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The hallway seemed to go on forever, stained wallpaper winding on uninterrupted. No doors, River noted. They shivered as a gust of air that felt more like a breath than a breeze blew past them, subtly guiding them further into the darkness. The floor creaked with more of an echo here. River furrowed their brow and crouched, hands gliding along the wood. A few splinters later and they had removed a loose panel, revealing a steep staircase below. Steeling themself, they descended, replacing the panel above them as they went. Leave no trace.

This room was quite the change of pace, wide and open. The PA system of the hallway was replaced with ground to floor speakers in no better condition than their predecessors. It reminded them of the only rave they had ever attended. The lights were stressful and they didn’t like the way a speaker could be taller than a person, but the music had been nice. They gently brushed one of the devices with their fingertips before reeling backward in disgust. The things weren’t just dusty, they were covered in mold. River felt eternally grateful for their gloves as they rubbed the grime off onto a nearby wall, coating the off-white a foreboding, ill pitch.

A speaker on the far end of the room cracked to life, squeaky from the exposed wiring within. The fluctuating tone brought on by the poor sound quality did very little to disguise the distinct voice on the other end. Nightingale. River brought their hands up to cover their ears, ignoring the pitchy greeting levied toward them. They were unsure as to whether the villain’s abilities would work when transferred through a sound system, but they weren’t very keen on finding out right now. They could tell, from the occasional squeak from above, that their unwanted visitor was still talking. Maybe monologing, hopefully not singing. River’s anxiety spiked. With their ears covered, they may not have had to worry about someone singing them to death, but they couldn’t hear anything else either. There could be something in the building with them, in the room with them even, and they wouldn’t know. The low light provided some hiding places, but it could also conceal secrets. Either way, the act of staying so close to the noise, whether protected or not, seemed like less than a good idea.

“OoooooOooOoo!” 

The voice resounding through the speaker let out a cartoonish, ghostly wail. It was loud enough to surpass the barrier of River’s hands. Shit. They turned about the room, eyes landing on a moth-eaten floral couch perched adjacent to the wall. Their thick gloves made it difficult to dig their nails into the old foam, but they managed to carve out two tiny, round pieces, twirling the material around in their fingers before shoving it into their ears. It was gross, but better than walking around as an easy target. They tried not to think of any mold that may have still been lingering on their gloves, if it had mixed with the foam, if it grew further. No. They shook their head. Mold doesn’t grow in people, River didn’t think it could at least. And, even if it did, they had much more immediate problems right now.

If they couldn’t rely on their sense of hearing before, they definitely wouldn't be able to do so now. The smartest decision here was to avoid a direct confrontation if possible. And, oh, how they hoped it was possible. They turned to the staircase to find it gone, replaced by a simple door. River blanched, head on a swivel as they looked around, becoming more desperate with each observation. There had been a staircase, they remembered coming down here, yes, down, from above. But now, there was nothing. They considered climbing a speaker to get up to the ceiling, perhaps attempting to force their way back up. Though, keeping their balance would be difficult and getting so close to one of those things probably wouldn’t have been for the best. They could make their hand into something useful, an axe maybe, but what good would it do if they weren’t at ceiling-height? It would be comforting, maybe, to have a weapon.

Mentally shuffling through their options, River opted to creep out of the room through the new door. Ultimately, staying in the same place was probably not the best idea if they wanted to remain unseen. Stepping out revealed a hallway, this one lined with so many doors that it was impressive how they all managed to fit onto the walls. Their colors and shapes ranged from alluring to entrancing to hideous. One twisted into a shape with enough sides to keep one’s eyes occupied forever. River also found that many of the doors were locked. As much as they wanted to grow frustrated with each room they failed to enter, it was a bit of a comfort to not have to face whatever was behind doors with too-hot handles or rooms where they could swear they saw lights flickering from under the door or doorways that their eyes couldn’t seen to focus on. They eventually reached an unobstructed door. It seemed normal and-no, it was a bit too easy. They waited until the third door they found to be unlocked before entering. The room was dark. River closed the door softly behind them, carefully navigating the room, a task made difficult by the loss of two of their senses. 

The space was piled high with furniture, chairs toppled to the side, cabinets stacked upon armoires, facts River learned as they bumped into wood and linoleum at every turn. There was barely enough room to walk around. It would have been easier if they were something more agile. River closed their eyes, focusing on the movements of a fox or cat. When their eyes opened, nothing had changed. They sighed, resigning themself to hide for now and try to take their adversary by surprise when they faced each other, if they faced each other. There wasn’t much they would be able to do here, not with Nightingale involved. The smartest thing to do would be to make a tactical retreat and alert the Hero Corp down the line. For now, they picked a cabinet stuffed with knitted scarves, heaving themself inside and covering their body with the accessories. It was too warm and too crowded, but it still beat being out in the open. Their timing had been opportune, it seemed, as they witnessed the door to the overstuffed room fling open through a small crack between the cabinet doors. River stiffened, desperately hoping not to jostle the flimsy, tilting wood. Nightingale slithered through the room, their long, dark coat disturbing the thick layer of dust on the floor. Clawed gloves scraped along a crooked, wooden dresser, leaving divots in the matte finish.

They spoke in a sing-song tone, voice distorted by the mechanical mask obscuring everything below their eyes. Though River couldn’t make out the words, they were sure it was some mocking comment or taunt. It was one of the things River hated the most about the villain, the person could not shut up if their life depended on it. Well, that and their habit of domestic terror.

