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ms-maj · 5 years

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Teenage Wasteland

With so, so, so, so many thanks to @theheavycrown. For this header, for betaing, for existing. The. Best. Also, this really got away from me so it’s a skosh on the long side.

Day five: A song that needs to be played loud- Baba O’Riley-The Who

The exodus is here

The happy ones are near

Let's get together, before we get much older

Teenage wasteland

It's only teenage wasteland

Baba O’Riley- The Who

Jughead Jones watches as the sun rises over the Sunnyside Trailer park. It’s obnoxiously loud for six am, but considering what the day is to hold, he can hardly blame its inhabitants for their excitement. The smoke from his cigarette rises above his head and sticks, haloing him in the early morning haze. It looks like it’s going to be another miserably humid day, the lack of clouds in the morning sky seems to be an unfortunate indication that the heat is going to be unbearable as well. He sighs heavily, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the deck before flicking it into the empty coffee can. Pulling his knees to his chest, he folds his arms around his legs and watches the hubbub of activity flit through the park.

Today is “The Roll”, Riverdale’s newly minted bike rally; the town council and mayor’s attempt at unifying the North and South Sides. Supposedly people were coming from all over to ride in today’s opening parade, some thousand bikes he thought he’d overheard. He knew, without a doubt, that the majority of Riverdale proper was, at the very least displeased by the joint venture. However, the prominence of biker culture in the Southside made even the toughest of Serpents giddy at the thought of rolling though Riverdale Square, invited, and embraced by like-minded people. Jughead had heard his father, FP, and his pseudo-uncles Mack and Terry practically squealing when they announced that the “Roll on Riverdale” was a go this year, and now they were all out, polishing their bikes in preparation for the parade.

There’s a part of Jughead that’s excited too. His bike is finally operational. The years of blood, sweat and copious amounts of hard-earned cash saw his grandfather’s 1950 Vincent Black Lightning roar to life. He’s man enough, in the confines of his own mind, to admit that he may have cried when he’d put the final cap on his fully restored beauty and the engine purred to life under his touch. He’s damn proud of his bike, and he is damn proud to ride her today. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he hears laughter bubble up across the park, men hooting and hollering as their wives bring out trays of breakfast foods. Jughead likens it to a pre-war feast. The majority of the Serpents, and their of age children, will be riding in the parade—right into the very heart of the community that condemns them.

Before he gets too lost in the social mores that threaten to loop around his head, the front door swings open to reveal his sister, JB, already dressed for the ride.

“Juuuuggg, come on! We’ve only got four hours before this thing starts!”

“Only four?” His head shakes as he laughs, patting the space next to him for her to come and sit. “Have you ever seen it like this, Jelly?”

Her eyes narrow at him and he can’t help the smirk that forms. “Nope. Well, it’s kind of like Christmas, minus the cold.”

“It’s better than Christmas,” Jughead mumbles under his breath. He knows the circumstances that most of the families endure to give their children any semblance of Christmas, and this, well it carries none of that weight or shame. This is jubilation. Riverdale is finally putting itself in a position to see all that comes out of the Southside; even if they only ever still see it as bad, Jughead hopes that maybe if all things go really well than their communities can actually come together. Rather than just seeing blight and criminals, maybe the North can recognize the humanity that lies on the other side of the tracks.

“I’m going to record it all! Ms. Hammill gave me her GoPro; I’m gonna tape it to my helmet so I can film everything as we’re riding.”

“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to listen to me and wear a helmet?”

“You told me I had to or I couldn’t ride with you!”

He chuckles. “That is absolutely right, Jellybean. You’re not going anywhere near a bike, ever, without a helmet. Capiche?”

“Yeah, sure, until I’m seventeen and way too cool like you. I don’t see why dad’s not on your ass about it.”

“I always wear my helmet, kid. Except for today. Considering we can’t go over twenty on the route,” he picks his head up and looks in the direction of the now fully risen sun. “Besides, it’s going to be nine-hundred degrees today. My leather jacket plus that ridiculous helmet Uncle Mack gave me is a recipe for heatstroke, which I would much rather not suffer at all, thanks. So, helmetless, at the advice of our father and other seasoned riders, but only for today.” He wags his finger in her face emphatically.

Jughead watches his sister roll her eyes before playfully punching him in the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get some food from Aunt Bea, you want?”

Before the sarcastic response can form on his tongue she’s up, muttering, “Of course you want food, what a silly question, JB…” before dashing off across the yards.

He sighs again. The humidity is definitely growing, and while it hangs heavy it doesn’t necessarily feel oppressive. And for some reason, that’s as strange an omen as Jughead Jones can imagine. He stands from the deck, cracks his neck, and walks back through the door.

Something will definitely change in Riverdale today. If you would have asked Jughead at that moment, or any of the ones that preceded it, if he thought he’d come out of today the most changed he’d have laughed in your face. The fates, however, seem to have something else in store for him.

(Finish under the cut or check it out on AO3)

Jughead is unnerved. Something about the too-bright sun juxtaposed on a cloudless, cerulean sky. Or that the breeze always seems to come exactly when he is feeling just a tad uncomfortable. There are no perfect days, not on the Southside, not anywhere. And yet this day seems picturesque. He asked his dad to take Jellybean to the parade route, told him he’d meet them there and rode off astride his Lightning toward the open road.

Only the road isn’t open. Bikes litter every establishment's parking lot and clog the streets, forcing Jughead out toward the lesser-traveled backroads that his Vincent doesn’t always handle well on.

But there are no nerves. Just the power of the bike and the confidence in his ministrations, and his path stays true. He shakes his head quickly, trying to disseminate what exactly is making him feel so…

In reality, he knows exactly what’s eating away at him. Instead of letting it occupy his mind he puts his foot on the gas, letting the wind whip through his hair, beanie tucked securely in his breast pocket. The roads amble further and further from the Southside, trees coming to line the roadside rather than telephone poles and streetlights. As he makes his way toward Sweetwater River, the grayscale of the dour life he’s lived is traded for the verdant, lush green that he has never really appreciated before now.

The nearer he gets to the rally point the more his anxiety rises. It’s all just too strange, too surreal, with the streets outside of the ever-peppy and pristine Riverdale convoluted with motorcycles of all makes and models. Still, he manages to spot FP and Gladys right away. A large huff of air heaves past his lips as he sidles up next to his father. There’s still an hour or so before the parade should technically start, for which he’s extremely grateful, as he wrestles to get his mind under control. He watches Jellybean running around trying to get as much of it on film before they start; he envies her enthusiasm.

Riverdale has never cared for them, for him. They never worried about the schools’ funding on the Southside, or whether the roads warranted repair (which they all did), or if selling the drive-in to the highest bidder would be the nail in the coffin. And clearly it wasn’t to his neighbors, but to Jughead Jones it was everything. They’d severed the last tie to his childhood, stolen from him the very notion of hope and with that, he’d written them out of his narrative.

Yet, here he sits. His father and mother to his left, Mack and Terry behind them, Serpent emblems littering the stretch. Jughead straddles his bike somewhere in the middle of the pack, hundreds of bikes stretched out before and behind him. Though he feels like they’ve been there for hours already, the bikes kept ambling in, filling the road that runs parallel to the river. The parade is meant to follow Sweetwater’s meandering path before veering off onto the bunting-lined streets that lead into the very heart of Riverdale.

“You nervous, kid?” His father’s voice carries over the bikes as Jughead sweeps his eyes back from the vista before him.

“Should I be? It’s not like I’ve never ridden before.”

FP huffs a laugh and shakes his head slowly. “It’s just a big step for us.”

“What? Rolling into Riverdale?” Jughead scoffs.

His father’s lip turns up slightly, settling into a softer smile than Jughead expects. “I know it’s not that big a deal to you, but to us old-timers…being invited—hell, celebrated, by this town—well, it’s a day I never thought I’d see.” Jughead nods. He knows the divide between the two halves of the town threatens to swallow them whole. And not just in some off-hand ‘grand-scheme-of-things’ way, but in the very literal his family was on a precipice kind of way, and he can’t help the resentment that toils inside him.

His father has been home less and less. Jobs varying in nature and pay-scale take priority over actually spending time with his family. Legitimate work on the Southside is almost non-existent, most of the gainful employment going to the younger generations in a never-ending battle against the wheel that pins them down.

On the Southside, and in Riverdale alike, you are a pawn. Be it above-board or not, your employ depends on one of two men and whatever stratagem they decide to launch against the other that week. The Northsiders don’t see it like that, of course. It’s business. Jughead grew up knowing that on the Southside they’ve always been seen as less…less clean; less important; less human. He’s managed to avoid Riverdale proper, lest he get sucked into its idealized Americana suburban bullshit, and tries to thrive in its periphery. The Serpent logo emblazoned on his back was a not-so-subtle constant reminder of where he’s supposed to belong, the other was the 998cc V-twin engine between his thighs.

His bike, the physical embodiment of his work, has garnered more attention than he was ready for. Jughead’s enough of an enthusiast to understand there’d be interest in his bike, but he’s fended off more than a few ludicrous offers and the rally hasn’t even officially started. There were few bikes as old as his, but none that could compare to the detail he’d refurbished his with.

Aside from his name, which he is loathe to admit, it’s the only tangible bit of the legacy left to him by his grandfather. Forsythe the First was one of the founding members of a Motorcycle Club that ended up being absorbed by the Serpents. It’s one of the reasons he’s always felt so obligated to stay with them, even if he’s always had so much more that he wants to do with his life.

“Jug! Jug!” His eyes flick to his breathless sister who is climbing onto the back of his bike before he can register the garbled words coming from her mouth. But with the revving of engines and plumes of exhaust kicking up in front of him, he knows. It’s time.

FP waggles his brows excitedly as he takes off, Gladys whooping behind him as her bike roars to life. Jellybean giggles in his ear, her grip tightening on his waist as they begin their ride toward town.

The streets are lined with adulating townsfolk, waving their flags and cheering as the bikes descend on them. Families, Jughead notes, are out in droves, all smiles and welcome posturing. He fights the urge to roll his eyes on more than one occasion at the suburbanites’ inability to cope with the noise of the parade. He can’t help if his engine revs when he recognizes the discomforted looks of the parade-goers. His father, still at his side, gives him a hard look when he catches on, but Jughead notices the twinkle in his eye and the way his mouth curls into a smirk. Jughead can feel his doing the same as they get closer to Riverdale.

“Uh oh,” he hears Jelly huff as he slows down. The parade bottlenecks just short of Picken’s Park.

They’re so close. Ride through the square, exalt, and go home. Jughead’s feet hit the ground as they come to a stop, his head lolling back for a second before he finds focus.

On his left he sees a flash, something glinting in the sun catches his eye. A golden halo hidden behind the long lens of an older model Canon. The camera dips, revealing the most luminescent eyes he’s ever seen. He can feel his breath hitch.

When their eyes meet he feels it at his very core. She looks ethereal, backlit by the mid-day sun, breeze blowing the ends of her ponytail away from her lithe frame as the camera held between her slender fingers moves further down her form. His jaw drops as he watches her lower lip slide between her teeth.

“Jug, let’s go!” He snaps forward as Jellybean hits his shoulder, urging him back into the crowd. Shaken from his reverie, he dares another glance back toward the blonde beauty but he’s lost her in the crowd. Huffing disappointedly, he lets go of the throttle and catches up with his dad and neighbors, a true smile forms on his face for the first time that day.

Suddenly, Jughead feels far more interested to see what else Riverdale has in store for him.

---------------------------

The sun roasts Pickens Park, just as Jughead predicted it would, but it surprises him that he doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. That doesn’t mean it’s in every way good, but, as he moseys through the vendor tents, filling himself with various fried delights, he can’t help but be on the lookout for that flash of blonde hair again. He thinks maybe he’d seen the same golden hue by one of the tents but when he got closer, it was gone, swallowed into an unlikely sea of seersucker and leather.

The crowd is denser than he expected. H hadn’t anticipated the Northsiders being interested in wandering too far into the depths of the bike fest; again, he’s proven wrong. The throngs of onlookers that lined the parade route have made their way to Picken’s Park. Crisply dressed families holding perfectly manicured hands descend from suburbia as Southsiders flow in with the rank and file to the center of Riverdale.

On top of everything else, everyone seems to be getting along. It’s pleasantly surprising.

After parking his bike with the other Serpents, he backs out of watching the stunt bikes with Joaquin and Sweet Pea, opting to chase Jellybean around as she continues to capture the day’s events for posterity. His father had been talking to an older gentleman when he walked away, something about restorations, though it could have very well been restitution.

Today, he doesn’t have the heart for it. He watches Jellybean weave through the crowd, running straight for her friends, effectively forgetting he is even there.

Sighing, Jughead takes the slightly crushed pack of Marlboro’s from his breast pocket, along with his beanie, holding them for a long moment before stuffing a cigarette in his mouth and the beanie on his head before skulking off. He catches sight of few more junior serpents, but manages to stay in their periphery and melt back into the masses.

It’s not that he doesn’t like them. They’ve all grown up together and were currently in high school, but that’s pretty much where the similarities ended. While the Northside kids were presumably spoon-fed limitless ambition and encouragement from infancy, Southside kids didn’t always fare so well. It wasn’t that parents on the Southside loved their kids less, or had less grandiose aspirations for them, it’s just that sometimes things like food and heat outweighed singing lessons or money for the book fair.

And that’s where the Serpents came in. Short on rent? Give us a hand with this thing and we’ll help you out, stay if you’re afraid it’ll happen again. They all stayed; they never left. Then the cycle would start all over. Their kids need jobs to help the family get by or ward off disciplinary action from some business owner that the bored, latch-key kids may, or may not have egged.

By fourteen, most Southside kids were employed by legitimate Serpent owned businesses before they decided whether or not they wanted to transition into the gang as a fully-fledged member.

That’s the limbo Jughead Jones finds himself in. At seventeen, he’s already been too long a man. He wants the camaraderie of the Serpents, the brotherhood of men who uplift one another and hold themselves to a higher standard, not the backsliding, hoodlumesque gang-banging he saw so prevalent at school the previous year. His entire existence hinged on this dichotomy: a quasi-normal home life, much more stable and happy than he’d had for most of his formative years and the knowledge that when his father wasn’t home, he was actually leading a gang through their less than savory endeavors.

Eighteen means making a decision. Does he stay with the gang? The one who afforded him the opportunity, the skills, the means to repair his bike. The gang who insured food was on the table when their dad was in the skids. The gang who still made sure his dad didn’t fall off the wagon, or if he did, picked him up and set him back on his feet.

Or does he follow HIS dreams? Go to college, or hell, just get out of Riverdale. (Preferably without attachment to a regiment.) He’s never wanted to stay. He dreams of winding coastlines and leatherbound journals; of leaves on trees he’s never seen in person and stars in skies that look like his but are worlds away.

He’s felt this weight (guilt, shame, fear, hope) building for longer now than he’d like to admit. He’s never had any intention of staying, no plan to fall deeper into a pit he can’t get out of.

Jughead doesn’t realize that he’s walked the entirety of Picken’s Park already until he’s faced, again, with those he’d been trying to avoid.

“Jones!” As much as he’d rather turn back into the crowd, he’s been spotted. With a grimace, he makes his way over to where they, who were once his friends, are sitting.

