Realistic or Modern ˗ˏˋ TRUST FALL. | ( *starboob & ellarose. )

[ellarose]

"He's something alright." Valentine says, fuming quietly. He's something. "Garrett doesn't know what he's doing. Just ignore him." She paces across the room, the color draining from her cheeks as Miro's words settle-- that he offered to kill them. The implications. It's an everyday practice, to keep herself from exploring a past she doesn't want to relive, but she trips back into the night she wore that bloodstained dress. Sinking to the curb outside in a daze. The moon was so bright that night, shining in a puddle of rainwater on the street. Mist picked her up and then she found herself at Garrett's place a day or two later for breakfast. Everything in between is hazy and unfocused, like motion blurs in photographs.

Valentine can't even remember what she said when she lashed out, but it must've cut him to the core. She must've seemed pitiful enough to convince him to stay, even after his other family left town. To stay and choose to remember her. But don't get it twisted-- she didn't ask him to do that. She's never asked anyone to do that for her.

Acting tough, pushing him away, none of it works. Garrett won't leave Bellwick Springs. Put more on Valentine's shoulders, that's what he did, and now he's going around behind her back to fool himself into thinking he's helpful. Maybe he thinks one grand, heroic gesture will absolve him? Then he can leave without his guilty conscience weighing him down. Not that any of it will matter when his mind is swept clean of her! Damn that man.

"Oh, I'm fine. So fine!" Valentine says, flapping her hand dismissively. She sits on top of the desk next to the pile of stones. "Don't worry about me. You did good. Just focus on holding onto yourself. That's your number one defense against the likes of Hadeon Bellwickson."

Sharona hobbles over and Valentine scoops the chicken up, setting the soft bird on her lap. The comforting bundle of warmth held against her chest draws a yawn out of her.

"Ah, Jiminy. I'm gonna need a coffee before my midnight shift." Valentine gives Sharona one last cuddle before hopping back to her feet, stretching both arms high above her head. It's been a long day and it's about to get longer. "You want anything from the cafe before I head off?"

 

[starboob]

Hold onto yourself. What does it even mean to hold onto oneself?

Miro contemplates this long after Valentine has left the Sleeping Siren; long after the storm cells have cleared, leaving Bellwick surprisingly peaceful. Surprisingly quiet, according to Mrs. Mulberry who checks on them intermittently, like she’s waiting for something to happen; like she has Valentine Thorne on speed dial. (She probably does. They figure that most people in this town must.)

Though the green lightning cleared just an hour ago, they still see the scraggly lines in their vision each time they blink. Maybe it was a trick of their mind, but each crack of thunder sounded like Hadeon’s laugh. Or what they imagine his laugh to sound like. Full, rich, inescapable, and oppressive with its force and tenor.

Despite their best efforts, they fail to go back to sleep. Each time they start to drift off, they hear that oppressive laughter and feel claws rake over their skin, starting them back awake. Sir Chompalot has since moved his little sleeping pile – chewed up beanies – to the windowsill to avoid another disturbance. Sharona is less bothered and takes to nuzzling against their side. ‘What even makes me, me?’ Their fingers wrap around their fish pocket knife, flicking it open and closed as they ponder.

They pull out their phone and scroll through their camera roll as if the answer might be captured in a picture or a screenshot. But all that stares back at them are remnants from before, the very place they are trying to get back to. Guilt twists in their gut as they’re reminded of all their unanswered texts and phone calls, all the worry they’ve caused since venturing out on this path. But it’ll be easier this way.

Or so they’ve been told and maybe they ought to question that voice now that they know who it belongs to. Maybe they ought to tell the local good witch more about their motivations around the Seam and their goals, knowing they might as well be a walking stick of dynamite.

The shadow at the corner of their vision tuts. “You would give up on her just like that, little ripper?”

“She’d understand, if she knew the cost.” Miro picks at their bandages, but tonight they’re scared to see what rests underneath – it’s the same reason they still haven’t changed from their clothes earlier and they’re thankful Valentine was respectable enough to leave them as they were. (Probably didn’t want them getting the wrong idea after their kiss.) “She wouldn’t want any of this.”

Hadeon gives the impression of a shrug. “Perhaps. You can never know for sure.”

꧁ ● ꧂​

Needless to say, Miro does not get much sleep. Between their nightmares and Hadeon’s presence, it makes for a fitful night. When they wake after another meager attempt, it’s the same jerking start. All their limbs thrash in the air, like they're trying to grab onto something after falling off the ledge of a cliff. They gasp, eyes flying open as they sputter and choke for air. Sir Chompalot, sensing danger, jumps from the windowsill onto Miro’s hunched figure, throwing all his weight forward to help. Something thin and papery flaps against the back of their throat. Miro sucks in as much air as they can, coughing as forcefully as possible, pushing out

Two slender green leaves that drift like confetti into their lap. “That’s new…”

꧁ ● ꧂​

When Miro makes it over to their agreed upon meet-up spot – exactly on time, even – the two leaves are shifting around in their pocket, their camera hangs from their neck, and they have two vanilla lattes in hand. They perk upon first sight of the blonde, their steps speeding to a skip. The lattes spill out from the sip top and would have burned them, if Miro still retained any feeling.

They push one cup forward once they’re within arm’s reach, “Got these for us.” For diplomatic reasons, they do not mention the two croissants they had also picked up and squished upon tripping over Holly Pinkett’s bike as they were leaving the cafe. (The paper girl was not amused.) How they managed to save the coffees is a miracle that they choose not to question.

Regardless, they have an offering and small token of thanks to present to the local good witch. “Heard there were some vampiric spiders you had to deal with last night? How was that?” They also heard about some unidentified flying shapes, though they aren’t sure how to address that story from the Bellwick Times. “Also, totally random, but how normal would you say it is to cough up leaves? Especially if your last salad was about three to seven business years ago?"

 

[ellarose]

"I trapped them in a jar." Valentine says with a sunny little shrug, opting not to beguile them with the intensive ritual it took to get them into said jar. She snaps for a napkin, cleaning the spilled coffee from Miro's hands and the lips of the cups in a smooth and practiced motion. After banishing the soiled napkin, she accepts the latte from Miro. "They were pretty cute, actually, but I fed 'em to the chickens. Last thing this town needs is an infestation of bloodsucking spiders."

Whew. Valentine takes a long, long damn sip of that latte. It scorches all the way down her throat. Yep, that's the stuff. The warmth is comforting on a chilly morning like this. She almost gulps the whole entire cup down in one go, but stops herself before she can. Licking her lips, she takes a deep breath and nods at the cup in her hands. There's a red smudge from her lipstick on the rim.

"Thanks." Between the usual midnight witchings and everything else, Valentine Thorne is running on fumes. She got home around three that morning and practically spent the rest of it tearing Gran's old library apart, searching for old letters or journals that might have mentioned the name Hadeon Bellwickson. She squeezed in maybe an hour of sleep before remembering the demon possession care package she meant to organize for Miro. And now... they're coughing up plants?

"Huh. Sounds about as normal as a cabbage coughing up a baby." Valentine says, crossing her arms. Realizing this reference may be lost on an out-of-towner, she continues. "We're in Bellwick Springs. It's rare, admittedly, but it happens." She gestures for them to follow her to the nearby picnic tables so they can sit. Setting her coffee off to the side, she snaps for her tome and diligently flips to her extensive plant section.

"Hanahaki disease. Ever heard of it?" Valentine says, pointing to the illustration of a person with a stream of wisteria spilling from their mouth. "A person afflicted with this disease coughs up the flowers growing in their lungs. It starts with leaves, petals, until the person is hacking up a whole garden of them. The cause is unrequited love." She bites her lip, her gaze flitting briefly to Miro for their reaction. "I couldn't say whether or not this relates to anything you're going through. After all, you were coughing up something more like ink yesterday."

