tommy feels the need to remind everyone exactly what you are for them: off the fucking menu that is.

My Masterlist

“We’re finding lodgings for you…but for now you sleep here in the bakery. Don’t touch any of the bread, it will most likely explode. Any questions?” you sat in the shadow, legs dangling down some dusty table, your dress spread out slightly over the hard surface. You took a delicate bite from your apple, the first thing you had to eat in ages or so it felt. Tommy’s broad shoulders faced you as he stood tall in front of dozens of men, all ready to soon get to work in the “bakery”. He looked like the proud Shelby he was, clean, firm and intimidating. Yet, you refused to look at him and only see that big bad wolf everyone else seemed to see. A man raised his hand, Tommy’s attention snapping towards him immediately. “Yes?” there was a short pause. “I haven’t even seen any bread.” Laughter arose between the men, but I could only sigh worriedly. Surely they had not met any Shelby in their lives…or Solomons at that matter. Tommy seemed to think the same thing as he stepped off a few inches, looking over to the bearded man. A mere second later, the bulky man which had observed the happenings in silence to this point, rose his head and started to walk over. The way Alfie walked always reminded you of a bear. That broad, stubborn walk that made you step aside before you could even think about it. Then those bushy eyebrows and the beard, those piercing eyes…the only person you knew could look a tad sharper was dear Tommy, with his icy blue eyes. He stopped right in front of the man that had cracked the joke, still not saying a word. You didn’t dared to break the silence by taking a bite from your fruit, the tension was just a tad too thick for that. Suddenly, Alfie lunched forwards and with a powerful strike he knocked the man standing next to the one that was actually guilty out. You flinched at the sound of his knuckles hitting the poor fellas jaw. The room fell even more quiet. “He’ll wake up. Granted he won’t have any teeth left, but he will be a wiser man for it.” Alfie started, tapping the mouthpiece of his pipe softly towards the man. “And the last thing he will remember is your funny little joke, alright?” silence greeted him. Fearful silence, full of surprise and realisation. You carefully placed your apple in your lap, still tightly clutched in your fingers. “RIGHT!” Alfie suddenly yelled out and you flinched again. These men… “There are fucking rules for a fucking reason. Quite simply, they have to be obeyed, alright?” He started walking back and forth in front of those rows of men, just like Tommy did before. But way more aggressive, like a bull in a ring. “Rule number one: the distinction between bread and rum…that is not discussed!” the last few words were yelled out loudly and it made you wince just very slightly. Tommy’s eyes immediately wandered over to you, but you didn’t even realise it. “Rule number two: anything, right, that your superior officer says to you, or any other of your fucking superior officers say to you, yeah? NOT DISCUSSED!” he continued to strut in front of the men, in the most inelegant way possible – still, strutting suited it the best. “Rule number three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine I don’t care, for the rest of your fucking miserable, measly lives, because I like you, I am also a complete fucking sodomite: Jewish women. You do not go anywhere near them, cause Jewish women for you are off the fucking menu.” You could feel how all the eyes wandered over to you, some snapped and some at least tried to be subtle about it. Not that you could blame the men all too much for that since you looked like an angel sitting on that darn table. Completely out of place you seemed, in that nice dress, your feet dangling softly over the table top. Besides, you were eating and they were hungry as well…still, the apple wouldn’t come close to how sweet you looked. The only question was…was he saying this because of you? Obviously, if Alfie declared you as off-limits, the challenge would be even greater. You rose your eyebrows softly at all the stares since no one seemed to say anything at all. Even Alfie was unsure of how to react…maybe the blue eyed devil that was looking like he was wishing hell upon all the men here had something to do with it. “I’m not Jewish, don’t look at me like that.” You replied softly, taking another bite. “Still off the fucking menu.” Tommy’s voice was far from yelling or shouting, still, you heard him in the whole room as clear as if he’d stand in front of you. With a few strides he stood closer at your table, but never showing exactly why you might be off the menu. “Now stop looking at her if you want to keep your eyes.” He huffed, annoyance clearly audible in his voice by now. You couldn’t help but sneakily roll your eyes at the man, taking yet another bite from your apple. Alfie nodded slowly. “I think that’s fair.” His eyes snapped back to the man he hit unconscious earlier: he still laid there without having moved an inch. “Hm.” Was Alfie’s only comment on that before starting to walk back to his original spot in front of the barrels. “Okay that’s it then. Forgive me I interrupted you.” If it wouldn’t have been so violent, his bluntness would’ve almost been funny.

This moment, Tommy stepped forward again. His eyes grazed the knocked out man in a condescending manner before softly nodding towards him. “Pick him up.” It didn’t take them long; three men immediately grabbed the limp body at his arms and started to pull him up. A weak groan escaped the man’s lips; at least he was still alive. Tommy however walked towards a man near a column. He was quite tall and just his stoic attitude showed that he wasn’t a regular “baker” at any time. Next to Tommy however, his authoritarian aura seemed to collapse. It was clear who ran that fucking house. “Get them out of here. And make this fucking work.” Tommy was whispering…yet probably everyone heard him. But who was Tommy to care about something like that. The man only nodded before vigorously starting to drive the bunch out of the hall. Within seconds the room was completely empty apart from Tommy and you. He still stood there with his back facing your frame as you slipped off the table, placed your half eaten apple down and leaned towards the table top. “Such a big bad boss ye mark here, eh?” you teased lightly, seeing him tense up at your words. “And such a protective one at that.” You continued coquettishly, watching him take a deep breath before turning around to you. A fresh cigarette stuck in between his lips now, already lightened and burning softly. He exhaled the smoke slowly as he walked towards you with long strides. “And I am off the fucking menu, apparently.” You trilled with a knowing smirk watching his eyes flicker up with a low sparkle. “Are you not?” he asked, planting himself in front of you, folding his arms over his chest. “You just got scared that I might run off with a rough baker in his mid-thirties and a scarred backhand and patchy hair.” He arched his brow. “Are you laughing at me?” you tried to fight the smile off your face as you stared up to him towering you. “That I could find my purpose in a man with sweat-drenched linen vests, smelly hats and who’s going around looking all scruffy?” irritation flashed up in Tommy’s eyes as he suddenly grabbed the stub of his cigarette and flung it to the side. Then he stepped even closer, placing one hand on each side of the table so I’d be trapped in between them. “Go on.” He mumbled lowly, still not showing anything on his face. “Pathetic Tommy boy.” He huffed lightly, eyes wandering down your face. “First a boss and now…pathetic.” He mused, his closeness very obviously messing a bit with your head. You chuckled lightly, bringing a hand up to his cheek. “Pathetic and very soft.” This made him straighten up. “Soft?” you nodded, living your absolute best life teasing the hell out of him. “Always seeking for trouble my dear…and always so rough with your men. They’ll stab your back if you keep treating them like shit.” He snorted, clearly amused now. “I am not here to make friends…” “…but allies?” “Neither. Allies depend on you. They expect something from you. If y’cant give that to them at all time, they will betray you.” he carefully wrapped his arms around your waist, hands trailing down the small of your back. “Henchmen then?” he nodded lightly, an almost proud shimmer in his eyes. “You just double the pay and they are yours again.” You said nothing, simply leaning against his chest. It was reassuring and amusing to you when you felt him realx into your touch. “If you keep talking like that, people could get the impression of you being a cold, heartless prick.” Finally his cold face broke. “I am sure people got way worse impressions of me than a prick, eh?” you just smiled softly. “You are a fucking knob, for sure.” He snorted, letting you go again. “Still…a softie, Shelby. Admit it.” He furrowed his brows. “I have a reputation to maintain.” You laughed lightly, raising on your tip toes to press a kiss to his lips. Intended was a light peck, but Tommy seemed to have other things in mind than that. He simply followed you lips down and pulled you a tad closer. “But not to me…” you mumbled softly, carefully backing away. “let me go check out the man Alfie knocked out before. If he really has no teeth left, he might needs to see a doctor.” Tommy arched his eyebrow again. “And let you run off into that bunch of rats right?” you laughed at that and grabbing your apple from the table beside you, you stepped a few steps back. “I’m off the menu remember? Off the fucking menu.” He just sighed. “They will remember. Come back to me immediately, I’ll be at the office with Alfie. You know where to find it I think. And also…” you suppressed a grin, “…take care.” “I will, Mister Shelby.” You saluted playfully before mouthing “softie” into his direction. Tommy only rolled his eyes at you, making you giggle a bit. Then you turned around and skipped lightly towards the exit and disappeared into the dark. You were right, Tommy thought, for you, he was…different. He himself would have never labelled it as soft, naturally. But maybe less…rough. More cautious, more…easy-going. You forgot your scarf on the table you sat on during the meeting. He reached for it, softly twisting it around in his hands. It was a pretty one, black and shimmery with embroidery…a hand-picked gift of his for you. He’s spent a whole afternoon in that bloody store, listening to Pols advice and word all along for fucking ages before finally going for that one. He even payed for it instead of just pulling the old “stuff’s on the house or the house burns down” thing, because he knew that you’d run back to that store and either pay for it or give it back entirely. He tipped her, additionally to that. The lady in the store had been terrified and delighted about his “surprising ability to give a fuck” so Polly had called it. The things you made him do…he snorted softly, lighting another cigarette. He pushed himself off the desk, the scarf in one hand his cigarette in the other. A tray of blueish smoke trailed behind him and hovered in the thick air for a second before dissolving in the whirl of moved air he caused, left behind and in the dark. Just like the conversation the two of you shared in the room before disappeared, the truth that was just for your eyes only: the truth that Tommy Shelby was indeed becoming a soft man.

#tommy shelby #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #imagines #fanfiction #multifandom #alfie solomons #arthur shelby #john shelby #the peaky blinders #bbc one

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luluwquidprocrow · 4 years

Text

i know their names, i carry their blood too

originally posted: august 13th, 2018

word count: 19,681 words

rated: teen

beatrice snicket, lemony snicket

family, angst with a happy ending, VFD, assorted original vfd characters, assorted canon characters repeatedly mentioned, one small girl going through a lot of unpleasantness, most of the time by herself, attempted kidnapping (legit vfd recruitment in action), also one small girl trying to avoid a decent amount of trauma and loss

summary: A man has come back to the city. Beatrice Baudelaire, eight years old and miles away, is trying to find him.

opening notes:

this fic relies pretty heavily on the beatrice letters, and there are a few references and one code that will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the wrong questions and the unauthorized autobiography!

title from the crooked kind by radical face

Beatrice learns early on, at seven and with a bare ankle because they said they don’t require the tattoo anymore, that if she turns the doorknob slowly and lifts it up at the same time, her bedroom door doesn’t stick when it opens. At eight, she learns if she stays close to the hallway wall, avoids the places where the floor groans under her feet, especially in the spot in front of the chaperone’s room, then she can make it in absolute silence to the staircase. The stairs are trickier—most of the steps have warped over time—so she wraps her hands tight around the banister and inches along the edge until she stretches out a tentative foot and finds the smooth carpet of the ground floor rug under her socks.

At almost one in the morning, everything, every overstuffed armchair and faded green wall and well-stocked pantry, is smothered in black shadows. Beatrice doesn’t mind. She can still find her way around. She had walked around for a week with her eyes closed to prove a point a few months ago. (The point was that she could tell anyone by their footsteps, which she could. The result was that she could navigate the entirety of headquarters in the middle of the night. She knows every creak in every floorboard and what everyone’s shoes sound like now.)

A proper adult might ask her if she’d like a light on so she can see a little easier at one in the morning. A proper adult would probably think she’d be afraid of the dark, after everything that happened. Then again, a proper adult would probably not have put her in this situation to begin with. She’s not entirely sure. She’s only known a few proper adults in her life, or people older and taller than her to the point she considered them adults. She hopes she’ll know at least one more.

From the report a volunteer smuggled to her during dinner in the mashed potatoes—and from the confirmation from another volunteer during dessert, waving his spoon through the air at her—and from the further confirmation from the chaperones standing in a corner with their heads together and mumbling not very quietly at all—a man was seen. Far away, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings in the city. A man they tell stories about, a man no one seems to know for sure, a man who might be a detective, or has had that printed on an office door at one point or another. A man who hasn’t been seen in a long, long time.

“That’s him,” Beatrice had said.

“How do you know?” a volunteer had asked. “You’ve never seen him either.”

Beatrice hasn’t, but she thinks she’s allowed to make an educated guess here. A niece should know her own uncle, even by rumors. And she knows him like she knows the back of her hand, or the floorboard underneath her bed she stashes the picture and the ring under, or the books she’s read in the middle of the night when she was supposed to be asleep, the ones they tried to hide from her so she couldn’t read his name. She knows.

(One of the older chaperones told her—or muttered disparagingly in her direction after Beatrice asked the same question for a whole hour one day, because no one would give her a straight answer—that she has the analytical eyes of her mother and the stubborn streak of her namesake and the brazen attitude of her uncle. Another one told her later, a little more kindly, that she looks like her father when she reads, quiet and studious. So, she knows.)

Her backpack is a heavy weight on her back as she creeps through the downstairs rooms, her shoes gripped in one hand and a letter almost crumpled tight in the other. She’d written it after dinner, tucked away in a corner of a room that no one ever looked in (the bathroom closet, of course), the typewriter across her lap and the news still fresh in her mind. She tapped her fingers against the keys. How should she address the letter? Because she’d have to send a letter. It was only polite, after all. But calling him uncle outright might be a little too much, a little too soon. Dear, she typed, for a start. Dear—physically distant relative? Closest living relative? The person she had to find, because he could help her find the people most important to her? This had to be perfect, and Beatrice knew it would be, but she still had to think—

Dear Sir, she settled on, with a small, pleased smile.

That was when she’d heard the voices from outside in the hall, filtering through the bathroom door.

“This can’t be good news,” said a chaperone Beatrice never liked. “He’s a wanted criminal, isn’t he? And I heard he was responsible for that other fire a few years ago, too. What if he comes here?”

“How can we trust someone like him?” said another one that Beatrice had almost respected until that moment.

“It’s probably not even him,” said a third voice. “There’s been too many people with his initials showing up over the years. With any luck, he’s dead and gone.”

Beatrice frowned, mostly in anger, because that was such an awful, rude thing to say about someone. She knew it was him. There was no way it couldn’t be. But the chaperones had a point about the initials, and it made her think of something else. In case the letter went astray, because the mail could be so unreliable, especially so far from the city, she should preface it with something, shouldn’t she?

I have no way of knowing if this letter will reach you, as the distance between us is so very far and so very troublesome, she’d written, proud at how professional she sounded. And even if this letter does reach you, I am not sure it will reach the right person. Perhaps you are not who I think you are.

But she’d learned one important thing here, and that was that you had to be certain, because you might be wrong. So at the end of the day, it was merely a pretense, a formality. There was nothing she didn’t know for sure, because she was certain.

My name is Beatrice Baudelaire, she typed, with a fierce determination and her head held high. I am searching for my family. Then she’d known that she was going to leave.

Beatrice squints up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the main room, trying to see the time through the shadows. If she cuts it too close she’ll run into the chaperones doing their middle-of-the-night check on the neophytes. She has to be out of the building before it comes to that. The ground floor of headquarters is silent as a grave right now, as dark as one too, and she steps close to the couch where the floor won’t talk back to her as she makes her way to the heavy ivory front door, washed grey in the dark.

She knows from experience—from carefully watching and listening—that the door is locked (silver, outdated, the kind from the old hardware manuals Beatrice has extensively studied in the dead of night) from the outside, the volunteer who locks it then running up the fire escape and back inside through an upstairs window. But the quickest way out is always the easiest way in. She puts on her shoes and takes off her backpack, unzips the latter as slow as she can, and feels around for the thin red ribbon.

She shifts her hair, shoulder-length and blonde with a curl at the very end, away from her face, and ties it back securely with the ribbon.

An older volunteer had given her a lock pick the previous week after Beatrice helped her solve a word game—there’s no way she would’ve been able to get one otherwise. The chaperones almost always seem to know when someone’s doing something they shouldn’t, considering how much else they miss. Beatrice takes it out and gets to work, moving quickly and quietly, listening for the barely audible tick when one of the tumblers releases. One of the chaperones laughs upstairs, a disembodied thing in the darkness, and Beatrice grips the tools harder so she doesn’t jump and drop them.

The lock clicks sharply, the door easing open with a heavy creak. Beatrice freezes in place, straining her ears, her breath still in her throat. She’s sure someone had to hear that.

Something creaks upstairs.

The floorboard outside the chaperone’s door.

Beatrice snatches up her bag, squeezes herself through the gap and outside, and pulls the door shut behind her. She runs down the stone steps two at a time and doesn’t look back.