Nightingale’s muted musings led them to stroll around the room. They riffled through every drawer and door they passed, harshly pulling some open and fiddling with others in a painfully slow manner. River flinched as the dancing rhythm of humming reached their ears with clarity. The makeshift earplugs were a bust, crumbling in their ears the moment they were needed most. The hero gathered the dissolving pieces to the best of their abilities, but the notion of shoving the crumbs of foam back into their ears was out of the question. Their adversary’s pace increased as they apparently grew bored with whatever build-up they had planned. River clasped a hand over their mouth. Their breaths came out hard and fast, the band against their wrist poked against their veins with fervor. Hiding wasn’t going to pan out. Even if the pile of cloth fully concealed their body, Nightingale would probably dishevel the fabric right after ripping the closet doors open, tearing into the scarves and River along with them.

Why me?

They tried to suppress the thought from circling in their mind. Villains didn’t need a rhyme or reason, they would do whatever they wanted, with little to no regard for the well-being and sanity of others. But, either way, the question remained: Why would someone expend any resources to lure them into a trap? As much as they longed for heroism, River wasn’t very prolific. They had crossed paths with Nightingale a few times, but never would have dared to engage them in combat. They didn’t make a habit of bringing noise-cancelling headphones on their outings, so it wouldn’t have been much of a fair fight.

Crack! Nightingale opened the drawer to a nearby desk with so much force that it pulled from its track, crashing to the floor without ceremony. River’s chest thundered, heartbeat resembling a hummingbird. They needed to hide better, become something less noticeable. If they were a mouse, a garden snake, a bird. Maybe then they could fly away, make a daring escape, swerving radically so as to not be caught. River felt the beginning of a thrum under their skin, but it was too subtle, useless. The old brass handles in front of them creaked under the pressure of a firm grip. Tap, tap, tap. Someone was taking their time again, enjoying the “hunt” if you could call toying with a cornered animal hunting.

“Boo!”

River shut their eyes tighter than they would have previously thought possible. A surprisingly light whoosh of air brushed over them at the speed at which the cabinet doors had opened. Time paused for a moment, and all they could feel was the scratchy-soft texture of the surrounding scarves encasing them, a comfort compared to the reality they were sure to soon face. A gruff hum echoed through the space, dulled, the sound laced with disappointment. The doors slammed shut with a loud crack that wracked River’s body, heavy footsteps retreating from the room. River reluctantly pried their eyes open in confusion. Confirming their assumptions, Nightingale seemed to have left entirely. If they were playing some kind of trick, it was a rather odd one.

River glanced about the space. Nightingale was absent, but so was the line of light they had caught between the doors previously. They were left in nearly perfect darkness. The hero brought their hands up to find that they were partially obstructed by thick cloth. The thick cloth, the darkness, the volume–it all added up to a conclusion that didn’t quite seem to match. Were they a mouse right now? They brought their hands to their face, it seemed human enough. That was, until they reached their ears, which were round and covered in soft fur. Upon further inspection, they found a long, thin tail protruding from behind them. So they were kind of a mouse. It had serviced them well enough in going unnoticed, but now… Well, what was there to do now? They were sure they wouldn’t be able to calm down enough to shift themself back to normal until they got back home. Home. River thought longingly of their apartment, bed warm and leftovers waiting for them in the fridge. It was almost torture to be away now, after everything that had gone not quite as planned tonight. Unfortunately, getting home now would require them to traverse back through the building. They could only hope that the hallway they had taken previously was still there and that there really was a way out of this place. River quickly dispelled the thought of there being no real exit. After all, Nightingale had been here and they would never have trapped themself inside such a place so easily.

The room remained silent as River listened from their hiding place, glad for the enhanced hearing earned from their partial shift. After a few minutes had passed, they gained the courage to peek out into the room. Nothing but dark, cluttered, space. Climbing down to the floor was no obstacle, the rock wall had always been a favorite of theirs back when they attended training camp. Their boots made impressions on the dusty floor as they crept along. 

River had been exaggerating when they thought of this place as a house of horrors before. It had been creepy earlier, eerie enough to cause anxiousness and, yes, scary at times. But now it was a real nightmare. Every creak and groan loudened by the state of their ears made them jump. Nightingale had probably left by now, bored now that their victim had slipped away. River found less comfort in the thought than they would have hoped. If Nightingale really was gone, then there really could be no way out of here for them. Their internal back and forth did nothing to ease the constant need to look over their shoulder, to duck under whatever furniture was nearby. Maybe their brain had taken on too many mouse-like qualities. Or maybe they were just a coward and it had taken this most recent tryst to reveal their true character.

To say that the building was harder to navigate like this would have been an understatement. River had been too focused on hiding before to properly map out which way they had gone, not that they thought it would have mattered given the fluid qualities of the architecture. Either way, it seemed that their method of winding down the hallways at random had done more to confuse them than it did their pursuer. They sniffed the air, which would have been more useful if not for the thick cloud of humidity that clung to their throat. Suffice to say, they yielded nothing but the faint cloying smell of cigarette smoke. A fit of coughs wracked their lungs, irritated further by the dust. By the time they got out of here they’d need an inhaler and a thorough bath.

A questioning hum rang out, echoing along the infinitely stretching walls. River jumped and scrambled without direction. It could have been from the speakers, but where were the speakers now? The winding shape of the expansive room made it difficult to tell precisely where the sound had come from. They cautiously stepped backward, nearly tripping as they encountered a wall that they could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. Another trick of this absurd place no doubt. River ran a hand along the rough surface, providing the insight that the material next to them was thick leather, rather than wood or plaster.