“Toni. Fangs. Harbingers of Doom,” he greets dourly. Fangs rolls his eyes as Toni’s narrow on him, their lackeys looking ready to say something more before he holds up a halting hand.

“Jugs,” comes Toni’s clipped voice. “Wasn’t sure you’d be riding with the pack today, considering you don’t actually want to be one of us.”

Jughead stretches his neck slowly before he speaks, rubbing a wary hand across the back. “No, Toni, I don’t want to be one of you.”

“C’mon, Jug,” Fangs tries. He would give him that, Fangs always tried. “We all used to be so close, but with Joaquin going to school in Ohio in a few weeks, and you and Pea deciding you’re too good for us…”

“No. Pea decided, for himself, that he wasn’t cut out for this life. I am, as of yet, undecided.”

Scoffing, Toni flings long pink hair over her shoulder before fixing an appraising eye on Jughead. “Undecided? My ass you’re undecided, Jonesy. You made your choice loud and clear last year when you decided to skip the after prom festivities…”

“Is that what this is about?” Jughead nearly chokes on his laugh. “Sorry Tones, you just don’t do it for me, and I know I lack certain anatomical features to do it for you. So, sorry not sorry if I ruined whatever ‘well-laid’ plans you two had in the works.”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself, Jones. We only wanted you to ride with us for your clout; we more than make up for our size and age with our ability to get shit done.”

Toni and Fangs smile at their new protege, Trula, while Jughead is the one whose eyes roll this time. “Oh. Okay. That’s why you’re still blowing me up after I turned you down, more than once. You too, Tone, it’s kind of sad,” he throws a smirk their way and turns back towards the still gathering crowd. Pausing, before they have a second to gather their wits, he twists back with a slick smile on his face. “And for the record, no one thinks you ‘get shit done’, you’re just effective fodder that keeps coming back for more. Enjoy your day kids, who knows: the next time you’re thrown to the wolves may be your last. Only cats have nine lives, not snakes.”

It’s not like walking away from friends he’s had since diapers is his idea of a good time. He just knows his commitment to the Serpents will never run as deep as that of the small group who are undoubtedly boring holes into the back of his jacket. Which, he starts to realize, may not be as hard to give up than he once thought.

It’s strange. Only a few hours have passed since he warily started this trek into Riverdale, no expectations for the day aside from possible heat stroke and a stomach ache. Instead, he’s had too much time to think in between the stark juxtaposition of doctors and their wives wearing brand-new, bedazzled Harley Davidson gear and the worn leathers of the Southside riders.

But no one is fighting. There’s laughter that rings over the peals of the bikes; a Skid Row cover band is playing in the gazebo and the entire crowd, from true-blue biker to the toddling twins dancing in the back, is into it. It’s not Northside versus Southside; it’s not rich versus poor; it’s simply people with shared interests having a good time.

If he really thinks about it, that’s all he wants. He doesn’t want Damocles’ sword hanging above his head with words like “birthright” and “king”; he wants to make his own name for himself instead of being a literal continuation of his father. He wants a chance to enjoy things in life without conditions.

Fuck it, he mutters to no one and with intent, sets off to find the owner of the elusive, blonde ponytail.

-------------------------------------

It is much too hot. After walking around for close to four hours, Jughead decides that today might not be his day after all. He’s seen exactly one blonde ponytail, and it was not attached to the same girl he’d seen on the ride in.

Defeated, he pulls the beanie from his head and runs long fingers through his dark chestnut hair, breaking up the curls that cling to his sweaty brow.

There’s always tomorrow, he thinks morosely. He’d said one day. He’d come for one day, and now, because he and some girl shared a moment—through the lens of her camera no less—he was planning on returning in the morning.

A fresh Marlboro between his fingers and beanie placed firmly back on his head, he turns toward his bike and home.

“Hey!” He hears a voice shouting. “Yo! Dude!”

Jughead turns and finds himself face to face with a redhead in a Bulldogs varsity jacket.

“Can I help you?” Jughead asks, his voiced colored with a hint of annoyance as he slowly takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Maybe,” the jock replies looking him up and down. “Can you tell me who rides a...uh…” he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, “...a 1950 Victor that looks like it’s been restored by God’s own hand?”

Jughead tries, and fails, to bite back a smirk. “I could.”

“Listen man, I’m asking for a friend. They’re writing an article about the best bikes and I got tasked with finding this one. Can you help me or not?”

“Your friend wants to write an article about my bike?” Jughead can’t help the incredulity that seeps into his question.

“Your bike?! Sweet! Listen...” the ginger pulls his phone out. “Shit, it’s too late now. Can you stop back in the morning, around nine? Pop’s Mobile Shake Shack. Tell ‘em Archie sent you,” the redhead was already calling back over his shoulder as he ran through the crowd.

Weird.

Weirder still...he plans on being there. If nothing else, well, how can anyone argue with breakfast milkshakes?

---------------------------

It’s five minutes after nine. The sun, though not yet sweltering, still feels hot for it being this early. He’s surprised by how many people are already up and roaming the grounds, enjoying the out of town food trucks as he is.

He’s currently in the middle of a delightful cajun style breakfast burrito complemented by one of Pop’s coffee milkshakes. Jughead’s always been the type to eat his feelings (and his metabolism seems to allow him to do so, so why kick a gift horse in the mouth. Do what you love and all that) and that’s pretty much all he’s done since meeting the red-haired boy. One text was enough to bring that slight high he was feeling right back down to impending doom. Apparently, his run-in with Toni and Fangs had made it back to the senior members. And they were not happy.

According to them, Jughead’s hemming and hawing hadn’t gone unnoticed by the upper echelon, but—as FPs son—he was given a wider berth in regards to how he handled this decision. When you’re the Serpent heir, it’s expected that you’ll not only join but assert yourself leader ipso facto. The idea that he was even considering walking away entirely rubbed a lot of them the wrong way.

“Birthrights are birthrights for a reason, boy. You were made for this; only this,” is what one pseudo uncle told him only an hour ago. A man who has known him the entirety of his life. A lifer himself with no higher aspirations, no desires greater than that of the gang. He thinks that all Jughead is good for in life is leading the pursuits of these people, this gang he still hasn’t truly taken an active role in. He’s an enforcer, a menacing intimidation, on occasion he’s procured a package or two. Having had the luxury of time after the encounter with his father he realized his largest foray into the illegal was working with car parts of questionable origin. But. He didn’t actually think of that whilst being berated and belittled.

While it was increasingly on his mind, he plans on walking that ever-shortening tightrope for as long as he possibly can. It isn’t that he hates the prospect of staying in the Serpents, he could be a lifer too if he thought anything would ever change. But the fact that the gang life, and life on the Southside, in general, seems to stagnate after eighteen, well, that’s just not him.

Jughead has always seen himself as capable of something more, at least he wants to be. He doesn’t want his future self, or his future spouse, to have to tell their children—with a fake, painted smile— that there aren’t going to be any birthday parties this year, or that they have to be out of their home in thirty days.

Groaning to himself, Jughead indulges in another deep drag of his milkshake. The coffee is deep and rich on his tongue before his brain registers the cold. The shake hits the ground as his hands came up to massage his temples, a fool's attempt at alleviating his brain freeze.

“Hey Pop,” he hears, eyes pinched tight as the last of the pain subsides. “Did Archie happen to send anyone by?”

Jughead’s eyes shoot up, trying to focus on the figure moving toward him. She’s jogging, mere feet away, awash in the golden glow of morning, unmistakable honey-hued ponytail bouncing behind her. He takes in her features, clearly, for the first time. She’s in cut-off overalls that seem to be tailored just for her, coupled with what—gods help him—looks like a crop top, but the bandana tied off in the front draws his gaze to her face. Her eyes remind him of the Earth, blues and greens and golds melting together as if an endlessly deep pool; he could drown in them and die happily. “It’s you,” his voice is a hoarse whisper he barely recognizes as his own.

She stops, releasing her lower lip from between her teeth, a soft smile blooming on her face instead. “I can’t believe Archie found you! I’m Betty.” Her hand extends forward and hovers in the air before him for just a second before he catches it with his.

“Jughead Jones,” he knows he’s grinning idiotically but he can’t find it in himself to care. He instantly misses the warmth of her hand as it falls from his grasp. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

Betty’s head shakes, nose crinkling as she questions, “What’s me?”

“The writer. Right? That Archie guy said something about an article…”

She nods as a soundless laugh pushes past her lips. “Yes—the article—that’s why I wanted to find you!” Her head falls to the side, ponytail brushing across the strap of her overalls, “That’s a pretty spectacular bike you’ve got there, Jughead.”

He really likes hearing his name come out of her mouth. “I do recall hearing something to the effect of ‘restored by God's own hand’. I liked that.”

Betty groans. “He actually said those words?”

“Actually pulled out a piece of paper and read it. That’s some dedication to the cause. He your boyfriend?” Jughead bends down to pick up the milkshake he’s knocked over and tosses it in the garbage before striding toward her with as much casual affectation as he can muster.

“Oh, no. Archie’s...he’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend...who’s a boy, but not, like...”

Jughead cannot, nor does he really want to, fight the smile that takes over his face. “Good to know.”

He isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light that causes her skin to deepen to that shade of pink, or if it was his words, but he makes it his mission to see if he can get her skin that shade without the aid of natural sunlight.

“So…” Betty effectively interrupts his thoughts from slipping into the lascivious, causing his cheeks to burn in the slightest. “I know this is presumptuous, but I was really hoping I’d be able to interview you for the Riverdale Register. I’d really like to get some stationary shots of your bike as well as ask you a few hundred questions.”

“That is beyond presumptuous,” he jokingly intones. There’s a sharp inhale as his abused, maroon Doc Martens stop just shy of her powder blue Keds. Jughead cocks his head as he pretends to mull over whether or not he’ll be a part of her story. Of course he will. But watching her nervously chew her bottom lip and clasp her hands in front of her in a silent plea to win him over, well, he thinks he could get used to being at the mercy of that particular gaze.

“Pleaaase?” She all but squeaks out and he’s absolute putty.

He shifts closer, his boot lightly scuffing against the toe of her pristine sneakers.

“Fine, but don’t think for a second I’m doing this for free. Tit for tat, Betty,” his voice drawls in a husky timbre. He knows it’s risky, going this hard this early but he’s utterly bewitched. She, the physical embodiment of all his fantasies, is literally standing before him. As much as he knows he’ll do anything she asks of him, she doesn’t just yet. But by the way her eyes darken as she appraises him, he’s not too worried about how long that will take to find out. “I'm going to need another one of those milkshakes.”

“Is that all? You want a milkshake?” she coos demurely.

Jughead nudges her shoe again. “I didn’t say that was all I wanted. There are funnel cakes and corn dogs and candy apples; to quote Templeton: it is a veritable smorgasbord.”

Her laughter, and proximity, sends a shiver up his spine. “I’m kind of disappointed you didn’t sing that. You have earned yourself brownie points for casually throwing some ‘Charlotte’s Web’ into the conversation though.”

He pulls a hand up to his chin and crosses the other over his chest as if considering, “I suppose brownies are acceptable, too.” The way her laughter seems to float around him, blocking the noise of the growing crowd and shrouding him in warmth, is the very last thing he expected when he begrudgingly attended the Roll on Riverdale.

In his mind, the sweltering days of summer play out before him: she’s laughing at his corny jokes and pressing up against him as they ride his bike right out of Riverdale. This is very decidedly not him. He doesn’t crush. He’s not what you would call a ladies man by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s definitely not into fuck around games, but he’s been around a time or two. And it’s never been like this. Nothing has. This instantaneous draw; the inability to turn away coupled with a desperate desire to know how she tastes.

“But maybe,” he pauses, taking everything in, how she smells (impossibly soft in the midst of hundreds of bikes), the way her tongue darts out to wet already glossed lips. “Maybe I’d like to get to know the girl who knew the make and model of my bike after seeing it for all of a minute. Especially since she wasn’t really even looking at it.”

“Oh,” she all but breathes out. This time the color that tints Betty’s cheeks was undoubtedly his doing. Obviously flustered, she swallows, tightens her ponytail, and tries again. “If you have time today, we can get this out of the way and you can get back to…”

“I’m all yours, Betty.”

----------------------------

“So, what’s this article for?”

She picks at the soft pretzel she’s been holding for the duration of their walk, bringing the small bite to her mouth before carefully saying. “The Register.”

“The what now?” Jughead stops, adjusts the beanie on his head and runs an exaggerated hand down his face. “Look, Betty…Cooper! Fuck! You’re a Cooper!? How did I miss that?” (it might have had something to do with the fact that she had a crop top on under her overalls and his neanderthal brain latched onto that for a second longer than was healthy), “...maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

She looks almost crestfallen before her eyes drop. “I didn’t say I was a Cooper. For this very reason. I know what my parents are like, and what they write, but I’m not! I’d be writing this for the Blue and Gold if school were in session. I’ll probably re-run it in that if it’s any consolation. The Register isn’t the ideal choice for me either, but it’s a hell of a lot more exposure than the highschool newspaper.”

He knows what that’s like. Trying to reach an ever-shrinking audience through a nearly dead medium, even if the Southside High’s Red and Black did have a pretty good online presence. Thanks to Fangs. It’s the first time he’s thought of the paper this summer, too preoccupied with his ending adolescence and what he always assumed would be his imminent interment with the Serpents. Now both of those things are up in the air. He’s no closer to knowing what he wants to do than yesterday. And somehow, the daughter of the two people who seem to revile the Southside most is standing in front of him with a level of enthusiasm he reserves for only the most ostentatious buffets. She sought him out, knowing what the symbol on his back meant, and thought that his bike was worth it.

“If you don’t want to do the interview, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But I did buy you another milkshake, and I think that entitles me to at least a few more pictures of the Black Lightning.”

His head snaps back up. There’s this pull to her he’s not sure he can, or wants to, fight. Familial allegiance be damned. For the first time in his life, Jughead’s putting himself before the pack and going after exactly what he wants. She’s smart, gorgeous, funny in a way that seems effortless and natural, and just happens to come wrapped up prettily in a blue bandana. “Color me perpetually impressed, Cooper. Alright, let’s go get your pictures. But we’re not staying here for the interview, I’ve had more than enough forced human interaction for one day.”

“I thought you wanted to eat your way through the interview?” He can tell she’s fighting a smile when she stops to throw what’s left of the massacred pretzel in the trash. She looks back a him, painfully pastel and almost shy, but she’s leaning toward him with the most wicked glint in her eyes and he’s done.

“Oh, that hasn’t changed. Just the venue...and maybe the menu.” He winks as he steps away, setting off again for his bike. He hears her exhale sharply before jogging to catch up to him.

They talk shop for the rest of the walk. In the short time he’s known her, he’s become sure of two things: first, she knows what she’s talking about. Her knowledge of combustion engines in damn near encyclopedic, be it classic bikes or classic cars, she’s a greasemonkey through and through. That in itself would have been enough to catch his attention. But the second, and most obvious thing is that she is arguably the prettiest human he’s ever laid eyes on.

Jughead isn’t sure what’s gotten into him. Watching her photograph his bike becomes a silent meditation on masochism, it’s the most exquisite torture he could have ever hoped to experience. She’s thorough, dangerously so, taking pictures from every angle to ensure that all of his meticulous detail is properly represented.