Ten blocks away, when she’s sure no one is looking, Beatrice drops the folded letter into a public mailbox.

The only train out of town leaves at five in the morning. Beatrice gets to the station with plenty of time to spare, and easily memorizes the route she’ll have to take to get to the city. It’s a long one, so she sits down on one of the benches and counts out her change. She digs the ring out of her bag, the heirloom from the island Sunny had given her that Beatrice had hid from the chaperones, and tries it on different fingers until it stays and doesn’t slide. Then she waits, tracing the low ceiling beams with her eyes, swinging her legs back and forth.

She knows just what he’ll be like. Not too tall, keeps to himself, intelligent. Sensible, maybe a little tentative, a little worried. His books made it sound like he’d been through a lot, after all. But she’s not too concerned about that. He’ll talk to her, because she’s his niece, and she’s read everything he’s written, and they have a good deal in common. They both like big words, long books, and could take or leave the sea.

She has one picture of him, of the side of his back and a corner of his face and one hand, or the side of the back and the corner of a face and the one hand of a man Violet and Klaus didn’t know, but a man Beatrice knew couldn’t be anyone else. There were three other people in the photograph—the uncle she’ll never meet, and the Baudelaire parents.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to take the photograph. It was their photograph, Violet and Klaus and Sunny’s, the last thing they had of their parents. But she thought it might be the only glimpse she’d get of her uncle, especially when she’d only known about Jacques, so she would sneak it out of Klaus’s commonplace book when he wasn’t looking. She’d wonder who the other man was, since that was before she knew. And she’d meant to put it back, but—but there hadn’t been time.

Violet and Klaus told her her mother had blue eyes, and so did Jacques, and she has them too, so she knows she’ll see the same shade of blue in his eyes, another link between the two of them. Excitement flutters around inside of her like a million wonderful butterflies, and she can’t help but smile. Not only is she going to find the family she lost, she’s going to find the family she didn’t even know she still had until a few months before. Beatrice can’t think of anything luckier.

There’s not too many people on the train when it comes into the station, so Beatrice picks a windowseat all to herself, pressing herself close so she can see everything passing by. She doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She swings her legs again, heels kicking the seat, and waits for the train to start moving.

“Aren’t you a little young to be traveling alone?” the woman across the aisle asks. She lowers yesterday’s evening edition newspaper and gives Beatrice a pointed stare behind her thick-framed glasses.

“No,” Beatrice says.

“You seem a little young,” the woman continues.

“I’m short for my age,” Beatrice says.

The woman gives her another look, specifically at her feet, and then looks back up at Beatrice with a raised eyebrow. She ruffles her newspaper imperiously and disappears behind it again.

Beatrice swallows, her shoulders pulling in. She makes a point to stop swinging her legs and sits up straighter. She keeps at it, even when the woman gets off at the next station and she’s by herself on the train.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she jolts awake at a flash of light across her face. It flickers jagged on her hands, lighting up the seat beneath her, bright and blinding white. She looks around frantically, expecting to see rain and bending wood, to hear the roar of crashing waves, before she remembers she’s still on the train. There’s no lightning on a train. It’s just the sun streaming in from the window. She watches with wide eyes as it creates patterns on her arms and her dress, then tears her gaze away and stares hard at the faraway houses outside the window instead, clutching her bag in her lap. Beatrice thinks of big words (pietrisycamollaviadelrechiotemexity surely counts as a word, and she spends ten minutes testing out pronunciations), long books (Anna Karenina is long, and she can probably still read it even though she already knows the central theme), and anything but the sea, until her hands loosen and her shoulders drop and the sun is high enough that she can’t see it.

Beatrice had first found his name buried in old reports, in thirteen files jammed into the back of a drawer, down in the basement at headquarters when someone had asked her to find a flashlight. She found a bat instead, clinging to the rafters, and it blinked at her with big, black eyes. Beatrice blinked back, because she knew all about all kinds of animals, especially the ones the organization trained, and she didn’t mind bats. Then it fluttered down on top of an old filing cabinet in the corner.

Beatrice wandered over and picked out faded letters that spelled Baudelaire on the front. Eager, because no one at headquarters would talk to her about Violet or Klaus or Sunny, or answer her questions about where they might be, she yanked it open and found files and files with a distinct cursive signature ending each one—Lemony Snicket. And her stomach had twisted up tight, because she could hear Klaus like he was standing right behind her, telling her the name Kit Snicket.

Kit Snicket, Beatrice had echoed.

That’s right, Klaus had said, smiling. She was your mother.

Beatrice knew all about her mother. Violet and Klaus and Sunny had told her her mother was a good person, a volunteer, someone who had helped them, and they had helped her. That was how Beatrice was born. And she knew all about Jacques, because they’d said the same thing about him. But they’d never mentioned a Lemony. She knew better than to think he was her father, because she knew her father’s name, too. Dewey Denouement. They’d said his name only once, and she’d repeated it over and over again to herself. Beatrice didn’t know who this was.

She read through them all in the dead of night so no one would bother her, because Beatrice knew they were watching her, closer than they watched the other neophytes. She tried to find the four volumes she’d found hints at in other files, although she never managed to pin them down. But the thirteen files told her enough. They confirmed that Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still out there somewhere, just like she thought. They confirmed their stories, although with other details they hadn’t said or had relayed differently—but Beatrice had never doubted what they’d told her to begin with.

And they confirmed that Lemony Snicket was her uncle, and he was alive.

All of Beatrice’s hopes became real, became fact. There was someone else out there, someone who could help her. Someone who was family. Someone who could help her find Violet and Klaus and Sunny. Someone who knew the whole story too.

So then she just had to wait. She had to wait, and learn, and sit through someone telling her how to make a meringue when she knew full well how to make a meringue, and how to pick a lock and how to define a word and the right way to escape a burning building. She had to keep waiting until the right moment came and she could leave and try to find him, try to find them all. And Beatrice would know when it was. She was Beatrice Baudelaire, after all. She knew everything now.

Beatrice spends three weeks switching trains, eating greasy sandwiches from the vendors hanging around in the old, dingy train stations. Sunny wouldn’t like any of the sandwiches at all, but Beatrice has to make do with what she can. No one talks to her, so she doesn’t get a chance to try out any of the other things she’d thought to say after she spoke to that woman. I’m visiting a relative. I’m in a special program. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers? She’s a little bummed about that, because she practiced the perfect eyebrow raise in the hand mirror she took from one of the chaperones, but it’s really for the best. She doesn’t need to be sidetracked.

Instead, she listens to how the trains sound smoother and sleeker closer to the city, watches how the stations get more impressive. She takes pamphlets from each station until she has a neat collection detailing train mechanics, local restaurants, and sometimes, if she finds one, the smallest books she’s ever seen. Beatrice sits in the hard station seats and flips through them while she waits for her train to come in. Mostly they’re books she’s read before, but she thinks they’re cute, being so tiny. She’ll show them to Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and her uncle, too. She knows they’ll enjoy them.

A voice mumbles indistinct static over the loudspeaker. Beatrice finishes her sandwich, puts the latest brochure in her bag, and gets on the next train.

The train station in the city is enormous, bigger than headquarters. It certainly looks as old as headquarters, but a little more distinguished, with a solid white floor and an endlessly high ceiling. Beatrice would be able to appreciate it more, she thinks, if there wasn’t so many people, all bustling past in a flurry of suitcases and elbows. None of them spare her a second glance, not even when she climbs up on top of one of the curved benches for a better view of the entire station.

Whenever Violet couldn’t figure out how to fix an invention, or Klaus couldn’t figure out the meaning of a sentence, or Sunny couldn’t figure out how to change a recipe, they would take it apart and look at each individual component before continuing. The same principle works for a city, Beatrice figures. A city is just a collection of streets, one right after the other, and all of them go somewhere. It’s not too hard to find out where, especially when you have the right map.

She finally spots the map display, drops back onto the floor, and goes and grabs every single map available. She squeezes her way through the crowd mobbing around the exit and emerges out on the city street into a sudden deluge of bright lights and noise. Beatrice blinks until it all evens out, all the traffic lights and towering buildings and the people, hundreds and hundreds more of them. She swallows, presses herself against the outside wall, and takes a moment to watch everything.

It’s strange. The ocean was vast, and they rarely ran into anyone out there, and headquarters, tucked away in a small town miles from the sea, had only about twenty neophytes and a handful of teachers and chaperones. But the city is full of jostling bodies and constant sound, like the whole world rushing around her, a storm that doesn’t stop. Beatrice thinks she might be scared, if she wasn’t so systematic about it. You can’t be scared if you know everything. It’s just different, is all it is. She reminds herself to breathe and thinks it’s just different.

Beatrice spreads the maps out in the park across the street, holding the edges down with rocks so they don’t blow away when the breeze kicks up. Everything is marked on the maps, every street and building and corner store, and even the best places to see certain birds. One map includes Nine Dreary Buildings to Avoid on Your Lunch Break, which is absurdly specific but exactly what she needs, and Beatrice hunts them all down with a careful eye and a black pen. All nine buildings are within a few blocks of each other, clustered in the center of the city. She’ll have to go through all of them, just to be sure. Klaus taught her it was good to be thorough. She puts the rest of the maps away and starts looking.

The first two buildings are too short to have a thirteenth floor. The third building looks like it was condemned years ago and no one bothered to do anything with it. The fourth building has so many floors that Beatrice loses track when she stands on the sidewalk and tilts her head back to try and count, and she looks through the directory inside the doors but doesn’t see any mention of her uncle’s name (or a pseudonym, or an anagram, or even just a suspicious blank space).

The walk to the fifth building takes the longest, because Beatrice has to find a path around the construction being done on seventh street, and takes ten minutes to wrestle with the map and figure out which street she’s on when she winds up in a dark alley with a lot of cigarette butts and one very noisy pigeon who tries to steal her map. The sixth building has the suspicious blank space on the directory, but it’s on the fifteenth floor. The seventh and eighth buildings, when she manages to find them, were mislabeled and wind up being two different diners, one of them even across from a completely different train station. Beatrice admits that they’re still pretty dreary-looking and uncomfortable, especially the latter one. She certainly wouldn’t want to eat at a place called The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationary Shop. That’s just tempting fate a little too much.

The ninth building proclaims itself to be the Rhetorical Building in faded but still distinct black print on an otherwise grey building, with a tattered brown awning over the glass double doors. It’s definitely tall enough to have thirteen floors—Beatrice counts twenty rows of windows going up the side. She bites her lip and scans the directory. Her heart leaps when she spots the little card for an office on the thirteenth floor. The name scribbled out, but whoever did it used a faded black pen and didn’t do that good a job, so she can still see the very clear L at the beginning and the S somewhere in the middle. She bites her lip around a smile.

This is it. This is her uncle’s office.

Beatrice pushes the doors open and takes a cursory glance around the lobby, and finds the inside lives up to the dreary reputation too. She wouldn’t have put so much sagging grey furniture and scuffed flooring and wilted potted plants in an office building. She ducks down as she hurries past the front desk so the bored receptionist doesn’t see her, vaguely wondering what it is about the building that her uncle likes so much to have an office here, and heads up the staircase. She can ask him when she sees him. She can ask him everything when she sees him, although everything is just one single question, but it’s everything to her.

The thirteen floors pass in what feels like a matter of moments, and Beatrice breaks into a run when she gets closer to his office, bursting through the doors onto the thirteenth floor. She darts from door to door, looking for the right number, wood creaking under her shoes, and almost barrels right into a panel of old, frosted glass on a door halfway down the hall. The only writing on it says DETECTIVE in peeling letters, which is exactly what she expected. Beatrice grins and knocks a few times, bouncing on the balls of her feet. When there’s no answer right away, she tries the doorknob.

The door is unlocked.

Beatrice tries with everything she has to contain her excitement, but it still comes through in her shaking hands as she turns the doorknob. “Hello?” she calls.

She comes face to face with a cloud of dust. Beatrice coughs into her fist, waving her other hand around to disperse it, and looks up to find a cluttered, but empty office.

Beatrice frowns and walks inside. The blinds are shut tight over the windows, so she eases them open carefully, letting in just enough light to see, and the office still doesn’t have anyone else in it. She checks under the desk, and out on the fire escape, and even under the papers on the walls, but there’s no reasonably tall man with her eyes waiting for her. She huffs out a sigh, her shoulders falling, but then the papers on the wall catch her attention. She looks closer.

They aren’t just papers—there are photographs mixed in, pictures of people she’s never seen before, and pictures of places, cities, hotel rooms, at least one rental car office, an all-you-can-eat buffet, and two separate theaters, and newspaper articles and pages ripped from books, all framing a humongous map of the city and surrounding areas, bigger than any she picked up at the train station. The papers are connected by a thin red string, wound around tacks and marking pins and what looks like an old bottle cap for a soda Beatrice doesn’t think sounds very pleasing. The middle of the map has more recent ones, polaroids dated a few months back of steep, rolling hills, a note paperclipped to one, neat typewriter type proclaiming it could be possible, underlined in a smooth, even blue pen. There’s a path marked beside them, curving through a wide and unlabeled space in the map.

That must be it, she thinks, nodding to herself. He’s not here, and she could be more upset about that, but she can’t be when now she knows exactly where he went. He’s pretty obvious for a detective, which makes her smile around a laugh.

She turns to the desk, which leans a little to one side, papers and a typewriter balanced precariously. A strangely-shaped paperweight sits on top of a stack of papers, and Beatrice mentally runs through every single animal she knows but can’t find a match. It looks like a snake or a worm or an eel, only with too many teeth.

Beatrice clambers up into the chair behind the desk, settles herself, and looks at the typewriter. It’s an old model, but well-cared-for, with shiny keys and a brand new ribbon, almost like it was waiting for her. Beatrice rolls in a sheet of paper, and then runs her fingers over the keys. She’s sure he won’t mind.

Dear Sir, she types. I am writing this on the typewriter in your small, dusty office, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings of the city.

I am leaving this city, only hours after seeing it for the first time, to follow your path of yarn and pins. I am heading for the hills…

When she leaves his office and starts hunting through the bus schedules for an idea of how she’s going to get to the hills, she realizes, with an exhilarated jump of her stomach, that it’s now March 1st. She’s been nine years old for a whole day.

On her last birthday on the boat, which Violet had radically modified before leaving the island and on the journey after, Sunny made her a cake. There were no candles, because none of them ever used a candle, at least when Beatrice was looking, and Violet and Klaus read her favorite story, and everyone got icing all over their hands and faces. Beatrice can just barely hear the way they all laughed. There’s a thin fog over the rest of the memory, one that strangles the excitement out of her. She can’t quite recall what the weather was like, or what she wore, or what flavor the cake was or even what the story was and especially how close it was to the day where—

Beatrice clears her throat and looks back at the bus schedules. She doesn’t think I have to find them. She thinks I will find them.

Beatrice takes one look at the sandwich counter in the bus station and resolutely decides she’s too hungry for another sad, uncomfortably greasy sandwich, and she needs a much better option. She takes out her map and backtracks to the Rhetorical Building, because the closest diner is on that street, right across from the office, between a tailor shop and a building shaped almost like a short, squat pen. For a city that on the whole is a lot more dreary than she thought it’d be, the diner looks bright and welcoming, with soft lights in the windows and cheerful blue curtains. Klaus taught her to be aware of her surroundings, so she makes sure she looks at everything when she steps inside.

The diner isn’t very big, but it’s clean and well-kept, with tan booths against either wall, a line of square tables right down the middle, and a counter blocking most of the kitchen from view. The pictures on the walls are all framed and organized in neat rows, and Beatrice’s gaze moves quickly from the few pictures of an ocean and a group of people in front of a boat to the other ones of cityscapes, and then to a completely blank piece of paper with #47! scribbled in the lower right corner. She looks to the other side of the room and finds a tightly-packed bookshelf near the counter. She thinks Klaus would definitely approve.

She climbs up on top of one of the counter stools and smooths out her skirt, and then sees a tall man standing behind the counter, flipping an oozing sandwich on the grill. He looks at her with wide eyes, surprise clear on his face, but then he smiles, so genuine she could’ve just imagined the shock. Beatrice thinks he looks a little like a movie star, with that thick red hair and easy stance.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“I don’t have much money,” Beatrice says, because Violet always taught her to be honest. Sunny taught her to lie, but she thinks Sunny would like this man too, if she saw that sandwich.

“Not a problem,” the man says. “It’s on the house. What do you like?”

“What are you making?”

“The best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat in your life,” he says, and he slides the sandwich onto a plate and sets it in front of her. Then he puts a napkin and a glass of water beside it and smiles expectantly.

