The Green Scarf

The Faithless (Part 2)

Part 1

The hunter approached the end of a misty alley, following little red droplets that led behind a derelict building. Crawling away in the dark was the wounded vampire, tired and worn.

“Ah... My faithless little hunter,” the vampire rasped. “What circumstances to be reunited. You appear stronger since last we met."

“I am,” the hunter agreed. They closed the space between them, looming over the fallen vampire.

"It seems faith is no longer a... necessary shield," the vampire murmured. "And yet, you kept the bauble, I've noticed."

“I saw what you did." The hunter tucked the bauble away from view. “Attacking the Guild leader in plain view. Very bold.”

"Well deserved."

"A foolish target, in any case."

The vampire laughed, then coughed at the effort. “Why the... Pleasantries? Savoring your victory?”

The hunter knelt. "The entire Guild is after you."

The vampire grimaced. "It seems you shouldn't stall, then. Others may take your prey."

"They won't," the hunter said. They brought out a dagger.

The vampire stared, and a very human fear flitted across their face.

"I've reached the end of the road," the vampire conceded. "I won't claim to embrace death, but I'd rather it be you."

The hunter tilted their head. "How unlike you to give up."

"I've carried out my vengeance." The vampire tilted back their head. "Now satisfy yours."

"I had a different plan," the hunter said. They nicked the end of their thumb with the dagger's edge, and pressed it to the vampire's lips.

Wonder. Confusion. "You've truly lost me," the vampire whispered. "You're doing this... To what end?"

"Paying what is owed. Stop asking questions."

"You're playing with fire." The vampire's voice was low with hunger. "Offering your blood to one such as I. It seems you haven't shaken your wish for death."

"I've spilled more blood while training," the hunter scoffed.

"And if I forget myself?" The vampire whispered. "What then?"

"You're in no position to worry about that," the hunter said. "Drink."

With little other option, the vampire accepted the tithe of blood. Their cheeks flushed, and their wounds closed with unnatural speed.

"That should suffice." The vampire licked their lips and pulled away. "Thank--"

"I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing." The hunter stood and backed away, eager to put distance between them. "We are not friends."

"Then, what are we?" The vampire gazed up at them, strangely vulnerable.

The hunter avoided their eyes. "Follow the path down to the ravine. If you leave now, you will reach the next town by sundown."

"Hunter--"

"If I see you again," the hunter said, "I will end you."

"Ah." The vampire stood and approached the hunter.

The hunter backed away, raw with a sudden panic. "D-didn't you hear me?"

"Your hand is still bleeding."

The hunter hit wall. "Hardly."

"Let me tend to it."

The hunter reluctantly held out their hand. They took the wounded thumb and gently bandaged it. Then, boldly, they pressed a small kiss in the small of their palm.

The hunter stared, then tore their eyes away with a blush.

Shouting sounded from the end of the alleyway. The Guild hunters.

"They're here," the hunter hissed. "Go, now."

"Till we meet again," The vampire whispered. "My faithless little hunter."

And then they disappeared into the mist.

They found you in the outskirts of town, mucking out stalls in indentured servitude. The Imperial Mage was collecting his mare from the stalls and pointedly berating you for the smell and to do your job properly, when he saw the birthmark on your forearm, and recognized it for what it was. The mark of the Emerald Phoenix, fated to bring an end to the Obsidian King. In an instant, he paid off your debts, you were whisked away to the castle.

The King himself ordained you as the Emerald Phoenix, the Chosen One, and you were given the robes and insignia to denote your unique station. Attendants set to work removing the years of muck and mire on your skin, burning your tattered tunic in lieu of sumptuously embroidered court uniforms. You were paraded through the streets, celebrated and revered by the people who once spat on you. For weeks, they trained you, pampered you, like their vast resources were but a pittance. For weeks, they gave you feasts, as if they could make you forget your hunger.

When the time came for the Great Battle, they fitted you with chainmail and plated armor with the crest of the King. They brought you forth and rallied behind you, a beacon of hope. And when you called upon your true power, like releasing a chained beast, the crowd cheered. A fierce cry tore from the back of your throat, and you were encompassed with flames. The plated armor on your back sloughed off, now hot molten metal. The fire erupted at all sides. The cheers faltered, and scattered into screams. Too late they ran, too late they all ran, but the fire scorched and melted and cremated like a crucible, and it consumed everyone, even you.

The prophecy fortold you would end the Obsidian King. No one seemed to question how.

You awaken in the ashes of your kingdom. The silence of ruin is engulfed by a moaning wind. The embers have died. Pools of molten metal, now cooled, surround you. Your skin appears foreign, new. You are reborn.

You are so hungry.

When you were selected as the Chosen One, you were showered with gifts, training, and a new cushy room in the castle. The Kingdom thought you would automatically be on their side, but the memories of your impoverished childhood will never fade.

Look, writer’s block is not some giant, mysterious monster. It’s you, in your head, holding yourself back because you’re afraid what you’re writing sucks. And here’s the truth, yeah, maybe it does suck. But you know what? That’s okay. Writing something bad is still better than writing nothing at all. You don’t wait for inspiration to strike, you show up, write the garbage draft, and then fix it later. Writing isn’t about perfection, it’s about getting it done. Even if it’s one crappy page at a time.

The audience roared, the energy electrifying.

"And there he is, folks! The Scarlet Fist! Our reigning champion remains undefeated!"

