Grow a Heart

Maia usually liked to have her cons all planned out, and her last con was planned out perfectly until she was surprised.  When she saw the writing on the wall that final night she had grabbed everything she could and ran.  It wasn’t until she was on the plane to Salem that she felt comfortable enough to look at what exactly her stash was.  Among the treasures were items like coins, money, and some jewelry which Maia knew once she got settled she was going to have to get rid of it somehow. 

So it didn’t take her long to find the local pawn shop and bring her goods in.  Maia didn’t exactly plan on being greeted right away and she immediately tensed up, not usually being the one to flip the objects like this.  She coughed and stepped forward when she realized she was silent a bit too long.  “Yes hello.  I have some jewelry I’m looking to sell.”  Maia paused listening to other things that the shop had to offer.  “Wait you sell other stuff? I just kind of figured it was just jewelry and other things people try to sell for cash.  But do you get like regular shipments of stuff?”

— “Hey, it helps getting some foot traffic into this dusty old place,” she explained. “Setting some of the better looking comics by the window gets people to take a look around.” Scout jerked a calloused thumb in the direction of the long, white cardboard box of comic books she still had to comb through. “Helps to buy stuff in lots -- usually from people who are getting rid of collections, but don’t have the time to price and sell them individually. There’s a few good titles in here that already would recoup the price of the box.”

The brunette wasn’t normally this chatty, but talking about work was easy. Work was so removed from her personal life -- messy as that was, getting herself involved with rogue agents and acting as an informant to the local private investigator -- that she didn’t clam up when prompted to share. “Alright, do you happen to know anything about the jewelry you want to sell?” she asked. Scout stood at the display table, fishing out a velvet placemat so the jewelry wouldn’t scuff the glass. It didn’t matter to her how it’d gotten into Maia’s hands, but a good story always helped boost an object’s price in the shop.

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟐𝟎𝐭𝐡. @salemstart​

Zelma wasn’t yet accustomed to the realm of Salem and its many staggering events fueled by its deeply-rooted folklore, and if this was what they’d encountered upon arriving eight months ago, they might’ve second guessed their natural curiosity concerning the identities of their step-siblings. However, they wouldn’t allow this to deter them in a time where people needed counseling more than anything else. While elevated tensions took place among the compact crowds, the psychiatric assistant swore that they would do their part in keeping the population from falling headlong into the throes of mass hysteria. Parting the dense sea of people that crowded the square, they decided upon centering their attention on those who seemed most urgently vexed in lieu of this tragic happening. 

“… I know this is very distressing,” they began. They couldn’t approach anyone coarsely regarding the incident — unless the conversation veered toward healthy concern, they were determined on straying from overtly nihilistic and dreadful speak regarding the Alimjan sisters. “And panicking is a very natural reaction to something like this, but it won’t do anyone any good in the long run if we don’t try and keep ourselves composed. That way they can be found sooner. No one ever got anywhere good running around like a goose with its feet cut off.” The simile was just off the mark, yet they trusted it could still be understood, mostly because they weren’t aware they’d said it incorrectly. “My name is Zelma Wu. What’s yours?” A soft-spoken, calm introduction would hopefully establish an aura of safety early on.

— “What an astute observation, Captain Obvious,” she replied. “I’m sure nobody here thought of not panicking until you brought it up.” Scout mentally filed the advice underneath ridiculous, but not ill-intentioned and crossed her arms. She couldn’t help but feel some semblance of compassion for them. Spouting advice like that wouldn’t lead to a warm and cuddly reception -- at least, not in a town populated by people who were rough around the edges. Scout herself didn’t make for the most amicable neighbor, but at least she had the heart to not kick too hard when someone was trying their best.

She flicked a fallen eyelash off her lash line. The sucker punch from Francis Russo had entered the later stages of healing, her swollen flesh slimming down and aging into a dusty green with yellow-tinged rings. “Crying about it isn’t going to do any good. But hey, at least they aren’t bottling it up and pretending to be okay,” she said. “And I don’t want to give out my name until I get an idea of what you’re selling.” 