Shit.

“Oh, hello.” A low voice purred, borderline giddy.

River leapt away, searching in vain for a place to hide in the dark. Wheretogowheretogo? They didn’t have to worry about the specifics of the question for long as they felt the overwhelming presence next to them draw closer. Instincts overrode any need to plan ahead. River bolted, jumping over a gloved hand that threatened to block their path. In a rare instance of luck, the direction they had chosen led to a thick bookshelf with just enough room for them to slip under. Heavy footsteps followed them closely, accompanied by increasingly amused laughter. River felt a brief moment of relief as they ducked under the aged wood, quickly crawling as far away from the edge as possible. A sliver of Nightingale’s face intruded upon their vision as they spun around. Were the mask absent, they were sure they would be greeted with a wide, toothy grin.

“There you are.” Their laughter slowly wound down. “And, oh, look at you.”

The villain’s pupils dilated, appraising them like one would a fine piece of jewelry.  River shivered, pressing themself further into the adjacent wall. They were cornered, they had to admit. The unit went all the way to the floor along its sides, leaving only the front opening clear, the opening that led to Nightingale. They tested the floor below them, dilapidated, but not soft or thin enough for them to break through. The shelf was filled to the brim with books, pages melted together from time and water damage, which would mean tunneling upward would get them nowhere.

Nightingale snapped, drawing River out of their thoughts. “Alright then, come on out.”

“N-no?” River attempted to push themself further into the wall with little success.

“Why not?” Nightingale vocally imitated a pout.

“I’m not-” They remembered their earlier precautions and swiftly raised their hands to cover their ears. “I’m not coming out. You’d kill me.”

“No I won’t, c’mon, I promise.”

The villain's words were muffled, but still discernible if River focused, something they were putting great effort into not doing right now. And so the coaxing went ignored as River pressed harder on their ears. The aspiring hero felt something, a thrumming that pulsed through them. There was singing, or humming, something rhythmic. In a moment, they had brought their hands down and crawled out from under the bookshelf, right into Nightingale’s eager hands. Once their mind had been cleared of the cloying, musical cobwebs, they pushed against the fingers surrounding them to no avail. The grip around them tightened, pinpricks digging into their skin.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Nightingale brought River closer to their face, eyes roaming around their form with unveiled curiosity. “The thing about sound waves is that, it doesn’t matter if you can hear them or not, the vibrations will get to you one way or another. Though, it was a very valiant attempt on your part.”

River’s heart thundered in their chest as Nightingale erupted into another giggling fit. The villain loosened their hold slightly, shifting to stand up. The ascent was far too fast and River pushed the fabric of their mask upward so that it wouldn’t be soiled by the vomit that fell far, far down to the floor. Nightingale didn’t seem to notice, too busy twirling around and muttering to themself. River could only pick up bits and pieces, none of which they were able to put together under the circumstances. Trial period. Full. Partial. Quarters. It all meant nothing as their dizziness increased. 

They had never been known to have a fear of heights, quite the opposite in fact, as they had always enjoyed a good go-round on the Ferris wheel down at the pier. River had always thought it to be peaceful, savoring the stops that left them at the wheel’s highest point, high enough that their troubles couldn’t reach them. When geared up, they voluntarily hopped from roof to roof each night, sometimes in pursuit of justice and sometimes for a workout and sometimes just for fun. But the height they experienced now wasn’t the calm of a Ferris wheel or the rush of night life, it was precarious, vertigo inducing, and most importantly, would likely end in their death by sunrise. 

River stiffened as Nightingale took one of their ears between clawed fingers, toying with the soft cartilage. Months and years of training crumbled like wet paper when pitted against the proverbial freeze response. The pressure was all encompassing, poking and prodding with little care. A corny “spooky sounds” track still played slowly from the torn speakers, causing genuine fear in its listener for the first time in the cassette’s life. The dense sense of stupor that coated the room broke as Nightingale began fiddling with the edge of River’s mask. They yelped and shoved at the finger closest to them which, mercifully, retreated without much fuss. It hadn’t had to though, River noted, dread spreading within their gut. The mask could have been ripped off of them right then and there, but it wasn’t, meaning their torment was to be drawn out. They tightened their fists, resisting the urge to bite at their own hand. The villain went back to twirling River’s tail between their fingers.

“Don’t you want to say anything?” A finger returned to River’s face, tilting their head upward with a deceiving gentleness. “Or cry a bit. You could cry if you wanted. Aren’t you scared?”

Nightingale appeared excited at the thought, eyes excitedly dancing across the face of their quarry. River’s vision stung along the sides, but they refused to let any tears fall, in fact, the forced angling of their head helped to keep their eyes as dry as possible. Their mouth was sandpaper as they spoke.

“I have nothing to say to the likes of you.”

River held their head high, not that they had much of a choice given the way they were positioned. They imagined the scene would have made them look very brave were it to be seen by a bystander, refusing to budge even in their delicate state. The room’s other occupant seemed less than impressed by the display. At this distance, River could see the motion of eyes rolling behind Nightingale’s shades.

“Alright.”