That’s what she says anyway. He’s sure it has something to do with him meeting an early end. Each photo ensures another inch of skin exposed, the bottoms of her overalls having ridden up so much that the peachy flesh taunts and teases him with just how delectable it looks. He wonders how one person can be so unassumingly sexy and adorable at once.

It’s just then that she chooses to look at him, left arm reaching across his bike for the handlebar. Slowly, as if her goal in life is to make him combust, she straddles the machine and rocks herself into a seemingly more comfortable position.

The sun is fully behind her, bursting and glowing as the camera sits at her ample chest which his eyes can’t seem to look away from. She is, beyond words. Beckoning him with a single finger he—a complete lost cause— moves with purposeful strides to stand before her. He leans in close covering the hand closest to him with his own. They both watch as their fingers twine together around the grip, the feel of her skin beneath his own is electric. “Can I take you somewhere?” his voice sounds deeper to his own ears. He’s nervous, but how can one not be when their veritable dream girl has literally got 182 horsepower between her thighs.

She smiles, the tops of her lips straining toward her ears, and he thinks he could live off the buoyancy that look evokes for the rest of his days. “Anywhere.”

-------------------------

The ride to the quarry wasn’t nearly long enough. He couldn’t get enough of the way Betty had wrapped her arms around his body, teasing fingers over his stomach and clinging tightly to his chest. Or maybe it was too long. Either way, his fingers itch to touch her as he slows the bike to a stop. She dismounts before he gets the chance, taking a few steps out of his reach to look at their surroundings. He leans against the bike watching her take it all in. It’s usually quiet, but especially so in mid-morning, when the only sounds that break through the forest canopy are the ones that come from within: bird calls, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, and, somewhere off in the distance, the river rapids crashing on the bluffs below their feet.

But all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears.

Betty looks as caught up in the magic of the quarry as he feels. The smile on her face is soft and delicate as she weaves through the trees and makes her way to the cliff’s edge. Slowly, she turns back to face him, that damn bottom lip worrying between her teeth.

He pushes off the bike and strides toward her. The sun's rays look like spotlights as they filter through the treetops, illuminating his path to her. (As if after seeing her he’ll ever be able to walk any other way than but to her.)

“I gotta give it to you, Jones, this is one hell of a view. Certainly sets a tone. Of course, if you brought me here to try and scare me into convincing my parents to stop trashing the Serpents you should know that one, they don’t listen to me. They don’t listen to anyone for that matter, but least of all me. And two,” she steps into his space, gingerly fingering the leather lapels of his jacket. “I don’t scare easy.”

He suppresses the urge to growl; it feels stuck in his throat when he speaks anyway. “Good to know.”

Her eyes are shining, the kind of luminous he could easily get lost in. Just an inch or two more, hell a stiff breeze would force their lips together and he’s sure when that happens, life as he knows it will end. Jughead wants nothing more than to kiss her. To feel her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her back to his bike, to lay her out on the modified seat and hear that pretty voice scream out his name

Instead, he steps back, letting her hands fall away from where they still toyed with the zipper of his jacket. “Betty,” she looks confused as her eyes find his. “You’re the one who wanted to interview me. If that was a euphemism, I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of boy.”

“Oh no, Jughead. I do want to interview you. I’d really like to take your...get your take on party politics and how they only ever seem to hurt the disenfranchised, rather than help them.” She bats long lashes at him, stepping around where he’s rooted to the spot and heads back into the woods.

He finds her under a large oak tree, resting her back against the trunk as she produces a small moleskin notebook and pen he has no idea where she could have had on her. She motions for him to sit, so he does, finding a tree of his own to get comfortable against.

“Tell me about your bike, Jughead.”

----------------------------

They talk for hours, neither really noticing the time passing them by because they’re so caught up in one another. He tells her all about the Vincent, how it came to be his, how much of him he’s put into it, and exactly what that’s cost him.

He doesn’t mince his words or hide the gory details, with Betty, all the thoughts and fears that have been plaguing his mind fall from his lips without hesitation or restraint. How yesterday morning he was sure that riding his motorcycle through Riverdale wouldn’t change a thing, that at the end of the day he would still have to go back home and wonder how long his dad would be gone this time, or his mom; if he’d be parenting Jellybean while trying to juggle school and the garage and whatever misdemeanors the Serpents enlist him for that week.

She listens intently, jotting notes about his bike, his life, things he’s never said out loud to anyone. When she asks what he wants out of his life, he knows right then and there that no matter what path he chooses, he wants her. She doesn’t look through him so much as see him. Not the Serpent heir apparent, not some delinquent from the Southside, but the real and true Jughead Jones. The one that hides beneath the layers of flannel and self-deprecating sarcasm. The one that desperately needed to be seen before he was lost to the relentless tide of MC life.

“You seem academically inclined enough,” she muses after discussing college. “Why don’t you go for the scholarship?”

“That’s pretty vague there: the scholarship. Of course, I’ll go for it,” he sits straighter, pulling his legs up and crossing his them at the ankles, arms slung loosely around akimbo knees. “I’m sure scholarship opportunities are available left and right on the Northside, but not in my world. If you can’t find it on your own, well, you’re fucked. Southside High isn’t known for its excellent staffing.”

Now she looks exceptionally confused. Making her way before him she crouches down so they’re back on the same level. “You know the Roll is a charity event right?”

He nods. “And?”

“Wow, you really wanted nothing to do with the Roll, did you?” Her laugh is mirthless as her hand moves to his knee. “I’m not surprised really. It wasn’t officially announced until the last minute and no one ever seems to pay attention to the small details.”

Jughead clears his throat. “Is this diatribe leading to something or…”

“Jug, the proceeds from the Roll are being set up as a scholarship fund. Some deserving Southside High senior stands to receive state school tuition for at least a few years. But even just talking to you this short time I can tell that no matter what you do, you’ll make it. I know Riverdale seems like sunshine and rainbows north of the tracks, but it’s not. No matter what side you’re on, it’s a teenage wasteland.”

He wonders if she knows that he sees her too.

His hands fall from his knees, one making its way to push a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. He just wants to—needs to—touch her. She doesn’t seem to mind, she leans in as his thumb swipes over her cheekbone. They’re so close, her hands moving from his knee to his chest as she fists the leather gathered between them, breath hot on his neck. He slips his other hand around her waist, large palm splayed against the small of her back as his other moves down her body.

Betty’s pupils are near black as he pulls her into his lap, her legs wrapped around him feels better than he imagined they would. When their lips meet for the first time, it’s in a move so gradual, so instinctual, that it feels inevitable. Tentative and soft, he tries to pour every ounce of gratitude and appreciation into her. He thinks briefly about how everyone says that fireworks are the hallmark of a good kiss, but Jughead could not agree less. This isn’t fireworks; this is something that starts so much deeper. There’s definitely fire, but it rises slowly through his body like damp wood catching. He feels warmth building in parts of himself that have laid cold and dormant for so long, it’s glowing ember versus fully-fledged flame. Heat courses through him, molten like lava, as she slides her tongue past his lips. He groans, pulling her even closer, fingers sliding through her ponytail and pulling at the ends. The moan that escapes her brings him back to the present.

He pulls away abruptly. “Do you really think I can do it? Get the scholarship?” She’s dazed, kissed breathless and by the twinge of her brow, confused.

“That’s what you’re thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

He smiles, truly hopeful for the first time in longer than he can remember. “Baby, this is just one of many, many moments I plan on having with you.”

#Bughead #bughead fanfiction #songfic writing challenge 2019

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huntertales · 5 years

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Part Two: I Just Want To Be Good. (The Great Escapist S08E21)

Episode Summary: When Sam, Dean and the reader receive a distressing video message from Kevin Tran, they set about trying to uncover the third trial. The boys and the reader make a discovery that sends them to a casino in Colorado, to find a mysterious recluse who may be able to fill in the holes in Kevin’s research. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 4,949.

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

The path to finding someone who could translate a demon tablet you didn’t even have was growing colder with each passing day. Kevin was the only one who knew where it was, and somehow he ended up dead. All the prophets who were in line after him were still going on with their daily lives. You were at a near dead end, but you had one more shot at figuring out what the final trial was before you threw in the towel for good. It was an ambitious move, and probably even a little bit stupid, to track down this Metatron guy. He was the messenger of God who came in contact with this Native American tribe centuries back. It was a long shot, but you didn’t have many left. You were hoping the Two Rivers hotel might have some answers to your questions.

You followed behind the boys when all of you headed into the casino and hotel, your eyes wandering over the many machines with their flashing lights and noises, enticing anyone who dare take a chance at gambling away their money. For a place like this you were guessing to see old folks gambling away their retirement fund. Maybe even a few people enjoying themselves with a weekend away. But the place was like a ghost town, not even an employee was around to greet the three of you. Dean hit the bell placed conveniently on the counter, hoping it might draw some attention. Sam waited beside his brother, casually glancing around to see if there was any other guests besides the three of you.

"Morning. Hi. Uh, we'd like a room?" Dean gave whom he presumed was the hotel manager a smile when he saw him emerge from the back office to see who was ringing the bell. The offer for business didn’t seem to make the manager move, he just kept staring at Dean, causing the older Winchester to be more specific. "Here, please."

You found yourself drifting away when you became curious about seeing the rest of the hotel, wondering what else there might be to do here besides playing a few slot machines. When you noticed a door that lead into another room, you began walking forward to it. You winced slightly in annoyance when you noticed a buzzing sound that you couldn’t describe. It was hard to tell if it was coming from the other room, or your ears were starting to ring. You poked a finger into the canal in some kind of attempt to make it go away, but it only got worse with each step you took away from the boys. It got louder and louder to the point where it felt like white noise.

For a second you felt like you were in your own world from what happened next. You blinked a few times when you noticed your vision was starting to go blurry, making the game room you spotted hard to see. And the damn ringing was getting louder. You were experiencing something you've never quite felt before. You quickly turned around in your spot and took a step towards the boys, and just like that, suddenly the noise disappeared and you could see just fine again. You furrowed your brow slightly from what just happened.

“Did you guys hear that?” You asked them, wondering

"Hear what?" Dean asked you. He listened for any odd sound other than the slot machines and birds chirping outside, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He looked over at the manager and gave him a friendly smile, explaining your behavior. "She has the flu."

The manager barely showed any changes in his facial expressions, his brow furrowed together at your behavior, causing Dean to awkwardly chuckle and smile once again. When the man still wouldn't even crack the slightest of emotions, Dean rushed out a forged signature and booked it out of there. Dean wasted no time getting out of the lobby and onto one of the double beds.He couldn't stand another night of sleeping next to you with you being like this, your skin hot to the touch. You laid down after complaining that you were thirsty, Sam took on the task of grabbing you a drink while Dean mentioned something about checking around the place. You waved him off when he asked his brother if he was okay with watching you for a few minutes.

Sam watched you as downed a glass of water in mere seconds, acting like a woman dying of thirst before asking for another one. With the fever running through your body, you were bound to be dehydrated. He got up and went to the bathroom sink to get you another. You smiled and tried to somehow take a sip while lying on your side on the bed farthest from the door. The cold water felt amazing down your throat. All though you were hot to the touch, you felt awfully cold. And suddenly so tired. Maybe you were getting the flu. Because you were feeling weird lately. It was different when you were back at the bunker, but you were discovering that your body was feeling more unusual, almost like you were moving in a fog.

“Regular tourist mecca we got here.” You turned your head to the door when you heard it open to see that Dean was back from his sweep around the hotel. “We’re the only guests in this whole place. Last entry in the registry was in ‘06.”

“Mmm. Anyone else getting ‘Psycho’ vibes?” You cracked a joke that you thought wasn’t even the slightest bit funny, but it was enough to make you smile. You tried to put the empty glass on the nightstand, too tired to sit up and make it easier on yourself, only your attempt ended with you missing and accidentally dropping it to the floor a quiet thud, the carpet managed to save it from breaking. Your smile grew wider at your clumsiness and rested your head back into the pillow, you placed an arm over your face, trying to block out the sun peeking out from the blinds. “Hey, Dean, you remember when uh… when John and my mom took us to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, on that pack-mule ride?”

“The what?” Dean asked you, not sure where this conversation came from.

“And you’re, uh…your mule kept farting, just—letting go, like, gale force?” You weren’t the one to laugh like a school kid at jokes like that. But the memory made you let out a series of laughs that made the boys look at you with an odd expression.

“Y/N, you were like four years old.” Dean said. “I barely remember that.”

You giggled to yourself and turned your head to look at Sam, “Your brother rode a farty donkey.”

“Okay. Uh, since Sam has some background on this kind of stuff, him and I are gonna check out the Two Rivers Tribal Museum and Trading Post.” Dean said, telling you the plan.

“Yeah, yeah! I’m gonna…I’m gonna—“ You were finding it hard for you to sit up on your own, for a second, it seemed like you forgot you were almost six months pregnant with a belly that was far past being a small bump like you remembered. You got yourself up and pointed a finger at the boys to tell tell them what you were going to do while they were gone. “I’m gonna follow the hotel manager. D-Dr. Scowley-scowl. He’s like a villain from Scooby-Doo.”

“No, hey, uh, how about no?” Sam put a stop to your plans, watching as you tried to gather some energy to stand on your feet. You continued to sit on the eye of the bed, trying to force your eyes to stay open to keep this conversation going. “You should get some rest.”

“Yeah,” You mumbled with no resistance at all. “I can do that too.”

And with that, you fell back to the bed, suddenly losing consciousness a little too quickly. When the boys made sure you were still breathing, they made their way out of the room to conduct some of their own research while you to some much needed rest.

+ + +

You weren’t sure how long you had been sleeping for after your head hit the pillow and lost consciousness in record time. From the way your body was feeling and the thin layer of sweat covering every inch of you, you took a wild guess that it was a while. You groaned softly when you tried to get yourself up into a sitting position, moving slow as possible, not sure why your body aches so much. You looked around the room to see if the boys had returned, but you were still alone. The room was quiet for the most part considering there hadn’t been any other guests since ‘06. You thought that’s what Dean said. Maybe you didn’t hear him right.

You had been pretty out of it when you got settled into the room, talking about some family trip you took with the Winchester’s decades ago when you were still in each other’s lives. You forgot about it until just recently. The memory was crystal clear in your head, like it happened just the other day. If you had to think about...things had never felt so much clearer. You slowly got up to your feet thinking you just needed to stretch your legs from sleeping in such a stiff position. Maybe even see what the hotel manager was up to. You did mention something to the boys about tailing him to see what he was up to. It was odd enough this place wasn’t crawling with at least a few drifters. Something weird was definitely going on here.

Somehow you were able to get yourself to the door and opened it just enough for you to stumble your way out into the hallway, not taking into consideration how your appearance must look at the moment. There was no doubt in your mind your hair was a mess, your skin felt clammy and sweaty. Not to mention you had a sickly color to your skin. You felt like how you looked right at this moment. But every instinct was telling you to get off your ass and do your job.

You moved at a gruelingly slow pace, making sure to steady your hand against the wall to keep yourself from falling and the other to block out the extremely bright florescent light. You stumbled your way down the hall and to the corner, wondering the hell the manager was, not taking into consideration you really shouldn’t have been out in the open like this. You took a few steps down the hall until you heard it again...that ringing you noticed when you checked in. This time, it was louder than before. Everything felt off.

