Fairy Tales and Ghost Stories

Haze colours their windows, deepening the warm shades of shadows within the wooden space. Candle light shines only more golden. The edges of their reality smells of cinnamon and cardamom.

Hand beneath the loose petals of their hair, Serendipity lingers in a half-doze amongst the pillows and blankets they have made a nest of. Their cards lay abandoned upon the scuffed polish of the old table at the front of the room.

She arrives in the corner of their eye—shadows and the feathers of crows. Seven fall, a secret never to be told. The scent of spice burns away with the edges of reality, the quick warmth heat of it breaking down to allow her through.

“Have you come to admonish me? Or are you a figment of my imagination? Do I hate myself that much to conjure you…” Their voice singsongs along notes that dance with the half-daze of sleep still coating their tongue.

Taloned fingers grasp the edges of cards, Athaliah standing full before them—the lingering dissipation of the Mists about her like a fog then gone. “You have been tempting fate.”

“I have been alleviating their fears.” Sitting up, hand falling into their lap, Serendipity tips their head. “Oh death—will you come for us, drag us down into the depths, or place us up as skeletal displays to dance in the halls of fallen Orr?”

Crow’s mask hides her features, Athaliah folds out the cards upon the table. “Glib.”

“Have I changed that much since my time in the Mists? I was quite serious then.”

“Mmm.” The sound resonates for a moment, and then silence fills the space only punctuated by the click of the cards finishing their pose upon the wooden table, spread out to be contemplated.

“No come back? Is this truly the end of days then? Are you going to blame what fates I pulled and played with for this? Would that it serve me right for trying to do something nice.”

Talons clatter, and then the figure turns in all of her glory—feathers and mask, the Divine of Constellations, the Mists Being she is—looks upon the child of the Pale Tree. “I cannot speak in tongues of truth or lies around what is to come, whether the strings prefer one ending or the other—it is not for me to weave that into comfort or derision.”

“Comforting.”

               They stand on the precipice of The End.

               Tattered wings cannot full blot out the sun, but the noxious condensation playing at being clouds attempts to do so, and what little light goes through is a sickening green. Mouths upon mouths scream and writhe against the fight above.

               They fight below. Blotting blood spilled coats the ground beside them, old rancid stuff filled to the brim in bodies that should not rise again but rise—rise—rise. They come back with teeth and nails, pushing, and screaming for the victory of the beast above.

               “My dear,

               Full glad am I to hear that you are well despite the state of—well, everything. Orr sounds fascinating, I am quite certain; however, it sounds a mixture of moist and rather unpleasant things. Still, I do hope you will send me more letters, or return before your next one is to arrive. That is certainly the hope given what you say is to transpire with the Pact’s intentions.

               While neither of you wishes to join arms with one of the darling Orders, I am happy to hear you have been able to avail yourself of characters besides Ronald’s delightful personality.

               Pomona sends her regards as well, and she is over my shoulder telling me to write that, as well as: hi. Ah, my apologies—hi with an exclamation mark. I believe she is rather lonely since Billy went off on her adventure with that Kiddo friend of hers. I will defer to your expertise that Kiddo oversleeping in their dream was not a slight against Billy, but still—poor Billy was quite hurt waiting for them all that time.

               Pixie, please keep in mind I am not a believer in some delight of martyrs. People are better off alive and flourishing. Do not throw yourself at something you will not walk away from. Promise me that much, my sweet thing. Pomona has many new tasks for both you and Ronald once you return to Divinity’s Reach.

               Give Ronald my regards.

Magdalene”

Sap stains their features, sticky heavy stuff in their eyes as they brace for the waves and corpses. One eye closed, Pixie breathes in. Hand readies their rapier, bouncing it before their voice breaks the scene. “Hold on.”

        Arm up—the moment lasts a second, the moment lasts an hour. Light distorts around them, a shield thrown up that holds, catches and splashes with the incoming deluge. In the dazzling shifting of colours—they can barely see the skies above and the great dragon faltering, its wings falling askew.

"They offer me sweat-drenched bills and cans of soda that I cut my thumb upon when I push them to opening."

The bottle drops with a sound as her hands go to the buttons and collar of her shirt, divesting it in the moment, like the bottle--called by gravity. "These are all mortal concerns."