They turned on their heel, passing through a door that River was certain they hadn’t come through before. The walls and floor almost looked alive, meaty and pulsing. The light must have been a warm, comforting yellow at some point, but now a thin sheet turned the entire room a sickly pink. As Nightingale neared the adjacent door, River saw that the walls didn’t look like meat, they were covered in it. An excessive amount of cuts all taped or nailed or stapled to the wall. The nails were rusted, staples bent, and tape yellowed with age, but the meat was fresh, still bloody from its lost life, bits of fur and hide still attached. If their stomach hadn’t been empty, River was sure they would have thrown up again at the sight, at the smell. They gagged and dry heaved until the room was left in the distant past. With a clearer mind, they glanced around to make sense of their changing surroundings. Nightingale hadn’t slowed their pace, now trotting through a room with all of its furniture glued to the ceiling. The pieces were arranged in a circle, all framing a beautiful skylight. The moon was full, painting the space an ethereal blue.

“Where are you taking me?” River found their eyes locked onto the moon. They had been sure that it was still waning the last time they had been outside.

“Ah, ah, ah,” They tutted, “You said you had nothing to say. Remember?”

“But-”

“Shhhh.”

The pad of a finger tapped River’s lips. The gesture came off as more of a smack than a tap given the size difference. They set their jaw and tried, to the best of their abilities, to soften their glare so as to not come across as too hostile, hostile enough to do something about, that was. River paid close attention to the series of hallways and turns and lights until their head hurt, a deep throbbing behind their eyes. It was all too much, a rave of unending sound and sensation. Eventually, the two came to a stop before what appeared to be the door of a safe, tucked into what looked like a walk-in closet. Nightingale curled a hand inward, tucking River against their chest and blocking their sight, muttering about how they “weren't allowed to see this part”. The words did nothing to calm River’s increasingly worsening constitution. Lost in thought, they had forgotten to struggle at the proximity, though they knew at this point that it would have been more performative than anything. Their assailant was quick to take advantage of the lack of resistance, humming as they pressed River closer.

By the time they pulled away, River noted that they were in a cleaner room than all those previous, brighter too, with blinding, sterile lighting. They shivered when they were placed on a long, metal table, nearly tripping over the indent of what looked like claw marks scratched into the surface. Nightingale had already turned around to riffle through a tall, metal filing cabinet, the contents overflowing and spilling loose scraps of torn paper onto the floor. River refused to look down, despite their curiosity, they remained hesitant to see how far “down” really was. Instead, their gaze turned to the clinical counters lining the walls, covered in knickknacks and what appeared to be half-finished science projects, overcrowded with beakers and devices River couldn’t quite determine the purpose of. As they stood stubbornly in place, the grating sound of Nightingale’s search paused.

“Why are you still,” They gestured in River’s direction, “like that?”

“Oh, um.” 

River contemplated whether lying would be worth the trouble it might cause. They had never been the best liar after all. Tap, tap, tap. Nightingale grew impatient in the absence of a response, scratching at the surface beneath their fingers and leaving fresh marks beneath them. River risked a glance upward, wide eyes meeting impassive ones.

“It doesn’t work when I’m not calm, it gets…” They trailed off.

The villain stepped forward, shaded eyes alight with curiosity. They crouched, leveling their head with River’s position. There was no malice in the motion, not that River could detect. By all accounts, they appeared genuinely interested.

“You’re not exactly making it better right now,” River muttered, wrapping their arms around themself in a protective motion.

“Do you think I’m trying to help you?” They made a queer sound that started with a laugh and ended with a breathless sigh. “You are a very optimistic thing, I’ll give you that.”

Expression turning to something more focused, Nightingale rose and turned back toward the row of cabinets, growing more frustrated as they apparently failed to find whatever it was they were looking for. River walked along the edge of the table in an attempt to look over their adversary’s shoulder. The contents of the drawer they now picked through sounded more metallic, almost like glass in its echoing nature. The sudden sound of slamming made River jump backward, away from the table’s edge. Nightingale ran a hand down their face, they let their fingers glide along the sides before landing at the back of their mask. With a click, the piece popped open, falling to the ground in a clatter so loud that River considered for a moment that it may have broken on impact.

They stammered and planted their palms flat over their eyes, hissing. “What are you doing?”

“What?”

“Your mask! Your face! I’m not supposed to-I-I can’t see-”

Nightingale scoffed, “You won’t be telling anyone.”

“You…” They allowed their hands to fall from their face, tilting their head down toward their boots. “You promised you wouldn’t kill me.”

“And you believed me?”

River could hear the smile in their voice, they didn’t need to look up to see it. In fact, they would be perfectly happy never looking up again for the rest of their, probably very short, life. They had spent the entire night contemplating their own demise, but hearing those words from the person intent on causing said demise was something different entirely. The truth was that, yes, they had believed Nightingale. If any emotion could pierce the veil of horror that coated their mind, it would have been anger at themself for being so stupid. While they had been given very little choice in leaving the brief sanctuary that was their hiding place, had they really tried to get away at all once they were caught? 

“Hey, look at me.”

River ignored the request. There was no point in obeying anymore if Nightingale was determined to kill them either way. As they reminisced, they were unsure exactly how they had convinced themself that there was any other way this interaction could have ended. What alternative was there? That a known terrorist would calm them down and help them get their affairs in order? Would they be so kind as to guide River out of the building afterward as well? The very thought was ridiculous. They found a small respite in their use of the silent treatment, a flimsy defiance that only really served to make them feel better, to give them time to come to terms with their impending end. None of the villain’s petty coaxing or pleas for attention would work, they determined.

“River?”

That would work. “How do you know my name?”