[ tw: mild injury ]

it took a while for riley to realise it was scout looking back at her, and that wasn’t due to the fact they’d only been aquainted a short time. it was due to the blossoming purple bruising that had made it’s home on her face. riley couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath she took when looking at it. she had plenty of bruising in her time ( didn’t bruising and private investigation go hand in hand? ) so she could only guess how scout felt. “at least purple looks good on you,” is all that she could muster to say immediately.

“what arsehole did this?” she asked finally as she grabbed a cocktail shaker and some ingredients. riley wasn’t close enough to scout to care like a friend would, but riley did care for her informants in a professional capacity. she didn’t like them getting hurt or in trouble on her account. of course, sometimes it couldn’t be helped, but it riley could help it, she would. if she found out who had painted scout’s features purple, she’d make a mental note to make their life a little harder. and if they had enough criminality to make a judge curious, she’d send them their way.

she began mixing a drink into the cocktail shaker, adding a little extra into her measures for scout, before she capped it and began shaking. a large coupe glass sat with crushed ice in it, cooling. she put the shaker down, dumped the crushed ice and grabbed a strainer. as the liquid strained into the glass she grabbed two little umbrella’s and once finished, popped them in. “do you need ice?” she asked. not for the drink of course, but scout’s face. “maybe he hit first, and maybe it was self-defense,” riley decided to say. although she held a different set of morals to scout, it didn’t mean she saw in black and white. “it’s on me,” she added in reference to the drink.

[ tw: mild injury ]

— “I wear it better than most,” she said, cracking a sly grin. It wasn’t unusual for the spitfire brunette to fall face-first into a heap of trouble, and on a worse day she may have lamented over the downwards turn her life had taken. Scout used to be a Girl Scout, used to be on a STEM track, used to be the type of bright, young mind that people declared would be going places. The military machine then took that bright girl in, chewed her up, and spat her out. Nowadays, the only places she went was the liquor store nearest to her trailer and the backdoor of Riley’s offices to leave a tip on the neighborhood’s local vandals.

“Look, I don’t know if this case is one you want to crack,” she admitted. “I don’t know all the details, but from what I can see? It’s all too messy, even for me.” Scout paused for a moment, then nodded at the private investigator’s offer for ice. Somehow, her wounded face simultaneously felt both like the consistency of silly putty and shredded meat. She hesitated, unsure of whether or not it were even fair to invite Riley into the mess she’d gotten involved in.

“I can cross sucker punching a special agent off my bucket list,” she said. Scout took a grateful sip of her drink. The fruity concoction didn’t transport her off to the beaches of Cancún like she’d hoped; the tender pain in her face kept her cruelly tethered to reality. “There’s this local veterinarian -- real nice lady, wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she said. “She wasn’t answering my calls, so I went to see if she was alright and helped myself inside. I heard a crash. There was this FBI Agent paying her a visit off the clock, and whatever he said was enough for her to take a Yankee Candle to his head. Would’ve been funny if I wasn’t so worried about her.”

WHO: riley & OPEN WHERE: the coffin club

TW: Drug mention when she was on a roll, with an established name for herself, she could survive alone on private investigating income quite comfortably. but in a new place, only three months in, and still building a reputation, she needed to pad her income with other means. that meant a job. and quite frankly, she usually kept one alongside her main work anyway because where she’d worked her way up, provided the perfect opportunity for information. bars and clubs. she remembered her first job. bussing tables at a bar and diner. that soon led to serving and then a bartender. when she took a spin at a cocktail bar and burlesque club, she got promoted to a shift leader and trained in more managerial roles. her first floor manager role had been in queens at club amadeus. it was here that she’d cottoned onto a prescription drug con which had led to something bigger when investigated. in the end half of a cartel were arrested. 

salem was a new place for her, and when a job at the coffin club came up, she took the leap. why not? it paid well and she was betting a good place for information. of course, this shift, had not been the best. too many of her floor staff had called in sick and she’d been forced to put on the uniform and get behind the bar herself. it was close to the end of her shift, but she was still making drinks. placing down a napkin in front of a newly sat guest, she cocked a hip. 