It is the best grilled cheese she’s ever eaten in her life. It puts the millions of sandwiches she ate at all those train stations to shame. When the cheese pulls when she takes a bite out of it, she knows that Sunny would love this sandwich. It seems almost unfair to get it for free. “Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks through a mouthful of toasted bread and mozzarella and a hint of pepper.

“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have you read anything good lately? My friends and I are always looking for book recommendations.”

She wishes she could get everything in life with a good book recommendation, because that sounds like a great system. The last book she’d read had been back at headquarters, so that she would understand a certain code, but Beatrice liked it a lot anyway. She was told it was a classic too, and she knows lots of adults like it when you read classics. “I read a book about a girl who goes out to dinner with her family,” she says, “and cracks an egg on her forehead. Not at the dinner, in a different chapter.”

He laughs. “A friend of mine liked that one when we were kids,” he says. “She went around trying to crack an egg on her forehead too, made me go through a whole carton of eggs.”

“Did she do it?”

“She sure did. Got egg all over my aunt’s diner in the process, but she looked me right in the eye and told me it was worth it.”

Someone else sits down farther down the counter, and the man walks off in their direction, leaving Beatrice alone with the grilled cheese. But he comes back, a curious look in his eyes. “So what brings you to the city?” he asks.

She thinks this is the question where she shouldn’t be entirely honest. Beatrice sits up straighter in her seat, trying to pull the sandwich apart into smaller, more dignified bites, the cheese oozing. “I’m visiting a relative,” she says.

“A relative?”

“A relative,” she says. “That’s all.”

“Do you need any help?” he asks. “I know this city like the back of my hand, and I’d be happy to—”

“No,” Beatrice says. “I know what I’m doing.” She finishes the last of the grilled cheese and wipes her hand on the napkin. “Thank you very much.”

He frowns a little, like he wants to ask her something else, but then he settles on another smile. “If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “or you need anything, even just some good food, stop on by.”

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Jake Hix.”

“Beatrice Baudelaire.”

The only thing about the journey into the hills that Beatrice didn’t account for is all the open space.

The bus driver only takes her as far as a convenience store on the outskirts of the city, so Beatrice walks the nearby dirt roads out into the hills, stopping at the first sight of open, empty land. She grips the straps of her backpack, standing at the edge of the misty and faded earth spread out all around her, reaching on and on and on, sloping down at dangerous angles before disappearing completely in a thick haze. She swallows hard and stares even harder.

Beatrice focuses on the color. Even in late winter, it’s green, pale but distinctly green. They’re hills, not the ocean, with a horizon blurred white with fog and clouds. Nothing is a dangerous, roiling blue-black-grey, and the tall crests of the hills don’t move like waves, and nothing rushes through her ears like a scream, except the wind, which is much less thunderous than water. After all that, it’s almost silent, in the hills. It’s silent, and it’s not all that open, is it? There’s at least two scraggly little trees that she can see. Landmarks. Points of reference. She is not alone in the hills.

He’s out there, somewhere.

She starts walking.

Without the train schedules for something to keep track of, Beatrice isn’t sure how long she spends in the hills. Time passes in cool nights and cloudy days and an awful lot of grass with actually very few trees before, in a low valley in the hills, she reaches an encampment of about thirty shepherds. Beyond them, where she expects sheep, is an impressive collection of yaks. They might be the only people she runs into out here, and she’s starting to get worried, not so much that she won’t find her uncle, but that she’ll overlook him completely in all this space. The path on the map in his office was pretty vague. She’s going to have to ask them.

Beatrice approaches one of the shepherds. He looks like he’s the oldest, his wild and white beard tangling in the wind. He holds a thick, dark bell in one hand, his elbow propped against a sturdy walking stick, and watches Beatrice with startlingly cold eyes as she approaches.

“Excuse me,” Beatrice says. “Have you seen a man around here?”

“Depends,” he says. His voice rumbles like deep thunder, and it makes her flinch. “What’s he look like?”

Beatrice thinks about it. “Average height, not bald, fully clothed, answers to the initials L.S.”

“Oh,” the shepherd says, straightening up. “Him! He was here for a while. A strange one. Kept to himself most of the time. Stayed in that cave about two miles away.” He rings the bell, and the sound clunks and thunks against her ears. The yaks in the distance raise their heads and gaze in his direction. The shepherd, meanwhile, looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Seemed like he might have been waiting for someone, I thought.”

She feels a twinge of guilt and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She should’ve gotten here faster. “Can you take me there, please?” she asks.

“I don’t do anything for free,” he says shortly.

“I don’t have much,” she says, frowning, and it’s more true now than it was when she told it to Jake Hix. Between all the train fare and the subpar sandwiches and then the cost of the bus, Beatrice figures she has maybe seventy-five cents.

The shepherd bends down, sweeping a critical eye over Beatrice. When his gaze finds her hands, he points at the little band around one of her fingers. “That,” he says. “That would do.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says. She looks down at the ring, dull in the lack of sunlight. She’s seen it sparkle beautiful gold and red, the carving of the initial in the stone glittering brighter than anything. Something lost, something that was found again after so much time. Beatrice likes wearing it, even though she doesn’t always think about it.

But it’s not like it is a family heirloom, for her mother or her father or for Violet and Klaus and Sunny. It belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, and although it found its way through her family anyway, it’s certainly never really been Beatrice’s. She just thought that she’d be able to give it back to the Duchess at some point.

She slides the ring off her finger and holds it up for the shepherd. His beard parts in a smile, revealing awfully shiny teeth, and he snatches the ring up and drops it into his pocket. The yaks are closer now, and he winds his hand into the rope around one of their necks and drags it over. He climbs up onto its back and stares at Beatrice. “It’s a ride. You’d best get on.”

Beatrice pulls herself up behind him. She tracks the sun this time, over the huge shoulders of the shepherd, watching it dip through the sky as they ride.

“Did he say anything?” Beatrice asks at one point. “The man.”

The shepherd scratches at his chin. His elbow swings back as he does, jostling into Beatrice’s ear. “Something about a root beer float,” he says. “I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“That seems a lot to ask, in the hills,” Beatrice says, tilting her head to the side to avoid the elbow. “The closest diner is back in the city.”

“No, that’s what he said. I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says, feeling her face flush.

“Well, there you go,” the shepherd says, some time later when he stops in front of a low but deep cave jutting awkwardly out of the earth. Beatrice thanks him, slides down off the yak, and makes her way inside.

There’s nothing much in the cave—just a few sheets of loose, stained paper, and a whole lot of bats, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. They squeak when Beatrice gets too close, so she leaves them alone in the back and focuses on the rest of the cave. A few sheets of peeling and faded flower-patterned wallpaper cling to the curved walls. A collection of wires sits near the mouth of the cave, and a lone light bulb rolls by her feet. The wind collects in the hollow at the center, making it drafty and uncomfortable. She pulls her sweater tighter around her.

From the shepherd’s words, she knew he wouldn’t be here, but it still stings to get all the way here and then find out he’s gone again, to find out she just missed him. But that just means she has to try again, try harder. That’s not a problem for her. She’s been through worse.

Beatrice rifles through the sheets of paper left behind. She picks out the least ruined one, the only mark a K by a ripped corner. She pulls out a pen and sits down.

Dear Sir, she writes. I have found you at last—but you’re not here.

She finishes her letter and folds it neatly. She didn’t bring a single envelope, and she looks around in her bag to find something else she could possibly trade for the shepherd to send her letter. She doesn’t think he’ll care for a sweater or her lock pick, and she needs them. Beatrice walks out of the cave, staring into the direction of the city. She can’t quite see it, but she’s sure it’s there, just as sure as she is that she’ll find her uncle when she gets back.

She starts to figure out how she’ll get back, because she can worry about the letter when she finds the shepherd. How long it’ll take to get out of the hills, where to catch the right bus, how she can find the diner—when one of the younger shepherds, not much older than her, trots over, tugging a yak behind him.

“The city’s a long ways away,” he says when he stops beside her, panting a little. “I think your best bet is this yak here.”

Beatrice stares at him, and then the yak. The yak yawns at her.

“He’s pretty comfortable,” the boy says, smiling. “And he’s got a good sense of direction. The best yak this side of the hills, I guarantee it.”

“What about the other side?” Beatrice asks.

The boy laughs. “No comparison at all.”

“Don’t you need him?”

He shakes his head. “I can make do without him for a while.”

He tells her he’s heard about a shortcut back to the city, through a mountain rather than the miles of rolling hills. Beatrice has never been on a mountain. When he points it out to her, an enormous shimmering outline through the fog, it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever seen in her life. It looks nothing like the ocean.

The mountain is dangerously uneven, but Beatrice has never been so high up before, and that and the yak make up for all the sudden dips and drops in the path. The yak seems to know where he’s going—she never has to keep him on track or nudge him along, and he always stops around sunset and lets her curl up against his side. Sometimes he stops in front of the occasional bush, and Beatrice makes sure she can identify the berries on them with what Klaus wrote in his commonplace book, and the two of them snack to keep up their strength, Beatrice making sure not to stain the edges of the notebook with juice fingerprints.

Sometimes she flips back, back to when Klaus was a few years older than her, to the page where she’d taken the photograph. She’d replaced when both the objects became hers. She likes reading what he wrote, the little bits of her family’s story, like he’s right beside her on this mountain even as he was trying to get through the Mortmain Mountains. Recipes Sunny put together, things Violet said, pieces of codes and books and memories.

The notebook was the last thing he gave her. He’d thrown it at her during the shipwreck, and she can still see that, plain as anything. The black clouds and the thunder and the lightning, the wood splintering up in a roaring crash under her feet, everything slick with the endless rain and the thick, dark waves, including the edge of wood keeping Beatrice afloat. Then Violet’s voice, shouting we’ll find you, I promise—

Beatrice pages through the notebook, staring at Klaus’s immaculate handwriting. “How much more mountain do you think there is?” she asks the yak.

There’s a lot more mountain, days and days of mountain. Beatrice promises herself that if she ever has to do this again, she’s bringing a calendar.

When she gets to the bottom of the mountain, the ground covered in rocks and patchy grass, still a ways out from the city but definitely closer to it than the spot where the bus had dropped her off, Beatrice isn’t sure what to do with the yak. She climbs down, dusts him off, readjusts her bag, and then watches him. The yak watches her. Then he yawns, turns, and starts meandering back in the direction of the hills. She figures he probably wouldn’t be the best yak this side of the hills if he didn’t know how to get back to the shepherd.

“Bye,” Beatrice calls.

The city is uncomfortably close when she gets back, full of a heavy, simmering summer heat. She wipes the sweat off her face and thinks she could also go for a root beer float right about now. But there's probably a lot more diners than dreary office buildings in the city, ones that will be harder to eliminate than the offices were. She's not even sure if he'll be in his office now either, after he wasn’t where he was supposed to be in the hills. The thought sits in a knot inside her, twisting up the more she thinks. She of all people should know where he is. What sort of person is she, if she doesn't know the whereabouts of her own uncle?

Beatrice winds her way carefully through the masses of people still crowding the sidewalks, as if they never left, like the same people from months ago have been standing around here all this time. She could pull out the maps, but she doesn’t see a place to put them down and look at them again. Beatrice finally comes to a halt in front of a square, stocky building, old pillars framing the tinted glass doors.

Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about libraries. She doesn’t remember the one on the island, or the island itself, although Violet told her both were massive, and they didn’t have much of one on the boat, just a collection of books Klaus brought from the island. But Beatrice knows that a library is a sanctuary, a calm place, where someone is supposed to feel safe. She knows that her uncle considers a library all of those things too. And even if she doesn’t find anything, at least it’s probably air conditioned.

Beatrice heads inside.

The first thing she notices is that everything is so quiet. But not an unnaturally still quiet, more of a gentle, unobtrusive one, interrupted only by the occasional shuffle of paper. Beatrice understands with a rush what Violet and Klaus and Sunny meant. It’s like stepping into a whole world, one she could spend hours and hours in just reading, among the bookshelves and pale cream carpet and broad windows letting in a sunlight so serene that for the first time it doesn’t make her hands clench in fear.

Beatrice takes her time going through the library, taking it all in. She makes her way through aisle after aisle, down a staircase to the lower level. A short wall separates the little lobby near the staircase and the rest of the floor, and she follows it around where it curves to look at the room.

Her breath catches in her throat. Ten feet ahead, there’s a man standing in front of a glass case, his hands deep in the pockets of his suit jacket. Beatrice walks a little closer, staying against the wall, until she can see the plaque near the case, describing something about poetry and actresses and dedication to the theater. She can see herself in the glass, a distorted short reflection in a pale pink dress, and she smooths her hair on instinct. Beatrice looks up, and up, until she can see the sharp reflection of the man, blue eyes and dark hair and a suitcase beside him that has seen better days but still clearly proclaims the owner to have the initials L.S.

Beatrice ducks back behind the wall in her surprise, her hands gripping each other. What are you doing, she thinks frantically, her heart pounding and pounding. There he is!

But when she pushes herself away from the wall, her mouth open to call out to him, he’s gone. Her heart drops, and she rushes towards the glass case. She skims through the poem for a hint about anything, as he seemed to look at it with a great deal of concentration, but she stops at the line a word which here means “person who trains bats” because who writes a second verse with such an uneven rhythm, and there’s no way baticeer is really a word—then she hears quick footsteps thudding in the hall behind her. She turns and runs towards then.

Beatrice follows him outside, barely keeping up. He runs incredibly fast for a man of his age in this heat, whatever that age is. Beatrice knows it’s certainly much older than she is. She sees the edge of his hat, the corner of his suitcase winging around another street, and she keeps running. It’s him. She’s going to catch up with him.

She follows him to a nearby park, where she finds him yards away of her, almost collapsed on a bench, leaning to the side to examine something on the seat. Beatrice slows up. And then he’s on his feet again, strolling towards the lake. There’s something forced about his casual stance, and she picks up her pace, thinking somewhere inside that this is ridiculous. They’re both looking for each other, they’re both here, and she should just—

He bolts off, this time leaping with an unexpected agility over a patch of shrubbery, which Beatrice dodges around easily when she reaches it, tearing out of the park after him. Moments later, she sees him throwing himself into a bus one street up, disappearing completely when the doors snap shut.

Beatrice lets out a disbelieving groan, staring at the retreating bus. She can’t believe how difficult he’s being, or for what reason, or why he treats the city like a place he’s desperately trying to escape. For as much as he runs, he sure still seems to wind up back here eventually.

But now that she’s seen him, she knows exactly where he’s going. Where else would he go in the city, on this particular bus route? Beatrice has looked over all the maps, and she remembers exactly where to go. She wipes the sweat off her face, takes a breath, and keeps on going.

He still makes it to his office building before her. When Beatrice stops at the corner, clutching the nearby lamppost and gasping, the bus is already far down the street and he’s nowhere in sight. She swallows and heads for the Rhetorical Building.

The lobby is dreadfully cold and still dreadfully dreary, but she barely notices it this time. Beatrice bypasses everything and sprints right for the staircase, not even trying to hide.

It could be because she’s already run so much, but taking the staircase this time seems to take an eternity. She’s so sure she can hear him, wheezing a floor above her, and that pushes her forward when her lungs burn and her legs ache. She makes it to the thirteenth floor, flings the door open, and barrels down the hallway to his office door.

Beatrice tries the doorknob first, but it doesn’t yield. She pounds on the door for five whole minutes, and it rattles and shakes but no one opens it.

One of the doors further down the hallway opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Something I can help you with?” he calls. “I’ve never seen anyone open that door at all. Can I—”

“Thank you,” Beatrice says quickly, hoping she sounds more firm than out of breath, “but I have this under control.” The man shrugs and closes the door. Beatrice continues knocking and knocking.

Maybe you were wrong, a voice in her head whispers. Maybe it’s not him.

I’m not wrong, Beatrice tells herself. I’m not wrong.

She huffs out a sigh, drops her backpack on the floor, and pulls out the lock pick. She doesn’t want to pick the lock, but this is it, she’s not waiting anymore.

The lock springs easily. Beatrice jams the picks back into her bag, grips the doorknob, and hauls the door open.

The office is empty.

Beatrice gapes around at the office, almost incredulous. It looks different than it did before—the papers, notes, and photographs on the wall are new, linked by a thick blue yarn now. The typewriter has a sheet of paper sticking out of it, like someone was just there (and he was, he was just there, she knows he was). There’s a framed picture on the wall of a lighthouse. The curtains are different, stark white and clean and fluttering in the breeze because the window is open.