"Do you partake of my things to be part of my world--to crack your knees to strain some stain of mortality?" Her knee is between their legs as she looms above them.

 “Sorry we’re late, it took a bit to find—“ Awkward though she is, Aderyne at least cuts a more appropriate figure in the maître d’s mind. At least she tried. And the other—well, he swallows. An attempt was made, but something just radiates off the man that is loud and—frankly not what he was expecting tonight.

 Be strong, be strong for the Grand House. Breathing in so his chest expands and fills, the man releases the pressure as he steps into the view of the party. “Might I seat you all? Ms. Strange, it is lovely to have you grace our establishment again—would you like me to inform Master-“

 “Oh, my sweet thing, absolutely not—do not bother the old man tonight. I am entertaining new friends tonight in a game of wits. Thank you though.” Delicate handwave, Magdalene smiles as she leads her party into the vaunted heart of the Grand House, despite the maître d' trailing behind like a lost puppy. Menus are gathered awkwardly to keep up with the woman who strides with ease in heels that elevate her already grand height.

 Short words and stiff bow, the maître d' moves wound up, his body aching to move himself out of the narrative. He offers words, clumsily, before moving on. “Of course, of course—here are the menus for the evening, and your waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy.”

 Kazu and Pixie were used to concrete floors, splattered blood, teeth clenched as a fist cracks—but the plush velvet carpets and the gilded pillars offer a new battlefield. Aderyne cannot claim any more knowledge of such spaces, but she attempts to make herself momentarily small in the midst of everything—on the bill, in her chair, not certain what to make of the chandeliers and grand pianos.

 “A moment such as this, Aderyne dear, you really should indulge in what a place has to offer as their best.” Finger on the other woman’s menu, Magdalene peruses until nail clicks against the page. “I think you would quite enjoy that.”

 “Oh wow—it’s um, a lot.”

 Kazu straightens in his chair, folding and unfolding the cloth napkin as he attempts a lopsided smile. “I’ve got it, no worries.”

 “See, Aderyne darling. Kazu has it.” Laughter sweet on her tongue, Magdalene tucks away her thoughts for later, of the powder room excursion to write all of this off on her own bill, leaving the boy with something far smaller to tip the place with.

 “Oh—right, yeah, of course. Well, we’re here to talk about motorcycles, right?” Aderyne folds her hands over the menu, nervous energy trying to find a place to land like a flickering ember.

 “Yeah, yeah! Right, so Miss Mags—your thoughts, pros and cons.” Trying to decide how best to lean at the table, Kazu plucks up a utensil as he gesticulates, before catching the visions of other tables, and dropping it back to gravity.

 “My sweet thing, I think they are absolutely fine—between the legs of someone younger and far more roguish than I. Though, I do believe it is best left to those of us who might not break a hip at this day and age.” Eyes flicker to Pixie, who offers a sly grin in response.

 “Pom’s the one who said you need to get out and do something fun outside of the bar, Mags. Besides, we could take it slow on the backroads outside of the city, go drive down through vineyard country.”

 “It can be relaxing, if you go slow, and quite a lovely ride on those backroads.” Aderyne chimes in, fingers dancing over her cutlery. “And—to be quite fair, you would look very stylish on the back of a bike.”

 “Hey now—hip breaking probability is low, and motorcycles are super hot. Ads is right! You’d look really stylish, not that you need any mechanical help to up your status, but—“

 Dinner flows over laughter and quips exchanged. Kazu’s ears brighten red before raucous noise rises from the group. Stories are exchanged over red wine that sends Kazu to sweet bottles of champagne, and the group finds a pleasant rhythm as the night continues on. Motorcycles ride off in the back of their minds, forgotten until the evening comes to a close.

 Velvet black sky, the group parts ways beneath neon glow of the city named for light. Pixie and Magdalene the last of the group walking back along the streets, heels echoing on the concrete.

 “Y’know, Mags I don’t think I got you to agree to a ride.”

 “Oh, my sweet thing you absolutely did not, but I did manage to rope you into a day at the symphony.”

 Snorting, Pixie rolls their eyes. “Voss’ right, I am a soft touch.”