“what can i get for you?” she asked.

@salemstart​

[ tw: mild injury, violence ]

— “I dunno, how ‘bout something that comes with a little umbrella? I could sure use a pick me up,” she said. The worst of the swelling had come down; it left behind a purple welt around her jawline and angry streaks of burst capillaries. It’d been less of a week since her introduction to the greedy sonofabitch named Francis Russo. Scout slept well knowing that he was out there, still hunting for treasure but looking leagues worse than her. If she’d had her way, however, she would’ve liked to make sure that man ate his breakfast through a straw from that point onward. He’d tried intimidating an innocent for information, and scum like that made Scout’s skin crawl. 

Scout hadn’t been an informant for the private investigator for long. In fact, she’d always kept to herself and never considered herself much of a snitch. But if Riley could take the corrupt wrongdoers out of the shadows and expose them to the light, then a few vague tips every now and then was the least she could do to help. The brunette raised her eyebrows and leaned back, her palms flat against the countertop. “If you think this is bad, you should’ve seen the other guy,” she said. “He was, uh, what the kids these days call a horrible person. Definitely deserved having his face rearranged. I know that’s not how you do justice, but it’s sure how I do it.” 

— Months had passed since the burglary, and yet she still eyed unfamiliar customers with suspicion. The metal pipe propped behind the display table was her solace whenever the shop’s entrance bell chimed. She glanced at it, diverting her attention from the cardboard box of loose comics she was boarding into plastic sleeves. “What have you got for me?” she asked. “You looking to sell or trade that thing?” 

Scout tossed the boarded comic onto a stack of others, looked up, and flashed a stiff smile that she didn’t mean. The brunette was awkward not only with customers, but with most people in general. Nobody would be writing home about her customer service skills, but she’d become manager through her ability to stand her ground and get good prices. “We’ve got a bunch of vintage books on herbalism and alchemy that came in last week,” she said. Tourists liked that sort of thing -- liked taking home a pinch of spine-chilling magic and mystery that Salem was renowned for. “And these comics were traded in this morning,” she said. “Nobody’s been in all day, so you can have the first pickings if you’re into that kind of thing.” 

Ren’s face crumples when she confirms his worst fears. The pages are ruined, and nothing he can do will manage to fix them. “God, I hope she has backups. I mean, it would be smart to, right? Who would trust their new intern with something important when he could lose it…or spill coffee all over it,” Well, maybe he should have scanned the pages into his computer before even setting foot in a diner, but he hopes Josephine would’ve taken the initiative long before he ever thought of. She’d been working a lot longer than he had, anyway. “You don’t think coming clean would be better?” He asks. “You know…showing I’m trustworthy for owning up to a mistake? I mean…I think some of this is still legible…” He tries to peel away the top page only for the soaked paper to tear under his touch. “…Okay, maybe I shouldn’t even stand near them or next they’ll catch on fire, like that episode of iCarly where Spencer dumps soda on the counter and it still catches a light. Maybe keeping all liquids away would be best…”

— “If you want to survive in this world, there’s one rule you’ve gotta learn,” she said. “And you’ve gotta learn it fast.” Scout wiggles her fingers over the plate, debating which breakfast food to steal a bite of next. It seemed like an appropriate payment for the life advice she was about to bestow upon this unlucky fool. She shakes the raspberries off a golden, crispy waffle square, tears off one of its corners, and pops it into her mouth. “Rule number one: just lie,” she said. A crumb fell to the table, embedding itself into the wet sheets like a piece of shrapnel. Scout wasn’t too concerned, given the unsalvageable state of the papers. “Your job will be safe as long as she never finds out it’s your fault,” she said. “What kind of documents are these anyway? If you work at a preschool then yeah, maybe you could get away with telling the truth. But if this is for some hedge fund or insurance company, you take this secret to the grave. They must never know.”

