#iole writes

It didn't even sound like she'd been left with a guard, though surely she must have. She'd been caught in what should have been the least likely guise, and the Order didn't remain such a well kept secret by being lenient with any outsiders.

She had half a dozen pins in her hair to take a try at the lock to her cage, the other half already wasted and broken in her shackle's lock. It was smaller if that meant anything, she was a lot more confident she'd have better luck with the cell door.

But first…

Iloaina pressed her hand flat against the wall, teeth grinding. A good grip on the brick was paramount, and she tried to hold the fingers of her free hand out of the way to spare them the damage. Another breath, whistling into her lungs before being held there, and she forced herself not to look away as she slammed the rock down.

Her aim was off. Instead of the center of the back of her palm the rock landed on the knuckles between her middle and ring finger, and all the breath in her lungs left in a strangled rush. It was a little better the next time, though the impact was lacking the pop and crack of the original hit. There wasn't time to waste the momentum, and she kept going until she lost her grip on the rock and could barely see for the stinging, blurring ripples in her vision.

Keeping her breathing shallow, she tried to gently tug the loop of metal down. The fragments under her bruised skin felt like they were scraping together, and she immediately pitched forward to heave until the agony died down to a dull throb.

A lot of patience, tears, and persistence later, the skin around the wider part of her hand finally gave and she was able to drop the chains in the bile soaked earth.

Only a minute, she allowed herself to breathe, clutching the wreckage of her hand to her chest.

What the fuck? Is that a clown? Intrigued, fae stepped closer, still far enough that fae didn't have to bend or lay down to see it clearly. Yes, the eyes and lips were surrounded by red makeup, and the nose was covered with a red rubber ball. Fae couldn't see the top, but saw tufts of red hair sticking out if the sides of the clown’s head.

It held up it's hand, showing that it'd caught faer pocket knife. “You dropped this? Here, have it back.”

“How did you get down there?” Fae had a bad feeling, disturbed. The sewers were a forbidden area, filled with waste and garbage and more recently Danny's blood. Fae already hated the basement under faer aunt’s house and how it leaked and was gross and dark and enclosed. The sewers sounded ten times worse.

The clown smiled, making the paint on it's cheeks curl ominously. It appeared like the cat who ate the canary. “The circus in town, don't you know? Can't you smell it?”

Phoenix leaned closer, and it was almost like someone had set off a bomb of circus scents. There was clean hay and popcorn and roasted peanuts and candy floss (that last one especially made faer stomach growl, sweets always were on the child's mind).

But underneath was the scent of sitting water, water and blood, and the spell was broken. Phoenix wanted to get away and vomit, but the clown seemed to have faem entranced.

“... I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, I should be getting home…” The blond tried to convince it weakly.

“My name's Pennywise, Pennywise the dancing clown. Pennywise, Selena, Selena, Pennywise. Now we aren't strangers are we?”

Son of a bitch.

Phoenix forced a smile, nails digging into faer palms. “No, I suppose we aren't.”

It lifted the hand holding the knife again. “Now won't you take this back? I'll go and get you some candy floss too, wouldn't you like that?”

“Mhm,” Phoenix finally inched closer, planning to sock the creep right in it's bright (blue? Green? Wasn't it yellow?) eyes. “I think I'd like that a lot…”

~

Adrian Battle was starting down the street, hands shoved into xyr pockets.

Months. It'd been a few months since xyr brother had died and no one seemed to care.

It was no surprise coming from his parents, xe had never assumed they would be torn up about such a thing. But all the evidence was washed away with the rain that day and the cops simply closed up the case without looking further into it, like a killer who went around ripping kids’ arms off was no problem. It was ridiculous, fucked up, unfair!

But that was Derry apparently.

While xe came down the street, xe noticed a kid laying by the side of the road, looking like they were trying to stick their head down the storm drain. Their head was tilted, hair dragging through the dirt and gravel on the ground, and their face was hidden.

What the hell were they trying to do?

~

“I don't think my arm can reach.”

The clown's eye twitched. “Sure it can, aren't you gonna even give it a shot?”

Fae rolled faer shoulder and shook faer head, holding faer hand up next to it instead. “Hand it to me please? I won't move an inch, I promise.” Phoenix shot the clown faer best puppy dog eyes, and it seemed to relent. It leaned forward, starting to raise it's hand. It even seemed to grin, and it's teeth were… shifting?

Far didn't get a good look. The second it was close enough fae spit, hard, right into it's face.

The roar that erupted from the drain turned faer blood to ice and Phoenix lurched back as a hand (those are fucking claws that is not a fucking hand) slammed into the space faer head was not seconds ago, cracking the asphalt.

Fae tried to scramble back and to faer feet to run away but a second arm shot out of the drain and managed to latch onto faer leg. Phoenix screamed and started kicking madly at it, trying to get the grip to loosen but it only tightened, cutting into faer leg as it started to drag faer down into the sewer.

It hurt and faer hands were slipping through the gravel and Phoenix screamed again.

“Help! Help me!”

Faer left foot slipped into the sewer and fae shoved their right foot to brace against the sidewalk, trying to pull it free. Fae almost jumped out of faer skin when hands latched around faer arm, not knowing who or what it was but feeling like faer arm was gonna be yanked out of it's socket

Phoenix hung on for dear life as the clown and whoever had faer arm had a tug of war match with faer limbs, whoever had caught faer arm shifting their grip to under faer armpits, but then there was a tearing sound and faer leg came free and fae went flying into whoever was behind faem, sending them both sprawling.