Shoot! Valentine still has to study the swab she took of that gunk. Later. If there's time. She snaps for her notepad, scribbling it in bold letters to ensure she remembers. For now, all she's got are Gran's coded hints pointing towards the founder's mansion... which they'll be paying a visit as soon as they wrap up here. (As much as she dreads it.) Bellwickson. That name. There's got to be something there.

"Did you bring any of the leaves with you? I might be able to tell you more if I knew what they looked like." Valentine offers, tapping her fingers restlessly against her notebook. "Before we roll out, I have a few more questions to ask." Hopefully by now they've had enough time to process everything-- or, at the very least, to cooperate. As much as she doesn't want to stampede over their fears-- they're extremely valid-- their timeline may not allow her to be too delicate about it. "First of all, have you coughed anything else up? Have you been experiencing any other symptoms I should know about?" She pauses. "...Is there anything else in general that I should know about?"

 

[starboob]

“Unrequited love, huh?” Miro sips the foam off their latte, giving themself a handsome, bubbly mustache. It lasts for about three seconds before they lick it clean and go in for another sip, renewing their mustache. This process repeats until they run out of foam. Truthfully, hanahaki does not sound like what they have. They haven’t crushed on someone since their early twenties and now, at the midpoint, they find it takes more than good looks to capture their heart. “Yeah, no. Doesn’t sound like me. I don’t have love troubles like that.”

Until she mentioned it, they nearly forgot about the sticky black ink that escaped from their mouth after hallucinating a forest of burning fairies. Miro sighs, resting their chin in their palm. With their free hand they fish out the leaves and slap them down on the table. “They kinda look like bay leaves to me. Don’t smell like them though.”

As for Valentine’s other questions, Miro takes their time. They chew on their lip, drum their fingers on the table, and look up at the sky between the branches. “My blood was sticky and tasted bittersweet yesterday evening.” That could have been a trick of Hadeon’s takeover, though they aren’t sure. “I don’t think it’s usually like that – sticky, sure. But this was thicker, like maple syrup. And…” They trail off and wrap their arms around their middle. “There’s something else.

“It’s… Well, remember my not-wish?” Really, it was a plea to a god or gods they don’t believe in. “And how it happened at the reactor site? I dunno if I said that specifically,” they grin, mostly out of habit. “But I was there with someone and, um… They’re in rough shape now.” Miro winces as the smell of burnt flesh comes back to them, fresh as it was that night. They reach for their pocket knife, smoothing over the scales for comfort. “I tore up my throat trying to get help, because I didn’t have service to call an ambulance and I also didn’t want to leave them there all alone.” In hindsight, maybe they should have run to find help, but, then again, they also remember how their limbs all locked into place. Might not have been possible to even if they had had the thought back then. “Then I pleaded for what happened to have not happened and, well, it's blurry after that. But I guess you should know there was someone there with me and it's... It's why I made that wish or whatever." Miro adds in a laugh, mostly for their own sake. It's hollow, though, and without much spirit, unlike their real one. "Sorry. I wasn't maliciously trying to hide stuff. Just hard to talk about. Didn't want to mention it unless I had to."

By this point, their head is fully resting on the table, cushioned only by their mustard beanie. They stare into their lap, at the pocket knife and their shoes. "I was promised a way to get back to before or a version of it." Hadeon explained it wouldn't be the same universe he could get them back to, but he did promise that she would be there. "So I followed all the smoke until it took me here. Paranormal documentary stuff just happened as a result." Miro looks over at Valentine. "He was lying, wasn't he?"

 

[ellarose]

Pomegranate leaves...

Valentine gingerly takes one of the leaves into her hands, thumbing over its light green veins like they're words in a book she's searching for secret meanings in. Hm. The leaf's glossy texture inches her closer to confirming it. They're just like the leaves surrounding the pomegranates on her trees-- the mysterious pomegranates that grew right after Miro Syke came to town. If that wasn't enough, they saw pomegranates in the field of prophecies the day before. It must be connected.

Pomegranates have as many meanings as they have seeds. They can embody life, fertility, resurrection. Eternal life. (They feel no pain. They heal quickly.) Blood. (Miro mentions their blood the instant that Valentine thinks it, sending a chill down her spine.) Pomegranates could imply that Miro has one foot stuck in the underworld, if Hadeon Bellwickson is taking inspiration from popular myths with his methods. Before she can relay any of this information, Miro proceeds to tell her something else.

Miro... Valentine is quiet and still through their explanation, unwilling to avert her eyes from them as they share their story with her. Sympathy seizes her heart and sinks it, dread squeezes her throat. When fury flares up in the aftermath, none of it comes for Miro. It's all reserved for Hadeon Bellwickson, that bastard.

"I-- I-- yeah. I think you're right. Hadeon took advantage of your grief." Valentine says, as much as it pains her to confirm that harsh reality. She's unsure if Miro would appreciate her hand over theirs. Especially as they come to the realization that the last person they sought help from in a vulnerable state decided to-- ugh. She understands. Biting her lip, she buries her anxious hands in her lap instead. "I'm sorry, Miro. I really am."

There's no way back. None that Valentine knows of, anyhow, and she's searched.

Pomegranates.
Resurrection. Eternal life.

"Thank you for telling me." Valentine says, glancing down at the leaf in her hands. She twirls the stem and watches it spin like a ballerina, contemplating the meaning of pomegranates all over again alongside the context Miro offered up. "I know I can be... pushy. I'm just trying to get a clearer picture of what's happening to you. It's impossible to solve a puzzle without all of the pieces, you know?" She sighs, "Speculation could lead us down rabbit holes we don't have time to explore. I don't know how much time you have left. I want to help you before..."

Valentine swallows. She can't say it. They're going to be okay. She promised they would be.

"I know it's painful, reliving those memories... but will you give me a timeline of events? Everything you can remember, in order, up until the moment you met me in Bellwick Springs? I won't ask again after this." Valentine says. She snaps for her notebook and adds a slight disclaimer. "...As long as it's not absolutely necessary. And by everything you remember, I don't mean from the moment you were born. Just-- anything that might be relevant to what's happening right now." She recognizes the need to clarify, considering the approach they've taken to other questions of the sort. "Since you've been coughing things up, I'd also like to know if you remember eating or drinking anything strange? Specifically... did you eat any pomegranates that night?" She gestures to the leaves on the table. "I think those are pomegranate leaves."

 

[starboob]

The confirmation of what happened to them isn’t a new weight on their shoulders. Odd as it is to say, they feel lighter knowing that they had been tricked and are now a vessel for a destructive force with duplicitous tendencies and unknown motivations. (Well, they can reasonably guess the demon wants something with the Seam since that’s where he’s been guiding them thus far.)

Miro pushes the rest of their latte towards Valentine, finding it difficult to stomach much with lead taking up so much space in their stomach. Sweat gathers in their palms, soaking into their bandages. They can hear the ticking of an imagined clock, shaving off seconds of the life they’ve known and love. God. Are they going to lose it all trying to get it back?

The pomegranate leaves are the only thing that Miro can bear to look at, boring holes into them like that might change their fortune though they know that’s unlikely. They’ve accepted their fate – not in some hopeless way, but in a way that turns this loss into a sense of calm or peace. They can move forward knowing their fate, knowing that all they do now cannot be a bigger loss than the sale of their body and soul. They can try anything now. There are no redlines anymore.

In that realization, they’re able to straighten their spine and stare boldly ahead. They can only go forward to get to the end.

“Well, I already told you I went to the reactor site after my shift. Met up with a friend.” They lean forward, resting their chin in their palm once more. Their finger idly traces the tattoo behind their ear. “I don’t like going to the old reactor site – not because it’s creepy, but it’s a teenage hangout spot and I’ve got cooler places to hang now. But my friend wanted to go. Rain and lightning wouldn’t stop her.” Miro knows there was a reason for meeting at that site specifically, but the specifics escape them, because they only ever committed to memory that they were going to hang out with their bestie. “Anyway, it’s like I said with the storm and the green lightning.