— “Yeah, I drove Jessica to the emergency room and they checked her out,” she asked. “Just a few bruises.” Scout rifled through her jean pockets, collecting a fistful of change. A distracted expression on her face, she picked through the coins for three quarters to slot through the washer. She kept her bruised face bowed low, a curtain of shaggy brown hair obscuring the worst of it. “I didn’t mean to scare you with that phone call, y’know? Saying, hey I’m in the emergency room was all I could get out. I’m a bad communicator. It’s only fair that if skipping work to see my swollen face messes with your GoPuff rating, I’ll have to take on dishes duty for a whole month.”

Each coin fell through the machine with a satisfying clink. The machine started up, rattling as their sheets cycled through the suds. Save for them and the humming of machines, the laundromat was deserted. Scout stretched her blazer over the top of the machine, grabbed a Tide Pen from Megan’s stash, and scrubbed it over the morning’s bloodstains. Her eyes cast down. “It’s just kinda fucked up, y’know?” she mumbled. “Not everyday I somehow end up the good guy.”

Don’t make a sound.

The parts that hurt the most stuck, gum caked to the bottoms of the tables in the diner he’d been helping Sera scrape off. Robbing banks and strong-arming the brains of the operation was one thing, and standing as an innocuous eye to the unfolding as a passenger lurched him back into the black, long fingers pressing against his lips and commandeering his younger brother —

STAY IN THE CLOSET. 

Dustin blinked and he’d moved closer, or teleported, headspace whorling to faraway planes, footsteps creaking up the stairs. Baleful glowering of eyes peering through ski masks in the evening crawling up every crick of his spinal cord, the innate repulsion of the mask collection tucked into their basement virulent and loud beneath the surface — shaking chambers he thought he’d boxed away in a wind-up where horrifying mangled puppets would POP and CACKLE at his misfortune. Replicate that with chitter-chatter and snickering behind his back walking the streets and school hallways, thoughtless of what he could recall of that night. Crimson painting every surface so bleak and his hands wrapping around Sunny’s profusely bleeding appendage —

DON’T MAKE A SOUND, OR YOU’RE NEXT.

It hit like chloroform, drowning him in the pitch darkness once more, the four walls that closed in around him while the sounds just down the stairs permeated with the rot that festered beneath his skin and cuticles. One event alone synthesizing and transforming a starry-eyed boy into what was molded from tragedy after tragedy after FUCK UP.

“Don’t move.”

The lights came on, and the metallic, sharp-edge of the blade was pressed against the jugular of the robber, figuring he didn’t have much to lose unless this were a poor rendition of the Time Machine. ( This looks very familiar, doesn’t it? ) A symbiotic modicum cut off the intrinsic tremor in his hand, a steeled expression and the snaking, suffocating blur between past and present begging vengeance of a night so long ago, yet clearer than the crystalline of the glass shards littering the floor. “I’m going to let you go, and you’ve got ten seconds to get out.”

The down-on-his-luck robber took the smart option, and he was silently grateful, presuming the dexterity in his hands would’ve failed him. Dustin stood still, the vision of his good eye tracking the movement of the all-black clothed vigilante hucking it out of the store. “All clear?” he inquired, his voice softer than usual, looking down and inhaling deeply when he noticed the crimson trail trickling from his palm. Slicing his hand trying to force his fingers to wrench open ( didn’t remember doing it ) was becoming too common for comfort lately. “I can help you clear this up… Are you okay?” His eyes wandered to his best friend’s wife’s? girlfriend’s countenance, flipping the knife closed and tucking it into his coat pocket. Might as well bring it home to Sera. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with locked knuckles, he worked up a smile that failed to find the depths of his eyes. 

— The balance of the fight had still been skewed by the glass shards littering the floor.  Still, she never considered herself in peril beyond the hours she would have to spend tweezing glass splinters out from between her toes. The burglar’s skills were subpar -- evidently so, especially considering how well she’d fared with a pair of sandals as her only weapon. The threat of death hadn’t crossed her mind, and so it came as a shock to see Dustin go overkill.