 Thumb brushing their chin to turn their eyes up to hers, Magdalene grins. “Absolutely do not let Ronald hear you say that. It would go to his head. Thank you for walking me home, my sweet thing.”

 “Of course—night, Mags.”

 “You want to hear about the triathlon or not.”

 “Pins and needles, Pix. Honestly, I don’t even think I have a say in it either way.” Wiping his hand on the towel, Ronnie pops the top off a beer, pushing it across the counter to a waiting hand.

 “Insult to injury, we begin with my being paired with two kids—Kid One and Kid Two for ease of storytelling.”

 Leaning against the counter, Ronnie lifts an eyebrow. “Ease of storytelling of course.”

 “They could always win over the Kid One spot—competition within competition breeds a bit of healthy drive afterall.” Ignoring the noise out of Ronald, Pixie continues. “Kid One starts off strong, a bit too strong—swam right out of the triathlon. Got dragged back, throws a pretty good punch. Anyway, get him shaken not stirred right—toss him back in, and we complete that round.

 “From there we’ve got some running to do, and Kid Two’s got a bit of pep to her step, so send her out on it. She makes pretty good time, takes her a bit with some of the traps, I think—but we get through that too. So now it’s on my plate—“

 “And let me guess, it’s a kitshcy paper plate for a cute family picnic.” Ronnie interjects between slinging suds, half-listening to the story.

 “To be fair—it’s a plate where I tried to encourage Kid One and Two to sabotage the other teams, in the spirit of the competition and all. They—well, better left there. After that I just played what honestly reminded me of one of those games they give to toddlers, and that’s it—triathlon.”

 “And I had to hear about it—“

 “Because you, sonnuva—managed to get your pale ass out of it. Wonder how Pomona found that flyer in the first place.” Sipping their whiskey, Pixie lifts their brow as Ronnie quirks a grin.

 “Fair’s fair.”

 “You lost that card game absolutely fair.”

 “Cry me a river, Styx—I’m certain you absolutely abhorred spending a day with Magdalene out in the sun.”

 “Better to look at than your face even in the shadows.”

 “You wound me.”

 Laughter flows out as Pixie sets down the emptied glass. “It wasn’t an awful day. Just wish I could have seen you go up in flames with that red hair and pale skin.”

 “My sweet fair complexion.” Ronnie places a hand upon his cheek like a gentle lady before joining in the low laughter under the singing that resonates around the bar.

 -

 “You were supposed to do the running, or swimming!” Pomona saddles up alongside Pixie beneath the warm early summer sun—her face slathered in sunscreen.

 “Was I?”

 “Yeah! I wanted to see you do something athletic and cool—I mean, good work winning the puzzle.” Eyes meeting her mother’s, Pomona offers a sideways grin and a shrug. “It was fun to watch still.”

 “Thanks kid.” Shaking their head with a half chuckle, Pixie watches as Pomona ducks off to the left to look at a booth as Magdalene moves into their side.

 “Here I thought you were training criminals for a moment.”

 “Just encouraging the kids to have fun with it.” Lifting their gaze, Pixie offers a toothy grin.

 Hum purses Magdalene’s lips before her fingers wrap around Pixie’s shoulder, allowing her leverage as she pulls herself into their gravity, cheek to cheek—the pressure of a kiss just against the side of their features. “You did well. Thank you for indulging Pomona.”

  Feet hit the ground, shoulders rolling back as Pixie takes in the moment, before swallowing with a mouth and throat dry after sleep too long. “Magdalene—oh, hey. Uh—what’s up?”

  “It has been a proper time since you have come by, and I can only hope that means your facial features are still attached.” Laughter is a dancing noise on the other side of the line before Magdalene continues. “Either way, it will not be held against you in a court of law. Pomona asked me to call you, because she would like to invite you to brunch, and Ronald was kind enough to offer your number.”

  “Oh—uh, yeah, sorry. Got caught up the last few weeks. Brunch—“

  “Should be asked by Pomona herself, give me a moment. Poms, darling—yes, Pixie is on the line, come here. If you wish to ask—“ There is a shuffling noise on the other side, thudding and then—

     “Hi!”      

   “Ah, hey, kid.”