The hallway you stood down of suddenly appeared like it was spinning around you, the ground beneath your feet felt like it disappeared. You couldn’t hear your heavy or even anything else, all you could concentrate on was that chiming noise ringing loudly in your ears. For a second you were caught up in the rush of feeling, not realizing the manager was closer than you thought. Quick as the dizzy spell came, it vanished right after you saw the elevator doors slowly opened, giving you a small window to find a hiding spot.

You managed to press your backside against the nearest door’s alcove just as the manager stepped off the elevator, pushing something that sounded like a cart from the squeaky wheel that echoed down the hall. You slowly peeked your head out from the corner to see he was crouched down on the ground with his back towards you, giving you a chance to see what he was doing. You noticed he was stacking delivery boxes on top of at least a dozen others. You furrowed your brow slightly in confusion. Why the hell was he delivering packages? There wasn’t anyone else here besides you and the boys. Maybe the previous guests before you checked in and loved the place so much they never wanted to leave.

When you saw the manager push the cart away and back to the elevator without seeing you, you began moving when you heard the ding of the doors closed shut. You slowly made your way over to the hoard of boxes, wanting to know what was in there. You grabbed one of them to read the mailing address, only to discover it was the same as the hotel’s. All these boxes had to be filled with something important. You ripped open the box to see what was inside. What you discovered was...not what you expected.

Books. At least a half dozen of them stacked neatly inside. You picked up a hardcover that was a pretty pale blue with silver swirled details engraved into the cover. You read the title, “Oliver Twist” by Charles Dickerson. A classic you remembered reading in English class years back for an essay. Then was more, books of all kinds, from different genres to different decades published. Classics. Mysteries. Self help books to quit smoking. You put them back where you found them, wondering why the hell the manger was dropping them off in another room. That’s when it hit you.

What do writes love more than creating their own work? Reading other adventures. You pushed yourself back up to your feet and headed to your own room quickly as your body would let you. You didn’t know why you figured it out sooner. He was under your nose the entire time, hiding in plain sight. And yet hidden away from the world, probably spent centuries reading. An introvert’s dream to spend out their days. Their own company fictional beings. Endless worlds that weren’t their own.

You shut the door behind you and pulled out your phone, you scrolled through your contacts until you found Dean’s number. You blinked a few times to get your eyes to focus when you noticed your vision was starting to grow blurry again. You managed to hit the send button and heard the first ring before you felt yourself starting to get light headed, to the point where you were starting to get nervous you might fall.

You took a few steps to make it over to the bed closest to you in some kind of attempt to sit down before that could happen. You felt your knees give out on you could make it there, causing your body to stumble to the floor and your phone mere inches from your grip. You didn’t hear the sound of Dean’s voice when he picked up on the second ring.

+ + +

All you remembered before passing out on the hotel room floor was that you were in the middle of trying to make a phone call to Dean after the discovery you made. It was too important not to wait on. You managed to make it back to the room and dialed his number before you found yourself losing consciousness, probably from the fever that was some kind of effect from doing these trials. Everything felt blurry, like you were in a fever dream. During the time you were passed out for a short while from the time the boys discovered you and when you woke up you were bombarded with all sorts of memories you either forgot or compressed down. Things about who you used to be, and the horrible things you did.

When you finally came back into consciousness you weren’t exactly sure where you were for a split second. Your senses started to pick up on the fact that you felt like you were floating in water, freezing cold from what it felt like. You suddenly realized your lungs were starting to burn, the familiar sensation that made you start to panic. You felt your brain starting to scream for air as you felt your arms suddenly shoot up, feeling for a surface you could grab a hold onto. You grabbed each side of the tub you were lying in and quickly pulled yourself out of the ice cold water, your body freezing cold to the bone and your lungs burning for the need of air. When you finally managed to get yourself up into a sitting position, you quickly realized you were in a bathtub full of ice cold water.

You inhaled a wheezing breath before the next few came out in short and quick pants from the temperature your body wasn’t used to. You looked up to see the boys were standing above you, the ones who were responsible for putting you here in the first place. You felt your teeth starting to chatter and your body shaking from how freezing you were, you needed to get out of here before you got hypothermia. You slapped away Dean’s hand when he tried to help you out of the tub so you wouldn’t risk the chance of slipping and hurting yourself.

“Get off!” You shouted at him, your voice coming out shaky as you managed to push yourself up to your feet and stumble your way of the tub, only to make yourself feel worse at the even colder feeling room. You stood in the middle of the bathroom with your clothes soaked to your body and your entire body violently shaking. “What the hell?! God!”

“Take it easy.” Dean told you. You tightly crossed your arms around your chest to try and warm yourself up before you could get anymore freezing. Sam grabbed a towel to wrap around your body to start warming you up best as he could. “We found you on the floor, passed out. Your temperature was a hundred and seven. I had to force it down or you were toast.”

“He’s here, guys. Metatron is here.” You stuttered out the news you wanted to tell them over the phone before you passed out. Sam momentarily stopped grabbing another towel to try and help warm you up from the words he heard come out of your mouth. Both of the boys gave you a confused expression. “I know it. I can feel it.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“All I know is that I’m connected to it somehow.” You tried to explain it as best as you could to them, figuring it explained the ringing in your ears and the dizzy spells that you had earlier.

“What, like you got a link to him, like a prophet?” Dean went on with his questions, wondering what the hell you were talking about.

“I don’t know! I just know he’s here.” You said. “Metatron is here.”

“Okay. Where?” Dean decided to amuse this idea of yours, wondering if you were still delirious from the fever you had earlier today.

“I can show you. I can show you.” You muttered to them, sounding a little bit worrisome as you started to get a look in your eye. “The manager—he was delivering books to him.”

“Books?” Dean repeated what you just said.

“Books. Hardcovers, paperbacks, novels—books.” You practically spelled it out for them, trying to make them understand the point you had figured it out on your own.

The boys took a few seconds before you realized why the books were such a factor into figuring out that it was Metatron the entire time, stories were something he would have enjoyed. You shrugged off the towel and wasted no time at all changing into a new set of clothes, wanting to hunt down and have a talk with the angel yourself. The boys kept insisting that you should have kept it easy and rest, but you shrugged off their concerns, saying that you were perfectly fine. Your stumbling around and odd behavior before wasn't exactly proving you were in good shape to keep on going like how you wanted.

You managed to get dressed and make your way out the door with the boys following right after you in some kind of fear that you might fall again and hurt yourself this time. You took your time getting out into the hall again, steadying yourself on the wall while Sam kept his arm stretched out just enough to catch you if you were to take a tumble, Dean shut the door behind him and began following behind you as you slowly made your way down the hall to the room you were trying to show them that supposedly belonged to this angel.

“I should be taking you to the E.R.” Dean said, sharing his concern for your wellbeing.

“They can’t do anything for me. I have to get worse before I can get better.” You found yourself mumbling the last sentence to yourself, but Sam managed to catch your rambling. “You know, I’ve been remembering things—little things so clearly.”

“What?” Dean asked you. “Donkey rides?”

“You used to read to me, when you were still learning how to, from this really old Grimm's fairy tale book. My favorite one used to be 'Little Red Riding Hood.' You read it so much that I'm pretty sure you had it memorized. You would always make up these voices for all the characters. You always told me that you were the hunter. And I was Red.” You found yourself reminiscing on a memory from times when things were much simpler, when you still lived in Lawrence and the boys were in your lives. You and Dean shared a small moment of childhood innocence that was long lost from the years. Until you started to remember all of it. “I thought I was for a long, long time. Little Red Riding Hood, I mean.”

You steadied one hand on the wall as you kept on walking with the boys following behind you, for a second you wondered why you were saying any of this. But another part of you felt like you needed to get the past off your chest. "I used to be obsessed with that stupid book. You know that? I forced my mom to read me a story from it for the first year when I moved to Y/H/S. It was the only thing that would help me fall asleep. Mostly it was the ones where the princess or some pretty damsel was cursed. They had something wrong with them. I thought I was one of them, too. How stupid was that?”

You found yourself smiling at the things that were coming out of your mouth, finding your childhood innocence on things so stupid. “Yeah. It’s normal for little girls to believe in fairy tales. Happy endings and Prince Charming. But that wasn’t it. Things happened to me that nobody could explain. I thought it was easier to believe that someone cursed me. And that one day it was all going to disappear. I didn’t know what was really wrong…” You felt a lump form in your throat at the clear memories flooding back to you, things you tried so hard to forget. “I should’ve.”

You used to hear voices. See things nobody else could. And have blackouts of rage that you didn’t even remember doing. All of this was things turned into a blurry memory before you subconsciously buried deep down inside of you. Every trace of hints that you were a monster were hidden from daylight for long as possible. You settled into a safe and normal lifestyle your mother sold her soul for. Maybe she knew the entire time what kind of monster she made. She tried her hardest to keep it chained up and brainwashed you into keeping away from the very thing that brought you into this world. But one could only do so much beyond the grave.

When you’re a kid, you’re taught the things that go bump in the night were just figments of your imagination. Characters in a story that was made up by someone to scare little kids. But kids have the mindset to believe these things. Because at that age anything is possible. For a short time before society and adulthood tricks us into thinking, you know about the evil in the world. And yet you’re still innocent enough to believe there is good as well. When you grew up you learned the truth. But the part of optimism where you get a happy ending dies. You had to take off your rose colored glasses and see the world for what it was. The monster you always were.

“What are you talking about, Y/N?” Sam asked you, wanting to make sense of all the things that were coming out of your mouth.

You stopped walking and stood there for a second with your hand pressed against the wall. You slowly turned around in your spot to face the boys to continue on with what you were saying. “I thought for the longest time I was Little Red Riding Hood, walking through life and being tricked by monsters who pretended to be my friend. Deep down. I thought I was good. But I wasn’t. I was never...clean.” The way your lips twitched at the word, it made it seem like you were saying a vile thing. “I was the wolf hiding in plain sight. I lied to you guys. I lied to myself. For the longest time I tricked people into thinking I was capable of making good decisions. But everything I touched turned to crap. I was tainted. Evil.”

You felt your lips twitching into what looked like a smile, but your eyes told a different story from how you were feeling at the moment. The boys had felt their fair share of emotions over the years, Sam had empathized with your pain about feeling unclean. At the end of all of it, you weren’t to blame for how you turned out. “Y/N, it’s not your fault.”

“For the longest time I thought it was. I blamed myself for the horrible things that happened. Sam dying. You going to hell. Lucifer being set free. The apocalypse. Everything could have been avoided if I made different decisions. I mean, knowing that I was a half-demon didn't really bother me. I could control her. I did my entire life. You know what really hurts the most?” You asked them, but not giving them a second to take a guess. They would never get it.” “It’s the fact that Lucifer made me. The most evil thing out there created me. I felt so alone. Isolated.”

“You’re not alone, Y/N.” Sam reassured you. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, hoping a touch would break you out of this head space. “You never were.”

“I’m the only of my kind. And there was no changing that. But I don’t feel like that anymore. Because these trials..." You felt yourself inhaling a deep breath, taking a pause between what you were about to say next. The look on your face from the things you knew for the future made you seem like you were suddenly at ease, despite all the things you admitted to just a few minutes earlier. A sense of hope followed after, it bloomed in your chest from the three words that followed after. "they're purifying us."

Dean felt himself being taken aback from the last word that slipped out from your mouth. He found himself standing there for a moment, trying to wrap his head around what you meant by that. Even though in the back of his mind he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it out of your mouth. The different answer than he suspected. You had been acting strange since you started the trials, and you were only getting worse. He watched as you made it down the hall and to the last door on the right. You stood there for a moment, trying to find something that was no longer there.

“They were here, the books, the boxes!” You pointed at the empty ground that no longer had the things you seen earlier today. Your voice was growing frustrated at what was happening. All of this was making you look like you were going crazy. “They—They’re gone.”

What you didn’t discover was the fact that room three sixty-six was opened just the slightest to anyone who dared walk inside. Dean took it upon himself to push open it wider and took a look inside to the hotel room you claimed belonged to Metatron. He stepped inside first to see the place was empty, you followed after and Sam trailed behind, discovering a collection of books that must have taken decades. You felt your anger slowly subsiding when you discovered the stock pile of books all around you. Piles that were taller than you, neatly stacked on tables. You read every title you could as you passed by, wondering to yourself if they had all been read.

The more you traveled into the place, the more you discovered thousands upon thousands of books from what it felt like. All neatly packed together on the floor and shelves. Someone was a bit of a bookworm. You and the boys traveled farther into the hotel, trying to find this angel you had traveled all the way here to see, not taking into consideration he might have been one step ahead of you. You felt your gaze going straight forward when you felt someone’s grip around your arm tug you back slightly, stopping you from walking into the barrel of a shotgun.

[Next Part]

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awfully-sadistic · 5 years

Text

Week 1: Oct 3rd

The Adventures of Dottie and Dodger A series of linear prompt one-shots.

By now, I know this has gotten too ambitious. But I’m stubborn and I want to see my dreams realized.

“Are you guys almost done?” Dot called out over her shoulder in the middle of shutting her suitcase. It was the ungodly hour of seven in the morning and due to Stephen Strange, and Stephen Strange only, she found herself up at the ass crack of dawn so they could hit the road. Whitecrest wasn’t far from Ashbourne as she had told Doctor Strange yesterday; it was a three-hour drive to Whitecrest if traffic was good and a two hour drive back.

She took another look around the space to see if she was missing anything. The office space was looking more and more like home. Dot figured that was a good thing considering she might be spending more time at work than home, it should feel comfortable enough to be a second one.

After Stephen’s visit yesterday, Dot went through the office space and all of its furniture to see if they could find a nice armchair for him in case he visited again. She didn’t know why but a good armchair just seemed to suit him. She managed to find one that passed her inspection and set up a nice little seating area near a wide window with a nice view out towards the city. She had Dodger push over a couch, a coffee table, and threw a nice rug on the ground to finish off the area. She hated open spaces so the office was beginning to reflect that.

Past the receptionist area was the main assembly of cubicles and desks. They still didn’t need that many but it didn’t make the room look empty so it stayed. The breakroom consisted of a room with a functional kitchen that hooked the corner as soon as you entered the main office space, which Dot has been fond of calling The Pen just like in a police station. She had no idea what else to call it and she wasn’t going to refer to it as “the big space with all the desks” so The Pen it stayed. Surrounding The Pen were varying office rooms. If The Pen was a square, the office rooms starting from the breakroom corralled it in. There was a hallway in the back that led into a storage room and a men’s and women’s bathroom.

Tucked in the corner behind the Receptionist area was the spot with the seating area she hoped to one day serve tea or coffee like a fancy person to Doctor Strange.

Or any other guest, she supposed. She knew fuck all of what to do with the other rooms but it’d come to her and Dodger when the time came. There was still a huge ass room across from where she stored her clothes she didn’t know what to do with, either. Maybe she could convert a couple of rooms into sleeping spaces if they were going to pull all-nighters but the thought of having to drag beds into the office just worn her out.

It was a good thing Dodger could carry shit the size of an elephant.

“We’re finished!” Armand called from beyond The Pen. He came out of Dot’s closet space wearing what looked like one of her outfits. He even had a little suitcase in his hand. Dot did a double take before laughing.