“Woah, what do you think you’re doing with that thing? Knife on the table, buddy,” she said. “If some guy tries to kill me on store property, the weapon becomes my property.” Scout looked down at the smashed glass of the table, thus realizing her request didn’t make much sense. She held an outstretched hand out for the weapon instead. “Me? Yeah, everything’s fine. Everything’s cool. I’ll, uh, just need my shoes before I cut myself on this mess,” she grumbled. “You, on the other hand, don’t...um, don’t look so okay.”

He seems alright, I guess? I mean, she’s way too concerned about his life and constantly gets worked up about it. Sometimes I just want to gripe about the Michael Bay Transformer’s movies before bed, y’know? But she’s in my ear going on about how his partner isn’t good enough for him or didn’t treat him right. Anyway, it’s just that Megs cares in funny ways and not everybody gets it the first time around. I know so much about this dude’s love life, and I bet he doesn’t really know me beyond “Meg’s Girlfriend”. 

"Huh, how about: she’s an inspiration for the titless everywhere or that our Best Buy Elite membership is in her name? There’s also the fact that she’s most likely to take the smart toaster in the divorce.”

“It’s not a NAIL FILE, Scout, be NICE.” Charlotte Degraves huffs, loudly over the scuffling done by her friend, Ivan, who is now losing his literal shit and of whom had never seen Die Hard. the russian translation is a bit hard to find on blue-ray, to be honest. “It’s the best we can do on short notice, and you’re gonna hurt his feelings.” she’s got a poster board, clad in teal and silver glitter with the words KILL HER BABES !!! that is flying high above her head as she watches Ivan nearly break his elbow on the glass in front of her. “Ivan, baby,” she cheers on like a soccer mom drunk on a flask of wine in a shitty set of bleachers. 

“REMEMBER YOUR TRAINING. Attack her. You’ve got this.” she wiggles her poster once more before putting it on the ground. that ego of Ivan’s is slowly fading, but she tries her best to encourage once more. “Remember that time you walked out of Disco Tech, flicked your cigarette so hard you knocked and a bird out of the sky!! SCOUT’S THE BIRD.” she realizes this may be a bit confusing, since Ivan’s English is not exactly up to par, nor does he have a cigarette.

a few claps of encouragement spur the man to finally approach the cashier, though her henchman, and ex circus performer Ivan looks like utter shit already. “Scout you’re doing great too sweetie, but remember if he wins, he gets your job and your life !” she grins ear to ear, “You’re soo on your toes for a fake heist, too. Loves it, babe. You’re the best trainer.” 

[ tw blood (in gif) ]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: Cyrek and Evren’s Baby Shower @salemstart​

Children weren’t something that Marlowe spent an abundant amount of free time percolating on. That, coupled with the fact she’d been ignorant of the fact that Cyrek was a father in the first place, made her more than unequipped for something as jovial as a baby shower — an event that had never been designated on her calendar. Alas, she could recognize that attending would be in good nature rather than resign herself as she had a habit of indulging far too often. Though she couldn’t say she was particularly invigorated by any of the tongue in cheek activities that didn’t include paints or brushes. She’d gravitated toward a table where layers of white tee shirts were on display, awaiting their doom, and rather than absorb herself in a full-scale canvas for the triplets’ future nursery, she chose to decorate them three-of-a-kind, matching, all original St. Clair outfits. 

Unintentionally zeroing all her efforts into the intricate designs of a skull on the second pair that was meant to act as a middle ground for a sort of mural that would connect when the babies were lined up, she eventually realized that she wasn’t sitting alone. “… What is that supposed to be?” she inquired, unintentionally impassive while her eyes drifted to her peripheral as she observed their work.

— The height of her artistic prowess had peaked in early elementary school when she’d been the first of her class to master drawing the Cool S. Scout drew a horrific, bubbling tentacle from the opened abdomen of an orange cat. Its style was reminiscent in skill of a middle schooler’s doodles in the margins of their math homework. “Eh, it’s a fucked up Garfield,” she said.