“I remember seeing devil-like shadows dancing on the walls.” Miro breathes through the memory, clenching their fist over their knee. “I tried to take a picture. My name was called. I turned around. I saw something. Then it’s all burnt flesh after that.” As much as Valentine might want to pry for details, they can’t give any more than they already have. Words would fail and their world would crumble if they attempted it. “My arms, part of my face got burned. Wasn’t as bad as my friend. I collapsed when I saw her. The rest is like I already said.

“I woke up alone and in my own bed, that’s why I thought things had changed and I just had a nightmare. But my messages were blowing up.” They pinch their brow, thinking of the ignored messages waiting for replies. “I guess the reactor site blew up? Caught fire? I dunno. My friends were checking on us and that’s when I figured out things weren’t as I had hoped and I remember feeling compelled to go searching, ‘cause I knew I had seen something and that that something would get me back.”

Those compulsions developed, now that they think about it. It felt natural at the time, but they suppose Hadeon wasn’t always talking to them – even the night they made that wish, they don’t recall a conversation, but that is undoubtedly when they got the idea of the Seam and its promise. Miro scratches their head. “Well, I think that’s how it happened. I do know I skipped town not long after that and went through all the little cities and towns known for being weird – no offense, of course.”

From there, Miro’s account of events are largely insignificant. The emblems they see largely appearing in moments of danger or at random, as with the fairy or even the one that reflected over Holly Pinkett. They talk about their dreams – or rather, the one dream they have had for the past three months. They talk about the various people who helped them hitchhike across the state until they eventually reached Bellwick Springs. “I ate a weird sushi roll at a gas station that set me back a few days, but aside from that… I can’t think of anything else. I honestly didn’t know pomegranates were edible.”

 

[ellarose]

Valentine chews her lower lip as she skims over her notes. Miro's story swims in shadows. They saw something and then everything was on fire. Something brought them back to their room and something compelled them to go back to the reactor site. There are too many unspecific somethings in this narrative for her liking. Still, as promised, she doesn't press any harder. They're the victim here and it's not their fault if they genuinely can't remember anything.

After all, Miro said their memories were fuzzy when they-- when Hadeon-- turned those green flames on her.

Why did Miro and their friend go to the reactor site on a stormy night, which could have been better spent at home dancing with the windows open? They never said. Could Miro have been possessed long before then without knowing it? There's no telling.

If Hadeon already had influence over them at that point, before they made their plea, then perhaps the demon was responsible for bringing his human vessel to the site, then home to rest. (Who else would have taken them home, after all, if their friend was...) Perhaps he was also responsible for luring them back to the reactor site to complete a certain ritual, one which Miro might as well have not have been present for themself. It sounds to Valentine like Miro was a puppet on the demon's strings from the very start, ensnared and helpless to do anything but follow his lead.

"Okay. If that's everything you've got..." Valentine says relentingly, closing her notebook and snapping it away. Before she can get too frustrated, she reminds herself that they know the name of the demon who started all of this. Hadeon Bellwickson. That's an important something with a name-- a concrete lead. "I'll be honest-- it does worry me how little you remember about that night. I wonder if you unknowingly encountered Hadeon Bellwickson before your visit to the reactor site..." They weren't even aware of a demon's presence until yesterday. It may take time, as they continue to process what's happening, for other details to come to light. "If anything stands out in your mind, let me know."

Deciding not to push it any further, Valentine switches gears. Their objective.

"Today we're going to the founder's mansion to search for more clues. The lady of the house is extremely distrusting of newcomers, so you're going to have to sneak in while I distract her at the front door." Valentine confesses with an apologetic shrug. "Don't worry, it's easy. I used to do it all the time. One of my... friends used to live there." Bradley Andrews. There's no need to explain beyond that, is there? "There's a wall of ivy with tons of nifty footholds 'round the back. Just search for an unlocked window and you're in! The floors are extremely creaky, so I recommend going in barefoot. Once you're in, hide behind the curtains next to the housplant." It's one of the best hiding places in the house-- she knows from experience. "I'll catch up with you there. Capiche?"

 

[starboob]

“Capiche,” Miro nods.

While they are desperately curious to learn about Valentine’s days of sneaking around and breaking into her friends’ homes, they refrain from prying as the local good witch is already packing up (blipping things) and ushering them to the next location. It then only takes a few scurrying squirrels and fluttering butterflies for them to forget their wonderings entirely. (For now.)

The founder’s mansion is a lone house that sits along Strawberry Creek. It reminds Miro of the stubborn old Victorian nestled between skyscrapers in Undersky, but only in general aesthetic. This home is encased in meticulously overgrown ivy, like the groundskeeper purposefully lets it cling to the house so long as the ivy is appropriately haunting and doesn't risk the infrastructure. (The care is impressive.) A quick glance might cause an onlooker to think this place has been abandoned, but it’s clear, upon closer inspection, that the opposite is true – it’s quite obviously a well loved home.

Miro whistles lowly once they’re at the property line, ignoring the tired stir within them. At the corner of their vision, three small shadows run through the yard, chasing each other. Gleeful children scream and giggle, their joy sounding as though it’s passing through a glass vase. Miro follows the shadows until they disappear up the steps of the porch. Panning their gaze up, they take in the fine details of the exterior paint through the gaps of ivy; from the white trim with gold accents to the rich selection of eye-catching colors that shouldn’t match and do. The glass windows are all aged with warping and a few smaller port-like windows are made up of stained glass mosaics. It’s like a peacock taking the form of a house.

“Damn,” they whisper. “This place is toight.” Tight.

They give Valentine a two finger salute, crouch down, and press themself low and against the side of the porch steps. The doorbell rings with a chime that scares the crows off the roof. A few seconds pass and once Miro hears the door handle click, they race around the back, straightening out only once they’ve rounded the corner.

Just as Valentine had said, the back is covered with a thick layer of ivy. It’s easy enough for Miro to find the footholds she had mentioned and scaling the building is an uneventful ordeal that is somewhat reminiscent of when they’d sneak into their friends’ apartments via the fire escapes. A few disgruntled spiders crawl up their arms and bite them, though they don’t take note; can’t even feel their eight legs racing over their skin. They push on windows as they pass them, testing each one until they find one that’s been left unlocked. Once they’ve got one, they push it open slowly, careful to keep the noise minimal. As the gap widens, muffled voices stream up from the first floor – one of them Valentine’s and the other sounding like a crotchety old Karen type.

As they maneuver themself through the window, they belatedly remember Valentine’s tip about the creaky floors and haphazardly kick off their shoes before pulling the lower half of their body through the opening. Though pulling is a generous word. Miro more or less – somehow – flops and tumbles through the window, falling into a heap with an unforgivable thump.

They gather themself up without concern, spotting the curtains and the houseplant right next to it and duck for cover. Behind the houseplant. Not the curtains, because they listened to the instructions carefully and remember it being the houseplant. For whatever reason.

Meanwhile, the voices downstairs go quiet.

 

[ellarose]

"It's so nice to see you again, Demelza." Valentine smiles when the door opens. Demelza, the housekeeper, is perpetually unimpressed and has been since they day they met-- back when Valentine was twelve or so. The woman's wrinkled face is statuesque aside from the single eyebrow she raises, comically slow. "Is Mrs. Andrews in the kitchen?"

"Mrs. Andrews?" Demelza says, clutching her broom as if she's deciding whether or not to chase Valentine away with it. Something which has in fact happened before, back when she and her friends were kids. They loved exploring the mansion and all of its secret passageways. Demelza would stalk the halls like a bloodhound, sniffing for mischief, and it quickly became a game to see who could sneak past her. It's fair to say this grouchy reception is well-earned-- Valentine was a particularly meddlesome opponent. "There's no Mrs. Andrews here. You have the wrong house, lass."