Armand was wearing what looked like one of her sundresses with a matching sunhat. She hasn’t worn that outfit in ages and it was only for an afternoon Derby she and Dodger had been undercover for as the jockeys claimed their stables were being haunted. The case required the both of them to infiltrate an exclusive club and they had to look the part. Dot didn’t own anything stuffy nor appropriate enough to match the Derby’s dress code so she went out and bought a floral-printed, faded yellow sundress and a big, floppy bowknot sunhat with sandals. It was partly a joke, when was Dot ever going to wear something like this out and about normally?

Apparently Armand didn’t have to wonder the circumstances. He stopped in front of Dot and when he beamed, it seemed to radiate like sunshine. He seemed proud as he declared, “Look, I dressed up as you.”

His waif-like appearance and androgynous features made it uncertain whether Armand had masculine features whatsoever as Dot studied him. It was harder to tell since he wore his hair long and it looked as soft as silk and flowed just as easily. His limbs were long and delicate looking but his hands were masculine. But his broad shoulders and narrow hips also hinted that he wasn’t entirely feminine after all. The sundress was a little short on him and that was expected since he was taller than Dot. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

“You really did,” Dot smiled as her giggles died down. “you look great, honey. Do you like the dress?”

“It’s really nice. And when I twirl, it tickles my legs.” he said, doing just that. Dot had to laugh again then gestured at the suitcase. She had an idea but she wanted to ask anyway since Armand didn’t really have a wardrobe to call his own.

“What’s in there?”

“I hope you don’t mind but I borrowed another outfit.”

Dot could feel her smile widening. She was possessive as hell especially over her clothes but she found that she didn’t mind one bit that Armand wanted to wear any of her stuff. In fact, she felt proud and a sensation that was like watching a child trying on their mommy’s clothes.

“That’s absolutely okay. If you want to borrow anything else, feel free. I’ll bring more stuff from my closet so you always have new stuff to rotate.”

Armand’s smile brightened just as Dot’s, the two already knowing they were going to make a thing out of sharing Dot’s wardrobe.

“Why are you two looking at each other like that?” Dodger asked, interrupting their moment. He had finally finished packing. Since his wardrobe was at home, he was tasked with packing the equipment they might need to help them with their case.

“Just wondering when you were going to get your slowpoke butt in gear,” Dot teased. “Are you ready?”

Dodger nodded lifting up the two items he had in his hand; they were hard-case briefcases specially made to carry their equipment so it wouldn’t get damaged when they traveled. Dot nodded in approval as soon as she noted them and gestured with her head, grabbing her own suitcase.

“Let’s head out, loves.”

Armand gently took Dot’s suitcase from her hand as she turned to lock the office doors as soon as they were outside. When she turned to take it back, she saw that Armand was already helping Dodger put everything in the trunk of their “company” car; a Hummer H3 the color of royal purple with black accents Dot affectionately calls Leviathan. She smiled at the scene before tacking up their “OUT OF THE OFFICE” sign on the door just in case they get another prospective client. It was a simple form telling anyone that they’d be back later in the evening and if they wanted, they could leave their name and number and someone would get to them as soon as they returned.

The trip to Whitecrest was as expected; traffic was condensed in the city as people were on their way to work. The further out they got, it became sparse and Dot was allowed to drive as far as her foot can go down on the gas. Dodger eased her back to a reasonable speed before she would slowly start to overtake cars again and eventually he gave up.

Armand paid special attention to the scenery and Dot had to wonder if it was the first time he was seeing any of this stuff. He seemed entranced by everything he was witnessing unable to tear his gaze away from the window. He asked questions about nearly everything and Dot was glad Dodger had someone to impress with his wealth of knowledge because she sure as fuck didn’t know half the time. Dodger spouted off information about the trees they were seeing as the concrete of a bigger city with its skyscrapers bled into trees just as tall. It was wilderness now and despite it crawling towards ten in the morning, the trees casted shade that made it seem like late in the afternoon. Once Armand’s questions died down, the silence was replaced with Dot’s music; her iPod the DJ of choice whenever they made long trips.

When they finally arrived to Whitecrest, they knew it instantly.

“Why the fuck is there water everywhere?” Dot asked, glad that her H3 was an off-road vehicle. She knew Whitecrest was categorized as “different” since the Great War but she didn’t expect there to be this much of a difference from a three-hour trip out of town. The entire area was a marshland and she had no idea. Trees were now overhead and plenty casting the region in a perpetual state of gloom. Dot had to turn her headlights on in order to see in front of her. Apparently Whitecrest was a valley made up of rivers and ponds bordered by three sides of mountain. Dot had hoped that the road she was on was taking them to the town. It didn’t seem like the town even had the sense to pave it; she was driving on a dirt path now and it seemed like the only path she could take, the H3 rolling and bumping along as it ate up old waterlogged trunks that had fallen in the road.

Dodger had taken out his laptop and flipped it open. From the corner of her eye, she could see that he had changed his wallpaper to Dot and Armand standing in front of their new office building, posing as if it were a grand opening. So that was why he wanted to take a picture. Dot smiled before asking, “What are you doing, Dodge?”

“Looking up information about Whitecrest. In all the excitement from the Doctor’s visit, I forget to do it.”

Dot perked an eyebrow. Dodger never forgot to do anything related to accumulating new facts. Doctor Strange must have made a very good impression on him. She remained quiet and focused on steering the Hummer through the marshland while listening to Dodger’s fingers fly across the keys like its own musical orchestra. It had always impressed her that Dodger had designed their database filled to the brim with sprawling information from everything to articles to mundane tidbits from around the world and he was always filling it with something new he learned; information was literally quite at their fingertips aligned with as much as Dodger knew. Dot wagered it must be a lot. She had only skimmed the database herself able to find what she was looking for with just a simple phrase input through the search engine. Much like an iceberg, she knew there was more below the surface but she wasn’t that ambitious enough to make full use of the database. Not when Dodger did it himself.

Besides, it seemed complicated. Maybe sophisticated was a better word. She was afraid of touching something wrong and breaking the entire system. Dodger had reassured her many times that she could never break it, but for the most part, she entrusted him to do the fact checking. It made sense to her considering before they were partnered, he was doing the paperwork for the Agency.

It occurred to her that he must have learned a lot about their data system in order to create his own for their company. Yeah, sophisticated seemed the right word. Dodger’s system was a lot more sophisticated than the Agency’s. She wondered when they were going to realize the loss they took when Dodger went with her. Not that he’d want to go back.

Or like she’d give him back.

“The database states that Whitecrest was once a harbor city but has been flooded since the Great War.”

“D.I.D. has information about Whitecrest? When did you do this?”

“D.I.D.?”

“Uh, Dodger’s Information Database,” Dot laughed.

“I like it,” Dodger said before continuing, “Anyway, D.I.D. does have information on Whitecrest. I upgraded the system with a feature that implements the accumulation of articles around the internet by typing in a keyword. Pooled with the knowledge I had input from everything I have known and remembered as I’ve read it, it pulls every known article or piece of information based on the two worlds to structure the best article of information we might need to know if we’re going to be working on a case in an unknown area.”

Dot remained quiet for a moment, head turning over what she just took in. “So, it’s like Googling something.”

“Yes. But instead of pages of sites you have to wade through to get to the information you want, the algorithm I’ve developed pulls pertinent information from sites all over into a comprehensible guidebook. It’s sort of like a Wikipedia page but without the banner that’s asking you to donate every three months.”

“Is it reliable?”

“Naturally.” Dodger boasted. “The AI I’ve developed factchecks over everything, it’s 99% accurate. It’s what decides is pertinent to share and what’s useless information.”

“…You’ve developed an AI?”

“It’s not that hard. Especially after reverse engineering the Glass—”

“I’m not going to get into that right now. I don’t know this, I never will. I don’t even want to be a witness,” Dot shot before asking, “So it’s like a wiki page without room for human error is how I’m understanding this. That’s aside from the fact that’s where our records go from the cases we take from this point forward, right?”

Dodger made an affirmative hum, adding, “The beauty of it is that we add personal experiences to the areas we’ve been. Especially if we need to bring back a record of it as pristine as we’ve lived it. That’s why our reports of events are going to be important and it gets bolstered with the video we always take on our jobs. We won’t ever recall anything wrong though, with our memory combined, it’s already nearly impossible. It’s to reassure our clients, more or less.”

“The Agency’s never had anything like this.” Dot said with a sense of amazement.

“They never will.”

There was a moment of appreciative silence as both mull over the conversation. Dot’s head was still reeling with the improved search function, it was about the only thing she used on D.I.D.. She couldn’t believe Dodger felt the need to upgrade it, now she was going to feel like she was going to break that, too.

The silence was broken when Armand spoke up. “I’ll admit. I have no idea what you two are talking about.”

Dot laughed. “Sorry, hon. It’s alright. Just computer stuff. Dodger’s still teaching you how to use one, right? Especially since you’re going to be our receptionist?”

“Ah!” Armand sounded cheerful, “yes, he’s been teaching me. The both of them! The man in the computer is really helpful.”

Dodger turned to explain as Dot gave him a puzzled look, “My attendant director is going to be his assistant so he’ll have an easier time. You know, the AI I was telling you about.”

“Your fucking—” Dot still couldn’t wrap her head around it. “Attendant director?”

“He helps me with stuff.” Dodger said. “Think of him as the head butler of D.I.D.”

Dot laughed before she got excited, “Oh! Oh! DAD. Call him D.A.D. Dodger’s Attendant Director.”

“You’re pretty good at that,” Dodger chuckled in appreciation. “right on the nose with acronyms. D.A.D. it is.��

“Well, if I couldn’t hack it as an agent at the Agency or a Private Investigator, I would have had a lucrative job as a writer. It was my dream, you know.” Dot divulged. She missed the surprised look Dodger gave her before he turned to his laptop to write something down.

After he was done, he picked up on the line he had been reading before. “As I was saying about Whitecrest, the former successful harbor town was just one of the many causalities of the Great War. A Glassing attempt was made on the city which contributes to its change today.”

“What’s Glassing?” Armand asked from the backseat.

“Glassing is a term attributed to the terrain change caused by the Dovirs. It wasn’t enough that the Alien fleet was trying to annihilate us or use us in their war, but they were trying to alter the terrain by bombarding it with their alien weaponry. It’s unclear what they used or what procedures consists of Glassing as it took place primarily in orbit. As you can imagine, Human and Supernatural settlements alike had no way of defending against such a devastating attack.”

“That’s so terrible. So many people must have died…” Armand sounded sad and Dot had a hard time trying to focus on the road. She wanted to tell Dodger to switch to something lighter but she needed to know this too.

“It’s alright, love. As you can see, Whitecrest is still here.” She held off on adding the sarcastic remark about as much as it could be, half-sunken in the sea. She couldn’t help but point out something tragic as the realization came to her. “Glassing happened all over, right? I never knew Whitecrest was one of the places that had been targeted. We were so close. It could have been Ashbourne.”

“Rest assured, this took place hundred and hundreds of years ago,” Dodger said, looking at Armand and then at Dot. “Whitecrest came out of it as many other settlements that were dire victims of Glassing.”

Dot noticed he didn’t mention the ones who didn’t. But then again, he didn’t need to as the air hung heavy with the unsaid. Dot cleared her throat and asked Dodger to continue with the history of Whitecrest. He did.

“Since then, the harbor has experienced strange phenomena with the ocean.” Dodger paused as he added his own input. “Which isn’t unusual now. Since the introduction of Glassing to our planet, it’s changed the shift of the oceans. Nowadays, we experience quite the odd assortment of weather on seas. Weather patterns are more extreme and just a few years ago, the Agency were able to prove the existence of Sea Monsters. Apparently, they were woken up by the Great War and haven’t went back to bed since.”

“Apparently the Dovirs have never heard of the expression of letting sleeping dogs lie,” Dot said dryly.

“I thought they were Sea Monsters.” Armand said, sounding confused.

Dot laughed, “It’s a saying, sweetheart. It means to leave things as they are.”

Armand then asked, “Why did it take the Agency so long to verify the existence of Sea Monsters?”

“Good question,” Dot smiled. “I’ll answer this one, Dodge. You see, Armand, Jr. The sea is a huge and vast place. Our planet is mostly made up of water. Long ago, I think the verified percentage was 71%. Now, it’s 77%. It rose a little but that little is a lot. It’s unclear what exactly changed but a lot suspect Glassing and that tear that connects us with 616 did a lot to shift our world. With our planet being mostly water, that gives these Sea Monsters a lot of room to hide. Not just to hide but live; the ocean is incredibly deep. It’s like a whole other world under there. I guess, one day, like the rest of the Supernaturals, the Sea Monsters decided they didn’t just want to hunt in their own territory but make the entire sea theirs, too. Last I remember, the Agency wasn’t even sure how many species of Sea Monster there were and how big they can get. One day, I think that’s going to bite us in the ass.”

“That’s… so terrifying.” Armand said, eyes round and complexion looking a lot pale than normal. Dot thought it was adorable; not scaring him but that fact that Armand gets scared even though he could phase through bodily harm. She nodded in agreement.

“It’s a fascinating subject.” Dot admitted. “The ocean is so amazing.”

It was around this time Dodger figured there wasn’t any more information they’d need about the town since they were so close to it anyway. They could see the top of a building with a roof that looked built with clay shingles. There was a slight tower that pushed past the cacophony of trees but didn’t look like it’d stay that way for long. Give or take a few more years and that too would be covered one day. Dot pulled the H3 on a patch of dry land; she wasn’t about to step out into the mud.

From what she could see, the town wasn’t very large at all. It seemed to be all condensed in a town square, flooded to the ankle with water that was coming in from the sea. She made a face as she opened her door. “I hope to god we’re not stuck wading around in water all day…”

“It looks that way,” Dodger answered, opening his.

The area they parked was a safe haven of dry spots. Out in the open, they could see that there were few safe havens but trees mostly took up the space. Old houses and establishments were flooded as far as the eye can see but that didn’t seem to bother anybody in town. It was still morning so they didn’t see a lot of people out and about, but who they could see were either inside or sitting in rowboats that littered the square.

“Are people living in some of those rowboats?” Dot whispered, not wanting to make a bad impression. She learned quickly that you can say what you want to say out loud but if you start insulting anyone, it gets hard to get information out of them. For the most part, she made snide comments to Dodger and that seemed to satisfy her enough without compromising anything.

“It seems so.” Dodger said with a stoic mask slipped into place. Dot was amazed how he could look like he passed no judgement on anyone. But she could feel the cautious energy on him. He turned to Armand, mentioning, “You might want to change your shoes, lass.”

Armand took a sweeping look around after coming around from Dot’s side. His face fell. “Oh yeah. I don’t want to walk on that.” then he asked, “What if I hover?”

“That’d be suspicious.” Dodger answered. “We don’t want to spook anyone immediately.”

“Sorry, love. I’d feel better if you wore something to cover your feet, too.” Dot knew it was silly to fret about a ghost feeling cold or getting its feet wet but Armand didn’t fall in the umbrella of indifference now. She felt responsible for him and wanted to make sure he was taken care of.

The trio went to the back of the truck and started to unload. Dodger gathered the equipment with the spare suitcases they were going to check into the inn. He carried it like it was nothing. That was okay with Dot because it gave her the time to suit Armand with some boots; she kept a spare on hand in the back, somewhere, and while Armand was seated on the trunk bed, she changed his shoes for him.