They attempted to keep their voice as even as possible, forcing down a higher pitch that threatened to take over were they not vigilant. After a beat of silence, they nearly convinced himself that they must have misheard. That was, before Nightingale responded, practically driving a needle beneath the bed of River’s fingernail with every word. 

“I didn’t. Well, I wasn’t sure before, but I am now.” They smiled, leaning against the table. “You’re decent at covering your tracks, but I’m much better at finding out what I want.”

River shifted uncomfortably, staggering backward. “So you’ve been stalking me?”

“Hardly. I keep tabs on a lot of things around this city.” They picked at the dirt that had accumulated under the sharp ends of their gloves. “To be honest, your identity was more of a footnote if anything. It came in handy though, didn’t it?”

River remained unconvinced. No one would have gone out of their way to lure a “footnote” into some elaborate trap like this, not even someone who does this sort of thing for fun. Bearing that in mind, anyone knowing so much about them, about both their day and nighttime identities, was disconcerting to say the least. River chewed at the knuckle of their glove. The bite would have been enough to break bare skin, but the thick fabric held up just fine.

“There’s no need to be so glum about it. It’s just a name.” They waved a hand dismissively. “Here, you can call me-”

“No!” River protested, “No, don’t tell me!” 

They brought their hands to their ears, a motion they were becoming very familiar with tonight. Being able to identify Nightingale’s face was damning enough, having a name to go along with it would turn them into the worst sort of loose end. Nightingale brought both of their hands down to the table, pinching each of Rivers' arms between two fingers, one hand per arm. Slowly, movement more indulgent than gentle, River’s arms were pulled downward. Shaken and struggling, their pupils shrunk as a languid word wormed its way into their ears. Worse than a word, a name.

“Marlowe Durand.”

“I-” River’s breath caught in their throat, they turned away as much as their position would allow. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe.” They let their head lull from left to right as they spoke. “Now, say it back. I wouldn’t want to hear that your ears stopped working again.”

A smile eagerly spread across their lips as their eyes glued onto River, expectant.

“I’m not repeating-” River gasped as the loose pressure on their wrists increased, not enough to break the bones, but enough to make the threat clear, to bruise. “M-Marlowe Durand.”

“Very good,” They praised as they released the arms in their grip. “Now, I want you to call me that whenever we’re alone, alright?”

“Yeah…”

Agreement felt bitter on River’s tongue and the added comment made the squirm. With that issue apparently out of the way, Marlowe slammed a thick file folder onto the table, making River leap backward in alarm. Surprisingly, this tome lacked the old, dusty quality of so many of the items in this place. Marlowe, flipped the cover open, tapping a polka dot pen against the pale paper. River held a hand to their nose to stop themself from sneezing at the shifting of dust in the room. It was odd. This space seemed to be much cleaner than the rest of the building, yet their allergies were acting up more than ever.

“Do you find yourself getting stuck like this often?” Marlowe cocked their head to the side, eyes still on the blank paper below them.

“Not really,” River rubbed the back of their neck, “I don’t usually shift when my heart rate is too high or if I’m too stressed.”

“So you can still perform under stress, you’re just not very good at it?” 

They didn’t appreciate the line of questioning, but saw little point in withholding answers now. Something about nearly having both of their arms broken had taken a good bit of the fight out of them. Though, it still felt as if Marlowe were dodging something, a question they were biding their time in order to get to.

“Have you tried practicing? When you’re panicked, I mean.”

“What do you want from me?” River asked, breathless, “ I don’t see what you think you’ll get out of interrogating-”

“I’d say it's more of an interview.”

The tension left River’s body, replaced by mutable confusion. 

“I’ll be frank with you.” Marlowe clasped their hands together, fingers intertwining. “I’ve been in the market for a...helper, of sorts, for a while now and I believe you would be a wonderful candidate.”

“Wh-No!” River stammered, defiance reignited at the very notion, “No, I’m not going to-I’m not like you-I-”

Marlowe sucked a breath in through their teeth, lightly picked at the skin of their neck. This hadn’t been the only time, River noted as their gaze caught on the healed scarring visible beneath the dark turtleneck.

“I do hate to phrase it like this, but I’m not really asking you.” They curled their hands behind River, creating a wall that slowly pulled them closer as they spoke. “I’m going to run some tests and you are going to cooperate or, well-”

Fingers tugged at River’s collar, too rough and too loose, until they were suspended in the air. A glance downward revealed a beaker positioned below, filled with a bright, boiling solution. If the drop didn’t kill them, whatever was cooking in there would likely make them wish it had.

“Okay-Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it!” The words couldn’t leave their mouth fast enough.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” 

Marlowe crooned, their arm relaxing. Relaxing too much in fact. River’s stomach sunk as they felt their body pitch downward, now without an anchor to prevent gravity from taking its toll. They didn’t have time to scream as they fell and, though they wanted more than anything to shut their eyes to obscure the sight, they found their eyelids pinned open, unable to find anything but the hot, golden liquid below. A sudden jolt and ache along their leg informed River that they had landed, in a palm no less. Their own attempts to breathe again mixed with the hacking laughter of their tormentor, forming the worst kind of music they had ever heard.

“Whoopsie.” Fingers curled back around River’s body, now made both more and less comfortable by the absence of gloves. “I can just be so careless sometimes.”