"She's expecting me. I sent a pigeon to tell her I was coming by." Valentine says, sugar sweet and not so easily deterred by the old woman's scorn. "I'm not a child anymore, ma'am. I won't cause you any trouble."

...Valentine says as Miro is no doubt climbing the ivy outside, on their way to break in as instructed.

"Hah." Demelza huffs, still unimpressed. Before she can make any accusations, Mrs. Andrews appears from around the corner, wiping floury hands on her floral apron.

"Valentine! There you are darling. It's been far too long. I was just in the kitchen." Mrs. Andrews, meanwhile, is perky as ever and delighted to see Valentine Thorne. "I'm baking cookies shaped like buckets."

"Wonderful to see you, Mrs. Andrews." Valentine says, gracefully maneuvering polite conversation while sneaking Demelza a sly grin. Knew it. "Buckets! How charming."

"They're almost ready. Why don't you wait in the drawing room while I--" THUMP.

The silence stretches on for way too long. Mrs. Andrews wrings her hands anxiously in the folds of her skirt and Valentine takes a sharp breath. (Demelza notices.) Miro Syke.

"I'm actually here to conduct a house inspection." Valentine says, finagling the thump into her story. "I didn't want to worry you, but I heard reports of unidentified flying objects in the neighborhood last night." She intentionally raises her voice a few notches so Miro can hear, "I think it might be flying monkeys again." Monkey noises, Miro. We need monkey noises!

Demelza is deathly afraid of monkeys. It's the only thing Valentine could think of that might dissuade the crotchety old woman from following her upstairs.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Andrews frets, "Not the flying monkeys!"

"Yes." Valentine repeats, trying once again to reach Miro from the lower level, "Flying monkeys."

 

[starboob]

One thing about Miro Syke? They understand the assignment. (Miro Syke understands about 65 percent of all assignments, give or take.) They were born ready for this – years of playground practice under their belt and one short week as a theater kid have taught them everything that they need to know for this role.

Tucking their upper half into their lower half, they roll out from behind the planter, miscalculate their own unfurling and tangle their foot with the curtains. They pull, yank, and twist away from the fabric, subsequently pulling down the curtain rod and knocking over the planter with a satisfying crash. “Fuck. I mean – Oook-oook-eek-aak-eek!”

By no means is their impression perfect – it’s terrible – but they figure that it might sound better muffled through a couple levels of floorboards and Bellwick artifacts. Springing back to their feet, they charge through the hallway on all fours, leaping and jumping as they imagine a monkey, flying or otherwise, might. They bump into paintings, pictures, and portraits; they crash into a suit of armor; stanchions collide with the hardwood as they pull on red rope barriers, dragging them along their monkey madness.

Down below, two older women fret. Their voices dogpile on top of the other’s. One of them breaks down into hysterics while the other sounds as though she’s on her knees bargaining, begging, and pleading. Miro smirks, encouraged by the response, and ups the ante. They skip through the halls and run into any and everything, creating a pleasant cacophony of clangs, clanks, and rips. Everywhere Miro goes, they leave chaos and disarray.

The hallways are long and full of twists and turns, some that go nowhere and others that seem to only leave them going in circles. Windows and hatch doors decorate every surface. Some reveal nothing in particular, like the window that looks into the chimney or the hatch on the floor that only frames a tile mosaic underneath. Others invite them into little hideaways, hidden theaters, or offer viewports into other sections of the home.

This mansion would be the perfect subject for their photography, but Miro doesn’t even think to stop. Their hand lingers idly on their camera, though it’s not long before they find themself wandering through the passageways. The house has swallowed them and they only have one place to go. It takes them down a winding hallway that opens into a large rhombus shaped room full of decaying portraits, save for one that is spot lit and centered on the wall. The ivy from outside of the house seems to have drilled cleanly through the walls to adorn the portrait with its hanging vines.

Miro’s mouth hangs open as they approach the founder’s portrait, a blond haired man with some serious(ly cool) mutton chops. He stares straight ahead, glaring into a brilliant future only he can imagine. He clutches a thick tome to his chest. Miro recognizes him without needing to read the placard. They recognize him as they recognize their own reflection, though Hadeon Bellwickson could not look more different from Miro Syke. "Holy shit. You're the dude."

 

[ellarose]

After nobly promising to take care of the flying monkey situation, Demelza and Mrs. Andrews scurry off like mice to barricade themselves in the kitchen. Valentine takes the stairs two at a time, the way she used to as a kid, and takes in the wreckage at the top.

"Holy mackerel." Valentine says, nodding slowly as she assesses the destruction she orchestrated. "I've no doubt in my mind. This is the work of a bona fide flying monkey." Miro made an excellent flying monkey-- it might just be their calling. They truly committed to the role. Her shoes crunch on broken glass as she follows the path of destruction. Oof. Valentine is going to have to snap-snap-snap around this place 'till it's spick and span.

The people of Bellwick Springs tend to expect Valentine to save the world and tidy it up when she's finished, like she's Mary Poppins or something. If she were a man, this mentality would not exist. She's certain of it. The chickens have been telling her to practice saying no more often-- she's working on it. Since this destruction was of their own making, however, she feels she owes it to poor Mrs. Andrews to take care of this one.

The feeling only deepens when Valentine almost steps on a broken multi-photo frame filled with pictures of Bradley. There's a school picture, the overhead lights emphasizing his perfect hair and pearly white smile. There's another of him and Valentine standing on the porch steps before their freshman homecoming-- which is reminiscent of a stock photo if she's honest. (Just like their relationship. The entirety of it was a performance of the stereotypical couple. The football star and the cheerleader.) There are a few more photos of their entire gang as kids through the years-- hanging out in the house's drawing room with strawberry lemonade and cookies shaped like dust-pans, pitching tents by the lake (a blurry monster hides in the background of this one), and sitting on the pier with ice cream cones. Mrs. Andrews clearly went to the effort of picking out the most 'normal' photos she could find of the lot of them.

Not that Valentine can blame her. Why would Mrs. Andrews want to be reminded of their gang's misadventures when, in a way, they led her son into an early grave?

Guilt has her in a choke hold. She raises the frame and broken glass with the wave of her hand, carefully piecing it back together. Then, delicately, she flips it around so she doesn't have to look at it anymore.

Valentine continues walking down the hallway in search of Miro. She doesn't look back.

"Miro?" The further Valentine walks, the more Mrs. Andrew's influence over the decor slips away, leading into the museum half of the historic mansion, reflecting the eclectic tastes of the rich eccentrics and founders who lived there before her. Where'd they go? There's a whole web of secret passageways-- bookcases that open locked doors, mirrors that conceal forbidden rooms, and there are a number of narrow halls that stretch off into unknown darkness. Miro's trail of broken glass only takes her so far. They must've gotten lost, or maybe...

Valentine sends her consciousness outward, in search of her name on the bloodstained shirt she asked Miro to carry with them. There.

"Oh. This guy." Valentine says when she appears in the hidden room at Miro's side. She remembers stumbling upon this room years ago. Demelza chased her out before she could get a good look at him. Not that she ever felt particularly inclined to get any closer to the portrait than she had to. Her instincts always warned her to stay far away from it, as did the ghosts that used to follow her around. "...He gives me the heebie jeebies." She studies Miro, looking between them and the portrait on the wall. "Did you just chance upon this room or were you led here? Is that--?" Valentine tilts her head towards the portrait, indicating her question without saying anything. Hadeon Bellwickson?

The second the thought clicks, like a key twisting into a lock, the portrait's eyes roll around and snap forward, looking directly at Valentine and Miro. The symbol on the tome in his hands glows and a series of strange green symbols appear on the walls. The room groans and the vines around the portrait writhe around like vipers, growing an abundance of leaves, pomegranates and strange smelling flowers at a rapid pace. Vines slither across the ceiling and towards the entrance, criss-crossing to block it off. A few more branch off and lunge right for them!