She runs over to the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. It’s distressingly empty as well. When she grips the railing and leans over to look down the rest of the stairs and into the alley below, she doesn’t find anything at all. She stands there a moment longer, just in case he reappears, her whole body coiled with anticipation. Then another moment, and another, and another after that, until the moments stretch into minutes and her expectations finally die like a doused fire. She pushes herself away from the railing, slides back inside, and slams the window shut. Beatrice glowers at it, then eases it back open. He’ll have to be able to get back in later.

She takes a look at the wall. Before, it was easy to tell where he was going. Now, Beatrice can’t figure out what any of the notes mean. They’re all scattered pictures of beach sand and close-ups of waves and an unsettling collection of curling, spindly things that look like dried seaweed. She catches a few glimpses of his handwriting, mostly just question marks, and some typewritten notes signed M. No matter how hard she tries, her eyes keep finding their way back to the pictures of the ocean, pearly blue and peppered with stark-white foam. Her jaw clenches, and she turns away sharply.

The desk has more papers on it than it did before, but no paperweight. Beatrice flips through them, but she doesn’t find her letters, or letters from anyone else. What she does find are lists of places she’s never heard of, most of them crossed off. The paper in the typewriter is completely blank, but she doesn’t feel like writing anything. She stares around the office, pointedly avoiding the wall, and tries not to feel too angry or too disappointed. It doesn’t work very well.

Beatrice walks back into the hallway and shuts the door behind her, frowning down at the floor. She follows him all this way, and she has him, they’re mere feet from each other, and then he leaves?

Maybe, she thinks, and then she stops, because she’s not wrong. It was him, it was, and despite how the decor has changed, this is the office she was in before. He was here, and then he was gone, and so there has to be a reason he’s gone now, a reason to figure out so she can track him down again. Maybe something came up, business, or an enemy, or maybe he was just hungry, or—or—

sssssssssshh.

Beatrice whirls around and wrenches his office door back open, staring desperately inside. But there’s still no one there. She shuts the door again and looks up and down the hallway. “What was that noise?” she says.

The door down the hallway opens again, and the same man sticks his head out. “Someone say something?” he asks, gazing at Beatrice.

“What was that noise?” she asks.

The man shakes his head. “I didn’t hear a noise.”

“I thought I—”

“It was nothing, probably.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Beatrice shoots back. It’s uncharacteristic of her, but she’s tired all of a sudden, and she doesn’t like how this bone-deep weariness feels. The man looks affronted, and he shuts his door with a loud bang.

She traipses downstairs, all thirteen floors. Beatrice walks past the old desk and the sad grey furniture and the limp potted plants and makes her way towards the front exit. She’ll just have to wait until he comes back, and she can do that across the street in the diner, where at least she can try to wrangle another sandwich out of Jake Hix. The grilled cheese feels like years ago, after trying to survive on the mountain.

Beatrice hears it again.

It’s a scuffle, or like a slither—the drag of a shoe, a split second brush against furniture.

Beatrice stops in the middle of the lobby, looking around. She only now notices it’s completely empty, the receptionist missing from her desk. A chill ripples down her spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioner. “If it’s nothing,” she says, “then what’s that noise?”

Something curls slowly around her left ankle, something like thin, calloused fingers, and then a hand clamps tight over her mouth. Beatrice gasps, the sound muffled by the hand. Someone heaves her up, jerking her back into a set of arms, wrenching her close to something dark blue and black. She inhales fabric softener and cotton but the color makes her think of salt and brine and she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.

“When we drive away in secret,” rasps a woman’s voice in her ear, “you’ll be a volunteer. So don’t scream when we take you—”

Beatrice grabs at the woman’s hand with both her own. She drags it away from her mouth and manages to gasp, “The world is quiet here!”

The woman freezes. Beatrice lurches forward, tumbling out of her arms and onto the warped floor with a small shriek and a horrible thud. Beatrice feels horrible, with a red mark around her ankle and her whole body shaking as she stares up at the woman. She doesn’t understand, and that scares her almost as much as the woman. She hadn’t just learned the poem at headquarters, Violet had told her about it, it was something Violet’s parents used to say, but she didn’t—she hadn’t said—Beatrice doesn’t understand.

The woman—tall, in a thin, dark blue sweater, her hair massive and unruly and black—bends down in front of her. Beatrice inches back, trying to catch her breath.

She squints at Beatrice almost suspiciously. “Well, young lady,” she says, “have you been good to your mother?”

My mother is dead, Beatrice thinks in her panic, and then she forces herself to clear her throat and stop it. “The question is,” she pants, “has she been good to me?”

“You’re a volunteer,” the woman says.

No I’m not. “Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Baudelaire?” she repeats, scoffing. “Beatrice Baudelaire?”

Beatrice frowns. “Yes,” she says again.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“I do,” Beatrice says, blinking. “It’s the only name I have.” Which isn’t exactly true, but she’s never felt that Snicket suits her all that much. Beatrice Denouement, even, sounds like someone sophisticated, not a short nine-year-old girl with only a fierce determination to her name. Which is still Beatrice Baudelaire, no matter what this woman says.

The woman straightens up, her face cold, and then she seizes Beatrice’s hand and pulls her roughly to her feet. “You’re coming with me.”

Headquarters in the city is a lot different than the one Beatrice was in out in the country. The main difference is that this one is predominately underground, hidden under a two-story library on the corner of a busy street, and seems, from a cursory glance, like it’s going to be harder to sneak out of. They had to walk through a set of locked double doors in the back of the library labeled Secretarial Department, which lead to a long, tunneling hallway devoid of any typewriters, after all. It’s full of sudden dips and the occasional staircase and one long ladder that leads, when Beatrice climbs down it, to the sewers. She focuses hard on the layout, the curves of the passageways, the way the water drips, on the faded signs she can’t read hanging onto the domed walls, so that she’ll stop thinking about the churning in her stomach.

The path ends in another set of doors, framed in the darkness by flickering torches. Beatrice stumbles to a halt in front of them.

She’s sure that Violet and Klaus and Sunny, while they were on the island and on the boat, had to have used it. There were things Sunny made that could only have been made on top of something hot, even though Sunny always got that fierce, unreadable look on her face when she talked about what she could remember of fires. But Beatrice never saw it. She never saw flames jumping around each other, spitting in the darkness, smoldering orange turning into dangerous white-hot tongues.

Beatrice thinks of lightning and wet, foundering wood under her hands. She feels salt in her mouth again.

The woman shoves her through the doors.

The narrow hallways are bathed in cold, buzzing orange light, an unsettling color against the red brick walls and the hardwood floor. It’s almost claustrophobic, a maze Beatrice can’t parse even when she pays attention. They go up a set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the silence, and then the woman steers her towards a door around the corner.

She catches a quick glimpse of the plaque on the door and its unnatural shine—vice principal—before the woman pushes her through it as well. Beatrice finds herself in a cramped, shadowy room, illuminated with one single lamp on the desk, where the outline of a tall man sits, hunched over what looks like a stack of papers.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the thin gloom hovering at the edges of the lamp. The shapes on the shelves along the walls sharpen. They look like tea sets, if tea sets were collections of just small, differently-patterned oblong jars, all topped with fragile lids, a handle on either side.

Beatrice swallows. She never saw what Esmé Squalor was so desperate to find. She wonders if one of the sugar bowls crowding the shelves around her is what she was looking for.

The man looks up and sets down his pen. “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice a low, heavy murmur.

“My name is Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says, before the woman can say anything.

The man raises an eyebrow at her, like the woman had, and then leans back in his chair. The look he gives her isn’t suspicious—it’s appraising. Beatrice shivers.

“Well,” he says.

They put her in a room down the hall and tell her firmly to stay put. It’s a windowless room with pale walls and only a few other students, all of them her age and sitting behind typewriters, and a particularly flatfooted and wrinkled old instructor, who starts sobbing when Beatrice tells him her name. He motions to a free chair with a long white handkerchief and manages to tell her that they’re writing business letters. He motions to the blackboard and tells her there’s the format. He motions to the typewriter in front of her and tells her, please, write a nice letter, and they’ll all make it through the day.

He shuffles away from her, back to the front of the room. Beatrice watches him go with a confused frown. She doesn’t have time for this—to be stuck here again, or to try and figure out what’s going on, or to try and reason what she’s supposed to say in a business letter. She drops her eyes to the typewriter. It’s not too bad, but certainly not as nice as the one in her uncle’s office. She presses a few of the keys to test them, and they stick and then stab back into the air with loud, fierce snaps, so much that she jolts back in her chair. He’d never give her a typewriter this bad.

Beatrice gets an idea.

She has to get word to him somehow. She has to survive, too, and she’s perfectly capable of doing that anywhere, although she would prefer to do it in a situation where she isn’t at risk of being accosted violently around the ankle at any given moment, among other things. It seems like her best bet to get to him is to stay here, and not wait, this time, but let them lead her to him. It won’t be too hard. This city and this organization are his. He’s here, in this room, and he’s here, in this city, and she knows she will find him if she stays here.

She gives herself a shake and rests her fingers on the keys.

Dear Sir, she types, one eye on the instructor, now leaning against the wall and wiping his face with the handkerchief. I am writing to inquire further on the matter we discussed earlier this year. I’m in my business letter writing class, which is taught by a flat-footed man so sad and unaware that I am certain he will give me an A on this assignment without reading anything but the first sentence of each paragraph. I could say anything here at all. For instance: a “baticeer” is a person who trains bats. I learned that in a poem I watched you read.

The instructor straightens up, still dabbing under his eyes, and wanders around the room, glancing periodically at the typewriters. Beatrice schools her expression into business-like thoughtfulness. When he comes by, he scans the first line of her letter, heaves an enormous sigh, and keeps walking.

After careful consideration, Beatrice continues, biting down a smile, I am pleased to enclose the following information.

The instructors confirm her identity after careful consultation with twenty different people, all of whom Beatrice has never seen before, and a series of photographs and files Beatrice isn’t allowed to see, all of them crowded in an office and staring down at her an hour and a half after Beatrice has finished her business letter.

They tell her it was very irresponsible of her to sneak out like that from the country headquarters. Beatrice does not tell them it was very irresponsible to have a lock so easy to pick and a headquarters so easy to navigate in the dark. She stares back up at them, tries to look appropriately chided, and hopes they’ll think she feels appropriately chided. What she does feel is cornered.

One of the adults standing towards the back, his face in shadows, scoffs under his breath. “Just like her uncle,” he says.

“Which one?” asks another.

“You know,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That one.”

“The dead one?”

“Aren’t they both dead?” asks a different voice.

“No, I’m sure at least one of them is alive—didn’t you get that message?”

“You know for a fact I haven’t gotten a single olive jar in three months, since someone broke my refrigerator—”

“For the last time,” someone sighs, “I did not break your refrigerator—”

Beatrice takes the opportunity to slip unnoticed from the room and into the hallway. She takes slow steps, listening to the little click of her shoes on the tile. The adults at the country headquarters had been secretive but easy to predict. The adults here, though—

She stops. She peers down, past the hem of her dress, and lets herself look at her left ankle.

It’s not that she doesn’t like it here, with this organization. They’ve given her a place to stay, and most of the volunteers her age were kind to her at the last headquarters. Most of all, she has vague memories of Violet telling her that people who read that many books can’t be all bad, that most of them were just trying their best, that they’d been noble enough in the end. But she’d said it with a curious look on her face that Beatrice can almost picture, like there was so much more Violet wasn’t sure how to say, like she still hadn’t figured something out, and it hurt to think about it.

That silence had carved out a worry in Beatrice, a hole she feels in her stomach now. She tries to imagine a permanent mark on her ankle, a tie, an anchor, bigger than a promise to be noble enough. She knows what Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about what happened to them, and she knows what she’s read in the thirteen files, and she knows Klaus wrote in his commonplace book that the organization was their only hope. She knows there are a good many details that maybe they hadn’t left out when they told her their story, but maybe just hadn’t gotten around to telling her at the time. Beatrice knows about the hard choices between what seems right or wrong—and she knows the iron grip that woman had on her ankle. She knows about the circumstances that killed her family, her uncle, her parents.

Because she could be wrong, she has to be certain. Beatrice doesn’t like being wrong. She looks up at the hallway, the old pictures on the walls, the lack of windows, the flickering lights casting shadows around her, and tries to feel certain that her only choice is to stay.

With the considerable amount of volunteers in the city, Beatrice figures she’ll have to share a room with someone, but one of the adults takes her to a single room, off to the side, and tells her, once again, to stay there and not make any trouble.

It’s a simple room, with a bed, a closet, a desk, two lamps, and a bookshelf (already stocked, and she stops perusing it when she finds the book about the girl and the egg and the family dinner, because her hands start to shake). No windows. The walls are all solid stone, but the floors are wood, and Beatrice turns the lights off and stands in almost total darkness—there’s still a sliver of light under the door from the hallway—and tests out the places where the floor squeaks for hours. She memorizes the room, feels with her hands for catches or knobs or secret compartments and doesn’t find a single one.

The light under the door disappears. Beatrice, standing by the bed on the opposite wall, goes completely still. She listens.

After ten seconds, the lock on the door clicks.

After a whole three minutes, the shadow under the door still hasn’t moved. Beatrice swallows and keeps watching. She knows better than to try and pick this lock. They aren’t going to make getting out easy. Finding him might not be as easy as she thought, either.

That doesn’t mean I won’t, Beatrice thinks.

She fully expects to sit through their classes again, to tell the teacher how Sunny taught her to make a meringue, to relearn the same codes she learned from Klaus’s commonplace book, to listen to someone besides Violet explain the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light.

She doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself in the vice principal’s office again, early in the morning, although it’s impossible to tell in all the shadows in his office. She takes a moment to wonder where the principal is, but then the vice principal starts talking.

“You strike me as a young woman with a lot on her mind,” he says. “Someone very intent on her goals. And we value that here, you know. Commitment, dedication, loyalty. I think you—and the organization—would benefit the most if we assigned you to a chaperone immediately. There’s a place for you in this world, Miss Baudelaire, and I am most anxious for you to find it.”

Beatrice almost thinks he’s being incredibly nice, if it isn’t for the way his eyes glitter and the way he leans back in his chair, so slowly she barely notices until he’s staring down at her, almost pinning her in place.

Violet did teach her to be polite, but she also taught her to stand her ground. She swallows. “Thank you very much,” she says. “Do I get to pick my chaperone?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, and he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “We haven’t allowed that for quite some time.” The vice principal smiles. “It lead to some unfortunate events.”

Her chaperone is a woman named Marguerite. Beatrice looks through every record available and can’t find any positive proof that Marguerite has ever had a last name. What she does find out is that Marguerite spent her own apprenticeship working with the remaining volunteer animals.

She gets a letter telling her to meet her at the aquarium on the other side of the city, with just enough for the bus fare. Beatrice checks the letter over and over again the whole way there, but she doesn’t find any other hint about what she’s supposed to do to find her chaperone.

Beatrice wanders the aquarium for a long, uneasy hour before a short woman with chin-length, curly blonde hair catches her eye by the jellyfish tank. The woman gestures at one of the jellyfish. “I always thought they looked like clouds,” she says, in a soft voice. “I like to look at them when summer is dying.”

Beatrice bites her lip. She stares at the jellyfish and tries not to see them, tries to watch the reflections in the glass instead. Summer is dying. She always thought she’d be good at codes if she had to use them, but actually hearing them out loud just makes her uncomfortable. It could just be all the water, though.

“Well,” she says carefully, “summer is over and gone. And you can see clouds any time, you just have to look for them.”

The woman smiles, a surprisingly gentle smile, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. Beatrice thinks she looks too young to have lines like that. “Marguerite,” she says, extending her hand. “You must be Beatrice.”

Beatrice shakes her hand.

“What sort of animals do you like, Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks away from the eerie blue glow of the tanks around them and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t think bats are all that bad.”

As it turns out, the organization’s last collection of trainable bats is in the hills. The whole trek back into the mist, Beatrice can’t help but think her timing could sure use some work.

Beatrice and Marguerite set up camp in the cave, close to the shepherds and obviously very close to the bats. They pull down the remains of the wallpaper, and between the two of them, Violet’s inventing knowledge, and another piece of wire from Marguerite’s pocket, they rig up the light bulb. It casts a dim and hollow yellow light around the cave before it sputters and flickers, drenching them in a momentary darkness before lighting back up.

Beatrice gasps out of shock. The light bulb reminds her of the lamp in the vice principal’s office, something scary and unknown in a place that’s supposed to be safe. Fear grips her chest, and she makes an excuse to Marguerite that she doesn’t even remember and gets out of the cave as quickly as possible. She sits at the mouth of the cave in the darkness with her legs stretched out in front of her, her hands in her lap. Beatrice tells herself that hugging her legs to her chest would not be very mature.