Fae scrambled to faer feet, ignoring blood drip and faer missing shoe and sock and yanking the red haired person fae’d fell on up as well while a murderous gaze burned into them both from the sewer grate. “Up, up, we've got to run! It's gonna--!”

Aunt Tilde stopped her after services the next week, expression unreadable as she examined the irritation, and then she pulled Mirabel's father aside. If Mira were maybe closer to the door she might make out words, but as is she heard what sounded like a poorly hushed argument. Her father never argued with Tilde, no one did. What had she done to warrant so many problems? Finally the door opened, and her father mumbled that she was to follow them.

She knew there was a basement in the Chapel. That it was a form of storage, even. She knew they kept Murnau's very own Angel close to heart, she just didn't realize how close they meant.

"Christ bled for our sins," Tilde reminded her as she folded her hands around something sharp, much sharper than sewing shears or her mum's good kitchen knives. "This is the same as that."

The Angel's tomb was dark. Mira almost didn't know where to look, but the space had little to focus on. The walls were stone, as was the floor, and basically straight ahead, several more strides for her shorter stature, was a pile of fabric and chains and--

There were statues of the Angel all over the Chapel. A girl even smaller than Mirabel was now, with long curly hair and a serene face. Her hair was long, dark enough to blend in with the shadows. Mira couldn't see her face, even what little of it wasn't hidden under her hair. There was something dull and metallic in the way.

Her eyes were just as pale and blank as the statues had been. Even from here that could be seen. She couldn't tell if the Angel was looking at her, was even awake. She didn't even breathe loudly enough to tell if she was alive.

She tried not to think of the duality. Angels were supposed to inspire awe and fear, not anything close to pity. Where she landed right now, as Mira dragged her feet closer…

The pile shifted. Something metallic clinked, almost like bells, and one of the Angel's hands was reaching for her. It was covered in scars.

What would one more be?

She took the hand, gripped tightly so her hands wouldn't shake, and ran the blade over the meaty part between the thumb and wrist before pulling the wound to her lips to drink.

She only managed a few sips before the hand was snatched back, and she made a blind grab to take it back before remembering herself and stepping back. She muttered a half remembered prayer and rushed back to the door so quick she almost tripped on the rough laid stones.

Father made a face when she stepped out, squinting against the basement lights. "She made a mess."

"Children often do," Tilde chided. "Come Mirabel, I think I have a blouse that will fit you. I'll clean you up in the restroom."

She had half a mind to rinse her mouth out at the tap, but the older woman was set on doing it all herself. Her eyes wandered over to the mirror as she tried to follow instructions and she couldn't help but light up.

"My rash is gone!"

"Very nearly." Tilde traced around the area her cross usually sat, collecting a stray bead of blood in the process, and popped her finger into her own mouth for a taste. "Is it not quick? Our own Angel, so generous with her gifts."

Whenever she lifted them too close to the surface of the water, past the dingy film of grime and dye, she could still see it. It didn't matter how faded it was, it was still there. She could run her fingers over it and feel the fabric's texture warp, ever so slightly.

Even as the bleach made her eyes water and her lungs burn, if she inhaled too deeply or dared to breathe through her nose she could smell it. Like copper and spiced meat and overripe red fruit—

Jivika shoved the outfit back to the flooring of the tub, ignoring the pins and needles of complaint in her pale knuckles. Next time she blinked, the fluid welling up in her eyes finally spilled over and made it's way down her cheeks in warm rivulets.

When they dripped off her chin and hit the porcelain edge of the tub, they bloomed the same red as the blood on her clothes had been while fresh.

He'd said his mum was supposed to pick him up as well. For a brief moment Delia thought of the worst, but she took a breath and tried to feel out the house first, not noticing anyone living or dead inside. It was only a relief for a moment, but that raised the question yet again. Where was his mother?

"Just a minute," She released his hand, bending to take a closer look at the lock. It wasn't anything special, and she'd seen videos of people using hairpins and other slim pieces of metal to get in somewhere. How hard could it be?

…Quite hard actually. She was happy when the door opened, and significantly less so when her hairpins wouldn't come loose from the lock. "Can you dial your parents on the landline for me?" She asked while ushering him in and fastening the top lock. "I think I need to let them know of the door before they see for themselves."

He nodded, going to the do just that. The first call disconnected, so he dialed a different number and handed her the phone.

"Hello?" A man spoke on the other end, a little louder than she'd expected.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Sorenson, right?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry, I'm one of Arne's upperclassmen. I saw he was at the pickup area late again and thought I'd just bring him home. We didn't have a key, so I'm afraid I did a number on your door."

"Again, what do you—He doesn't have a key?"

Delia couldn't help the face she made. "I think he said his mum was running late or something. It's been like that all week. I really need to get home, but I wanted to make sure you had time to account for the door."

For a moment all was too quiet. and she was about to see if he'd hung up before he finally spoke again, much quieter. "What did you say your name was?"

"Delia." She glanced over her shoulder and saw Arne sitting in front of the couch, hands folded in his lap patiently.

"I'm leaving work right now, I can take you home. Please wait with Arne for me, I don't like him being alone. I'll see if I can reach my wife in the meantime, I'm sorry to inconvenience you."

"Oh it's—" She still wasn't quite as sure as she'd like to be, and it didn't seem like Arne had it in him to get into that much trouble, but the younger boy seemed so…off. He wasn't scared or sad or obviously upset, just… calm. Resigned, even. "…Alright. I'll be here, sir."

"Thank you so much," He promised he wouldn't even be an hour before ending the call, and Delia stared at the receiver skeptically before reutning to to it's hook and going over to where Arne sat.

"It'll be a little less than an hour. You hungry?"

He shrugged. "A little."