 

[starboob]

The vines move like vipers and Miro is stock-still like a mouse in shock.

So it would seem, at least. A wash of calm pours over them. Their fingers lace around Valentine’s wrist, holding her in place should the town hero already be figuring out the calculus to survive. They can trust these vines. Miro doesn’t know how or why, but it’s rooted within them that while the portrait’s eyes might be trying to incinerate them where they stand, the vines are linked to a different struggle.

The green tendrils snap around their wrists like bracelets and yank the pair of them forward, closer to the ire of Hadeon Bellwickson. A hidden latch clicks. The portrait swings open and the vines throw them forward, tossing them into a hidden room. Miro rolls across the floor like a barrel, eventually skidding to a halt in the middle of the room. Valentine bumps into them softly as she rolls to a stop and it takes them a full second before they process her, their cheeks suddenly adopting a suspicious shade of pink when they do. “Ahh, sorry.”

Miro buries their face against the study floor. Then they slowly lift themself to their feet, swiveling to take in the octagonal room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line each wall. They sit mostly empty save for an inch layer of dust, cobwebs, and broken glass. Some of the shelves are broken like they’ve fallen apart with age, while others look as though they were smashed. A long dried streak of blood on the floor, like a body being dragged, leads them up to the desk and scraps of paper. The desk is a heap of splintered wood, looking as though an axe was taken to it. Brittle, ripped apart pages litter the space around it. Some bear scorch marks and reek of leftover lightning. Miro sucks their teeth, quelling the tired stir in their gut. “It’s giving... evil lair.”

It’s familiar, too.

Wind stirs the dust, broken glass, and smattering of pages, kicking them up. If Miro were to close their eyes, they swear they’d be able to hear these walls whispering.

“Stand down, Hadeon. This is where you lose.”

“I know you, Anara. You haven’t the heart to shoot.”

“I already have.”

The wet sound of flesh being torn apart and blood pouring over hardwood roars like the ocean in a shell. The study fills with the scent of blood and pomegranates. Miro shifts, stealing a glance over at Valentine. “You getting all this too?”

 

[ellarose]

Blood.

Coppery and thick, the scent exposes the presence of blood before Valentine can open her eyes. It's as familiar to her as the patchouli aroma clinging to the vintage sweaters hanging in Gran's closet. It shouldn't be, but it is. It is, it is, it is. She clings on for dear life as she awaits the tidal wave of gore that's about to wash over her. So much blood. Too much.

Valentine's memories bear a rose garden of stains, as bloody and tattered as her forget-me-not blue dress. When her eyes flit open, gaze level with the bloodstain on the floor, her breathing shallows. This time she recalls feeling her way around in pitch darkness, her hands sticky with blood, and discovering something on the ground. Unable to see, she had to gingerly trace the flesh-soft folds with her fingertips before she realized she was holding Bradley Andrews's ear in the palm of her hand.

The memory explodes like a gunshot through glass after that.
(And she was the glass, fragile and shattered and razor sharp.)

Pressing her hands flat against the floor before they can tremble as hard as they did that night, Valentine forces a deep breath into her lungs, and holds onto it for ten seconds before letting go. Stand up. She does, rising slowly and gracefully. She holds herself together, holds herself still. Maybe a smidge too still. She's stiff. It's the best she can do for now. Give her ten more seconds.

Valentine cracks her neck and raises her chin, narrowing her eyes to slits as she studies the study. This isn't her first damn rodeo.

Evidently, it wasn't Anara's either. She'd had it with Hadeon Bellwickson and his bullshit by the time she fired her shot.

They were close, once.
The betrayal, that's familiar too.

Tread carefully, love. A voice, softer and closer than the others, brushes against the shell of Valentine's ear. Your ally shares your enemy's ears.

"Yes, I'm certainly getting something." Valentine answers, snapping for a quilted bag. She reaches inside and pulls out two pairs of gloves, tossing one pair to Miro. "We'll need to wear these before we touch anything." She explains as she tugs hers on, playfully doing jazz-hands afterwards to make it seem--oh-- fun? Yeah. Fun! "This is a crime scene, after all." Can't have Hadeon Bellwickson burning evidence, either.

"Reeks in here, doesn't it?" Valentine says conversationally, crinkling her nose as she bends down to inspect the splintered desk, analyzing the pattern and direction of the pieces on the floor. "Let's lickety-split this shit." She lifts one of the pages closest to her, raising her brow at the complex symbols. Half of it is burned away. Burned. Without releasing it, she holds it up for Miro to see. "Miro, can you read any of this? Or does it all just disappear, like my pamphlet and that old newspaper?"

 

[starboob]

Miro rubs circles over their heart, massaging a foreign ache. Over and again a thousand possibilities flit through their mind, filling in the blanks of what happened that night. Hadeon remains quiet and still within the young photographer, yet a restlessness seeps into their joints that they know is not theirs. He doesn’t like being back here.

(Or something doesn’t.)

Part of them wonders what it took for Hadeon and Anara to turn on each other. They wonder what happened to Jareth. And they wonder what hell they’ve gotten themself into by virtue of accident.

Slipping the gloves over their bandages, they crouch around the desk. (“You don’t think this is a bit garish?") Their fingers trace the wood, finding the familiar knots they used to stare into as they contemplated the troubles of the town and its mysterious springs, reminding them of the long nights spent coming up with harebrained schemes to save it all. (Except, of course, Miro Syke has only been in Bellwick Springs for all of three days.)

“I don’t think this place smells at all. It’s the springs. They're fruiting again,” Miro shrugs. Their tone doesn’t betray that the enemy is present among them, nor do their eyes shine with that searing gold. They continue as if nothing they've said is strange, this time looking over at the scrap of paper Valentine holds in front of them. They narrow their eyes. “Those are just emblems.”

They swivel on the balls of their feet, reaching for the nearest scrap of paper. “It’s all just emblems.” They wrinkle their nose, dropping the piece they had been holding to pick up another. “But these ones…” The symbols don’t unscramble or appear to them in any language that they’re familiar with, but there is a familiarity, in a similar way that there is an inexplicable familiarity with the study. “They’re just musings and correspondences. This one is talking about the springs.” All of the important details of the message are lost to ash, making it impossible to know the context of the note. "The one you're holding is a list of names. Town derelicts, actually." Miro rises from their haunches, tapping their chin as they're reminded of they day before. "Huh, maybe I did write the lyrics My Sharona on your demon possession diagnostic exam? Maybe I'm just an emblem natural." Their grin turns mischievous and wry. "Are you jelly, blippers?"

 

[ellarose]

They’re missing every beat. Valentine tallies them, waiting for a gut-punch reaction that never comes. If she’s the one to deliver it, will it wake them up? What does it mean if they already need one? There’s dread in her corpse-stiff limbs, her eyes dark as death, and they ask if she’s jealous. She releases the page and watches it flutter to the floor.

Miro might be smelling springs and seeing emblems, but they’re not seeing what they need to be seeing.

What the hell are you talking about? You’re scaring me, Vincent.

Skeletons rattle in the closet, they’re reaching for the door. The silly nickname is buried in the urgency of twisting the lock to make sure it’s secure. They’re not escaping, not today damn it. She’s not the same person she used to be.

Valentine’s not letting this slide, she'll hold on tighter. She won’t let Miro slip through their own fingers.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Valentine asks, her voice sharp as thorns. She’s not scared this time. (She tells herself she’s not scared.) Her eyes flash like lightening as she raises them to meet theirs. “Do you even hear yourself? Don’t you realize what’s happening?”

The pomegranates shake on their branches. One hits the floor with a thunderous thump. Valentine’s not sure if it’s her or if it’s him. It might be her. It might be something ancient, something that died in this very room.