Marlowe turned back toward the center of the room, blocking River’s view of the beaker. They cast their gaze downward to see their hands trembling, a tremor that stubbornly persisted no matter how desperately they tried to still themself. The fingers of their right hand clumsily danced along their left wrist. They were unsure as to precisely when the band around it had stopped working, but their overactive heart had apparently overloaded the poor thing at some point, they noted, shakily cradling the unmoving metal. The, much larger, hand around them tensed.

“Ah, shit.” Marlowe locked their eyes on the cat clock positioned near the door. “You weren’t meant to take this long.”

River was hastily deposited back on the table as Marlowe began gathering their things. Clothes, more specifically, as they left the various items they had handled strewn out on the floor and on the countertops. Despite the circumstances, the sight still irked River. They chose to turn their gaze to the clock instead, tracking the disjointed back and forth movement of its eyes and tail.

“I’ll be back in…” Marlowe considered their words. “I’ll be back at some point before you starve to death. Don’t worry.”

“Wait!” Whatever they were planning on going out to do probably wasn’t something good. “I think I just need a better explanation of our, um, arrangement. If you could give me a run-down with a bit more detail-”

“Aw, of course.” They smiled, pulling a wool coat over their shoulders. “Later.”

Marlowe patted their pockets, taking stock as they glanced around the room. Seemingly satisfied, they shrugged their shoulders and turned for the carved doorway, walking into the impossibly dark depths beyond.

“Oh! And I wouldn’t try going anywhere if I were you!” Marlowe shouted from the hallway. “You got pretty lucky with navigating earlier, but I wouldn’t bet on it going well for you a second time!”

River didn’t hear a door slam, but the sound of footsteps cut off abruptly, not with a steady retreat. They looked around the room. Being unrestrained, they could move about if they wanted, though getting down from the table without shifting would likely be impossible. There was a swivel stool close enough, but jumping down to it could end badly enough without considering the fact that they would then have to make it to the floor somehow. And the floor… River looked closely at it for the first time. Despite the skeleton of the room being clean and sterile, like a doctor’s office, everything in the room sported thin veins of vines, teal and spiraling. The harsh light swinging above must have been a UV lamp given the liveliness of the plants. No matter how many times River rounded the table, they failed to find a source from which the unsettling plants had sprouted. 

River sat, resigning themself for the moment. Right now, they couldn't worry about Marlowe, or the room, or whatever was going on right now. They just needed to relax. The, now defunct, band around their wrist had been poking them so insistently that night that they were sure it had left an angry mark. Breathe in, breathe out. Without an immediate threat to throw them off, their breathing steadied and a familiar energy beneath their skin found itself unblocked. When they opened their eyes, they found themself at a much higher vantage point, legs swinging off of the table. River released a breath they had unintentionally been holding, inspecting themself to ensure that everything was in its proper shape and place. Normal ears, normal face, no tail. The moment of relief was short-lived. Unfortunately, they needed to follow Nightingale. Whatever they were up to right now, it felt at least partially River’s fault if they didn’t try to do something about it. Determined, they dropped to the floor, yelping as the previously static vines wrapped around their ankles, tripping them. The more they writhed, the more the things tightened. It wasn’t just their ankles anymore, the thin strands latched onto River’s legs, their waist, their arms, their neck. It was hard to breathe.

Okay, think, think…

Think?

They found it harder to keep their thoughts straight the longer the vines tugged at them. It must have been a sort of venom, pollen? The air, sneezing. Were they breathing something in? It wasn’t clear. Nothing was clear now. Their vision darkened and blurred, any sense of urgency dulling as they went limp, falling into a fitful rest.

An added bonus was that the walk to Jamil’s room was a bit shorter. You found your way through the floorboards, tunnels now slightly dusty from unuse, and peeked out from the opening you had made under his bed. It was a perfectly fine tunnel system, letting you out discreetly enough. You peeked out from the shadows to confirm your suspicions that the room was, in fact, empty. To add to your luck, a vial of ink had been left out on the very desk you were planning to climb. It felt karmic that something would come to you so easily now after months of struggles.

The desk was lower to the ground than those in the other dorms, made more for sitting on a cushion than a chair. Normally, you wouldn’t bother using your hook to get to the surface, using a pillow propped against the bed or climbing the bed skirt itself. But it had been a long day, so much walking, and you just wanted to get this part over with. Noting the lack of the usual pillow, you opted to toss your hook up to the desktop. The tool wasn’t anything fancy, just an old fishhook affixed to a piece of string, but it gave you so much more mobility that you couldn’t help but love it. It was a simple throw, one that caught easily. You gave the string a tug, ensuring that it was stable before starting your climb.

You must have done this climb dozens of times before, and maybe it was that familiarity, that confidence, that led to your mistake. You pulled with your arms, bracing your legs against the side of the desk. You had almost made it to the top, opting to hop up once close enough. The jump momentarily dislodged your hook. In a scramble to plant it back down, your arm twisted around the string, gripping at an odd angle. By the time your hook was back in place, you had lost balance, falling backward as the string went taut around your arm. In an effort to correct yourself, you had swung your legs out, circling them around the tether as well. As a result, your legs were now fixed together, with one of your arms hanging freely while the other pressed into you in an awkward position. You were upside down, but any effort to right yourself now only pulled the string tighter around you.

Blood pumped through your ears, impossible to determine whether it quickened from your growing panic or the blood rushing to your head. What to do, what to do?  You couldn’t move all that well, both shoulders stinging from the sudden tug. Maybe you could ease the pressure if you grabbed at the length of rope beneath you with your free hand? But that would only drag you down, not to mention the way any movement you made only seemed to make the situation worse.