The happy couple weren’t the only ones living in the trailer park. As compensation for the party -- and all of its commotion -- taking place in her backyard, the brunette had been sneaking out of her trailer to pilfer snacks. Scout was snug in a pastel blue, terrycloth bathrobe with chewed sleeves that’d seen better days and a pair of Optimus Prime slippers that were too bulky to comfortably walk in. Several packs of pre-packaged chips were trapped underneath her arm as she drew a horrified Jon Arbuckle facing his cosmic doom. “You ever see those I’m Sorry Jon posts on the Internet?” she asked. “Anyway, I’m not even supposed to be at this party, to tell you the truth.” 

But oh, the juvenile urge to draw the eldritch horror known as Garfield was far too powerful for her to resist.

     Location: Neverland Theatre || Open to all @salemstart

     Always an enjoyer of the arts, Magda truly enjoyed visiting the theatre, she’d enjoyed acting as a child and had been an avid member of her high schools theatre club. Into her adulthood, however, she hadn’t quite found the time to pursue such a hobby, especially with recent events in her life. Alas, a trip to watch a play would settle that lingering craving to perform on stage once more, although the flyers advertising open auditions were tempting.      Ticket for that evenings production of Chicago secured, she wandered around the box office as she waited for the crowd to filter through, eyes lingering on posters for upcoming shows the theatre was to put on, smiling at those she recognised and making a mental note to read up on those she didn’t.       A tap on her shoulder and she turned, eyes widening before a gesture down alerted her to the fact she was actually standing on someone’s dropped ticket. A hand splayed across her chest in surprise “oh my! I am so sorry I had no idea!” she moves the offending foot and crouches down to pluck it from the floor, dusting it off politely before offering it back to them, her eyes narrowing a little as they regarded their face “well I’ll be, do I know you? You look mighty familiar…” Regardless if she did or not, Magda made it a point to know everyone’s name, and the easiest way to do so was to introduce herself to everyone she met. 

— “Oh, that’s...” she trailed off. Not mine would’ve been the virtuous answer, had she ultimately been a better person. The ticket underneath Magda’s boot didn’t belong to her. But seeing how the show had sold out by the time she’d arrived at the ticket booth, she’d gladly make it her ticket. “Yup, that’s definitely mine,” she said. Scout pocketed the ticket into the depths of her metallic pink jacket before its real owner could catch a glimpse. 

“Uh, I work at that pawn shop that got robbed last month,” she said. “You probably saw me on Channel Seven when they interviewed me about it and I, erm, threatened the guy. I got to show off the metal pipe I keep by the register now.” She tried to soften the blow of the unfortunate news with a forced, too-tight smile that highlighted the gap between her front teeth.

[ @salemstart​​, giant food store, afternoon ]

Narrowing her eyes at the top shelf of the cereal aisle, Ava shouldn’t have felt as betrayed as she did by the realization that her niece’s favorite cereal had been moved far beyond her reach. Though the small female was well-accustomed to overcoming these kinds of obstacles, especially since she stood at a full 5′1, she was in no mood to deal with this today. The youngest Adler had made a lot of strides in the last few years to quell her rage issues, but recently (and for reasons that she refused to acknowledge or resolve) her anger had started bubbling just below the surface again, threatening to show itself at any mild inconvenience or annoyance. So instead of asking another patron for some help or finding an employee to get the cereal down for her, she did what any rational and stubborn person would do: attempted to use her shopping cart as a step stool to climb the shelf herself. “Why me? Who is conspiring against me today, huh? Do I have to do everything myself?” the brunette grumbled under her breath dramatically in a stream of consciousness, placing one foot on the bottom of her cart and another on a nearby shelf to begin her ascent. But before she could start scaling the metal structure, the cart moved underneath her and threw off her balance. Grasping onto the cart to keep from falling on her ass, she clamored to plant both feet firmly back on the ground. “Nopenopenope… maybe we just don’t need cereal this week.” Sucking in a breath of relief, she happened to lock eyes with someone walking along the aisle. “…You didn’t see that.”