“Or should I start calling you Mirdeon?”

 

[starboob]

“Valentine?” Their voice cracks, eyes widening as though they’ve been struck by a whip. Miro takes a half-step back from Valentine, rolling and unrolling their fists while their eyes dart around the room. Whichever wall had opened and shown them the entrance to Hadeon’s private study is now closed and crossed over with vines and branches thicker than their arms. Their pulse bangs against their neck, adrenaline rushing through them. Emblems flicker to view, filling the chasm that separates the young photographer from the local good witch. Just one touch – “You’re scaring me. What’s going on here?”

While Valentine Thorne has made it known she does not care for nicknames such as “blip witch,” they reckon her darkened look isn’t because of something so small and silly as “blippers.”

Then she hits them with Mirdeon.

One of the pomegranates shakes itself free of its branch and shatters on the hardwood. Ruby seeds scatter and burst into knots of roots that grow and thicken as they lap over each other to get to Miro. Their thin white tendrils slap through emblems, putting out each one as they pass through until they can reach Miro’s wrists, binding them together. They just let it happen.

Their breath is stuck in their throat. Invisible cotton sucks up all the moisture from their mouth, mind racing to put together what’s already become obvious to Valentine Thorne. “No – No. That’s not who I am. I’m Miro Syke!”

“You belong to me.”

“No,” Miro insists to the voice only they can hear. They raise their bound arms and place them over their head in a paltry attempt to cover their ears. “I’m me and I’m mine.”

The private study rumbles in disagreement. The walls sigh; the floorboards groan. The pomegranate roots react to this, now attaching themselves to the walls and tightening around the floorboards. It does little to stop the walls from cracking or the floorboards ripping free to form sharp, jagged teeth. The air fills with deep laughter, knocking Miro clean off their feet. The jagged teeth, meanwhile, move in towards Valentine, chattering with hunger. "Believe what you will, but you and this morsel are nothing more than fodder in a fight you hardly understand." Three jagged edges race towards the local good witch, aiming for the soft flesh of her belly. "You won't get your freedom like this, Valentine Thorne. But perhaps I can grant you a different exit. What say you, witch of rot?"

 

[ellarose]

Your freedom. Echoes of whispers overlap like the overgrown vines in this room. Valentine stares into the monstrous maw, transfixed as the word takes shape over and over again. Freedom, freedom, freedom.

Valentine remembers the first time she stood at the edge of town. The wind playing with her hair had picked up, threatening to push her over as she reached her hand out and watched the tips of her fingers disappear. She didn't dare go further than that, but every day she tested Bellwick's boundaries in every conceivable direction. She used to swim across the ocean to the point of exhaustion to see how far she could get before her existence was at stake.

As for the results... well, she's still here, isn't she?

Valentine could have simply given up after exhausting all of her options, spiriting herself to the skies beyond Bellwick Springs. So why didn't she? This scoundrel might think himself clever, but he doesn't know her at all.

Hadeon Bellwickson doesn't even have a body of his own and he expects her to think he has something she needs? Hmph. He's the prisoner here, desperately clawing for something he can use to manipulate her with. He's dangling one of her deepest desires in front of her, playing the same tricks he played on Miro Syke.

But how does he know? No one else knows of Valentine's situation, no one except Garrett.

"...Low hanging fruit, Hadeon. I'm no fool. You think I don't see you salivating with desperation?" Valentine says cooly, shaking her foot as a drop of spittle falls onto her shoe, "Admit it, you need us more than we need you." Why else give her the chance to respond? If they were really fodder, he could have killed them already. Could have tried to, anyway. And perhaps he did try to do away with her yesterday, angling those flames at her, but Miro stopped him. His presence is a threat, that much is true, but he's still struggling. "You got yourself into a pickle, didn't you? Now you've gotta rely on a couple'a kids like us..." She laughs, because it is funny when she looks at it that way. "That must be so frustrating for you."

...To be perfectly honest, Valentine's frustrated, too. The fact that he dare use freedom like a weapon against her? Oh... Her light demeanor darkens with the flip of a switch as she focuses her energy on the monstrous mouth's top row of teeth. One by one, they burst from their gums and clatter onto the floor. She stands grim and unfazed as a black, tar-like substance spurts out all over her. "Fight him, Miro. I know you can."

 

[starboob]

Pomegranate seeds fill Miro’s lungs. Each breath is rattled and comes with a complementary spray of seeds that stick to the tar-like blood leaking from the monster’s gums. They cough, choking on air before it can even reach their lungs. The tips of their fingers grate into the floor searching for purchase, but each hacking breath forces them back down.

Ghostly fingers rake over their buzzcut, pulling their head back and leaving their neck exposed. “You cannot resist me, Miro Syke. I own you. That was our deal.”

The young photographer groans, moving their head away from the overwhelming smell of fried meat, of someone fried from the inside. (That’s what it looked like. That’s what she looked like, sizzling and hot to the touch.) “Asshole,” Miro grunts, peeling their eyelids open just a crack to find Valentine. She believes in them. “It was a shitty deal – a deal of rot, if that helps you get it.”

Hadeon’s grip is strong, and it’s slipping. Miro can feel that in his desperation. Their fingers crawl towards their pocket, reaching for their trusted fish knife. They squeeze their fist around it, until their knuckles are white, until they can feel the divet forming in their palm. They cough out another mouthful of seeds. (“Just focus on holding onto yourself.”)

“I’m Miro Syke,” they breathe, struggling to keep their mouth clear. “And I was voted best all-around, three years in a row in high school. You wish you could win that vote, but all you’d get is most likely to be a friggin’ loser when he grows up.”

The hungry teeth still. The walls stop moving. Miro doubts Hadeon is retreating over a sick burn – it’s not even that sick – but something in him is giving. Their lungs clear with each exhale, giving them the strength to rise and retreat towards the local good witch; the battle might have been internal, yet they still feel safer around Valentine Thorne.

“You will not be able to hold me off forever,” Hadeon hisses, though the threat lacks it bite as his power fades. “Rot or not, I will get what is owed.”

Miro grimaces, fighting off the temptation to bury their face in Valentine's shoulder. "He's gone, for now." It brings no relief, not like they would hope, because while he might be gone who's to say when he'll return? Twice in the span of two days he's reached for Miro and once already he's managed to sink them. He's been restless since they entered Bellwick Springs, now that he's closer to the Seam. (Funny how a couple of days ago they were even excited over the prospect of the Seam and the universes it could take them to, like one where –) "He always acts up when his past is brought up. Maybe we should skedaddle before he gets a second wind?"

 

[ellarose]

"Mm." Valentine hums, an answer that neither serves as a definite no or yes, just an indication that she's considering their options. She swipes a hand over her nose, briefly inspecting the gunk that comes away before shaking it away with a sigh. At least she's wearing gloves. Hooray for that. She's still going to require a nice long soak in the bath after this one. There's a second where she stands entirely too still, lost in thought, as if something inside of her has been switched off. Then she shifts. Instead of ruminating on the demon's choice to tempt her with her freedom, she busies herself with list-making.

Lists keep her occupied, looking forward instead of back. When Valentine's life devolves into nothing but chaos, she can scrounge up some semblance of order by arranging that chaos in a numbered list.

"Need to inspect the scene first." Valentine says quietly, kneeling by the bloodstain on the floor. Murmuring some clinical observations under her breath, she scratches notes onto a little pad and snaps for a camera to take photos. After that, she mechanically taps any object that stands out to take back to her own study as evidence. She's quick about it. Bloody scenes like this become quicksand for the mind if she's not quick enough.