The door handle twisted and you froze. One downside to choosing this room was that Jamil had a roommate, one that you knew nothing about. But the footsteps had been light, so much so that you almost hadn’t noticed them in your haze. It had to be Jamil, because if it wasn’t, then- When the door swung open, you closed your eyes, not ready to see whether you were right or wrong. It was silent for a moment and you thought that, perhaps, you hadn’t been noticed, which, at this point, you weren’t sure if that would be a good or bad thing. The door clicked shut.

“Hm, look who’s back.” You nearly sighed in relief hearing Jamil's voice, that was until you opened your eyes to see that passive look on his face. 

He crossed his arms, leaning into the side of his bed frame. He didn’t look mad, per say, but he didn’t exactly look happy to see you either. You had been absent for a few weeks now, not out of any sort of aversion, you had just been busy. This wasn’t the only dorm you had taken up residence in after all, it made sense that you would stay somewhere else when it suited you. The two of you were on good terms the last time you spoke, or you thought you were at least. It could be a bit hard to tell with him sometimes. You ignored the undertone of coldness in his voice, opting to glide through the conversation.

“Hey, Jamil.” You feigned nonchalance the best you could, but you doubted he bought it.

“Hey,” he responded coolly, making no move to come closer.

You held back a wince. The longer you dangled here, the tighter the string pushed into your skin. You counted yourself lucky that it had not wrapped around your neck.

“So…” You hoped he would get the idea and bring a pillow up under you, something to ease the tension coiling around you by the moment.

“So?” He echoed, picking at a nail.

“How have you been?”

“I’m surprised you care,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to pick up. “Fine.”

“That’s good.” You ignored the beginning of the statement, unsure if he meant for you to hear that part.

“So, um.” You tried to gesture vaguely to your situation, pointing with your chin, though you instantly regretted the motion as the jostling made the string dig deeper into your arm.

“So, what?”

A frustrated groan would have escaped you had you not been worried that the expansion of your chest may upset the line even further. He was going to make you explain, or say it outright at the very least. The thought aggravated you to no end, but the growing pain in your lower body pushed you forward.

“Could you-um, y’know?” You didn’t try gesturing again.

“Could I what?” He slid down the side of the bed, sitting on the floor.

The leisure of the action sparked another flame of irritation in you. His roommate could be back at any moment and he didn’t seem concerned at all. Maybe he knew the other student would be out for a while longer. Or maybe he doesn’t care if you get caught.

“G-get me down.”

“What was that?” He leaned his head to rest on the arm propped against the bedside. “You’ll have to speak up a bit.”

“Get. Me. Down.” You spoke as calmly as you could under the circumstances.

“That’s a demanding way to make a request, especially when you’re asking for a favor.”

“Would you please get me down?” Your teeth gritted at the prolonged torment.

“And how do you suppose I do that?”

“Put a pillow under me and then lower it to the floor.”

“All the cushions are in the wash. Someone convinced Kalim that a pillow fort would be a good idea and-” Jamil cut himself off with a huff. “The point is there aren’t any here. Unless you want me to leave and go find one elsewhere.”

You didn’t know how far away “elsewhere” would be or if you were capable of holding out for that long. You glanced downward, or upward considering your current position, building resolve.

“Your hand then.”

“Hm?”

“Just use your hand, lift me up, and untangle this mess-” You stopped to consider your words. “Please.”

“I thought you didn’t like being touched.”

The string dug deep into your skin, threatening to break flesh under the force of gravity. Jamil continued, tone bordering on a rant.

“You were very insistent on that. You called it–what was it? A bastion against your dwindling independence, was it?” You were sure the quote was untrue, you wouldn’t have phrased it like that, but you couldn’t think about that right now with how close everything felt. “ I thought you hated being held, by me at least, you seem perfectly fine with-”

“Sure, yeah, before, but now-” You cut him off as a strained inhale goaded the string tighter around you. “Just help me!”

He hummed, tilting his head as he reached toward you. It was difficult to tell whether he was moving painfully slow or if the agony had clouded your mind. When a thick platform of flesh rose to meet you, relieving the taut pressure, nothing but relief could enter you. Motioning to rise, it was made clear that though one of your arms was free, the rest of your limbs were still tightly bound–though not as uncomfortably as before. Had you not been immobilized, you would have flinched backward as you looked up to see his face far too close for comfort. Grey eyes danced around you, as if your injuries weren’t apparent from a single glance. After what felt like an eternity, he leaned back slightly, sighing.

“How many times have I told you that climbing around with that thing is dangerous? You never listen.” He turned, depositing you on the desk before riffling through the adjacent drawers.

The motion made you feel nauseous, too fast. Gathering your bearings, you made a valiant attempt to scoot away, not entirely sure of your end goal. There was no way you’d be able to get down like this. You had your hook, but no real way to use it or three quarters of your limbs. Pulling at the string would loosen it slightly in one spot while greatly tightening it in another. Ceasing to pull for the sake of your blood flow, you continued to creep away in a manner reminiscent of a caterpillar. You had made it a good distance, a few yards by your scale, when his eyes locked onto your movement. He glanced from where he had left you to where you were now, making a tsk. You curled in on yourself when he reached over, but it wasn’t you that he grabbed, rather, the rope. He gripped the hook between his fingers, tugging it to drag you back into place. The already inflamed lines indented across your skin came alive, burning. He either didn’t or pretended to not hear the pained yelp that escaped you.