— She was quite the pipsqueak herself, her height totaling only a few inches above the other woman. Scout was short and compact, strutting down the aisle with the confident, open-shouldered walk of a woman who knew how to get shit done. “Yeah, well some things can’t be unseen,” she joked. Reaching into her own shopping cart, she plucked out a Swiffer WetJet mop and poised it over her shoulder like a javelin. Scout jabbed the top row of cereal boxes, knocking her desired flavors off the shelf and into her cart with the noisy thwack of cardboard. “I don’t even buy these things,” she said, twirling the mop in her grasp. “I just put ‘em in my cart, and then tell the cashier I changed my mind on it when it’s time to checkout. Which cereal were you trying to get? Park your cart closer and I’ll, uh, see if I can knock some into it.” 

𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬 & @scoutlene​​ // A LITERAL WEEK AFTER THIS ONE 

jessie never thought she’d have to worry about security in her own home. even before Gilbert had slowly moved in, she was keen to keeping herself protected. there was a bat at her door ( one she’s completely forgotten about ) left by her brothers that she was supposed use against intruders. it was one they used themselves to scare away the townsfolk chanting witch at her door. she’s had a funny feeling all week. the shadows in her home feel a bit scarier now that Gilbert’s gone. she’s had a sickening feeling in her stomach all day, as if to warn her of the predicament she’s finally found herself in. she was facing something more impromptu for her lunch break. she’s entirely forgotten Scout’s offered to come by to eat lunch with her– she would be her only saving grace…

“Get your hands off of me,” she speaks to the figure yanking her inside…

for context, the object Jessie’s nightmares comes in two forms, one: her alcoholic deadbeat  father, and two: the corrupt FBI agent named Francis Russo. this isn’t the first time he’s threatened her. this also isn’t the first time he’s ransacked her home looking for something involving Gilbert. her memories are plagued by the first time he’d made a mess of the place, tearing apart furniture, breaking her valuables, even the picture frames of her brothers and sisters were smashed in. his words still ring in her ears in the most darkest of times, This is no place to raise a child. Jessie had realized the man was the real reason why she was blacklisted in every adoption agency on the east coast. she now understands how Gilbert feels with the “FBI” breathing down her own neck…

“If this is about the artifact, it’s not here.” she speaks clearly and plainly to the man facing her. “He’s gone.” his grip on her wrists tightens and bruises as he slips her phone from her hand. Agent Russo has invaded her home once more, and intends to be uninterrupted by the police. she’s offers one more explanation, yanking her wrists free from his grasp, “He took everything with him.”

it hurts her own feelings– speaking those words. there is a break in her voice, “I don’t know where he is.” but the agent further explains the situation. they needed her help to convince Gilbert to work for them, or else. according to him, Gilbert’s denied them plenty of times. according to him, Gilbert’s chosen a life with her instead of chasing the artifact. according to him, Gilbert’s life with Jessica was more interesting than a music box with all the answers. and according to him Jessie was the key piece in forcing Gilbert to finally appease them. he tries to paint a narrative she doesn’t agree with, Gilbert Gladstone has been a criminal for his whole life, and that’s all he’ll ever be. this boils her blood hotter than satan himself. Agent Russo continues, Nobody turns down my offers.

to which she can’t help but to remark, “I guess that makes Gilbert a real somebody then.” 

it unfortunately earns her a clenched chin– strong fingers grip her face hard, and nearly break skin as he yanks her jaw to look at him in the face. he then shoves her into the credenza against the wall. a hiss of pain emits, and she’s once again reminded how nightmares can very well be reality. her lower banks stings from the sharp edges of the furniture, but she tries to keep her distance. her hands glide over the wood to find something, anything to fight back. the accent piece just so happens to be the home of her pine scented candle. she acts quickly, wrapping fingers around the glass jar, and connecting it with the side of Russo’s head. the glass rains down on the floor, along with his body. backing away slowly, she knows it’s not enough to keep him down, “If you leave now, we can pretend this never happened.” she knows it’s an empty bargain. his hand is still wrapped around her phone. she can’t exactly call for help. 