 “So! I want to invite you to brunch, you can’t say no (there is a “they can say no, Pomona” that floats in the background), and it is in two hours at our apartment, and you have to come! I’m making the pancakes, and they’re really good. I put everything on them.”  

  “R-right, that sounds great, kid.” Hand under chin, Pixie cannot help feel the pull of their cheeks into a curve of a smile. “Sure, I’ll be there at eleven.”

  “Awesome! Mom’s giving me the eye—so um, see you then!”

 The shuffling of hands and soft vocalizations echo with static until Magdalene’s voice returns. “I apologize for Pomona’s insistence, but I must echo it. It would be lovely to see you. Make sure that black eye of yours from that thrilling fight of yours that she saw has now properly healed over—“

  “Listen, Mags.”

  “As I said, Pixie—apologies and explanations are not needed, I am going to be glad to see you.”

  Lips twitch as elbows hit knees, Pixie staring at their feet on the old, barely finished floors of their apartment. “Yeah, right. It’ll be good to see both of you again too.”

  “Until then.”

 “Until then, sure—“ The phone holds no more sound, and eyes wander over the sleek screen and the imprints like a crime scene. “Hm.”

 -

  Two weeks does not wipe out the past year of wandering down to Autumnal  Avenue; though, entering through the backdoor was a new development. Feet thudding along the backstairs, Pixie makes their way to the Strange’s apartment with a practiced, put-on ease. Leather jacket, loose button-up, denim pants—they cut an image of some lost era’s idea of cool.  

  Knuckles to darkly varnished door—it takes one rap before the wood is thrown open with a flourish.

  Wild crimson hair, freckles, and a wide smile showing all of her teeth, Pomona stands before them. “Hi Pixie!”

  “Hey kid—did you grow another inch in the last two weeks?”

  Stretched out tall with the comment, Pomona’s grin grows in vibrancy. “You should hope not! I’ll overtake you in the next few weeks then.”

  “Fair enough.” Stepping into the entrance, Pixie peels off their jacket after a moment of consideration, draping it over a coat hook. “So, are you making the pancakes or your mom?”

  “I make them—by adding everything on at the end. Anyway! I wanted to ask a favour of you.” If the wattage of her smile could be dialed up, the twelve year old had found a way to do as such.

  “Ah, so this is a stick-up.”

  “Yes! Pew pew—but for real.” Delicate fingers wrap about their wrist, tugging Pixie into the living room.

  Magdalene’s voice reverberates from the kitchen and dining room. “Pomona—has Pixie arrived?”

  “Yeah, mom! They’ll be in in a moment, I’m taking their coat—anyway.” Grabbing a piece of paper from the coffee table, Pomona turns full on Pixie. Paper is thrust upon them. “I want you to do this.”

  “What—triathlon? Take you to it? Can’t your mom do that, kid?”

  “No! I want you to compete. Mom said I can’t, and I still owe Ronnie money from an IOU… So you have to! Then mom and I can go and watch you.”

  Paper loosely held between rough fingers, Pixie looks over the ink once, twice, and then sighs. “I—“

  Wide eyes well at the potential of a negative, hands clasping together. “Please!! Please. Come on, Pixie—it’ll be fun.”

   “… Arceus, you’re evil.”

  The voice from the other room suddenly is louder and directly behind them, Magdalene’s shadow draping over Pixie. “She gets it from her mother; though, I think you would have learned well enough, darling—you should sweeten others up before asking things of them. Pancakes are done by the by.”

 Long fingers land on Pixie’s shoulder, wafts of pale once-golden hair brushing their cheek as Magdalene leans down to press a kiss to their cheek. “It is good to see you.”

  “You’re training a racketeer, Mags.”

  “Oh darling, don’t I know it. Put down the paper, and come along—brunch.”

  Sugar and spice and whipped cream and maple syrup and some candies that Pixie does not recognize—everything nice and not so nice makes it onto Pomona’s pancakes—

    “You are certainly not not in trouble, but—“ Magdalene waves her hands through the air. “It is not an offense that means anything more than a long discussion—in the morning, after you have had some sleep.”

    Pixie can hear the huff on the pre-teen’s lips. “Alright, but—are you sure you don’t need help with Pixie?”