Marguerite comes over and sits down beside her, not too close but not too far away. “Some children are afraid of the dark,” she says.

“I’m not,” Beatrice says, truthfully. Klaus taught her constellations, and Sunny made up her own, and Violet made a telescope so they could see them better. Beatrice knows there are beautiful things in the darkness, and she likes the quiet.

“It’s alright if you are,” Marguerite says gently.

Beatrice knows why Marguerite says that. It’s something a lot of the chaperones think. Some of the adults themselves are probably scared of the dark, even when they haven’t lived through a storm at sea. But she’s not. She’s not scared of the dark. The afternoon was when the storm started, and the dark was when the storm stopped, when everything calmed down. She couldn’t see anything at all, not the broken wood under her fingers or how alone she was, and she could breathe. She could keep floating and imagine Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still right there, telling her she’d make it.

Too much light is what frightens her. Too much light, like a jagged streak through the sky, lightning carving the boat in two, illuminating every fractured piece and the fear on Sunny’s usually calm face. The flashlights of the volunteers who found her, combing the beach for something else, the beams cutting cold white light against the sand.

“Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks up. She uncurls her fingers, which she only now notices had clenched tight into her palms. She swallows. “I’m not afraid.”

Marguerite smiles. She reaches over and squeezes one of Beatrice’s hands, just once.

“We’re going to be training bats to deliver messages,” Marguerite says in the morning. “It’ll be useful, especially all the way out here in the hills.”

Beatrice stares at Marguerite, and she hopes her incredulity isn’t too apparent on her face. She clears her throat and tries to think about how Violet would address this. “Are bats really the best to use?” she asks. “What about telegram wires, or even just pigeons, since they could fly at any time, or—”

“Sometimes we have to send messages at night, and bats come in handy for that.” Marguerite doesn’t interrupt her, just speaks patiently, reasonably, like making a point in a casual debate. “Sometimes the easier way can be more dangerous. People expect that more than something different.”

Beatrice isn’t sure if that makes complete sense. Marguerite definitely notices her confusion, and she smiles. Marguerite smiles a lot, but it’s never condescending. “It can be a little hard to understand,” she says. “I thought it was when I was your age, too. But it’s not a volunteer’s job to question, Beatrice. It’s a volunteer’s job to know, and to trust in what they’re doing.”

Somehow, it sounds right the way Marguerite says it, with her soothing voice. It sounds right, the idea of just knowing, since Beatrice is so certain in it anyway. She has to remind herself that they started this whole conversation about the absurdity of bats being used as a messenger system to counteract that. Beatrice has seen a lot of absurd things, because Violet told her about all her inventions over the years, and Beatrice isn’t quite sure how all of them worked but she knows that they did. But training bats, especially to deliver messages, just seems to take it a little too far.

“It’ll take a bit of time before we can train them that well, though,” Marguerite says. “Have you ever held one before?”

At the very least, training bats gives Beatrice something to think about. You really have to focus, otherwise they squeak too much. It gets easy after a while, once Beatrice knows how to do it. Marguerite is impressed, but Beatrice just tells her that you can do anything as long as you know how to do it.

Marguerite isn’t very talkative, which Beatrice appreciates. What she does say doesn’t always make that much sense, but she never pushes Beatrice or pressures her. She tells Beatrice stories about her own apprenticeship, the last of the volunteer feline detectives and what Marguerite’s own chaperone told her about the eagles. It’s the kindest anyone has ever treated her since Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and that makes Beatrice feel more comfort than she has in some time.

Beatrice is hunched over a notebook while sitting at the mouth of the cave, trying to figure out how to get the bats to follow the patterns of the yaks, because she’s sure that makes at least some sense, when the young shepherd who loaned her the yak last time comes up to her. Beatrice smiles at him, but she stops when she sees how nervous he looks.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

The shepherd bites his lip, looking over his shoulder at Marguerite, who’s examining one of the yaks in the field, and then motions quickly at Beatrice. “You forgot something,” he says.

Beatrice frowns. “What?”

He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a small circle. The weak sunlight catches on the slim gold band and the dark diamond set in the center, and Beatrice’s heart leaps when she can see the thin initial in the stone. He puts the ring in Beatrice’s hand and presses her fingers around it.

“I think you might be able to give it back to her, one of these days,” he says.

“Do you know her?” Beatrice asks, clutching the ring with both hands. “Do you know where—”

But the shepherd shakes his head, glances again at Marguerite, goes rigid when he sees the older shepherd approaching her, and then scampers away. Beatrice watches him go, until he’s a shrinking figure among the yaks and she can hear Marguerite calling her name. She lets herself wonder, for a moment, where the Duchess of Winnipeg is now, how much the shepherd knows, why no one can ever give her a clear answer. Then she reminds herself that none of that matters. She has all the answers she needs. She just has to get through this. She just has to get through this, and find her uncle, and then find her family, and she just has to get through this.

She slips the ring in her pocket.

She turns ten while they’re in the hills, which she only knows because she packed a calendar this time. She doesn’t tell Marguerite because Beatrice doesn’t want her to make a big deal out of it, because Marguerite would, and Beatrice spends that night staring up at the stars and trying to make up her own constellations. She connects lines and dots into books, wrenches, a whisk. Then, with her eyes shut tight, she tries to remember that last birthday. It was four or five years ago now, wasn’t it? And there was cake, she knows there was.

Beatrice forces her eyes open. What she remembers is Violet, tying her hair back with a ribbon as she worked on the boat; Klaus, adjusting his glasses as he read to Beatrice from a book; Sunny, talking cheerfully into the radio Violet had built. Everything else is all in pieces, a puzzle she’s losing the parts to.

I have to find them, she thinks, blinking fast. No. I will find them.

The first time Beatrice sends out a bat and it comes back, days later, with a message from one of the shepherds they’d sent out to expect it, she feels a lot more pride than she ever thought she would about training bats to be mail carriers. Marguerite laughs and sweeps Beatrice up into a tight hug, drawing her close, and Beatrice hugs her back.

In late summer, the hills still misty and chilly, they get called back to the city. Marguerite and Beatrice make their way back to the city on foot this time, through all the hills, no mountain. Beatrice sorely wishes she still had the yak.

When they get back to the city, Beatrice actually doesn’t see much of Marguerite. Marguerite tells her only that something is happening, but not exactly what. In the meantime, she tells Beatrice it’s for the best if Beatrice stays at headquarters, where she can write up the reports on training the bats. Beatrice figures someone would’ve had to write the reports at some point, so she doesn’t mind—except that someone seems to be watching her at all times, especially when she uses a typewriter.

Beatrice spends most of her time underground and growing increasingly frustrated, because it’s been months since she’s written to him, months since he’s heard from her, and he must be wondering where she is. He must be. She’s watched mail leave the city headquarters, and they never put a return address on anything. How can he write back to her if he doesn’t know where she is?

But he has to know. He’s been here. He’s in this city, and so is she, and wouldn’t he be able to figure out what happened to her, being a detective and all, or at least a man who has that printed on his door? He went through this too, he knows where she is, why does it have to take so long?

Marguerite comes back, and they go on assignments and scope out pet stores and parks and the occasional fancy restaurant, but Marguerite also lets her look in every single diner window they pass, and lets her linger on the street with the Rhetorical Building, even when the street is wildly out of their way. Then they go on less and less assignments, and she sees less and less of Marguerite, and Beatrice spends her time in so much silence that it starts to dig under her skin, a burrowing restlessness.

At night, she sneaks into the record room again. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for. Maybe the four files she couldn’t find at the country headquarters, or anything about her family, or anything about the organization. Anything at all about anything. And it’s not to find anything new, it can’t be, it’s just—it’s just to reassure her. He’s going to find her. She’s going to find him. They’re going to find her family.

In the back of the room, in a dusty filing cabinet drawer she has to pry open with two pens, she finds a thin, dark brown folder half-stuck under the back of the cabinet. Beatrice wiggles it out, flips it open, and sees the shape of a single piece of paper. She pulls out a flashlight from her pocket, steels herself, and flicks it on, squinting against the light.

It looks like a legal document, almost like a sort of deed, yellowed with age. Beatrice scans through it, and her frown deepens when she finds out it’s for a room in an office building, a room on a fourteenth floor, an office—an office in the Rhetorical Building, right above his. Beatrice grips the edges of the paper and reads further. Her heart stops dead when she sees a bold, imposing signature in red pen across the bottom of the page.

Beatrice Baudelaire.

She’s been in the building, but she’s certainly never tried to get an office there. This must be her, she realizes, reminding herself to inhale. This must be who they named her after.

Beatrice knows about Beatrice Baudelaire. She wasn’t just engaged to Beatrice’s uncle once, she was a person, a mother. She taught Klaus how to fence and how to throw a punch, and she taught Sunny how to scream, and she taught Violet how to stand her ground and be fierce and formidable. She could bake and sing and act, and she ate strawberries in the summer and danced with her husband to old records and took her family to the beach and read long books to them and did different voices for each character. Now, years later, here she is. A whisper in Beatrice’s ear, a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Beatrice Baudelaire sounds like she was a wonderful mother.

Beatrice shakes her head quickly and slips the deed into her pocket. It’s not like she thinks about her own mother a lot. Beatrice knows all about her anyway. Kit Snicket was a good person, a volunteer, someone who helped. So was Dewey Denouement. But sometimes she wonders, just a little, just for a moment, what things would be like if her mother was alive. If her father was alive. If they would’ve liked her. If they would’ve read to her, if they would’ve taught her things, if they would’ve liked strawberries or some other fruit and if they danced and if they baked and if they could act or sing. If she’d still be here, scrambling for the remains of her family. If she’d still see flashes of lightning when she closes her eyes, and the harpoon gun and fungus she’s imagined and the sandy grave at the far edges of her memory and the Baudelaires got their parents, didn’t they, if only for a while, how come she didn’t get hers, how could Violet and Klaus and Sunny do that—

Something creaks upstairs.

Beatrice slips from the records room, shuts the door, and feels her way through the darkness. Her hands find the banister of the stairs, and she creeps up them slowly, waiting for another noise.

The upstairs floor creaks for a second, and then stops. Then another creak, a little further down the hall, like someone’s taking long strides, trying to be light and quick. Beatrice heads up the rest of the stairs and sees the hazy outline of a shape in the darkness, one with short, curly hair.

“Marguerite?”

Marguerite turns, looking over her shoulder, still poised to keep going down the hallway. “Beatrice,” she breathes.

Beatrice hasn’t seen her in what feels like ages, although she knows it’s only been about a week. She walks towards Marguerite, and even in the darkness she can feel a heavy tension in the air. “Where are you going?”

Marguerite turns around all the way and bends down in front of Beatrice. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “but I have to leave.”

Beatrice hears every word of that sentence perfectly, and somehow she still doesn’t understand it. She blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I was going to leave this with the vice principal for you,” Marguerite says. Beatrice hears a slight rustle, Marguerite digging in a pocket. She takes Beatrice’s hand and places something in it, a curved, spiral wire with a handle at the top. A corkscrew. “Something—something came up, and it’s not safe for me to be in the city anymore. I’m starting back for the hills tonight.”

“I can go with you,” Beatrice says, “I can—”

“No,” Marguerite sighs. “I can’t take you with me. I really am—so, so sorry, Beatrice.” Her voice cracks, and her hand settles on Beatrice’s shoulder. “There was so much I was looking forward to, so many things I wanted to do with you, but sometimes things don’t work out how you want them to. But you’ll be okay, I know you will. You’re brave and resourceful, and you’ll be a wonderful volunteer.”

Beatrice frowns at the slim outline of Marguerite’s face. Her fingers curl around the corkscrew, pushing it hard into her hand. She swallows and finds a lump in her throat, one she tries to breathe around. “But I—”

“Don’t worry,” Marguerite says. Her voice is still so gentle, but it doesn’t make sense with her words. Nothing about any of this makes sense. “You’ll know what to do, Beatrice. We all do. I know you will.”

“I know now,” Beatrice says quickly, “I just—”

“I have to go,” Marguerite whispers. The weight of her hand disappears from Beatrice’s shoulder, and then her face is gone, and Beatrice stands in the hall and listens to Marguerite’s progress downstairs from the distant creak of the floorboards. The sound of footsteps vanishes not long after, and Beatrice is alone. The metal of the corkscrew sits cold against her palm.

Beatrice listens, and listens, and listens, and hears nothing else.

Beatrice hasn’t cried in a long time. She knows she has—everyone does when they’re younger, and she can remember, through that fog, Sunny making faces at her to cheer her up—but it feels such a wrong thing to do now. Hot tears spill down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut, her mouth pressed tight so the rising whimper in her throat doesn’t escape.

It’s not as if she didn’t expect Marguerite to leave. All the chaperones do, eventually, and even if she had liked Marguerite she knew somewhere it wouldn’t last. She just didn’t think it would happen like this, so soon, that just like that she’d be gone, swept away from her. All the thoughts Beatrice tries so hard not to think come rushing into her—how much longer will this take, how much longer will she have to do this, how much longer will this feel, because she feels ten years old for the first time and so lost, still adrift in an ocean that could tear her apart as much as it could lead her somewhere safe. She wants to go home, but the only people who were ever home to her feel further away than ever. In a second, the despair and uncertainty she’s been running from overtake her like a crashing wave.

She thinks awful, vicious things. The Baudelaires are dead or they would’ve come for her by now; her uncle hates her and never wants to see her; her mother was a horrible person to die and leave her all alone like this; she’ll grow up like they all did, abandoned.

Beatrice walks back to her room, step by step. She shuts the door, and then sinks down and starts sobbing into her knees.

The vice principal calls her to his office the next morning. Beatrice sits in the chair in front of his desk, her hands in her lap. She’s shoved the memory and the uncertainty and the guilt of last night to the back of her mind, but it still flutters in her lungs, a light panic she tries to smother with each careful breath.

He seems to have acquired even more sugar bowls since the last time she was in here, and they tower above her on those whisper-thin shelves and make the office feel even tighter. A different item sits on the shelf right behind his desk, about the size of a milk bottle, and Beatrice stares at it. It stares back at her with a dark, beady eye, the long face and snout of an impossibly cruel animal, teeth bared and black. Then she notices—it’s only half of a statue, like it’s been cut down the middle, revealing a smooth, solid wood interior.

The vice principal himself looks unbothered, impassive as always. “It seems you’re without a chaperone,” he says.

Her hands tighten together involuntarily. “I’ve been without a chaperone before,” she says, and her voice only trembles a little.

He smiles. It is a thin and humorless smile, smug, and he leans slowly, too casually, back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his own hands folded neatly. She wishes he would stop doing that.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” he says.

Where is my family and when will I find them?

But she knows he won’t tell her. “What do you want to ask me?” she says instead.

The vice principal almost laughs. His eyes are dark and fathomless blue. “What did Marguerite leave you?”

Beatrice does not think of the corkscrew up in her room. But she has to say something, she has to show him something. She puts her hand in her pocket and finds the folded-up deed she’d stuck there last night. A deed for an office in the Rhetorical Building. A deed signed with an identical name.

She stares at the vice principal straight on. “An office,” she says. “On the fourteenth floor of the Rhetorical Building.” Beatrice pulls the paper from her pocket, unfolds it, and sets it square on his desk.

He stares at it, and then keeps staring at it, his eyes flicking over the paper as if looking for a loophole. When he doesn’t find any, his mouth thins, his jaw clenching. She’s never seen him with so much emotion on his face before.

“I’ll need a typewriter,” Beatrice says.

The next thing Beatrice does is get business cards. They say Beatrice Baudelaire, so no one will bother her about that, and then Baticeer Extraordinaire, because that’s the closest thing to an occupation she has right now, and then The Rhetorical Building, since that is the name of the building, and finally Fourteenth Floor, which is self-explanatory.

The third thing she does is go to her office. It hasn’t been used in a long time, so it’s empty and dusty and even colder than the lobby, and full of one too many spiders. Beatrice spends an afternoon cleaning the years out of it, and even repairs the radiator, Violet’s ribbon keeping her hair back from her face.

She sets her typewriter carefully on the desk, puts Klaus’s commonplace book in one of the locked drawers, puts the corkscrew in a completely different drawer, and then realizes she has very little else to put in the room. A business card taped to the door, some paper beside the typewriter. The brochures and books she collected from the train stations lined up on the little shelf on the wall. She keeps the Duchess of Winnipeg’s ring on a long chain around her neck so she always has it with her and no one else can see it.

She uses the back entrance so she doesn’t have to go through the lobby.