“Did you want to keep your dress on?” she asked, wondering if it was a good call. There was no telling what this case might entail. Armand seemed to have the same thought.

“I should change, huh?”

“That’s fine. You can just wear a pair of leggings underneath,” Dot smiled. “I have those in spare, too.”

That seemed to light Armand up and it was decided. He had to take his boots off again but once he slipped into a pair of Dot’s leggings, boots on, the look was complete. Sort of. Given all the shade, the place was especially chilly in the October air. She knew Armand could not feel the cold, corporeal or not, yet she still didn’t like that he looked cold. She tied a scarf around his neck and placed one of her light jackets over his shoulder. It was a little tight around the shoulders and sleeves, but otherwise, fit him well enough. He didn’t complain about it, either. In fact, he looked downright thrilled to be wearing more of Dot’s clothes.

“There, now you’re good.”

Armand surprised her by doing the same. “So you don’t get cold, unlike me.” he grabbed another light jacket and placed it around Dot’s shoulders, too, making sure to zip it up the front. Sometimes with him being so naïve, he caught her by surprise by being aware of things like this, too.

She smiled, a touch shy, and nodded. “Good, we’re both ready.”

“And Dodger?” Armand asked, turning to see for himself.

“I’m always dressed for cold weather,” he mentioned. True enough, he was already in a coat and actually wore some gloves. But Dot wasn’t surprised.

“He gets cold easily,” she explained.

Whitecrest looked incredibly soaked. Deeper within the town square, the ground could not be seen unless it were raised. Dirty sea water was kicked up by Dot, Dodger’s, and Armand’s trekking footsteps, the trio careful not to trip over anything unseen. Once or twice, Dot could make out small fishies swimming by and she couldn’t pick between an expression of surprise or disgust. Why did they insist on staying like this? It looked like they were keeping most of the water at bay by sandbags but wouldn’t it be easier to pack up and leave?

“I guess there’s a reason why no one mentions that Whitecrest is half sinking into the ocean,” Dot muttered, lifting her right knee and shaking her foot out. “I hate the feel of my socks getting wet. I swear, if I step on a frog out here, we’re leaving.”

“What are you going to tell Doctor Strange?” Dodger asked while lifting his own knees with every step he took. He had the sneaking suspicion that they were sinking along with the town.

Dot didn’t answer mainly because she couldn’t entertain the thought of letting down Stephen whatsoever. Instead, she muttered, “Shush.” And continued to lead the way towards the biggest building she thought was important. She had hoped it was the inn so they can drop their stuff off in what was hopefully a second story room.

Somebody coughed turning Dot’s attention to the right. There was a grizzled looking man about in his forties slumped against a wall of sandbags. He puttered in place for a while, his actions looking sluggish and uncoordinated. Clearly the man has had one too many but Dot couldn’t blame him if he lived around here.

“I’m going to ask him for directions,” Dot said, nodding her head towards the old man.

Dodger made a noise of protest. “He could be the town drunk for all we know.”

“That’s better than nothing which is all I’m seeing.” Dot indicated around. There wasn’t anybody else to ask. Dodger didn’t protest any further but he did take Dot’s back and stuck close. Armand seemed to have the same idea, flanking Dot’s other side. Dodger might have his hands full if the town drunk seemed violent.

“Sir?” Dot asked, leaning forward and tilting her head towards the man’s movements. As soon as he realized Dot was in front of him, he gave a start, muttering a muffled cry of an old man clutching his chest.

“Gave me a fright,” he replied with a tone like an old grandpa. Part of his speech was muffled by the striped yellow and brown scarf he had wrapped around his neck that partly covered his mouth. His wool coat was tattered and Dot wasn’t sure if his gloves were meant to be fingerless. “Are ya new here in town?” he asked, sizing the trio up.

“Yeah, we’re doing a favor for someone. But we want to check in at the inn first. Can you tell us where that is?”

The man extended a hand which pointed across the street. It was a two-story building with a blue shingled roof and an entrance way that didn’t even bother with a doorway. Dodger made a noise at the back of his throat that indicated he wasn’t happy with the look but he didn’t say anything else. Dot didn’t blame him.

“Thanks,” she smiled. She was about to usher the group towards the inn but had a thought, turning back around. “And do you know where we can find somebody named Fitzsimmons?”

“The name’s First-Mate Fitzsimmons.” He drawled.

“Excuse me?” Dot asked, leaning in as if she mistaken.

“First-Mate Fitzsimmons and ya found ‘im.” He said with a hiccup. Dot drew back at once as soon as the gnarly scent wafted in her nose. She resisted the heavy urge to curse and shame this guy before she felt Armand draw her back, guiding her by the shoulders to his side.

“Can I ask what ya want wi’ me?” he asked, having no indication with how close he brushed with death. Dot swallowed her disgust and launched into work mode.

“Like I said, we’re doing a favor for someone. As far as we were told, we were supposed to seek out this Fitzsimmons. And then I guess from there, we help…” Dot knew she fell flat at the end there. She didn’t know what else to say and she didn’t want to waste words with a man who was probably too drunk to comprehend what she was saying.

The man suddenly wailed and it looked like he was about to go off in a fit. “That’s me! I’m tellin’ ya that’s me!”

“That wasn’t the issue here,” Dot said through nearly clenched teeth. She took in a deep breath, safely away from the drunkard. “Can you tell us why we were directed to you? Were you the one who made the request to Doctor Stephen Strange? If you’re confused about why we’re here instead, I can reassure you we were entrusted this task by him personally.”

The man settled down, slumping against the sandbag wall and Dot thought he might have passed out on his feet. His head was ducked and his eyes were close and Dot wasn’t tempted to really check.

“I hope Doctor Strange didn’t get a bogus request.” Dodger murmured.

Armand was still adamant on keeping Dot at his side. But he was intently watching with curious eyes. Dot could bet this was a strange scene. But there was no one else on the street and this old bum seemed to be the client of their client. Poor Stephen. Well, poor them, now. She was about to nod off at the group to recollect at the inn when the old man started talking again. At first, she thought she was mistaken because the sound came as a low rumble that caught her attention just as she was about to suggest leaving. When she faced Fitzsimmons again, his head was still bowed but he was definitely speaking now.

“I was once First-Mate on the Ocean Spray. One of the most magnificent ships ya’d ever lay eyes on, proud of our vessel we were. We were part of the trading fleet of Whitecrest’s boomin’ business. The Doomed Fleet. Didn’t think we’d hit out last voyage, sunk out at sea while on duty. I was the sole survivor.” He moaned, lifting his head. His eyes were watery and Dot could tell there was real emotion behind them without having to read him. The sensation of sadness hit her like waves next and she wondered if the Ocean Spray was met with similar ones. She could feel a lump settle in her throat and she cleared it, trying to get a line on her own emotions. Grounding herself was a good way not to get swept up in the emotions of others but sometimes, people’s emotions got strong. Thankfully, because Fitzsimmons was drunk, his memory had to be cloudy enough to prevent him from recalling the memories in vividness.

Still, it was hard to tell what Fitzsimmons wanted and why Stephen Strange had been called out to this small, flooded town for something that didn’t seem important. She couldn’t guess he was called in to deal with drunks now.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss but I’m not clear what you want.” Dot gingerly put before the moaning interrupted her.

“I canna go on! Not without me drink!”

Dot looked stumped before she realized he was withholding his story in order to get another fix. “The hell?” she asked, not bothering to keep up her polite demeanor; especially if anyone thought she could be used. “What does that have to do with your favor? You called us for help, right?”

Apparently beggars can be choosers as Fitzsimmons seemed to ignore what Dot said, moaning pitifully, “Bring me my mead, lass. It’s in the cellar of the tavern o’er yonder.” He pointed towards the building next to the inn. They followed his gesture discovering that much like the inn, the tavern also lacked a front door and was also flooded before turning their attention to Fitzsimmons again. “It was taken from me, I canna go there an’ retrieve it.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Dodger said dryly.

“It’ll probably calm him down.” Dot sighed. She was weighing the options over in her head and it didn’t seem like they’d get very far if they didn’t fulfill this stupid request. “I don’t see him telling us anything else unless we get him something to drink. Since we’re going to the inn anyway, we might as well stop by the tavern.”

Dodger didn’t argue with that. The trio moved away from Fitzsimmons who was trying to find a good spot to settle against the sandbags. There was no doubt he’d wait there for his drink.

The inn, lacking a door, looked much like the outside in terms of the flooding. Except, brightly lit, you could see the wooden flooring. Right upon entering, there was a long desk and a sleepy looking female clerk reading a newspaper as she sat in a chair. She had faded red hair done in a sloppy pinned up-do and wore clothes that looked too modern that matched with the town’s appearance. She looked to be as old as Fitzsimmons but the stern expression she had on her face made her look older. Whether she was short or the chair, it was hard to tell. Her head barely cleared the counter as Dot walked right up to it. She looked up, lowering her glasses to take a good look at the trio.

“Yes—"

Armand rang the little bell.

The clerk looked annoyed but Dot’s gaze dared her to say something about it. The clerk continued after deciding that it was best not to pick a fight with a mother hen, “Can I help you?” even her tone sounded stern.

“We’d like a room to store our items. Does it cost anything to use a room for a couple of hours?” Dot asked. She surely wasn’t going to let anyone stay the night. She was also apprehensive of the clerk’s answer considering the impression they made on her didn’t seem to be a good one. But she surprised them.

“For a couple of hours? Thirty-five bucks.”

Even so, Dot thought that was still pricy given the condition of the inn. And the town.

“We’ll take it,” Dot briskly said. If the clerk had any questions about them, she didn’t ask. She rang up the order and gave them a single key as soon as Dot paid with the company expenses. Of course, they didn’t take a card but it was a good thing Dot carried cash on her, too.

Dot looked down at the key in her palm. It wasn’t a hotel keycard, but a bona fide brass key. She didn’t think anyone gave out room keys like this anymore. In an automated world, it was something of a shock.

“Rooms are up top.” She indicated with a jerk of her head and went back to her newspaper. It was a painless transaction for the most part.

The rest of the space that consisted of the inn was scattered with a sitting area with couches and chairs and coffee tables that surprisingly looked dry in the middle of a flooded room. Dot still wouldn’t sit in them and she wouldn’t allow Dodger or Armand to either. Beyond the seating area were a set of stairs and that was where they headed, heavy wet footsteps landing on the first solid floor they saw since arriving. The stairs turned into a hallway, lit by candlelight and veering off into many rooms behind closed doors.

The number of their room was numbered on their key.

13.

Dot held it up with a laugh, “Bad omen?”

Dodger breathed out through his nose. “This entire town is a bad omen.”

Dot laughed. “Preach, honey.”

Dot opened the door and though it didn’t make sense was glad to see that it wasn’t flooded. The interior was decorated as any regular motel; two beds, a dresser, bathroom, and a desk. There didn’t seem to be a television or a closet but that was alright. They weren’t going to be needing anything to entertain themselves and they didn’t expect to fully unpack. Dot wanted to do the job and get out. The day was still young and who knew where this was going to lead them? Hopefully not the entire day.

Just in case, she’d have to inquire about extended time if that’s what it took.

Dodger put down the suitcases, “I’ll make a quick run next door and grab the drink.”

Dot nodded, “Alright. It doesn’t take all three of us to do that job. We’ll meet you at ol’ Mr. Drunky-McDrunkface.”

“I thought his name was Fitzsimmons.” Armand inquired with sincerity.

Dot placed a hand on his cheek. “Oh honey.”

“First-Mate Fitzsimmons,” Dodger corrected before he ducked out the door.

Dot shook her head and started to haul their equipment briefcases onto the bed. Opening with a click, the sophisticated equipment looked impressive enough that Dot refrained from touching them. Much like DID, Dot was afraid of touching something and fear that it would break. Dodger worked on these items himself and so often handled them that she’d feel incredibly bad if it fell from her hands. Of course, he always insisted they were durable and tested one by dropping it to the ground.

It succeeded in making her laugh and instilling a bit more confidence in allowing her to handle some of the meters and cameras. There was no telling what they were going to need here, so she left everything as it was. She was just double-checking over the inventory despite knowing Dodger was thorough in everything he did.

Armand sat on the other side of the bed, bringing his leg up and exhibiting a wet boot. “What a strange sensation. It’s really uncomfortable.”

“I know but I’d advise not to change your shoes yet, love.” Dot said. “We still have to go back out and talk to Fitzsimmons unless you’d rather wait in the room for us.”

There was nothing to do and she didn’t want to stick Armand by himself even if she allowed him to play with her laptop. She thought she’d offer in any case. She was relieved when Armand shook his head.

“I want to stay close to you guys.” He smiled.

“And we want you close.” Dot smiled in return. “Now, come on. Let’s go see if Fitzsimmons remembered to stay still.”

Armand waited as Dot locked the door to the room and kept the key in a safe place on her persons. There didn’t seem to be anymore takers at the inn, so she felt everything would be relatively safe. Leading Armand through the waterlogged inn and outside once more, she was pleased to see that Fitzsimmons was still at the same place he had been before.

Dodger met up with them a few moments later, holding a silver flask in his hand. Without a word, he handed it to Fitzsimmons who unscrewed the thing in a hurry and seemed to gulp down whatever was in it. It was like watching a man who had been dying of thirst.

“Ah! That hits the spot!” he belched which earned him a grossed look from Dot and a startled jump from Armand. “Now I can continue on wi’ me tale.”

“Please do,” Dodger said without humor.

Bolstered, Fitzsimmons seemed like a new man as he recounted the tale that couldn’t have gone on without his dumbass drink. “As I were sayin’ before, I’m the sole survivor of the Ocean Spray. About a year ago, there wus a terrible upheaval in the waters that sunk us, wrecked off the coast of Whitecrest. Ah, so close to ‘ome, we were!” he took in a shuddering breath and continued, “The entire thing was disaster. But not too soon after, I be hearin’ things. It’s th’ wind, they say but nay! I know. I know them cries. For you see, among our goods for trade, we were burdened with a great treasure, a terrible treasure, and I suspect it’s the eerie powers that it yields that keeps the souls of me brethren trapped within’ the ships rottin’ remains.”

Now it was beginning to become clear why Stephen had been called. But at the same time, Dot wondered why the task wasn’t just passed onto the Agency if there were simple reports of a haunting. But then again, nothing was ever simple when it came to the Supernatural.

Fitzsimmons continued to moan, “I’m haunted by ‘em, day and night. M’best friend, Soggy, he calls for me.”

Dot had to clamp a hand over her mouth from laughing at the name Soggy. Was it in bad taste to make a joke about how ironic it was to be shipwrecked and have that name? Dot mentally waved the thought from her head and continued to make a straight face. The only indication that gave her thoughts away was the twitch in the corner of her lip. She met Dodger’s gaze and knew that he knew.

Fitzsimmons took them all by surprise as he grabbed Dot by the shoulders and started to shake her, “Please help me! Look for ‘im by the wreckage and… and… just tell ‘im to leave me alone!”

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” Dot exclaimed, trying to pull herself away from Fitzsimmons grip. It surprised her that he was stronger than he looked. She could tell that Dodger and Armand were bristling, kicking into action the instant Fitzsimmons had moved; Dodger gave Fitzsimmons a harsh shove in his chest with just enough strength to take him by surprise but not overpower him. Armand pulled Dot away and pulled her behind him.