When Valentine wraps up, she paces. She's still whispering under her breath, unraveling her list from her mind, not quite present enough in the moment to realize what she's doing. This is where running on fumes and a latte and a half leads. Compile evidence, collect garden shears, see to Miro's escape, clean the hall, attend to Mrs. Andrews and Demelza, bathe, change clothes, prepare lunch for the chickens, study evidence, plan a training regimen, break evidence and training regimen down to present it to Miro Syke in a digestible way and--

It goes on in this vein, it's a few miles long.

Without any fanfare, Valentine snaps back into herself as if nothing happened when she completes her list. She's entirely too unaware of the trance-like state she was just in.

"Sorry to rip the bandaid off the way I did. I didn't mean to scare you." Valentine says, glancing down at Miro's wrists. "Hadeon's sneaky-- I could see him trying to cook you like a frog. Turning up the heat so slowly you don't even realize you're being boiled alive. I thought if you realized how easily he can slip in, maybe it'd help you recognize when something's off in the future." She offers them a small, relieved smile. "Good job fighting him off. You did well."

Valentine flicks a glance to the room's exit, cast in vines, and clicks her tongue. It'd be easy enough for her to snap out of here, but she wouldn't even dream of leaving Miro behind in a place like this. That was Hadeon's mistake, trying to tempt her with her freedom.

"Luckily for us, I know how to tame an unruly garden." Valentine says, snapping for her garden shears. Vines fall away in tune with her rhythmic snipping-- there's a knowing swiftness to the way she carves out their exit. "You know, you might've been onto something with your twenty questions game." Hadeon does a clumsy approximation of Miro now, but he'll learn with practice. It'd be better for her to know more, to sus out when they're not acting like themself. "What's the first thing you want to do after a long day? How do you unwind?"

 

[starboob]

When Valentine Thorne is lost in a world of her own – one full of lists so long they mummify that very world – she is the most relaxed that Miro has ever seen her. Which is not to say she’s relaxed. The threads that stitch her together are still as tightly wound as ever, and yet there is something methodically peaceful in her demeanor as she goes through the endless litany of tasks she must attend to.

Is it always so lonely, being a hero? In comic books and movies, the heroes usually have their crew. Then again, they suppose Peter Parker was alone while it was Spiderman who had all his friends. Neither Valentine Thorne nor the blip witch seem to have friends that aren’t feathered or cryptids.

Miro would like to be that friend – not as a form of charity or pity or anything of that nature. The simple fact is that Valentine Thorne is badass and cool as hell. Who wouldn’t want to be her friend? And who wouldn’t want to help her shoulder the burden of her responsibilities?

But can Miro even promise or commit that kind of support? After all, they have a life back home; friends and family who are worried about them. If Valentine doesn’t want to leave Bellwick Springs, would it be cruel to be temporary?

‘Not in the slightest. We both know the deal.’

“Yeah,” Miro sighs, fidgeting with the end of their shirt. “I’m scared I won’t get there in time.” Hadeon is on the prowl and he’s only growing stronger. It’s only a matter of time before he strikes again; sinks his teeth into Miro and pushes poison through their veins. It’s optimistic, in their opinion, to assume they can keep fending him off – it was a Herculean effort yesterday and today they only got lucky, catching him before he could take over; catching him while he’s still weak from yesterday. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

That seems to be the theme of their life. Never thinking and getting themself into fucky situations. Usually they can weasel their way out – they’re slippery as soap – but this time feels different. Like there’s no getting away or a normal to go back to now that done is done.

“Video games,” they answer, trying to distract themself from their internal woes – though they wear them on their features, plain as day. “Usually. I’ve got a whole set-up in my room back in Undersky and I like the games my friends are into. Means we can play together.” They do wish their friends were into games that aren’t all cottage core life simulators – they’re fun, don’t get it twisted, but Miro only needs one of those to sate their desire for a simpler life. “Photography, too. If it’s not the thing making my day long, of course. I’ll go around on my bike if I want to get shots of ground life. Otherwise I’ll hop between the buslines, starting with the ground ones and then making my way up to the airbuses.

“My favorite is when I can kick back with my friends. I like going over to their places and crashing for a few hours.” Miro smiles, tilting their head back like it might tip them towards those late nights laughing with their friends. “We get up to all sorts of things together – cooking together is a big one." Admittedly, they mostly taste test. "And we’re obsessed with Uno. It gets real cutthroat.” They can still perfectly construct Vega’s look of betrayal when Carter and the rest of the gang kept hitting her with reverses, skips, and draw 4s. It was deserved. She was getting too cocky and unfun. “What ‘bout you, Val? You have any post-midnights rituals? Aside from making lists and survival kits. I'm sure those are fun for a nerd like you."

 

[ellarose]

I color code my sock drawer sometimes.

Valentine submerges herself in the bath, sending a burbling cloud of bubbles to the surface as she releases a groan of agony underwater. Why did she say that? When laid atop the accusations that she enjoys making lists and survival kits, that answer was the cherry on top a certified nerd sundae. She'd only said it because, in her mind, it seemed slightly more interesting than the fact that she makes a beeline for her bed. Now, she realizes, she should have just said that. Sleep is as normal as it gets. There was no need to bring her socks into it!

Then again... Valentine Thorne's mind works in mysterious ways. When she lifts her head above water, she emerges with a crown of foam and an idea.

On a little table beside her bath is a flickering candelabra that lends the entire room a golden, ethereal glow. Its decorative companions are a dainty glass vial of perfume, a pearl necklace draped artistically over a clam, and a heart-shaped box she got from Bradley for her sixteenth birthday. He said it was a jewelry box... but it is, for all intents and purposes, too small to be a jewelry box. It serves no real function besides being shiny and relatively pleasant to look at. Valentine doesn't reach for any of those things. Instead, she reaches for the gift Jovie got her for her sixteenth birthday-- one of her favorite gifts of all time-- a waterproof notebook.

It's fair to say Jovie knew Valentine best of all. Used to, anyway... see, this is why she hates the twenty questions game.

Not the time. Valentine opens her notebook, which she's fought to hold onto all these years by writing smaller and smaller-- writing words small enough to fit thousands of them in that useless heart-shaped box. She squeezes them in previously unused margains to conserve space, writing between the gaps between her lines. Perhaps she could find a suitable replacement, but the thing is... she doesn't want to. She'll protect these trinkets of her past like a dragon in her treasure trove. What else can she do but cling onto the proof that she was known once?

Ouch, right? Ouch! Valentine will do whatever she can so that Miro doesn't end up... like this. Like her. They'll go home to their friends. They'll be okay.

Anyway, enough of that. Back to the point. She goes forth, immortalizing her important idea in writing. Two words. Sock. Puppets. Sock puppets! It'll be perfectly educational! Valentine smiles, having scrubbed any remaining trace of embarrassment away with her genius. This is going to work.

Valentine hurries herself through the motions of her list for the day, her mind swirling with ideas. As she prepares lunch for the chickens, she organizes a lunchbox for Sharona and a message for Miro to be delivered to the Sleeping Siren by dove. 'Meet me on the beach at 1 AM... or else.'

 

[starboob]

Okay, so color coding socks is relaxing. Especially considering that Miro has somehow managed to lose one sock from each pair they own – they swear the dryer is out to get them. With this method, they can at least match like colors and complementary patterns. ‘Score 1 for Thorne.’

It also helps distract them from the demon breathing down their neck.

After they got Valentine’s message – they were quite charmed by the carrier dove – they had committed to going to bed early in anticipation for a long night ahead. (What exactly does the local good witch have in store for them that cannot wait until a decent hour?) But sleep never came. Even with Sharona and Sir Chompalot nestled in the crook of each arm, it never came. They got close and each time, Hadeon’s booming laughter startled them back awake.

“It’s chill. I didn’t like peace anyway.” They shrug, carefully placing their socks back into the dresser. (Mrs. Mulberry suggested they unpack since their stay seems to be longer than just the night they were originally prescribed. Miro suspects it’s to make rifling through their things easier, but they take her suggestion anyway. After living out of their duffle for the last few months, it’s nice to have a place to store their things. It helps them grasp at normalcy.) “Christ, I’m talking to myself like that nerd.”