Your vision went white. It was hard to tell whether your eyes were open or closed, but you knew that your face was now wet. You wiped the salt from your eyes with your free hand, wincing at the way your shoulder protested the motion. Once your sight returned, you were greeted with a good look at what he had been searching for. Scissors. Silver, sharp, and about twice as long as you are tall.

“Wait! Wait!” You made another attempt to crawl away before he pulled your tether closer once again.

“What? You want to get free, right?”

“Not with scissors! Don’t use scissors, please!”

“So you want me to-” He cut himself off, bringing a hand to his chin, thinking. “Oh. alright.”

He reached for you, an act you hated to say felt like a comfort now, compared to the harshness that would be the string pressing deeper into you. You noticed the corner of his mouth twitch upward slightly when you didn’t flinch away from the touch. One by one, he loosened the knots, bringing a welcomed relief to your aching body. It was an odd mix of comfort and discomfort. The bliss of no longer feeling cord pressed into your skin paired with the uneasiness brought upon by the way his hands worked around you, adjusting your position when needed. It felt like he was taking longer than he should have, but you did need his help right now, so you opted to bite your tongue for the time being.

Once the last of the tangles was righted, he pulled your grapple away, placing it in a drawer along with other miscellaneous supplies. You moved to stretch, quickly bringing your arms back down at the stinging that followed. Suppressing a wince since you knew he was watching, you moved to stand only to fall back down in defeat. Your legs had gone without blood flow for a bit too long it seemed. You massaged them up and down to encourage a swift recovery, ignoring the way it stung whenever your hand would meet one of the red, irritated, lines carved into your skin. A sigh rang out above you.

“You shouldn’t irritate those marks any further.” He swatted at your hands with a pointer finger. “Lay down and elevate your legs.”

He pushed a thick marker toward you, just high enough to act as an elevation point. You listened, leaning backward and propping your legs up.

“There. Not so hard to listen, is it?”

You groaned. Not daring enough to make direct eye contact, you glared at his eyebrows.

“What happened back there isn’t normal for me. It was just back luck.”

“Back luck and poor planning. What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t been here?”

“I would’ve figured it out.” You weren’t so sure of that, but would be damned before you admitted so.

“It didn’t seem so to me.” A wider smile found its way to his face. “I doubt you would have resorted to begging if that were the case.”

“I did not beg!” You piped up, indignant.

“Please, please, just help me,” he poorly mimicked your voice. “Those were your words, were they not?”

“They were not!” In all honesty, you weren’t sure. Pain had hijacked your mind at that point and your memory of the moment was too fast, too slippery.

“You don’t seem so sure,” he remarked mirthfully.

“Whatever, I don’t have to listen to this.” You rolled over to the best of your abilities, which was not much right now. “You do, actually.” He prodded you back around with a finger. “Because you still can’t stand up without hurting yourself, which, may I remind you, was caused by your own reckless actions.”

“It’s not reckless to survive.” You were growing more agitated, shoving the offending digit away with your good arm. “I need to climb to get to anything useful. It’s not like people leave the stuff I need on the ground.”

“Oh? So you only came back to steal again, did you?” He crossed his arms, leaning back from the desk. You thought you might have seen a flash of hurt cross his face, but it was swallowed up by indifference before you could discern it.

“It’s not stealing, it’s-”

“Yes, yes, it’s borrowing, as you’ve said. But I don’t imagine you plan on returning any of the items you borrow.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. Nobody even notices that they’re gone.”

Jamil scoffed, but luckily seemed either unwilling or not in the mood to press the issue further. It seemed like there was something else he wanted to say. He looked over, not quite making eye contact as you refused to meet his eyes. He exhaled pointedly and you braced yourself for whatever we-need-to-talk-esque conversation he may have planned.

You were saved by the sound of the door being unlocked from the outside. Jamil perked up, quickly grabbing you, placing you down into a drawer, and shutting it in one fluid motion. You ignored the pleasant conversation taking place outside of the drawer, rubbing you back at the sudden motion. It had all happened so fast that you hadn’t processed the onset of nausea before vomiting into your satchel. It had been empty, at least. With your hook absent and ink still unobtained. You fastened the bag and rose to look for the aforementioned hook. Your legs still wobbled slightly, but worked well enough to move you from one place to another. After a quick walk of the perimeter, it was clear that he had placed it in a different compartment than the one you were currently within. You kicked a stray bead in frustration, wincing as it bounced off of the wood and right back at your leg. It stung more than it should have, but at least your legs weren’t as numb as before.

You moved to the outer side of the space. There was no conversation to eavesdrop on, but you could tell from the sounds in the room that the other party was still present, either at his bed or desk. You leaned heavily against the wood. Your weight wouldn’t be enough to open your newfound prison, not that it mattered now, you would have to wait for the room’s other occupant to leave or go to sleep. Given how late in the day it now was, the latter seemed more probable a solution. Sighing, you listened to the scratch of a pen on parchment resounding near you. At least someone got to use ink today. 

Leaving the vomit-filled satchel in a corner, you began crafting yourself a temporary resting area. There was a spool of ribbon you worked to fashion into a good enough bed. Looking at it, not soft, but softer than the wood, along with the gentle, repetitive sounds outside, was enough to bring weariness to your body and mind. You plopped down on the relatively plush surface, letting your eyes droop shut before you made contact with the ribbons. If it was going to be a while, you didn’t need to stay alert, in your sore state, for the entire time.