    “Quite, my love—go to bed. We will talk in the morning.”

    “In the morning, yah, yeah.”

    The thud of footsteps deeper into the apartment marches on with the thud of a lowgrade headache from the entire evening, drummers on bone. Pixie presses their hands deep into their pockets. “You really don’t have to—do any of this, Mags. I can be out of your hair—“

    “My sweet—sit down, and give me a moment to get what I need to clean you up.” Hand upon shoulder leads Pixie to a too-clean couch for where they’re settled. The entire livingroom is—

    It is a shrine to Pomona, to art, to a handful of well-loved plants, books galore, and knick knacks of all sorts. It is pristine. Golden gilded edges of frames, porcelain pretty things—but it has a sense of home, of family.

    Boots sink into the throw rug as Pixie wants to laugh at how out of place they must look—leather jacket, boots, bloody face.

    “Here we go.” The couch shifts as Magdalene’s weight presses into the cushions, hand settling upon Pixie’s features to tilt and tip them to her, to a small cloth. “Thank you, Pixie—for bringing Pomona back with such care.”

    “Listen—it was my fault in the first place—“

    Laughter is not as boisterous as it might be in the backroom, carefully lowered for the occupant who is supposed to be going to sleep. “Pixie—how were you to know she would overhear your invitation and take it as a family affair? My sweet, I appreciate that you wish to be the guilty party in this—don’t flinch—but really.

    “Besides, she is of an age where boundaries are to be tested. I’m grateful it was a situation where there was another adult looking out for her.”

    Wincing, teeth tight as the alcohol hits another wound, Pixie sighs. “I get it though—she’s a kid, you’re her mother. I don’t want to be a bad influence or—Arceus that sounds idiotic, but you hear me, right? I won’t skulk around and make things harder for you.”

    Thumb runs along the curve of their chin as Magdalene hums and tips her head. “I suppose it is my fault for not being more open—I see us as friends, Pixie. Or else I really should charge for the constant play nurse we do. My dear, if you do not want to be friends with a single mother and occasionally have to run about with a wild little fox of her daughter. Well, I cannot say I would be delighted to hear that, but I would understand and not up your drink cost by too high a percentage.”

    Silence sits for a moment in the warm golden of the lamp light, before Pixie’s lips curve. “Do I get a discount as a friend at the bar? You would have to tell Ronald, he can be rather taciturn about everything.”

    “You get the absolute pleasure of being in my acquaintance, my sweet thing. And drinks occasionally as friends, outside of my bar’s hours. Really, I am a woman of business afterall.” Thumb gently taps chin as Magdalene pulls away. “You understand though, don’t you?”

    “I don’t want to fuck up your life, Mags—or Pomona’s especially—“

    “Trust me, then my sweet thing—trust that I know to make good calls for myself and for my daughter.”

    Eyes dropping for a moment—examining the crimson of the carpet before returning to Magdalene’s features, Pixie nods. “… Alright. I can’t say I was looking forward to stopping being friends, anyway. You’re a diamond in the rust.”

 -

 Knees curved to chest, it is well-past her bedtime, but Pomona cannot help but linger upon the staircase to the apartment. Voices and laughter fills the room just beyond the door, the backroom of her mother’s bar. She’s heard the second voice before—playing back and forth to her mother’s own dulcet tones.

 Pixie Styx.

 It took a few conversations to put together the name, but she has had it now for some time, pulling together bits and pieces of a world beyond the one Magdalene cultivated for the two of them. Blood, punches, the cheers of an adoring crowd—

 Fingernails dig into the soft wood of the staircase, straining to hear more words.

 “Come to one of my fights.”

 More laughter—her mother loves to laugh, and the sound pulls upon Pomona’s lips. Words fill in the space after the sounds subside, and Pomona leans in again, listening.

 “The invitation is there, if you ever want to take it.”

 Feet scrambling up the stairs, Pomona thuds back into her bed in record time. An invitation.

               It was not for her, per say, and Pomona hums to herself as she pulls blankets over herself—but if her mother did not take it, it would be socially rude to completely ignore it, wouldn’t it?

 Society.