“Bok!” Sharona indignantly clucks.

“Ah, you’re right. I’m talking to you, of course. And you, too,” they add before Sir Chompalot can start his protests. Miro rubs their palm over the little bear’s head and scratches under Sharona’s chin. “Alright, gotta go meet up with Val. You two will hold down the fort for me, right?”

Their tiny companions nod.

Satisfied, Miro pulls on a red hoodie, layering a denim jacket on top of that, and topping off the look with a black beanie. As they reach for the doorknob, Sharona tugs at the hem of their pants while Sir Chompalot rolls their bandage wraps towards them. “Oh…” Miro stares at their naked hand, criss-crossed and etched with bright red scars. “Right. Thanks, chief.”

꧁ ● ꧂​

Salt air hits them just as they hear the waves crashing on the shore. A brisk breeze cuts into their cheeks and nose, turning both cherry red. They shove their fists deep inside their pockets, pulling their arms together out of habit more than to keep warm. When they spot Valentine, they run towards her, slogging through sand, kicking it up to ensure it gets stuck in their sneakers.

“Val! I’m on time!” They are three minutes and thirty-six seconds late. “Now you’ll have to save your or else for some other bum.” Miro grins, puffing up their chest like that might hide the exhaustion in their eyes. “Whatcha got planned for our blip witch and green wizard duo?”

 

[ellarose]

They're so close. Three minutes and thirty-six seconds away from perfection. Valentine makes a note of it. The cryptic application of 'or else...' almost worked. Her methodology borrows from the likes of cliffhangers and clickbait, where one cultivates enough suspense and intrigue to ensnare their audience's undivided attention. Keep 'em guessing, make them wonder-- or else what? The crowd hangs on every word. It's progress. If Miro Syke requires entertainment and stimulation, then that's what Valentine will provide if it keeps them on schedule.

"No, beanie-boo..." Valentine shakes her head, mercilessly summoning her weapon. Her or else. "You almost made it, but I regret to inform you that you're still late." Ready for it? (It's a nerf gun. She confiscated it from Greer earlier. It's a long story.) She raises it like she's the femme fatale in a mafia movie and promptly shoots Miro with it three times in a row, the soft bullets bouncing harmlessly off of them. One per minute seems fair, doesn't it?

Then again... belatedly, she squints and fires a fourth shot at their chest. The extra thirty-six seconds plus the blip-witch nickname demanded it.

"Them's the breaks." Valentine blows imaginary smoke away from the plastic barrel, her mission complete, and then disappears the nerf gun with a dainty little clap.

Valentine grins at Miro like they're in on the same joke and waves them towards her picnic blanket. Droplets are rolling down her arms and legs like sparkly silver beetles in the moonlight. Judging by the swimsuit she's wearing, it can be seen that she'd been for a midnight swim in the cold shortly before the photographer's arrival. She wrings her soaked hair over her shoulder, towels off, and then tugs an oversized t-shirt on to cover herself up.

"Jimmy won't get here until two." Valentine says, rummaging in her things until she finds what she's looking for. She offers Miro a stunning piece of driftwood. "Until then, we're going to train." With the snap of her fingers, the radio on the picnic blanket starts to play her training montage playlist. (Eye Of The Tiger is first, naturally.) Then she glances between Miro and the piece of driftwood. "And before you ask-- no. That is not a wizard staff. You can pretend it is, if it makes you happy, but it's a normal piece of driftwood."

It does have an eye, though, which glows and blinks occasionally. Curiously, it flashes in time with the beat of the song, like lights at a rave. This is normal in Bellwick Springs.

"You're going to start by writing the word 'fire' in the sand, where the waves meet the shore." Valentine instructs, pointing them towards the sea where the sand is flat and wet. If they go by the logic that they really were writing the lyrics to My Sharona translated in sigils... "We're going to see if you can recreate those emblems you've been seeing." And see what they can do with them. She points to a stack of firewood behind her. "Our ultimate goal is to light a bonfire and roast marshmallows. Got it?"

 

[starboob]

It’s totally a wizard staff. It has a blinking eye. It glows. For what reason would an ordinary piece of driftwood have these defining key characteristics of a wizard staff? (Never mind that this is Bellwick Springs and the trees themselves blink at midnight.) Miro smirks, taking the piece of “driftwood” in their palm, weighing it as if they’re testing the balance of the piece. They give it a few experimental twirls around their wrist before they turn to face the unrelenting sea.

“Who’s Jimothy?” They aren’t sure if Valentine can hear them now that they face the ocean and all their words and thoughts are swallowed by the impossible weight of water colliding with the shore. It’s not an important question anyway, but they smile, warming themself with Vega’s imaginary reaction to the reference. She would have smiled.

Anyway, Miro nods at the instruction. “Yeah, yeah – see if I can make s’more emblems.” They chuckle to themself as they meander closer to the wet, compact sand. The task itself is simple enough. It makes sense. They haven’t been able to read much since arriving in Bellwick and all their written word has come out as emblems. And yet they stand still, idly holding their breath as they flex and unflex their fist around the piece of driftwood.

They release their breadth and drop the end of the stick into the sand. They drag it through the surface, spelling out the four letter word in swirls and slashes. It reads, “fire,” to them and nonsense to anyone else. They wait for something, anything to happen. The word only stares back at them. Fire doesn’t spark. The breeze kicks some of the hilled sand into the trenches of the emblem, and still nothing happens.

Unwilling to give up, especially with an audience present, they try again. And again. After the third attempt fails, they take a step back and observe the three attempts with their fist under their chin. “Hmm.” They hum, combing through their memories to figure out what might be going wrong with their strategy. Miro and the eye on their staff brighten when they’ve got it. In a rush, they tuck the staff under their armpit and then reach for the gauze covering their hand. Duh.

Once they’ve bitten off a corner of the bandage, they get down to their knees and touch sand. Red snaps, crackles, and pops glitter from the emblem then fizzle into the sand. It’s not quite the green show that earned them their original title, but one might be convinced Miro had accomplished starting an inferno with the grin they shoot over their shoulder. “Is this how it felt when you blipped for the first time?”

 

[ellarose]

"Probably not, because I don't blip." Valentine responds dryly, all business as she plants her hands on her hips and assesses the symbols Miro wrote in the sand. Fire equals fire. That's straightforward enough. So what's the difference between this fire and the green variety that Hadeon uses? With a few quick slashes of her pen, she copies the emblems in her notebook before a foamy wave sweeps over their feet, over Miro's writing, effectively erasing and extinguishing the emblems and sparks.

It seems the green flames will require a specific symbol. This is unsurprising. Hellfire, maybe? Seems like Hadeon's aesthetic. (That one may be a smidge dangerous to experiment with, for various reasons. They'll save that one for later, after they've tested Miro's sense of control.) It's an important discovery nonetheless. It offers Miro a means of defending themself from other threats, a way to intentionally use the magic they have at their disposal.

It's no longer Hadeon's choice alone what Miro can and can't set aflame. That's powerful.

"Well, I'll be. This proves that you can summon the element of fire with physical symbols-- not just the phantom ones that Hadeon whips up." Valentine muses, staring down where her feet ought to be, completely submerged in wet sand to the point that it looks as though they've disappeared. She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, watching the sand around them rise and fall like two breathing chests. Then she wriggles them free, kicking chunks of caked sand back into the sea. "Interesting. Very interesting."

Valentine paces in the sand as another wave rushes by, contemplating their next course of action.

"Try writing 'green fire' next, along with some synonyms for fire... words like blaze, flames, et cetera." Valentine suggests, her eyes bright with ideas. "Once those wash away, write air, water and ice. I'd like to see if you can summon any other elements before we move on to marshmallows and bonfires."