She stays awake in the office the first few nights, watching the window in the dark in case they try to come back for her, but Beatrice is left alone there.

Beatrice doesn’t know how old the building is exactly, but it must be old, because the wood creaks, and it creaks specifically and consistently in his office, right below hers, muffled but very distinct.

She finishes typing her most recent letter, pulls it out of the typewriter, then takes the corkscrew from her desk and sits down in the middle of the floor.

The wood parts, splitting easily into tiny spiral shavings, and Beatrice keeps twisting and twisting the corkscrew until there’s a reasonable hole in the floor and she can hear the creaking a little more clearly. It’s a small hole, not large enough to see through but large enough to put her letter through if she rolls it into a tiny tube, like she said she would. She throws the corkscrew back on her desk, grabs the letter, and starts to roll it up.

The creaking stops. Then the wood groans low, like he’s leaning on a specific spot, and she leans close and listens.

“Snicket,” says a woman’s voice.

Beatrice startles, jumping back with a slight gasp. She didn’t account for someone else, she didn’t think he knew anyone else, she didn’t think it wouldn’t be him pacing. She doesn’t know who this is.

“Did you always have that hole in your ceiling?” the woman says.

Someone replies. Beatrice can’t hear what he says, but the voice is a low murmur. That’s him, she thinks, biting her lip. That’s him

“You want me to come in here and find you buried under your ceiling one of these days?” the woman continues. “Don’t you think I deal with enough already as your editor?”

He says something else, something Beatrice still can’t hear.

The woman sighs. “If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late, and Cleo might just kill you.”

Beatrice waits until she hears the door close, and then sits for a few seconds in the silence, willing her heart to stop rocketing in her chest. She re-rolls the letter, looks down at the hole, and then pushes the letter through it and presses her ear against the floor. Beatrice can just barely hear it bounce off the ceiling fan, uncurl, and land open and waiting on his desk with the tiniest crinkle of the paper.

She sits back on the floor with a long sigh. She hopes she isn’t waiting too long, and Beatrice doesn’t do a very good job of squashing down the worry that she might not know how long it’ll take.

She waits a whole week and still doesn’t get a reply. No one comes to her door, no one tries to get in through the fire escape, no one leaves any secret messages anywhere, and she doesn’t hear anyone pacing in the office below her. She doesn’t hear the woman’s voice, and she doesn’t hear any sign that he’s in there at all. Everything is eerily quiet.

Beatrice goes across the street to the diner, because she figures being miserable but not hungry is better than being miserable and hungry. When she pushes the door open, Jake Hix catches sight of her from behind the counter and grins broadly. “Hey, Beatrice!”

She means to smile, but there are four people sitting at the counter, and all of them turn and look at her with interest. Two men wearing glasses who look like brothers, a sharp-eyed blonde woman in a cloche hat, and then the man in the middle, pale and staring at her with wide eyes. Beatrice looks back at him, suddenly breathless. Not just a mysterious figure she’s never seen, or one she glimpsed in the middle of a chase, but a real, physical person in front of her.

“It’s you!” she exclaims. “You’re here!”

They keep eye contact for a single, almost terrifying second—but then he clears his throat, holds up a hand, and spins around, putting his back to her.

Beatrice stands there, torn between disbelief and irritation. The other two men say something, and the woman rolls her eyes, gets up, pulls them to their feet, and herds them past Beatrice and out of the diner.

“Give him a moment,” the woman whispers to her, winking.

She doesn’t want to, she wants to go over and sit beside him and get right to things, but she picks a corner booth by the window anyway and sits down. She still has a good view of the counter from here. She swallows and tries to quell her anticipation. She wonders how long a moment is, to her uncle.

Jake walks over and gives her a smile. “What can I get you?”

Beatrice looks over his elbow at the counter, at the glass resting in front of her uncle. It occurs to her that she’s actually never had his drink of choice. She looks back up at Jake. “A root beer float.”

Jake smiles.

“And, could you please do me a favor?” she asks, unzipping her bag and digging around inside. “If I give you a message, would you give it to him?”

“Sure thing,” Jake says.

She takes out one of her business cards and turns it over.

Cocktail Time

I am sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends. I only wanted to talk to you.

The waiter agreed to bring this card with your drink. If you don’t want to meet me, rip it in half when you are done with your root beer float, and I will leave and never try to contact you again.

Ideally, she doesn’t want to say that, to give him an out, now that they’re both here, now that she’s this close, but it’s polite. She figures he’ll appreciate that.

But if you want to meet me, she continues, biting her lip, I’m the ten-year-old girl at the corner table.

Beatrice folds the card in half and hands it to Jake. She watches Jake walk back to the counter, lean in and hand her card to her uncle, watches him open it with shaking fingers. He reads it, but he doesn’t turn around and look at her yet. He takes a sip of his root beer.

Jake brings her her own root beer, and she drinks it and barely tastes it, her eyes still fixed on her uncle. She reminds herself not to swing her legs and settles for jiggling her foot against the smooth tile, a tiny little tap as she waits and waits and waits. She thinks of looking anywhere else, trying to remain sophisticated and calm, because this is it, for real, but she doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She curls her hands together in her lap, forgets about the root beer float. She counts out the seconds in her head, stops when she thinks it’s stupid, starts again when he pushes his glass away and looks at the note again.

Finally, he stands up. He refolds her business card and puts it in his pocket. Then he turns, and he faces Beatrice, coming over and stopping beside her table.

He’s just like how Beatrice imagined him, now that she can finally see him, instead of just across a crowded street or a library wing. Definitely average height, if a little bit taller, in a grey suit and tie, his hair dark, thin at the temples. He looks at her half-finished drink, and then slowly meets her eyes, and they are blue, the same blue as hers, the best color she’s ever seen, brighter than every dark and endless sea. The corners of his mouth turn up a little, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He sits down across from her and extends his hand.

“My name is Lemony Snicket,” he says, his voice deep but soft, just as she expected.

Beatrice smiles, and her face almost hurts with the force of it. She shakes his hand with both of hers. “Beatrice Baudelaire.”

Lemony Snicket takes her to the park a few streets over and buys her ice cream. She points out that they could’ve had ice cream in the diner, but he tells her that he would rather have their conversation away from where a journalist could come back at any second and faithfully record every single moment of it. Beatrice eats her vanilla with sprinkles and figures the journalist had to be the woman, with eyes like that, and then she watches her uncle. Her uncle, real and in person after all this time, after almost two long years of searching, finally beside her.

He matches her pace, which isn’t very brisk, but he looks like he could run at a moment’s notice. He keeps his hat drawn low over his eyes, his gaze lingering on shadowy trees and exits and every single discarded cigarette butt before moving away. He takes quick, economical bites of his ice cream (vanilla, caramel swirl, in a cone).

“Did you like my business card?” Beatrice asks. Her voice comes out a little louder than she intended, which probably explains why Lemony jumps.

He pulls her business card out of his pocket. “It’s very nice,” he says. “Do you like bats?”

“Well,” she says, “I think they’re cute, but that’s all. I’d rather not work with them.”

“Are you saying that you gave me a false business card?”

“You can put anything on a business card,” Beatrice says brightly, looking up at him. “Do you still have those ones that say you’re an admiral in the French navy?”

Lemony looks shocked, then embarrassed, and then takes an incriminating crunch out of his cone. He doesn’t answer.

Beatrice’s throat sticks a little when she swallows her ice cream. She ducks her head, her shoulders bunching up, and scrapes at the bottom of her cup with her spoon. He’s just a quiet person, that’s all, she tells herself, and she’d thought that before. That he doesn’t have anything else to say is just because—just because he doesn’t have anything else to say. That’s fine. They have more important things to talk about than bats and business cards.

She waits until they’ve both finished their ice cream and points out a bench for them to sit down on. She even makes sure it’s out of the way, under a tree, reasonably shady and away from prying eyes, if that’ll make him feel better. Lemony hesitates for a few seconds before he agrees, and they sit down. Beatrice’s legs dangle off the edge, and she holds her hands tight in her lap and reminds herself again not to swing her legs.

“You said you didn’t know where Violet and Klaus and Sunny were,” Beatrice says, leaning towards him, “in your research. That you didn’t know what happened to them after—” Her voice catches. “—after we, we left the island. But that was years and years ago. You have to know now.”

Lemony looks at her, and this close, Beatrice can see the lines around his eyes, etched into his face. They only seem to deepen the longer they look at each other. He folds his hands together, just like hers, and Beatrice bites down on the inside of her lip, her toes wiggling in her shoes.

“No, Beatrice,” he says. “I do not know where the Baudelaires are.”

Some of the air disappears from her lungs, and she gapes at him. “Well—then can you help me find them?”

Lemony sighs. “I have looked,” he says slowly, “but my associates and I have found very little. I do not know if—”

“But you have to know!” Beatrice exclaims. The corners of her eyes start to burn, and she can feel a sharp sting tightening her throat, because he was supposed to know, she was so certain, and he had to be too, so why? “You have to, you’re the only person I’ve got left, and I came all this way to find you, and you—you—” Everything comes tumbling out of her, everything she’s been pushing aside and burying down inside her since the shipwreck, every cruel thought and punch to the gut, every second spent waiting. She’s never talked this much in her whole life, and now she can’t stop, even with Lemony looking at her with wide, broken eyes.

“You left me all alone out there!” Beatrice shouts, her voice cracking. “I followed you for two years, all by myself, and I wrote you letters, and I followed you into the hills, and I stole office space to be close to you, and I did everything I could to find you, and you didn’t do anything!”

She wants to be angry. She wants so much to be angry, to keep yelling, to hurt him, but now she can’t stop crying. “I thought you h-hated me,” she sobs, rubbing at her eyes, tears sticking to her fingers and her cheeks. “I th-thought you never wanted to see me, ever. I thought—I thought—”

Something soft brushes against her wrist, and she lowers her hands and finds Lemony, offering her a handkerchief. “I did not, and I do not hate you,” he murmurs firmly, for a man as heartbroken as he looks. “I could never.”

Beatrice takes the handkerchief and wipes at her eyes. It doesn’t do much in the way of stopping her tears.

“This is an awful thing to say,” Lemony begins quietly, “but the horrible truth is that I did not know if it was you. I did not know if you were—someone else.”

Beatrice swallows thickly, curling her fingers around the handkerchief, clutching it in her lap. She knows what he means and it’s like a dull knife twisting inside her.

“And I know you are not her,” Lemony continues, “or my sister—although you do look remarkably like her—or an old villainess intent on exacting a stiletto-heeled revenge after all these years, or a morally grey woman for whom I still feel a great deal of sadness and guilt. I wondered, though. I think even the most rational mind will wonder in the depths of loss, even when it knows better. It is a wound that does not want to heal, or at least one that I believed could not. When I did know it was you, which I assure you was only within the last year, I—I did not know if I could help you.”

“Why not?” Beatrice asks, sniffling. She chances a look up at him, out of the corner of her eye, and catches a quick, haunted look passing over his face. He stays quiet for a little longer, as if figuring out the right words.

“I was afraid,” he whispers. “It is no excuse for what I did to you, but it is a reason. When I was a little older than you, I made a considerable amount of promises, few of which I managed to keep, and I told myself that fear didn’t matter, which was an admirable if incredibly incorrect stance to take at the time. And since then, very few things have gone right. I lost my family, my friends, the loves of my life, and everything I had, because of that fear. You can have the best of intentions, and still doubt, and still worry, and only realize much later that all you’ve ever done was wrong. I once said that people do difficult things for more or less noble reasons—but it is truly so much harder than that.”

Beatrice lets the words sink in. She thought she knew what it was like to struggle with a decision, to do something villainous to be noble. She thought she understood her uncle and her family—all of it—after everything she’d read, after Klaus saying that it took a severe lack of moral stamina to commit murder, after Sunny suggested it and the fire regardless, after Violet worried about Hal’s keys and disguising her and her siblings and all the other tricky things Beatrice remembers her worrying about.

He looks like Violet, Beatrice realizes suddenly. Not really his facial features, but his expression, just like when Violet told her the volunteers were noble enough. He looks as lost and worried about the consequences as Violet did that day. She feels that hole in her stomach again, that gaping uncertainty—that fear. Beatrice thinks of avoiding the lobby where the woman grabbed her ankle, lying to Marguerite in the hills, covering up her doubts with a vehement optimism. She thinks of every time she read about Lemony’s fear and all the things she didn’t understand until this second, all the things she still doesn’t understand, because there is still so much, so many secrets she could drown in, trying to find them all by herself.

“I put you in a great amount of danger by not stepping in,” Lemony says. He looks at her straight on, his eyes filled with tears. “I did to you the same thing for which I despised so many people, people I too was supposed to trust, because of my cowardice. I cannot apologize to you enough, and you do not have to accept it, Beatrice. I would not blame you if you didn’t.”

Beatrice sniffles again, her mouth wobbling, and watches him for a moment longer. “I don’t know,” she says carefully. She doesn’t like saying it, but it’s true and she has to say it. She takes a breath. “I don’t know.”

They sit in silence on the bench for some time. Lemony wipes his eyes at some point with the back of his hand, and Beatrice holds his handkerchief back up to him, but he shakes his head with a small, trembling smile and tells her to keep it. Beatrice runs her thumb over the handkerchief, each individual stitch along the hem, the afternoon breeze drying her face. She thinks, almost impossibly, that she feels a little less lonely. Not quite not alone, but just not as lonely.

“Although my associates and I have found very little,” Lemony says, “that isn’t to say that there is nothing to find. If you would like, I would like to help you find the Baudelaires.”

Beatrice’s head shoots up, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really. We can hope for the best, at least.”

“I’m good at that,” Beatrice says. “I—it can’t be impossible. Everyone thought finding you was impossible. But you’re here.” And he is, isn’t he? Despite his previous absences, here he is. It doesn’t fix everything, not immediately. But it can be enough for right now. Here he is. Here they are.

ending notes:

i went into this fanfic with a pretty clear idea of where it was going to go, and then realized i’d need to pull out the beatrice letters so i could put them in this, and then did a lot of screaming along the lines of ‘i need to put a yak in this??????????????????????????????’ and ‘good job danhan you shot a hole through my characterization AND my timeline.’ so this vibes with maybe like, 85% of the beatrice letters. i did what i could. (and then this fic gave me so much trouble when i was trying to edit it. like, so much trouble. i only hope this all like, reads okay.)

but once i thought of ‘quiet lil child knows really so little about the world and has been through so much that she adamantly and somewhat optimistically clings to what she does know and that is challenged over time,’ i was reluctant to stop writing that. babybea is definitely her own person but she’s also definitely her mother’s daughter, so that girl is gonna be pretty tightly wound up and trying her best to hide it. i didn’t really buy her constant worry that lemony wasn’t who she wanted him to be while she was writing to him. because she does still have that bright but firm optimism of her father!! and i didn’t want babybea to be as rooted in (or as dependent on) vfd as her predecessors because she has to be the character to break that cycle. she has way more important problems than unattainable worldly nobility….and training bats.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events

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fuckofffuckofffuckoffloveme · 3 years

Text

Runaway - Part Fifteen

~Masterlist~

Concept: Hazel Richards is a twenty-year-old woman living in London. When she meets a mysterious time-travelling alien known only as the Hunter, she’s thrust into a world of wonder she could only have imagined.

Warnings: swearing, follows S1 of Doctor Who.

Mike Denman stepped off the train at Cardiff Central railway station and headed to the Roald Dahl Plass. He smiled when he saw the TARDIS parked just in front of the huge water tower, walked up, and knocked on the door. It swung open to show a handsome man with dark hair and a confused expression. "Who the hell are you?"

"What do you mean, who the hell am I? Who the hell are you?" Mike demanded.

"Captain Jack Harkness." He flashed his signature brilliant smile. "Whatever you're selling, we're not buying."

Mike narrowed his eyes. "Get out of my way!" He pushed past Jack and into the TARDIS, making the man roll his eyes as he closed the door.

"Don't tell me. This must be the pikey you were telling me about."

The Hunter beamed down at them from a ladder, where she was fixing a light fitting on the wall. She was wearing a white t-shirt with blue skinny jeans, and ankle boots. "Here comes trouble! How're you doing, Spike?"

"It's Mike!"

Hazel rolled her eyes, sipping from a cup of hot chocolate. Judging both by this and her thick hoodie, she wasn't planning on running around much today. Maybe they'd be able to have a quiet day together for once? "Don't listen to her, she's winding you up."

"Damn right, I am," the Hunter muttered in the background, smirking.

"You look fantastic," Mike told Hazel, hugging her. Startled, she held her hot chocolate out of the way and hoped it wouldn't spill.