 Magdalene painted herself as a figure of it, class and crust, indulgence in the finer things. And Pomona knows she has always benefited from said things—fine paintings, music, scientific outings. But a fight?

 A fighting ring.

 Lifting hand out from beneath her quilt, Pomona examines what she can make out in the darkness—stretching fingers long and wide before curling in them into a fist. One year spent with claws and teeth, and she had never fought. The call of fire in her belly reminds her that so many like her make their way that way—

 This Pixie Styx does.

 And they’re mom’s friend, right? So—what would be the harm?

 -

 So, what’s the harm, she repeats mentally to herself as she pulls her hood up and tightens it. Ginger locks poke out as teeth press into lower lip to try and contain her smile.

 Rocking back and forth, rubber squelching against the hardwood floors—Pomona listens for the rise of the first notes of the night. Ah, the saxophone, the playful tones of the songstress for the evening.

 Thoughts of why her mother never sings rise and fade as she reminds herself to be—very, very quiet.

 Luckily, the chaos of the early hours of the bar is loud enough to create enough quiet for her to sneak down the stairs, through the backroom, and then out the backdoor—

 Into the alleyway.

 Hopping to and fro for a moment, Pomona presses hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt, grinning as she steps into and fades into the movement of Lumiose.

 -

 Fingers to blood pouring from their nose, Pixie bites the tip of their lip, head tilted to one side before they spit. “That all you got, kid? Come on, I thought you said I was old enough to be your father.”

 Cracking their jaw, they step back as the young man rushes forward—momentum driving him into their foot, and then over—

 Payback is a hell of a one-two hit, but something had to end the tango. Ribs burn as they breath out—allowing him to drop to the ground. Foot on his chest, they stand above him, keep him down while the ref calls it.

 Rolling shoulder back, Pixie drops down with a hand out. Winking, they laugh. “Come on, get off the ground, boy. Y’did good. I mean, I beat you, but y’almost had me.”

 Fond words are tossed between fighters before the sound rises again—a tittering, happy voice congratulating them.

 And then they see her for the first time—red hair, hood up, and freckles leaning and waving hand.

 “Gimme a moment—got a… fan?” Pixie thuds hand against the young man’s shoulder, before exiting from the conversation to reposition the scene onto the bright, cheerful red head, pressed up along the edges of the fighting ring. “Hey… kid. Literally right? You know you’re not allowed in here.”

 “Um—you do not know that. I could very well be over… six—eighteen?”

 “Yeah, right—do I know you though? Like, no fuc—freaking offense, kid. You look a bit familiar about the eyes, but—can’t place you for the life of me.”

  Blood had never bound them, but it was just the same to Pomona when she had come to be a human, her face would hold the same things as the woman who had found her Egg and raised her so gently.

 “Oh, yes! I apologize, I should introduce myself—I’m Pomona!”

  “Pomona.”

  “Pomona Strange—Magdalene’s--“

  “Oh—shi—oh. Right, that makes sense, but also—um.” Words, usually their forte, forsake Pixie in the moment, hand coming up to pull their entire jaw down, pinching their chin before they stare the child down (Arceus, how tall was she going to get, she already was only a few inches shorter than they were; though, knowing her mother—Arceus.)

  “Um—are you okay?”

 “Kid, do you want your mother to have one of her bouncers beat the crap out of me? Did I do something to like offend you? Y’know what—doesn’t matter, we’re getting you the hel—heck home. Come on.” Waving off the guys in the fighting pit, Pixie dives into the spectators, grabbing Pomona’s arm.

 “Hey—hey! I can follow on my own.”

 “Clearly you can get here on your own, and how old are you even, kid?”

 “Almost… twelve?”

 “Arceus.”

    “Hey! I am very intelligent, and well-versed for my age, and you did invite mom after all.”

      Pixie cannot help the pull of their lips, half-ease of curve. “I thought you said you were smart, kid—I invited your mother.”

“Well, I simply decided that was a fair invitation to me too, and I wanted to go—I haven’t ever been in a fight, or seen one!”

Blood burns in their nose as they breath in against aching ribs, and Pixie sighs as they continue down the streets with the child, leading her back towards her mother’s establishment. Darkness sits upon the city, the lights it was so named for burning bright. “Better for it, kid—you’re too young to get wrapped up in all of that anyway, and I’m certain if you have to be punched, your mom can find you like a self-defense class to take. Just—it was really dangerous for you to come, alright?”