“We’ll do this for you,” Dot stated from around Armand. “just calm down. We’re aware of how scary hauntings can be, just calm down.”

Fitzsimmons seemed to be appeased by the agreement, a hand over his sternum which was no doubt bruised thanks to Dodger’s freakish show of strength. He nodded mutely, seemingly submissive now. That shove must have sobered him up some.

“Thank ye, lass.” Fitzsimmons said quietly. Dot didn’t feel bad for him but was pleased to see he had the sense to be grateful for their help. Stepping out from around Armand, she gestured towards the docks. “Is the wreckage that way?”

Fitzsimmons nodded, helping further by pointing out the direction. “Along the coast, ya can’t miss it. It’s run aground. Should be half on the land.”

“Well, that does simplify things.”

The trio break away from Fitzsimmons to head towards the dock. They were surprised to see that it was floating. It wasn’t very comforting to Dot in any case. “I don’t know how they can live here,” she said with a sense of wonder. She couldn’t wrap her head around what could be so great about this place.

“Maybe they just don’t have anywhere to go,” Dodger reasoned.

“That’s ridiculous. The world isn’t confined to this one space.”

“That’s true.”

Instead of chancing the trip along the dock, Dot deemed it safer to go by land. And she didn’t really want to fall into the ocean. In order to walk along the coast, they had to walk out of Whitecrest and circle around. Dot reasoned they should stay close to the border of town because the rest of the area was marshland and she did not want to be stuck out in it. But first, they needed some of their gear. If this was ghost hunting, they needed it.

Heading back to the inn, Dot and Dodger passed equipment back and forth at each other.

“We don’t want anything too heavy.” Dot said, “We just need something to classify the entities so that means the Glasses and meters so we can see if they’re even around.”

Dot gave Dodger a weary gaze as she took spare Glasses from his hand. He had said earlier he reverse engineered them and was able to develop his own AI from what he had learned. There was a reason she had been so adamant on not being a witness to what he was saying. It was rumored that Tony Stark from 616 developed a sophisticated system of his own and much like the entity the government was, fought to acquire said technology. Apparently it wasn’t the first time Stark Tech had been requisitioned. It was a messy battle with the introduction of the 6969 government which was the benefactor of the leftover Dovir technology on the planet. Everyone wanted a piece of Stark’s technology which had utilized Dovir tech in order to create new equipment that aided the production of an upgraded Iron suit. Since the Dovirs had left technology on both worlds, it was more like a custody battle which eventually met a truce in the end. Mr. Stark would develop a blueprint for the governments to use but rumor was that he input a “dumb” AI to replace his sophisticated one: A.R.T.I.I. and he wasn’t budging on releasing specs on upgrading them; he did his part and washed his hands of the rest.

So, the Agency was the first to acquire usage of these A.R.T.I.I. Glasses. Who knew where else they flew to, but Dot’s experience with them had been with the Agency. They were quite useful; an automated system that allowed one to verify whether the entity you were looking at were Human or Supernatural based on previously collected data. That was all they really did, otherwise.

Funnily enough, rumors say that A.R.T.I.I. stands for A Really Tacky Intelligence Inside.

Dot was just worried that if word got out that Dodger was able to upgrade the specs himself, he might be in serious trouble. It was unclear which kind, too. They might arrest him and force him into giving up his own secrets or worse, what if Tony Stark finds out? Dot was tempted to ask for certain about D.A.D. but Dodger had moved on, explaining the camcorder functions to Armand.

“Armand’s going to be our camera guy?” Dot asked with a grin. She was clipping a taser to her thigh. The Agency’s lower level entry Agents didn’t use guns and she implemented the feature feeling guns were too much for her to use. If anything, she’s always felt more at home with a stun baton in her hands. If she needed anything for range, she had her taser gun and that was as close as she was getting. Besides, bullets didn’t harm ghosts. And she didn’t like shooting Supernaturals anyway; tasers did just as much damage overloading ghost energy or stopping a Bigfoot in its tracks based on the voltage. She often found she didn’t have to use these items, though. But Dodger insisted on taking them especially for her safety.

“I had entertained the idea,” Dodger admitted. “I’m giving him the easier ones. I’ll keep the Go Pro for myself.”

“Ah, of course.” Dot laughed. “I don’t even use the Go Pro.”

“You could. I could teach you, too.”

“I’m fine sharing the one Armand’s going to use,” Dot winked. Armand smiled and Dodger shook his head, his own good-natured smile beginning to take form before he got into serious mode. He patiently explained to Armand about the features of the camcorder he was entrusting in his hands. Armand was a fast learner and before Dot realized it, they were ready to hit the shore.

Leaving the inn behind, Dot lead the group to their planned trek out near the town’s border, walking along it and careful not to step into anything that could impede their progress.

Soon, their boots began to hit some solid ground more frequently than wading around in straight water. The coast was in their sight and the horizon of the ocean greeted them, sun shining brightly overhead. Dot had forgotten it was midday. It was like a new world out here. Dot continued to lead the group in silence, everyone concentrating on their footsteps and making sure they didn’t trip over any exposed roots or fallen logs and rocks.

Armand surprised them by breaking the silence with asking, “Do you think it was important that Doctor Strange solve this case?”

Dot and Dodger looked at each other as he was helping her over a large log. Dot had the thought before but now that Armand had said it, it was a good opportunity to reflect on it as a team.

“I’ve had the same thought,” Dodger admitted.

“Me, too.” Dot chirped in. “It’s a case the Agency could solve, no problem, so I wonder why the Agency didn’t get the call but Stephen did.”

“There has to be more beneath the surface,” Dodger said with certainty.

“Perhaps,” Dot said with a thoughtful tone. All it did was tell them to keep their guard up and as the saying goes, nothing is what it seems. Dot caught the sight of a mast poking out the mess of trees that blended in along the coast. “I think I see it.” she announced.

Surely enough, the Ocean Spray was drudged up on the coast. The mast Dot had seen had once held beautiful sails but they looked as ratty as ancient curtains, eating by very large moths. A shadow of its former self, it seemed cast in a constant state of shade. It lent the affect that the place was as dreary as it looked in solitude against a lively vibrant ocean. Waves were brushing up against its faded and forgotten wood, barnacles attached underneath occasionally peeked into view with the receding waters. Stepping closer to the wreckage filled one with a heavy air of apprehension. It looked older than a year old wreck which set off red flags in Dot’s mind. She was about to comment on it when Armand pointed out towards the horizon.

“There are more ships out there,” he said.

Dot and Dodger followed his gaze. The ocean was calm, its waves the only disturbance against the shoreline even as the scenery of several masts peering out of the water marked them like grave markers. Dot had no doubt underneath the waves rested an ominous ship graveyard.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this place,” Dot couldn’t help but utter. “It’s cold. Feels detached.”

Dot was talking about the emotion behind the wreckage. She could feel that there was a heavy air attached but it was hard to explain. Armand must have thought she meant she was physically cold because he took off his jacket and wrapped it around Dot’s shoulders.

“Oh, no, honey.” Dot laughed, shrugging out of it and wrapping it around his again. Looking at his bare arms really did make her look cold and she worried about it even though she knew logically, he couldn’t feel cold. “I meant, the feeling of the place. It’s a sad place. Definitely haunted like Fitzsimmons said.”

Armand frowned, his delicate brows coming together to complete the expression. His hands came up looking for something to do and landing on the collar of Dot’s jacket. He pulled them together as he asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

“They’re not strong emotions,” Dot smiled, touched at Armand’s worrying. Dodger stepped closer, nudging her to get her attention. She looked up, seeing he had his gaze on the ship.

“We might want to search it before it gets too dark.” He said, hinting at a great fear. Dot’s eyes widened in realization and she nodded with newfound resolve.

“Absolutely.”

The best thing to do was to search where they could on the dry land. Dot didn’t even think about going below the surface. The Ocean Spray was laying half on its side which made the top deck pretty accessible and that was where Dot wanted to search.

“We’re supposed to find somebody named Soppy?” Dodger asked.

Dot laughed, “Soggy.” She corrected.

The trio stopped in their tracks as soon as the air changed. It was Dot who turned around and saw that there was a figure standing behind them, further inland. She cleared her throat and Dodger and Armand’s gazes followed.

“I think we found him.”

“Okay, Armand, record everything from this point forward.” Dodger instructed as they started to walk towards the lone man near the tree line.

Soggy was clearly an apparition. The A.R.T.I.I. system picked up on that much. Not to mention, he was see-through. Faced with ghosts nearly every day for their job, it never got easier seeing one. It was especially jarring when they showed up out of nowhere. Armand was the only exception and even then, he couldn’t really convey what a Ghost was and why they did what they did. Even now as he was recording, Armand didn’t put off the normal appearance of a Ghost.

As they reached him, they could see he looked as weathered and old as Fitzsimmons; he had a long beard and mustache and a wool cap that fit over his head. His straggly hair was grayed and fell over his shoulders like stringy shoelaces. He had the appearance of someone who had lived their entire life on the sea. A rightful ol’ salt dog if Dot had ever saw one. Other than his ghostlike appearance, he didn’t seem threatening. As soon as he was ready, he started to speak.

His voice sounded like he was trapped underwater. But it wasn’t too hard to understand him. If they needed help, A.R.T.I.I. or D.A.D., Dot wasn’t sure at this point, had real-time subtitles scrolling along to guide them.

“Fitzsimmons must have sent ye, hah?”

Dot looked between Dodger and Armand before nodding at the apparition. So, there was some stock to what ol’ Fitzsimmons was saying.

“He told us he’s been hearing the wails of the deceased. Your wails.”

“He should.” Soggy said, thoughtful. Or as much as he could underwater. “The sailors of the Ocean Spray are damned. Damned and cursed to wander the shores in agony.” He sounded irritated, upset. Dot and Dodger exchanged a heavy glance at a certain word but before they can ask him to elaborate, he continued. “Fitzsimmons and his anguish are one in the same as ours. We be tied together; as long as we suffer, ‘ee suffers wi’ us. There canna be no rest for ‘im, not before ye end the sufferin’ of my crewmates.”

Dot swallowed thickly, not liking where this was heading. “…How can we do that?”

Soggy doesn’t answer but instead, disappeared. It left Dot in a stupor before she got irritated herself. “Why do they do that?”

“Because they live a hard life and want to make our lives hard, too?” Dodger suggested. The annoyance was in his tone and Dot laughed at that. “We have no idea how to end the suffering of his crewmates. But I’m not put off to a good purge.” Dodger continued. “Also, Armand, did you happen to get all that?”

Dot shook her head but Armand nodded. Then he asked, “Will the spirits be upset with us?”

“I don’t know how anyone can ever be upset with you,” Dot sighed but answered more seriously. “They’re not upset with us but just upset. They’ve been anchored to this realm for a long time, they’re—” Dot’s eyes widened. “Cursed.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” Dodger sighed, then added, “And it suddenly becomes clear why Stephen Strange was enlisted.”

“That’s…” Dot was at a loss for words. “Not even the Agency messes with Cursed items. I thought there was a special department for that.”

“There was a rumored special department for that.”

Dot worried on her bottom lip, looking lost. Dodger had pretty much taken the same expression, looking pensive and dark. Armand was the only one who didn’t understand.

“What’s wrong?”

Looking up, Dot explained, “Curses are bad news. They’re powerful because it can come to harm anyone indiscriminately. They can be triggered by anything, cast by anyone, and can be absolutely devastating. Curses are classified as unknown power with an even bigger unknown power set and aren’t dealt with in the Agency because they weren’t equipped to handle them. They didn’t even have a place to put Curses even if they could because then, the Curse would be attached to that area. I don’t know if the Agency did have a department that handled Curses but I know they didn’t handle them at all in the main office. If they popped up, they were never heard from again. I thought they got thrown out, something like, tough ass shit. We can’t do anything about it. And that was that. But apparently, I guess they were handed to Stephen or perhaps other Supers that had more knowledge and a way to deal with the Occult than we did.”

“You have to remember that the Agency is a fairly new organization and so is the fragile peace between the Humans and Supernaturals,” Dodger added. Then he sounded thoughtful, “It makes sense, though. A Sorcerer would be equipped to handle Curses especially if he had somewhere to put the items or a way to break them.”

“Are Curses items?” Armand asked.

“Usually. They need the items to be wished upon. Sort of like how Poltergeists need anchors like items or people to draw their power from. How Ghosts are attached to a place or item or a person to exist—basically, I’d say half of Supernatural aspects all revolve around objects. But a more powerful entity or Curse do not need items. That’s how you know shit is fucked. It’s nearly impossible to get rid of them unless you can purge the entity itself—but Curses are different. They aren’t entities. They’re wishes and you can’t purge something without a form.”

“The area becomes a Black Site. Nothing’s able to grow on the land and misfortune follows its inhabitants.” Dodger interjected, turning to Armand to further explain. “It could cause people to commit suicide, hear voices to drive them to do heinous things, or anything else to carry out its will.”

“Curses sound like serious business,” Armand stated, looking out towards the shipwreck. “If these sailors are Cursed, how do you expect to help them?”

Dot took in a deep breath. How indeed? She knew she promised Stephen that they’d accomplish what the Agency couldn’t do. Curses are a big deal but she didn’t want to go back on her word. She couldn’t imagine seeing the disappointed look on Stephen’s face when they have to report that they’ve failed.

She made up her mind.

“First, we’re going to have to find that item.”

Her resolve caused both Armand and Dodger to look at her; Armand even lowered the camera a little, peering out of the side. They were searching her expression. By now, they knew the dangers of Curses as well as Dot knew them herself. But she figured if they were careful, didn’t act like fools, they could come out of this thing on top.

“Alright, I’m in.” Dodger said, earning a grateful look from Dot.

Armand was also nodding along, looking as always, willing to help. He even lifted the camcorder higher as to emphasize his point. “Me, too!” He said, “I’m a Ghost, so I don’t think it should be hard for me to get out of sticky situations.” He paused and looked at Dodger, “Did I use that right?”

“Yes. You’re learning.”

“Ghost or not, we don’t want to put you in any danger, either.” Dot argued. “Just because you can go through objects doesn’t mean you’re entirely invincible. We still don’t know what can and cannot hurt you. This Curse might be even more dangerous to you because you’re …” Dot trailed off, not wanting to bluntly say Armand was dead. He seemed to understand though.

“Then I’ll be careful,” he said with a warm smile on his face.

The group now had the spooky task of searching the wreckage with the fact of ghosts looming over their heads. Dot didn’t want to think about it as Dodger pulled her up after climbing up to the top of the deck. He lifted her with ease and it never failed to surprise Dot when he did; where did he get his freakishly strong strength from? Armand was next and when the three of them took the time to realize where they were, it was time to put their serious faces on.

Dot looked out towards the horizon, the sun still shining brightly overhead. Dodger followed her gaze then met her eyes. “It’s still hours before dusk. We’ll be long gone before then.”

Dot half-smiled, grateful for the reassurance.

“You can stay above while I check further down if it makes you feel better.”

Dot shook her head, “I’m okay. As long as we’re not going in the water, I’ll be fine.”

Armand looked over, wondering what they were talking about. Dot explained.

“I have a fear of dark water. Like I said before, as long as my head is above or I can see the ground in a body of water, I’ll be fine.” Armand nodded, giving her a sympathetic expression.