"Aw, sweet, look at these two," Jack sighed, leaning against the console next to the ladder. "How come I never get any of that?"

"Well, you'd have to buy me a drink first," the Hunter told him, winking.

He sighed despairingly. "You're such hard work."

"Yeah, but worth every bit of it," she smirked.

"Did you manage to find them?" Hazel asked eagerly.

"There you go," Mike smiled, handing over the fake IDs and passport. Little did he know, the IDs were in for a cathartic burning session later - it'd been Jack's idea.

Hazel grinned. "I can go anywhere now."

"I told you, you don't need a passport," the Hunter rolled her eyes, making her way down the ladder.

"It's all very well going to Platform One and Justicia and the Glass Pyramid of San Kaloon, but what if we end up in Brazil? I might need it," Hazel pointed out. "You see, I'm prepared for anything."

"Sounds like you're staying then," Mike noticed. Everybody looked at him, and he changed the subject. "So what're you doing in Cardiff? And who the hell's Jumping Jack Flash? I mean, I don't mind you hanging out with Soulless Samantha over there."

"Oi!" the Hunter exclaimed.

"Listen to yourself," Mike sneered. "But this guy, I don't know, he's kind of -"

"Handsome?" Jack suggested, grinning.

"More like cheesy," Mike corrected, clearly not impressed.

Jack looked to the Hunter. "Queenie, early twenty first century slang. Is cheesy good or bad?"

"It's bad," Mike deadpanned before she could get a word in.

"But bad means good, isn't that right?" Jack shrugged.

"Are you saying I'm not handsome?" the Hunter asked, nudging him.

"You're not handsome, you're beautiful," Jack told her, making her grin.

"We just stopped off," Hazel cut in, seeing Mike looking at them with disgust. "We need to refuel. The thing is, Cardiff's got this rift running through the middle of the city. It's invisible, but it's like an earthquake fault between different dimensions."

"The rift was healed back in 1869," the Hunter continued.

"Thanks to a girl named Gwyneth," Hazel added, "because these creatures called the Gelth, they were using the rift as a gateway, but she saved the world and closed it."

"But closing a rift always leaves a scar," Jack explained, "and that scar generates energy, harmless to the human race -"

The Hunter nodded. "But perfect for the TARDIS, so just park her here for a couple of days right on top of the scar, and -"

"Open up the engines, soak up the radiation," Jack continued.

"Like filling her up with petrol and off we go!" Hazel cheered.

"Into time!" Jack exclaimed.

"And space!" they all shouted together, high-fiving.

Mike just stared at them for a moment. "My God, have you seen yourselves? You all think you're so clever, don't you?"

"Yeah," Hazel nodded.

"Yep!" Jack agreed.

"It does seem to be the general consensus," the Hunter shrugged, leading them out onto Roald Dahl Plass and locking the door behind them. "Should take another twenty four hours, which means we've got time to kill."

"That old lady's staring," Mike noticed.

Jack smirked. "Probably wondering what four people could do inside a small wooden box."

Mike stared at him, looking horrified by the mere suggestion. "What are you captain of, the Innuendo Squad?"

"Well, actually -"

"Jack!" Hazel exclaimed, and they both burst out laughing, the Hunter watching fondly.

"Wait, the TARDIS, we can't just leave it," Mike protested as they started walking away. "Doesn't it get noticed?"

"Yeah, what's with the police box?" Jack asked. "Why does it look like that?"

"It's a cloaking device," Hazel told them.

"It's called a chameleon circuit," the Hunter explained. "The TARDIS is meant to disguise herself wherever she lands, like if this was Ancient Rome, she'd be a statue on a plinth or something. But I landed in the '60s, she disguised herself as a police box, and the circuit got stuck."

"So it copied a real thing?" Mike asked. "There actually was police boxes?"

"Yeah, on street corners," the Hunter nodded. "Phone for help before they had radios and mobiles. If they arrested someone, they could shove them inside till help came, like a little prison cell."

Jack shook his head slightly. That didn't sound too pleasant. "Why don't you just fix the circuit?"

She pouted. "I like it, don't you?"

"I love it," Hazel grinned.

"But that's what I meant," Mike said, pulling the conversation back to him. "There's no police boxes anymore, so doesn't it get noticed?"

The Hunter smiled, standing in front of him with her hands on his shoulders. Despite being an inch or so shorter, she still intimidated him, and he didn't even know the whole of what she could do. "Spike, let me tell you something about the human race. You put a mysterious blue box slap bang in the middle of town, what do they do? Walk past it. Now, stop your nagging. Let's go and explore!" They set off walking again.

"What's the plan?" Hazel asked, looping her arms through both Jack's and the Hunter's.

The Time Lady shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Cardiff, early twenty first century, and the wind's coming from the east. Trust me. Safest place in the universe."

***

They ended up in a small restaurant on the jetty, where Jack was telling them stories from his previous adventures.

"I swear, six feet tall and with big tusks!" he was saying.

"You're lying through your teeth!" the Hunter accused, laughing.

"I'd have gone bonkers!" Hazel cried, holding onto the table to keep her from falling out of her seat with laughter. "That's the word - bonkers!"

"I mean, it turns out the white things are tusks and I mean tusks!" Jack enthused. "And it's woken, and it's not happy."

"How could you not know it was there?" the Hunter demanded, her eyes wide and filled with happy tears.

"And we're standing there, fifteen of us, naked -"

"Naked?!" Hazel echoed, crying with laughter.

"And I'm like, oh, no, no, it's got nothing to do with me," Jack continued. "And then it roars, and we are running, oh my God, we are running! And Brakovitch falls, so I turn to him and I say -"

"I knew we should've turned left!" Mike cried.

"That's my line!" Jack exclaimed as Hazel burst out laughing all over again.

"I don't believe you!" she sighed, wiping her cheeks. "I don't believe a word you say ever. That is so brilliant! Did you ever get your clothes back?" The Hunter borrowed a newspaper from the next table, her good mood swiftly dissipating.

"No, I just picked him up, went right for the ship, full throttle. Didn't stop until I hit the spacelanes. I was shaking. It was unbelievable. It freaked me out, and by the time I got fifteen light years away I realised I'm like this."

The Hunter sighed disappointedly. "And I was having such a nice day." She showed them the newspaper, the front page of which showed Margaret Blaine as the new Lord Mayor of Cardiff.

***

In the foyer of the City Hall, Jack began to outline what they already knew about Margaret. "According to intelligence, the target is the last surviving member of the Slitheen family, a criminal sect from the planet Raxacoricofallapatorius, masquerading as a human being, zipped inside a skin suit." He nodded. "Okay, plan of attack, we assume a basic fifty seven fifty six strategy, covering all available exits on the ground floor. Queenie, you go face to face. That'll designate Exit One. I'll cover Exit Two. Jules, you're on Exit Three. Mike, you take Exit Four. Have you got that?"

The Hunter raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. "Excuse me. Who's in charge here?"

Jack bit his lip to hide a smile. "Sorry. Awaiting orders, your Majesty."

"Right, here's the plan." She paused, smirking. "Like he said. Nice plan. Anything else?"

"Present arms," Jack ordered. Each of them pulled out a mobile phone, except for the Hunter, who was fixing a Bluetooth unit to her ear.

"Ready," she nodded.

"Ready," Hazel stated.

"Ready," Mike agreed.

"Ready," Jack smiled. "Speed dial?"

"Yep," the Hunter grinned, sonicing the device.

"Ready," Hazel seconded.

"Check," Mike nodded.

Jack flashed a brilliant smile. "See you in hell."

***

The Hunter followed the signs through to the outer area of the Lord Mayor's office, where a young man was sitting at his desk just outside the door. "Hello," she smiled warmly. "I've come to see the Lord Mayor."

"Have you got an appointment?" the young man asked politely.

"No, just an old friend passing by. Bit of a surprise," she grinned. "Can't wait to see her face."

"Well, she's just having a cup of tea," he stated.

"Just go in there and tell her the Hunter would like to see her."

"The Hunter?" he echoed.

"Yeah, it's an inside joke," the Hunter lied. "Tell her exactly that. The Hunter."

"Hang on a tick," the man smiled, and went into the office. The Hunter waited patiently, smirking when she heard a teacup smash on the floor, then smiling politely when the man came back out, looking flustered. "The Lord Mayor says thank you for popping by. She'd love to have a chat, but, er, she's up to her eyes in paperwork. Perhaps if you could make an appointment for next week?"

The Hunter looked at him pityingly. "She's climbing out of the window, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," he admitted, sighing in relief.

"Slitheen heading north," she reported, pushing past the man, through the office and out onto the balcony.

"On my way," Hazel replied.

"Over and out," Jack agreed.

"Oh my God!" Mike wailed.

"Leave the Lord Mayor alone!" the man cried, trying to pull the Hunter back from following Margaret as she climbed down a ladder on some scaffolding on the side of the building.

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on." She telekinetically threw the man back into the office, locking the balcony behind him. "It's like you're not even trying."

Margaret reached the bottom of the ladder and took off her brooch, starting to run. When she saw Hazel running towards her, she snarled, removing her right earring. Then Jack came running from the opposite direction.

"Margaret!" the Hunter taunted, seeing she was running in the only available direction - across the front of the building. She joined Jack and Hazel at the entrance to the alleyway at the front of the building, seeing Margaret running away from them.

"Who's on Exit Four?" Jack demanded.

"That was Mike!" Hazel supplied.

"Here I am," Mike announced, running out with one foot in a bucket.

"Oh, you pikey," the Hunter scoffed.

"Be fair, she's not exactly going to outrun us, is she?" Hazel pointed out, at which point Margaret vanished.

"She's got a teleport! That's cheating!" Jack complained. "Now we're never going to get her."

"Oh, Artie's very good at teleports," Hazel assured him.

The Hunter buzzed the sonic screwdriver in the direction of Margaret's disappearance, and she reappeared, running towards them. She frowned, turned around and vanished again, but the Hunter just brought her back. The next time she was brought back, she was standing right in front of them, and panting hard. "Do you know, I could actually do this all day," the Hunter remarked conversationally, looking down at Margaret with no pity.

"This is persecution," Margaret accused. "Why can't you leave me alone? What did I ever do to you?"

"You tried to kill me, my friend Hazel here, and destroy the entire planet," the Hunter pointed out bluntly.

Margaret blinked. "Apart from that."

***

"So, you're a Slitheen, you're on Earth, you're trapped," the Hunter mused, leading them into the presentation room of the City Hall, in which the centrepiece was a model of a nuclear power station. "Your family get killed, but you teleport out just in the nick of time. You have no means of escape. What do you do? You build a nuclear power station. But what for?"

"A philanthropic gesture," Margaret shrugged airily. "I've learnt the error of my ways."

The Hunter scoffed. "And it just so happens to be right on top of the rift."

"What rift would that be?" Margaret asked innocently.

"A rift in space and time," Jack answered. "If this power station went into meltdown, the entire planet would go -" He mimed an implosion with his hands, adding the appropriate sound effects.

"This station is designed to explode the minute it reaches capacity," the Hunter stated, looking at the model.

"Didn't anyone notice?" Hazel frowned. "Isn't there someone in London checking this sort of stuff?"

"We're in Cardiff," Margaret deadpanned. "London doesn't care. The South Wales coast could fall into the sea and they wouldn't notice." She made a face. "Oh, I sound like a Welshman. God help me, I've gone native."

"But why would she do that?" Mike asked. "A great big explosion, she'd only end up killing herself."

"She's got a name, you know," Margaret pointed out icily.

"She's not even a she, she's a thing," Mike countered.

"Oh, but she's clever," the Hunter smiled. With her metal hand, she yanked the middle section from the model and turned it over to reveal circuitry. "Fantastic."

"Is that a tribophysical waveform macro-kinetic extrapolator?" Jack asked excitedly.

The Hunter grinned, handing it over. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

"Ooh, genius!" Jack exclaimed. "You didn't build this."

"I have my hobbies," Margaret shrugged. "A little tinkering."

"No, no, no, no," Jack shook his head. "I mean, you really didn't build this. Way beyond you."

"I bet she stole it," Mike accused.

"It fell into my hands," Margaret said defensively.

"Is it a weapon?" Hazel inquired.

"It's transport," Jack told her, grinning. "You see, if the reactor blows, the rift opens. Phenomenal cosmic disaster. But this thing shrouds you in a forcefield. You have this energy bubble, so you're safe." He put the extrapolator on the ground. "Then you feed it co-ordinates, stand on top, and ride the concussion all the way out of the solar system." He stood on top demonstratively.

"It's a surfboard," Mickey realised.

"A pan-dimensional surfboard, yeah," Jack nodded.

"And it would've worked," Margaret grumbled. "I'd have surfed away from this dead end dump and back to civilisation."

Hazel frowned. "Isn't there supposed to be something about meddling kids in there?"

"You'd blow up a whole planet just to get a lift?" Mike asked, wondering why the others weren't too shocked.

"Like stepping on an anthill," Margaret smirked.

"How'd you think of the name?" the Hunter asked. She was looking at one of the banners with an expression of concern.

"What, Blaidd Drwg?" Margaret shrugged. "It's Welsh."

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "I know, but how did you think of it?"

"I chose it at random, that's all. I don't know, it just sounded good. Does it matter?"

"Blaidd Drwg," the Hunter mused, frowning.

"What's it mean?" Hazel asked.

"Bad Wolf," the Time Lady replied.

Hazel flinched, and Jack put his arm around her shoulder's - much to Mike's annoyance. "But I've heard that before. Bad Wolf. I've heard that lots of times."

"Everywhere we go," the Hunter narrowed her eyes. "Two words following us. Bad Wolf."

"How can they be following us?" Hazel whispered.

The Hunter shared a look with Jack, both of them clocking how scared Hazel actually was. "Nah, just a coincidence. Like hearing a word on the radio then hearing it all day. Never mind. Things to do. Margaret, we're going to take you home."

Jack blinked. "Hold on, isn't that the easy option, like letting her go?"

"I don't believe it!" Hazel exclaimed. "We actually get to go to Raxa - wait a minute. Raxacor -"

"Raxacoricofallapatorius," the Hunter told her in amusement.

"Raxacorico -"

"- fallapatorius."

"Raxacoricofallapatorius." Hazel's eyes widened. "That's it! I did it!" She and the Hunter hugged in celebration.

"They have the death penalty," Margaret cut in, ruining the ambience. "The family Slitheen was tried in its absence many years ago, and found guilty with no chance of appeal. According to the statutes of government, the moment I return, I am to be executed. What do you make of that, Hunter? Take me home and you take me to my death."

The Hunter regarded her coldly with those steely blue eyes. "That sounds like a not me problem."

***

Night had fallen by the time they got Margaret to the TARDIS.

"This ship is impossible," she exclaimed as Hazel shut the door behind them. "It's superb. How do you get the outside around the inside?"

"Like I'd give you the secret," the Hunter scoffed.

"I almost feel better about being defeated," Margaret admitted. "I never stood a chance. This is the technology of the gods."

The Hunter smirked. "Well, now you mention it..." She turned her attention to the extrapolator. "Jack, how's it going?"

"This extrapolator's top of the range," he told her, glancing up at Margaret. "Where did you get it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some airlock sale?"

"Must have been a great big heist," Jack translated. "It's stacked with power."

"But we can use it for fuel?" the Hunter asked.

"It's not compatible, but it should knock off about twelve hours," Jack nodded. "We'll be ready to go by morning."

She sighed, but nodded. "Then we're stuck here overnight."

"I'm in no hurry," Margaret piped up.

Hazel smirked, sitting cross-legged on the jump seat. "We've got a prisoner. The police box really is a police box."

"You're not just police, though," Margaret pointed out. "Since you're taking me to my death, that makes you my executioners. Each and every one of you."

"Well, you deserve it," Mike shrugged.

"You're very quick to say so," Margaret noticed. "You're very quick to soak your hands in my blood, which makes you better than me how, exactly? Long night ahead. Let's see who can look me in the eye."

Mickey looked away before she even met his eyes, and neither Hazel nor Jack held her gaze for more than a few seconds. When she looked to the Hunter, though, she gasped, seeing the woman casually making several paperweights float about her head with her metal arm.

"You're a -!"

"A what?" the Hunter asked, smirking. "A mutant Time Lord? Now, now, Maggie, don't be a bitch. You're hardly my first dead body. How's about you sit down and shut up?" Stunned, Margaret did so.

***

"It's freezing out here," Hazel complained as she joined Mike outside the TARDIS, keeping her hands cosy in her hoodie pocket.

"Better than in there," Mike huffed. "She does deserve it. She's a Slitheen. I don't care. It's just weird in that box."