— Had her joke about last week’s wilted kale salad really earned her the silent treatment? Scout stared down at her phone, a string of unanswered texts glowing through the spidery cracks of its screen. Resisting the urge to whittle down her bitten, nibbled-on nails with her incisors, she tapped out a new message: “I was just kidding about kale being gross 🙄”  

No matter how long she waited, the messages were left unread. That wasn’t like Jessica. The worried voice in her mind rang alarm bells for danger. Whether that danger were real or perceived didn’t matter. Her body responded automatically, raising its guard up along with her heartrate. The world’s colors intensified, its shapes sharpened, its sounds so palpable that she felt their reverberations in her bones. 

Every fiber of her being screamed: Jessica is in danger. The worst case scenarios played first, vivid mental pictures of the redhead lifeless, crumpled at the base of the stairs after a bad tumble popped into her mind. Scout shook her head to chase the thought away, but such visions of unease were stuck and rapidly multiplying. The image changed into a scenario where Jessica’s illness had been worse than a winter flu, and she were asphyxiating on her bedroom floor right now. 

“Just because you have a thought doesn’t make it true,” she mumbled. Last time she’d struck the nerve to go to a veteran’s support group, she’d taken notes on how what she’d experienced caused her amygdala to misfire. If the Jeep made a strange sound being started up, she couldn’t help but think of bombs. If someone trailed behind her in the grocery store, she feared they were a stabber or a shooter. Everyone had thoughts of danger at times, but her thoughts got stuck and tormented her.

“She could be cooking,” she told herself. “Or in the shower. Or anything else people do in suburbia -- jeez, what the fuck am I thinking? I’ll just take a look.” Scout tucked the phone into her back jean pocket and wandered to the first floor window, trying to sneak a look inside. Fingerless gloves press against the windowpane, her breath frosted against the glass. She couldn’t make out anything beyond the floral window curtains. 

Focusing on the curtains was a welcome break from her chain of worst case scenarios. She couldn’t help but smile at the pattern. Sometimes, it seemed like Jessie had the sensibilities of an old maid. Just as she was about to turn away, a shadow danced across the fabric.

Then a second shadow.

Scout saw the outline of Jessica’s hair, swaying frantically as the shadow of a stout, brawny arm reached around her neck. She wrestled with the old window, forcing it up far enough that she could squeeze her body inside. The sound of shattering glass pricked goosebumps along her arms.

Scout didn’t break in gracefully. He foot got caught on the ledge, causing her to tumble onto the floor and get tangled up in the curtain. “Jessica?” she said. “It’s just me.” She crawled out from underneath the curtain’s long fabric, then hopped to her feet. 

And she saw a man on the floor.

Scout took a shard of glass, tore it through the curtain, and wrapped the long strand of fabric around her hand. Her fingers flexed once before forming into a fist. “Who the fuck are you?” she said. She loomed over him, and if she had her way then she’d make sure he never got back onto his feet. “Jessica, did this fucker lay his hands on you?”

She kicked him in the ribs.

“I said, did this fucker lay his hands on you?”

Andrea watched the brunette getting up and going over to the counter and past the pain in the ass customer to give a tip. It made the blonde smile before taking some of the food she had gotten and began to eat it,seeing the reaction of the customer, annoyance pasted all over their face while the barista smiled. 

“Oh I would pay to see that, honestly I don’t understand people that do something like that just to try and get something out of it. I get them quite a bit, but my mother always taught me never to take shit from anybody, I would happily throw them out.”

— Scout returned to her seat, where she reclined and draped her toned arms across the back of her chair. Her body language read open and relaxed, the display of unbothered confidence a direct challenge. She shot the difficult customer an easy grin, as if saying: “Try me.”   

 “Never taking shit from nobody? Now that’s how things should be,” she replied. “I can’t stand bullies. Doesn’t matter their age or size, I just can’t stand seeing them get away with shit.” In her youth, she’d been something of a late blooming, awkward kid with an overbite who shuffled science projects into the school building with excitement. She’d been the prime target of bullies -- who'd been, ironically, the other science nerds.