“Too dangerous for me, and not for mom?”

  “Your mom’s an adult.”

“I’m almost as tall as you, and it’s not too dangerous for you apparently.” Pomona shrugs demurely turning to face the glowing lights of the jazz bar ahead. “Can we just—sneak me back in?”

“No.”

    Opening the door to the backroom, Pixie sighs. “Listen kid—I’m going to walk you up to your apartment, and then I’m coming back down here to get your mom. She deserves to know you snuck out, and you two need to figure it out between you.”

 A plan that sounds all well and good until the door to the apartment is opened, and Magdalene stands in all of her glory, a jacket half-on, her features coloured with worry, but her hair not a strand out of place. “Pomona—darling, my sweet thing, there you are—“

 “… Hi mom?” Smile pulled on, Pomona pulls on the strings of their hoodie.

“Pixie—what are you? Is someone going to explain this to me?” Knees to the ground, Magdalene’s arms wrap about Pomona, before she peers back over to the other adult upon the stairs.

    “Um—yeah, so met your kid, she well. She overheard my invitation to you, and decided it was a group invite, and so. Showed up for my fight.”

 The words sit for a moment before a small noise escapes Magdalene. “Ah. Alright—yes, Pomona come in. We need to chat, darling. And Pixie—“

 “Look, I’ll get out of your hair—“    

“I am quite glad not to—twice the work if you had dragged him in here. Moral obligations to clean up your messes. Quite like a cat, I think.” Palm settles against cheek as Magdalene adjusts Pixie’s head, pushing to one side before pressing the alcohol soaked rag to scrape upon cheek.

 “Fuck—you’d think you get used to that. Arceus. Hurts worse than he could punch. Mercy, Ms. Strange—this is my money maker afterall.”

 Magdalene smiles as her free hand holds their shoulder, keeping them still from pulling away from the sting of alcohol. “Yes, yes—you are quite the lithe and spry fighter, but I seem to remember our last conversation.”

 “Oh, and what was that?”

 “An exchange—I told you about how I came to own the bar, and I merely stated the fact that you, my dear, owe me a story now.” Fingers pressing against cheek and chin to check the remainder of their face, Magdalene runs her eyes over their features. “So, indulge me—how did a scamp like you end up attempting to take down men three times your size?”

 “Hah.”

-

 There are things you do not give words to, or weave into tales.

 How did you find your place, your home on a cold, harsh floor that a quarter of the time you find yourself kissing in blood and once, a chipped tooth?

 Why is it there that your blood pressure can lower for a moment, your muscles relax to flow in a dance?

There’s a truth about homes when you grew up a neglected thing upon the streets—scrapping by for the leftovers and safety in dumpsters—

    It’s all ephemeral. Nothing’s guaranteed.

Except the people who you give your trust to, and those who give their trust to you (that’s how it is supposed to work, that’s how it was supposed to work, god they still try to argue with the past as their mind flashes through falling tales of how they ended up there—

     Blood beneath their nose, pooling out, crooked grin on their lips. Their opponent casts a shadow long with the low, bright lights of the pit. They wink—

  Because it isn’t about the fight pit is it really, Pixie?)

 “Fuckin’ because it was your fault, Pixie—I wouldn’t have tried to take them home if you were fuckin’ there.”

    “I was coming back—you couldn’t hold your impulsiveness off for two seconds—“

    “Oh, it’s always my fault isn’t it, Pix.” Cyrine looms in their memory, blonde ‘hawk eskew and sharp dark amber eyes. “Come on admit it—you know deep down—it’s all on your shoulders. You found us the bullshit Dittechs to begin with. I’m where I am because of you.

“Come on, sweetheart—wake up. You weren’t behind the wheel, but Starling’s there, because of you. S’not like you care anyway. You’re always the victim, huh? And all I ever did was love you, and you threw that away too—what the fuck ever, Pix.”

 Sweet, heady scent still lingers in their nose as her breath is saturated with the stuff.