"I didn't really need the passport," Hazel confessed. "Or the IDs."

Mike smiled. "I've been thinking, you know, we could go have a drink. Have a pizza or something. Just you and me."

"I guess," Hazel shrugged. He was still her friend, she just didn't want to deal with the awkward 'are you staying' crap.

"And I mean, if the TARDIS can't leave until morning, we could go to a hotel, spend the night." Hazel raised her eyebrows incredulously, and he backtracked. "I mean, if you want to. I've got some money."

"Mike, can I ask you a question?" Hazel bit her lip.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Are you seriously still labouring under the impression that I'm straight?" Mike blinked, and she laughed. "Oh, come on! How many times have I told you? It's been four years!"

"Oh, shut up!" he complained, not meeting her eyes. "Of course I knew. I just... You never know."

She narrowed her eyes. "What part of not attracted to men are you not getting?"

"Well, you know, I'm different," he shrugged. "I'm your mate."

"Yeah, and I'm gay," she stressed, raising her eyebrows.

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. There's a couple bars around here. We should give them a go, you know, before we go for pizza." He saw her glance back at the TARDIS. "Do you have to go and tell her?"

She shook her head. "She knows."

***

Inside the TARDIS, the Hunter shook her head, watching them walk away on the monitor.

"What?" Jack asked, coming to see.

"He's trying so hard to get in there," she told him, snorting. "It's pitiful."

"Does he know she's gay?" Jack frowned.

"Oh, yeah," the Hunter nodded. "She says she's been telling him for four years."

"What a dick," Jack muttered.

"I gather it's not always like this, having to wait. I bet you're always the first to leave, Hunter. Never mind the consequences, off you go. You butchered my family and then ran for the stars, am I right? But not this time," Margaret smirked. "At last you have consequences. How does it feel?"

The Hunter scoffed. "I didn't butcher them."

"Don't answer back," Jack complained. "You know that's what she wants."

"Well, I didn't," she shrugged, before turning back to Margaret. "What about you? You had an emergency teleport. You didn't zap them to safety, did you?"

"It only carries one," Margaret explained. "I had to fly without co-ordinates. I ended up on a skip in the Isle of Dogs." Jack and the Hunter snorted. "It wasn't funny!"

"Sorry," the Hunter apologised, then snickered. "It is a bit funny."

Margaret rolled her eyes tiresomely. "Do I get a last request?"

"Depends what it is," the Hunter shrugged.

"I grew quite fond of my little human life," Margaret admitted. "All those rituals. The brushing of the teeth, and the complicated way they cook things. There's a little restaurant just round the Bay. It became quite a favourite of mine."

The Hunter frowned. "Is that was you want, a last meal?"

"Don't I have rights?" she pleaded.

Jack scoffed. "Oh, like she's not going to try to escape."

"Except I can never escape the Hunter, so where's the danger?" Margaret shot back, before looking to the Hunter. "I wonder if you could do it? To sit with a creature you're about to kill and take supper. How strong is your stomach?"

"Strong enough," the Hunter assured her.

"I wonder," Margaret mused. "I've seen you fight your enemies, now dine with them."

The Time Lady snorted. "You won't change my mind."

"Prove it," the Raxacoricofallapatorian snarled.

"There are people out there," the Hunter pointed out. And Hazel. "If you slip away just for one second, they'll be in danger."

"Except I've got these," Jack stated, holding up two bangles. "You both wear one. If she moves more than ten feet away, she gets zapped by ten thousand volts."

The Hunter eyed them. "Do I even want to know?"

"Not in the slightest," Jack promised, smirking.

She rolled her eyes, smiling, then turned to their captive. "Margaret, would you like to come out to dinner? My treat."

Margaret smirked. "Dinner in bondage. Works for me."

***

"Here we are, out on a date, and you haven't even asked my proper name," Margaret sighed as they settled in their chairs, the Hunter grabbing a menu.

She rolled her eyes. "It's not a date. What's your name?"

"Blon," Margaret replied. "I am Blon Fel Fotch Pasameer-Day Slitheen. That's what it'll say on my death certificate."

The Hunter smiled politely. "Nice to meet you, Blon."

"I'm sure." Margaret pointed towards the window. "Look, that's where I was living as Margaret. nice little flat, over there, on the top. Next to the one with the light on." The Hunter turned to look, and Margaret emptied powder from her ring into her wine glass. "Two bedrooms, bayside view. I was rather content. Don't suppose I'll see it again."

The Hunter turned back around, eyed Margaret, then swapped the glasses. "Suppose not."

"Thank you."

"Pleasure."

"Tell me then, Hunter. What do you know of our species?" Margaret wondered.

"Only what I've seen," the Time Lady replied, looking at the menu.

"Did you know, for example, in extreme cases, when her life is in danger, a female Raxacoricofallapatorian can manufacture a poison dart within her own finger?" She shot the dart, and the Hunter crushed it between metal fingers without looking up.

"Yes, I did."

"Just checking." Margaret leaned forwards. "And one more thing. Between you and me." The Hunter leaned forwards too. "As a final resort, the excess poison can be exhaled through the lungs." Margaret made to exhale, but the Hunter spritzed a breath freshener in her mouth.

"That's better," she grinned, before going back to her menu. "Now then, what do you think? Mmm, steak looks nice. Steak and chips."

***

Hazel and Mike had been to a few of the bars and were now leaning against the railings on Mermaid Quay. "The Hunter took me to this planet a while back," Hazel was saying. "It was much colder than this. They called it Woman Wept. The planet was actually called Woman Wept, because if you looked at it, right, from above, there's like this huge continent, all curved round. It sort of looked like a woman, you know, lamenting. Oh my God, and we went to this beach, right. No people, no buildings, just this beach like a thousand miles across. And something had happened, something to do with the sun, I don't know, but the sea had just frozen. In a split second, in the middle of a storm, right, waves and foam, just frozen, all the way out to the horizon. Midnight, right, we walk underneath these waves a hundred feet tall, made of ice." She smiled at the memory.

"I'm going out with Trisha Delaney," Mike blurted.

"Right," Hazel said, blinking. "Okay. That's nice. Trisha from the shop?"

"Yeah, Rob Delaney's sister," Mike clarified.

"Well, she's nice," Hazel nodded. "I thought you said you'd never date her."

"She lost weight," he shrugged. "You've been away."

"Well, good for you. She's nice," Hazel smiled.

"So tell us a bit more about this planet, then," he requested.

She shook her head, blowing out a breath. "That was it, really." No way was she telling him the stuff the Hunter had confided in her that day.

***

"Public execution's a slow death," Margaret stated conversationally as their steaks arrived. "They prepare a thin acetic acid, lower me into the cauldron and boil me. The acidity is perfectly gauged to strip away the skin. Internal organs fall out into the liquid, and I become soup. And still alive, still screaming."

"I don't make the law," the Hunter shrugged, stabbing a chip with her fork.

"But you deliver it," Margaret pointed out. "Will you stay to watch?"

The Hunter sighed. "What else can I do?"

"The Slitheen family's huge. There's a lot more of us, all scattered off-world. Take me to them," Margaret pleaded. "Take me somewhere safe."

"Yeah, and you'll just start again," the Hunter deadpanned.

"I promise I won't," Margaret stated hopefully.

The Hunter shook her head, scoffing. "You've been in that skin suit too long. You've forgotten. There used to be a real Margaret Blaine. You killed her and stripped her and used the skin. You're pleading for mercy out of a dead woman's lips."

"Perhaps I have got used to it," Margaret sighed. "A human life, an ordinary life. That's all I'm asking. Give me a chance, Hunter. I can change."

"I don't believe you," the Hunter stated, cutting into her steak.

***

"So, what do you want to do now?" Mike asked.

Hazel shrugged. "Don't mind."

"We could ask about hotels," he suggested.

"I'm just as gay as I was an hour ago," she rolled her eyes. "'Sides, what would Trisha Delaney say?"

"Suppose," Mike sighed. "There's a bar down there with a Spanish name or something -"

"You're not dating Trisha Delaney!" Hazel interrupted.

"Oh, is that right?" Mike scowled. "What the hell do you know?"

"I saw her three days ago cradling her firstborn child!" Hazel shot back, remembering when she'd got takeaway for herself, the Hunter, and Jack. "So who the hell do you think you're kidding?"

"At least I know where she is!" Mike shouted.

Hazel scoffed, shaking her head. "There we are, then. It's got nothing to do with Trisha. This is about me again, isn't it -?"

"You left me!" Mike cut her off. "We were nice, we were happy. And then what? You run off with her and you make me feel like nothing, Hazel. I was nothing. I can't even go out with a stupid girl from a shop because you pick up the phone and I come running. I mean, is that what I am, Hazel, standby? Am I just supposed to sit here for the rest of my life, waiting for you? Because I will."

Hazel stepped back, her eyes wide. "I'm... sorry?"

***

"I promise you I've changed since we last met, Hunter," Margaret implored. "There was this girl, just today. A young thing, something of a danger. She was getting too close. I felt the bloodlust rising, just as the family taught me. I was going to kill her without a thought. And then I stopped. She's alive somewhere right now. She's walking around this city because I can change. I did change. I know I can't prove it -"

"I believe you," the Hunter cut her off.

"Then you know I'm capable of better."

She shook her head. "It doesn't mean anything."

"I spared her life!" Margaret protested.

"You let one of them go, but that's nothing new," the Hunter shrugged. "Every now and then, a little victim's spared because she smiled, because he's got freckles, because they begged. And that's how you live with yourself. That's how you slaughter millions. Because once in a while, on a whim, if the wind's in the right direction, you happen to be kind."

"Only a killer would know that," Margaret accused, making the Hunter roll her eyes. "Is that right? From what I've seen, your funny little happy go lucky life leaves devastation in its wake. Always moving on because you dare not look back. Playing with so many people's lives, you might as well be a god. And you're right, Hunter. You're absolutely right. Sometimes you let one go. Let me go," she pleaded.

***

"I'm not asking you to leave her, because I know that's not fair," Mike said. "But I just need something, yeah? Some sort of promise that when you do come back, you're coming back for me."

There was a deep rumble in the distance, and Hazel looked up, frowning. "Is that thunder?"

"Does it matter?" Mike huffed, exasperated.

"That's not thunder," Hazel realised, hearing it again.

***

"In the family Slitheen, we had no choice," Margaret explained. "I was made to carry out my first kill at thirteen. If I'd refused, my father would have fed me to the Venom Grubs. If I'm a killer, it's because I was born to kill. It's all I know." She huffed impatiently as the Hunter looked around, frowning.

"Can you hear that?"

"I'm begging for my life, you could at least pretend to listen," Margaret complained.

"No, listen, shush," the Hunter muttered, pointing to her empty wine glass, which was vibrating. Suddenly the windows shattered, and the customers started screaming.

***

People outside ran cover as windows and street lights exploded. Hazel made a decision, running towards Roald Dahl Plass.

"Oh go on then, run! It's her again, isn't it? It's the Hunter! It's always the Hunter! It's always going to be the Hunter! It's never me!" Mike shouted bitterly.

Hazel turned on him. "Yeah, because she and Jack, they're more my family than you ever were. You call me when you've decided you're going to accept us." Then she turned her back on him and ran for the TARDIS.

***

Margaret wheezed as they ran across Roald Dahl Plass, tugging on the Hunter's arm. "The handcuffs!"

She rolled her eyes and took them off, depositing them in her back pocket. "Don't think you're running away."

"Oh, I'm sticking with you," Margaret assured her. "Some date this turned out to be!"

The Hunter's eyes widened when she saw the blue energy streaming up from the TARDIS into the sky. "It's the rift. The rift's opening." She ran in, Margaret close on her heels. "What's happening?" she demanded, seeing things sparking and almost exploding on the console.

"She just went crazy!" Jack called from under the grating, poking his head up from where he was working.

"It's the rift," she told him, trying to stop the explosions from the console. "Time and space are ripping apart. The whole city's going to disappear!"

"It's the extrapolator!" Jack exclaimed, climbing up to her level. "I've disconnected it, but it's still feeding off the engine. It's using the TARDIS. I can't stop it!"

"Never mind Cardiff," the Hunter bit her lip, her eyes wide. "It's going to rip open the planet!"

"What is it?" Hazel questioned as she ran in. "What's happening?"

"Oh, just little me," Margaret smirked, ripping the arm of her suit so she could grab Hazel around the neck with one of her talons. "One wrong move and she snaps like a promise."

The Hunter scowled. "I might've known."

"I've had you bleating all night, poor baby, now shut it," Margaret snapped. "You, fly boy, put the extrapolator at my feet." She tightened her grip on Hazel's neck, making the girl gasp. The Hunter nodded, her eyes on Hazel, and Jack did as ordered. "Thank you. Just as I planned."

"I thought you needed to blow up the nuclear power station," Hazel croaked.

"Failing that, if I were to be arrested, then anyone capable of tracking me down would have considerable technology of their own. Therefore, they would be captivated by the extrapolator. Especially a magpie mind like yours, Hunter," Margaret smirked. "So, the extrapolator was programmed to go to plan B, to lock onto the nearest alien power source and open the rift. And what a power source it found. I'm back on schedule, thanks to you."

"The rift's going to convulse," Jack realised. "You'll destroy the whole planet."

"And you with it!" Margaret cackled, stepping onto the extrapolator. "While I ride this board over the crest of the inferno all the way to freedom. Stand back. Surf's up."

The TARDIS console cracked open, and a bright light hit Margaret and Hazel, making the girl screw her eyes tightly shut.

"Of course, opening the rift means you'll pull this ship apart," the Hunter pointed out, leaning against one of the coral structures.

"So sue me," Margaret snapped.

"She's not just any old power source. She's the TARDIS. My TARDIS. The best ship in the universe," the Hunter said proudly.

"It'll make wonderful scrap."

"What's that light?" Hazel asked, wincing.

"The heart of the TARDIS," the Hunter replied. "This ship's alive. You've opened her soul. And she really has got a soft spot for our Hazel."

"It's so bright," Margaret whispered.

"Look at it, Margaret," the Hunter encouraged.

"Beautiful..."

"Look inside, Blon Fel Fotch. Look at the light."

Margaret relaxed, allowing Hazel to get free, rushing to Jack's side. "Thank you," Margaret smiled, then disappeared into the light, her bodysuit crumpling atop the extrapolator.

The Hunter moved immediately. "Don't look. Stay there. Close your eyes!" She closed the console up. "Now, Jack, come on, shut it all down. Shut down! Haze, that panel over there, turn all the switches to the right." The turbulence and the sparks stopped as the TARDIS settled, and she sighed in relief. "Nicely done. Thanks."

"What happened to Margaret?" Hazel wondered.

"Must've got burnt up," Jack guessed. "Carried out her own death sentence."

"No, I don't think she's dead," the Hunter shook her head.

Hazel frowned, rubbing her neck and wincing. "Then where'd she go?"

"She looked into the heart of the TARDIS. Even I don't know how strong that is. And the ship's telepathic, like I told you, Haze." The Hunter glanced over at her, flashing a smile. "Gets inside your head. Translates alien languages. Maybe the raw energy can translate all sorts of thoughts." She knelt by the skin suit and pulled out a large egg with dreadlocks. "Here she is."

"She's an egg?" Hazel frowned.

"Regressed to her childhood," the Hunter nodded.

"She's an egg?" Jack echoed.

"She can start again," the Hunter pointed out. "Live her life from scratch. If we take her home, give her to a different family, tell them to bring her up properly, she might be all right!"

"Or she might be worse," Jack suggested.

"That's her choice, Mr Pessimism."

"She's an egg," Hazel repeated.

"She's an egg," the Hunter agreed, smiling.

"Oh my God, Mike!" Hazel realised, getting to her feet and sprinting out the door.

***

The Hunter and Jack shared a look when she returned not five minutes later, looking dejected. "We're all powered up," the Hunter told her, making her look up. "We can leave. Opening the rift filled us up with energy. We can go, if that's all right."

"Yeah, fine," she nodded.

"How's Mike?" the Hunter asked carefully.

"He's okay. He's gone," Hazel muttered.

"Do you want to go and find him?" the Hunter offered. "We'll wait."

Hazel took a deep breath, then smiled, shaking her head. "No need."

"Off we go, then. Always moving on."

"Next stop, Raxacoricofallapatorius," Jack smiled, then nudged Hazel. "Now you don't often get to say that."

"We'll just stop by and pop her in the hatchery," the Hunter said, setting about flying them there. "Margaret the Slitheen can live her life again. A second chance."

Hazel smiled sadly, gripping the railings as they set off. "That'd be nice."

~~~

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