“I’ll be with you.”

Dot smiled. “Thanks.”

True to Armand’s word, he stayed with her. Dodger took the lower quarters while Dot stayed one floor below the top deck. There were plenty of places to look around on top and Armand stayed by her side throughout the search while making sure to film for their records. The sentiment was doubly sweet as she soon discovered that the sailors were finally making their appearance. Since the only light provided was the sun and the ship barely had any windows or cracks for sunlight to filter through, Dot had to rely on the sweeping beam of her flashlight to help her search. She’s been in spooky and dark rooms before but something about a ghost ship filled her with dread. She wasn’t sure whether it was the knowledge of the Cursed item hanging over her head or expecting something to jump out at her which startled her more.

She and Armand were searching a room that looked like it had once held a navigator’s effects. The space wasn’t as cramped as the other rooms, providing a huge oval table in the middle with a tattered map on top. The furniture was old and dusty but that rang the same for the rest of the room, too. Cobwebs strung from various places like Halloween decorations and she decided the scenery wasn’t much different from a haunted house. The only sounds coming from the room were her own breathing and Armand softly shifting paper around on desks. There was plenty of paper in this room, too.

What first got her was when a stack of sheets fell, the familiar sound of a dozen or so sheets falling one after another slowly at first and then outward, like a fan. She jumped, turning around and meant to shine the light on the source but ended up face to face with an apparition that apparently had been standing behind her the entire time. She couldn’t help it, she squealed and swung her flashlight outwards in an arc that sent the apparition dispersing like smoke.

Armand was at her side in seconds, looking around, “What was that?”

“One of the sailors,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath and slow her racing heartbeat. Her Glasses were giving her warnings about the activity level in the room. She slid them up to rest on the top of her head. “God, I hate when they do that!”

From then on, it was always out of the corner of her eye because she had learned not to turn around as fast as she had previously. If they weren’t moving objects in a shockingly short jerk or slamming doors from other rooms, they were whispering at her neck and touching her on the leg, on the shoulder, tugging her hair. It was aggravating but never failed to make her jump a little. She was never prepared for the touching. Eventually, Armand was standing at her back and they seemed to stop.

By then, she realized they had searched everything they could below deck. “Hopefully Dodger is having better luck,” she said, leading to the way to the staircase Dodger had taken below. It was darker down here and she was hesitant on going down. How the fuck was Dodger doing this by himself?

“Not quite,” he said as he emerged from underneath. Dot blinked in surprise as Dodger gestured for her to follow him. With apprehension, she and Armand went further below.

Much like above, there were plenty of rooms that was meant to serve as a trading vessel for a full crew. The galley was down here as was the Captain’s quarters and where the sailors slept. When their feet starting sloshing in water, Dot paused.

“Wh-where are you taking us, Dodge?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. Dot was about to remark about how that wasn’t an answer when she noticed he had stopped leading them and was now staring down at the ground. When she followed his gaze, her chest tightened. There was a little square opening that quite obviously had a ladder going down. It was where the water was coming from. There was another level and it was completely submerged.

“I’m willing to bet it leads to the hull and it was probably where they placed the goods.” Dodger explained. But Dot couldn’t tear her gaze away from the murky depths of the sea below. It was almost black and when she shined her light on it, she could have sworn she saw an eye dart away.

“You are NOT going down there,” Dot protested immediately.

Dodger was already taking off his jacket and boots and handing Armand his Glasses. As he was rolling up his sleeves, he said, “Don’t worry, I won’t be more than five minutes. I can hold my breath for fifteen. I won’t drown.”

“That wasn’t what I was worried about! Didn’t you see that eye!?”

Dodger shined his light on the hole and the trio stood in silence. “I don’t see anything.”

“It was there!”

“Are you sure you didn’t hallucinate it? Your fear of dark water, mingled in with the ghosts of the sailors—”

“I did not imagine it!”

Dodger stared at Dot, weighing her answer. She was emotional, yes, but she was also worried about his safety. The look on her face couldn’t lie to him and he had never known her to. “I believe you,” he said. Dot was relieved. “But I have to check.”

“Dodge—no—!”

Dodger had sat on the edge of the opening and slipped in like he was swallowed by the sea. She could see the beam of his flashlight sweep across from in the little opening before his head broke the water and he quite simply said, “I don’t see anything down here. I’ll be back.”

She couldn’t fight with him if he couldn’t hear her as his head went back under. Dot sighed heavily, like an upset mother, ranting to Armand about how he never listened to her. “He thinks he’s so brave! …I mean, he is but being brave doesn’t mean he’s not being stupid!”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Armand tried to reassure her, “If it makes you feel any better, I can go down there with him.”

Dot gripped Armand’s arm, “No! Him going down there is bad enough. You stay here where I know you’re safe.”

And she sat there, gripping Armand’s arm. When five minutes past, she began to panic.

“He said five minutes. He said five minutes, right?”

“Yes,” Armand agreed, patting Dot’s hand. “do you want me—”

“If you say go down there, I’m going to spank you.”

Armand’s eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut.

Six minutes. Dot knew because she was counting.

Seven.

Eight.

She was contemplating on going herself. Dot broke away from Armand and started to take off her own jacket and propped herself against the wall to start taking off her boots, “I’m going in!”

As soon as she popped her boot off, Dodger emerged. He took a deep gasp for breath, shaking his curls free of excess water and brought his arm up to support himself. “I found it.”

“I hope you’ve found Jesus down there, too,” Dot snapped. “That was nearly ten minutes! What happened to ‘Oh, it’ll just be five minutes, Dot!’ It wasn’t five minutes!”

Dodger looked surprised, “It wasn’t five minutes?” Before Dot could reply, he lugged up with some effort what looked like a medium sized lockbox onto the wooden flooring. Water sloshed off the intricately carved top and rolled down the sides and it shut Dot up. The object was no doubt Cursed. She could immediately feel it.

“It must have been this,” Dodger continued. “I could have sworn I set my timer to go off in five—” Just then, his wrist watch started to beep. “—minutes. See, I must have been stuck in some time-altered space.”

“Good work, Dodge…” Dot murmured. Just being in its presence was uncomfortable never mind what Dodger had been insinuating.

Armand said it in words. “There’s a really unsettling feeling about that thing. It’s really dangerous.”

“I tried to open it but it won’t open. I figured it was safer in the lockbox anyway.”

“Why the fuck would you try to open it?”

Dodger paused. “Hm... you’re right. That wasn’t a really good idea. I wonder if it clouded my judgement, too.”

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Dot sighed. She helped Dodger up and they both took the time to put their clothes back on. Dodger had asked why she had taken her things off but she just gave him a pinch on the cheek. He still had a look of confusion on his face when Dot told him to grab the lockbox and haul ass out of there.

By the time the trio made it back on the shore, the sun was sinking lower. Dot’s eyes widened in realization. “Just how long were we down there?”

“It couldn’t have been for more than an hour,” Dodger said, looking down at his watch. “right?”

Dot didn’t want to admit it but she cast a glance at the box and knew she’d be glad when Stephen came to take it off their hands. If this thing had the ability to mess with their sense of time, who knew what else it could do. Well, besides curse sailors to a horrible afterlife haunting the ship they died in.

“Let’s see if ol’ Soggy is around.”

It sounded like a good suggestion at the time but try as they might, there was just no sign of him. Dot rubbed her head, feeling stumped. “Well, maybe taking this thing out of the ship brought peace to him and the sailors. Let’s see if Fitzsimmons feels any different.”

Armand was turned around, looking back towards the ship catching the two’s attention. The camcorder off and forgotten in his hand.

“What is it, love?”

“I don’t know. It just feels different.”

Dot took a moment to follow Armand’s gaze and understood. The aura surrounding the ship felt lighter. She gave Armand a warm smile, rubbing his back. “Come on, let’s get someplace warm, soon.”

Once more, they made the trek following the town’s border back into the town square. It was unfortunate the town was still submerged. Since Dodger was walking around soaked, supposing it made no difference to him.

“I’m hella surprised Fitzsimmons wasn’t in the place we left him,” Dot said once they got to where they last seen him. His spot was empty, just a lonely looking sandbag wall and no remnants that he had been there before. “but he’d be crazy to stay out here with the sun sinking as fast as it is.”

It was amazing to them how fast night was approaching. Dot was just glad to be out of the vicinity of the ship at this point. She then suggested the tavern, “He might have been allowed to go back in. Let’s see if he’s there and if not, maybe he’s in one of these rowboats.” She joked.

“That, I would not doubt.” Dodger agreed.

The tavern looked to be busy for as busy as it could get with a population of twenty. It was just surprising to Dot that there was a nighttime crowd even in a place like Whitecrest. She had no idea what Dodger experienced but by his expression, he wasn’t surprised. Or impressed.

She went to the first person she saw who happened to be a barkeep and asked, “Do you happen to know if Fitzsimmons is around here somewhere?”

“Fitzsimmons?” The barkeep scrunched his nose, taking on the appearance of a piglet. He looked thoughtful through his confusion as if trying to recall everyone he’s ever met in his life. “There ain’t nobody ‘round ‘ere a-named Fitzsimmons.”

Dot had that same feeling of dread in her stomach and all those little red flags started to appear again. She just knew something weren’t right. But she had to ask. “Are you sure? I mean, he was pretty drunk when we saw him. Must mean he comes in here all the time. Even said he was kicked out—”

“No, ma’am. Ain’t no Fitzsimmons ‘round ‘ere.”

There was something in the barkeep’s tone that convinced Dot that he had been sure. She exchanged glances between Dodger and Armand who looked just as stumped as she did. Dot gestured with her head that they should leave.

On their way out, they were stopped by a man seated near the exit.

“Did ye say Fitzsimmons?”

His gravelly voice caught their attention if not the name. Dot wanted to feel relief but something was telling her not to relax yet. The group quietly sat down at the table, Dodger turning on his Go Pro, determined to catch whatever information they might need to review. But Dot wasn’t focusing on that right now. She was focused on yet another old man.

“That’s right,” she said. “do you know him?”

“I’m a relative.”

Dot’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, great. Okay, well can you tell him—”

“A relative of the man of a man of a man of a man who married his daughter.”

“…Of course.”

“Legend ‘round these parts speak of ol’ Fitzsimmons who died a long, long time ago. He might ‘ave been a townee at one point, but ya gotta check the registry to see for certain. Considerin’ not a lotta people live ‘round here no mo’, the registry gotta be, say, a hunnred years ol’.”

“That’s… fantastic,” Dot sighed, sinking lower in her seat. “Well, can you tell us the rest of this legend?”

The man nodded, “Course. Around the time of the Great War, Whitecrest was a burstlin’ harbor. It didn’t look anythin’ like it does today. It was more advanced, for one. It weren’t flooded. But one thing remains the same, we relied on trade the same way we do today. S’what gives this town its prosperous roots. Well, the Dovirs changed that. Much liken they changed most parts. With the Glassing attempt, the seas changed. The day it happened, the seas were the worst they ‘ave ever been and ain’t nothin’ been like it since. Unfortunately, lots of our ships ne’er came back that day. The closest anyone e’er seen was the wreck off the coast, the Ocean Spray.”

There was a moment of silence before the man said quietly, “I wouldn’t suggest goin’ out there. Especially this late at night. Place is real spooky-haunted.”

There was irony in that statement but unfortunately none of them were energized enough to appreciate it. But apparently he wasn’t done there.

“E’ery so often, people like yourself come ‘round and claim they on an errand or whatnot for Fitzsimmons. Somethin’ about wails and cur-sed objects—" he paused, looking over at Dodger as the Cursed lockbox sat on his lap and he seemed to finally take in the soggy appearance. There was another beat of silence before he finally said, “But that’s jes’ a legend, right?”

No one said anything else. Dot stood up and Dodger and Armand followed. They quietly made their way to the inn. Dodger announced he was going to take a shower and no one blamed him. Dot was next but Armand simply changed out of his clothes and laid on the bed next to Dot.

“Do you think this case was a success?” he innocently asked.

Dot tilted her head back, trying to get a better look at him. It was so sweet of him to ask. She was confused and honestly, terrified of what they went through, but she nodded. “I think so. We retrieved an item that was obviously dangerous. Fitzsimmons and Soggy and this weird town, I’m sure we put a lot of their worries to rest. Some might not even realize it.”

Armand looked happy enough with Dot’s answer, content with everything in his little ghost world. They remained in silence for a while, Dot idly playing with Armand’s hair when Dodger returned. He looked renewed and Dot decided she wanted to wash away the day’s endeavors with a hot shower herself.

“Alright, my turn.” She grinned, grabbing her spare clothes.

“Towels are in there,” Dodger commented as she passed and she gave him a peck on the cheek. The door shut and Dodger started to put away the gear. Armand watched in silence before he asked, “Do you think I’m different from these Ghosts? I know it’s been explained that there are all types of Ghosts but Fitzsimmons and Soggy seemed different from the Ghosts in the ship.”

“You are an entire class of your own, Armand.” Dodger said. It might have sounded like an insult but he meant that with all the compliment he could muster. And Armand certainly took it that way. He smiled.

“I think it’s amazing such a little town like this has such a big legend. What do you think? Do you think we caught all the good stuff with the camera? We certainly have proof we spoke to Soggy but… Fitzsimmons is going to be a little harder to prove, huh? It would certainly help Doctor Strange have a better understanding of our story.”

Dodger looked thoughtful before he picked up the camcorder that Armand had been using the entire day. He hooked it up to his laptop and pretty soon, the entire video was playing on the bigger screen. Armand moved closer to also take a look.

It was obvious Dodger had taught Armand proper. As soon as the camera turned on, Armand’s face was in the screen and he was obviously fumbling with it was Dodger could be heard in the background.

“Okay, Armand, record everything from this point forward.”

Then it cut to black. Armand looked shocked.

“I could have sworn I recorded everything.”

Dodger remained silent, watching the black screen before it flickered to life again. They were walking towards the ship. Scenes jumped from when they were being pulled up to searching around in the cabins. Dot’s jump scares were on camera but other than the trio looking shocked or otherwise frightened, there was nothing to show for it.

Dodger made a noise of disapproval and Armand looked guilty thinking it might have been his fault. “Don’t worry,” Dodger reassured. “this might be a common occurrence if a Curse is involved.” He pulled his camera over and repeated the same process of setting it up on his laptop to watch.

It pretty much recorded the same thing and Armand knew that Dodger wouldn’t have made mistakes. It made him feel a lot better knowing the error wasn’t on his end.

“See,” Dodger stated. “It’s alright. If I had to guess, I assume the Cursed objects prevents being catalogued this way. This is interesting. I’ll have to develop a system that’d allow for its capture.” He started mumbling off things to himself Armand couldn’t even fathom and he had no desire to ask.

Instead, he mused aloud, “Whatever happened is in our memories and experiences now. We’ll have to recite everything to the Doctor.”

“Let’s hope he believes us,” Dodger mused. He had taken out a legal pad and began to write down everything he remembered as it happened. Since the memory was so fresh, he had no problem writing down his accounts and then asking about Armand’s and Dot’s since they were separated.

“We’ll present this as a present to Dot,” Dodger suggested. “she hates the paperwork.”

Armand wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not but coming from Dodger, it might as well have been a serious suggestion.

#{{ original drabbles: spooktober 2019

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