The memory slams on the brakes—

 Knuckles in their cheek, blood rising to the surface of flesh, purpling the ordeal, a warm liquid within their mouth too. Hard to pay rent that you used to split three-ways, but at least they’ll be out of the place in a month—

     Tongue pokes between lips before they spit crimson stuff onto the floor, hand lifting. “Is that the best you can do, my boy?”

 The dive, the duck, the weaving—a bad bruise and an open wound on their gums enough for the night, a high enough cost. Even for rent. Their fist slams into his back, just beneath ribs—foot planting itself into the softness behind his knee—

-

“I ended up getting into it—because I had to pay rent.” Pixie shrugs at the simplicity of the start and end of their tale. “And then I ended up pretty good at it, so it kept paying that rent.”

 “Mmm.” Magdalene’s thumb etches across their face as she tilts their head. “You know, my dear—I was hoping for a romantic tale, something to take me away—you are usually so very delightful in weaving words.”

 “Come to one of my fights—I’ll show you I can be delightful in other ways.”

Laughter fills the backroom of the bar as Magdalene pulls away fully from them to cover her mouth. “Oh, my sweet thing—I can see how absolutely delightful everything is from the aftermath.”

 Heavy glass thunks with a lack of grace. Hand freed, knuckles scraped and sore, rise to tuck beneath their chin. A single shoulder rises and falls as Pixie mirrors her head’s position. “I would half expect you to be up there crooning—or somewhere more romantic and retired.”

 “Oh, sweet thing—I want to keep my clientele–not drive them away with my tempestuous attempts at singing.” No other calls for her attention, and heels click beneath the beat of the song that sounds far away now. “I got divorced—or was in the process of it, and wanted to make the most use of the money I had made during that entire--”

  Magdalene’s hand rolls through the air as she searches for the word on her tongue (relationship, debacle). “Affair.”

 -

 Divorce is a messy thing, but a freeing one, Magdalene decides as she crosses the threshold into her new life. The old door groans with the pressure, and she has to dip to avoid the frame, before pulling herself once more to full height.

 Golden afternoon light dapples across the scuffed wooden floors, scattering with the dust that obscures its view into the empty building. Fingertips slide through the stuff, rubbing grime between index and thumb. Heels make a low beat across the old floors, finished barely a descriptor that can be used anymore for them.

 The room is a cavern of times past—of songs sung and the chatter of ghosts that hums in the old pipes of the building. Freed of anything beyond the remaining bar, what else remains are the interlopers of time and decay. Broken wallboards, a window once shattered and taped back into place.  

 “Well, my sweet thing, she has certainly seen better days, but once a great beauty, the bones will make for one still.” Magdalene’s voice echoes in the empty ribs of the room. The contractor peers back, nodding once, before ink continues to assess the damage.

 Black on white the final number is presented with the stroke of a sword’s swing, and Magdalene merely smiles. Sharp orange eyes turn back to the expanse before her. Shoulders pull back as she breathes in. “Lovely. I think we have ourselves an agreement to tango. You mentioned you can begin tomorrow?”

 -

 The room thrums with saxophone and piano, moody notes roiling across the slick finished floor. The instruments fade as a voice rises above them within the dull lighting of the room, golden as the sconces that illuminate the space.

 “Money simply for money’s sake is incredibly dull, my dear, and I wanted more.” Pulling the towel back from her shoulder, Magdalene peers through her lashes at the pit fighter, who has raised the remnants of their whiskey once more to their lips. Off to the right the drink goes, avoiding the violet blooming along their lower lip.

 “Honestly, you paint yourself a pretty picture in your getups, where I can’t really imagine you settling for less than the world.”

 There are days gone by in crimson and gold that ache beneath Magdalene’s ribs, shaded beneath her mother’s shadow. Growing into long legs and holding herself small. Marble and filigree playing the ghosts of an age long gone, a puppetry of pathos. Long days turning into long months and years. Once you learn to steal for yourself though—a deal, a bargain made—

Rosaire was an excuse, but this–this was, she had made hers, tall amongst the vintage bottles and delights of the night life.

  “Well, why ever should I?” Hand on chest, Magdalene boughs her body like a willow tree in the breeze, grin and laughter flowing out of her. “You realize though, you owe me now.”

 “Is this a game?”