Jay panted from the center of the amphitheater, slick with sweat and blood. He smiled and licked the blood from his knuckles, eyes wild.

"What's this? A new challenger approaches! It's none other than the Sandstorm! He is the reigning regional champion two years running, but does he stand a chance against our all-time champion?!"

A sand mage sauntered into the ring. Powerful, cocky. A showboater. Jay let him demonstrate his power, twisting and forming the sand into a dragon. He flew atop the dragon and spewed balls of sand that blew craters into the ground and boundary walls. The audience cheered.

Jay rolled his shoulders. The sand mage had fans in the crowd. He should play around a bit and make it look like a challenge. One of the sand balls flew in his direction and he dodged. Then another, and another.

A snake made of sand came into form and coiled around Jay, stopping him from evading. Jay pretended to struggle in the snake's grip. The audience loved drama. He punched through the snake's body and the sand crumbled where he touched.

Spikes emerged from the ground, and Jay managed to evade mostly. He didn't think the audience noticed a bit of the spike crumbled away before it could pierce his foot.

Half of the snake struck again, and Jay yet again dodged. The snake hit the floor and burst into a mound of sand.

The mage swooped down with his sand dragon. A fatal mistake. Jay leapt on top of the dragon, and it crumbled mid-flight. They both tumbled and rolled onto the ring.

The mage stumbled back, exposed.

"Y-you must be cheating!" The mage shrieked. Jay laughed, because of course he was. This mage was woefully green. Jay tried to prolongue the fight a bit longer before punching out the unfortunate young fighter.

"Who else wants a piece?" Jay taunted.

--

It was a good day in the ring, and Jay had full pockets. He took his win to the local bar and was enjoying the open tab from his latest admirer. He was downing a pint when a young man slid into the chair beside him. The young man hardly looked the type for fighting rings, too nervous and too bookish, but Jay had seen all types. Possibly with coin.

"Business or pleasure?" Jay asked with a crooked smile.

"I-I know your secret," the young man stammered.

For a moment, Jay's smile flickered. "Oh, you think so?"

"You're no mage," the young man said, adjusting his glasses. "You're a walking power dampener. An, um, impressively powerful one, at that." He shrunk a little at the wild look in Jay's eye.

Jay's eyes darted around, and he grabbed the young man by his scruff.

"Keep your voice down," he growled. "Who sent you?"

"No one," the young man said. "I... I need your services."

"Business, then."

Jay released his hold. The young man smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt.

"Uh, well, m-my name is Lucas," the young man stammered. "I... I'm a student at Wingcrest University, and I'm studying for my Greater Healing degree with a concentration in Healing Ethics. Particularly, my thesis sheds light on the misuse and abuse of healing magic, as well as dangerous magic practices that are unfortunately commonplace."

He shifted. "Most healing centers deal with surface injuries and cosmetic healing and neglect internal injuries or cause clots from dangerously rapid healing. This is common knowledge among Healers, but it's largely considered a necessary evil that occasionally we'll lose some patients. I wanted to argue for stricter policies and show that such tragedies are, in fact, avoidable." He fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve and bit his lip.

Jay rolled his eyes and groaned. He was going to get this kid's life story. He wasn't really interested in the inner workings of Healing Magic, and an attractive patron across the way was exchanging flirtatious glances at him.

"Sorry, I, uh, tend to ramble," Lucas mumbled. "S-so, um. During my research I stumbled upon a dangerous conspiracy. Depreciating healing magics."

"Where do I come in?" Jay asked, patience thin, eyes elsewhere."

"Oh. Yes." Lucas pulled back the collar of his shirt. "I-I may not look it, but I've, uh, been afflicted with a Wasting Curse. Are you familiar?"

Jay glanced over the sunken black and purple handprint, a hallmark of the Wasting Curse. "I've seen it in the ring. You need a Disenchanter," he said. "You should have no problem paying, being a student of Wingcrest. Get it treated sooner rather than later. It's not something to ignore."

"I-I've been," Lucas said. "To several."

"Well, yeah. It takes a few days to reverse." Jay said. "You need to be patient and follow your healer's advice."

"You don't understand," Lucas grit. "I've been to three different Disenchanters who claimed they can help me. But... The curse was custom-made, a variant they could have never possibly encountered before. It uses a form of malicious regeneration interlocked with my healing magic. A fitting punishment for my meddling."

Jay passed his glass back to the bartender for a refill. "So what does that mean?"

"Trying to remove the Wasting makes it spread," Lucas explained. "Each Disenchantment brings the curse closer to my heart."

"Listen, kid, that's awful," Jay said, "That really is. But what do you want me to do about it? You need a professional."

"I need a bodyguard, first of all," Lucas said. "Someone unaffected by magics."

Jay fixed him with a long, tired stare. "I'm not a body guard. Check the guild nearby."

Jay moved to slip away from the booth, but Lucas grabbed his arm. "I also need a strong power dampener. Someone who can block my magic and slow the spread of the curse."

"They sell power dampeners everywhere nowadays," Jay said dismissively.

"Yours is extremely, exceptionally powerful," Lucas said with a note of desperation. "I could fill an entire amphitheater with power dampeners to achieve a fraction of what you are. Whoever cast it on you was a master of the craft."

The flirtatious patron cast a final glance before leaving. Jay flopped back to his chair with a sullen expression.

"Listen, I know this isn't... How you want to spend your evening," Lucas worded tactfully. "But this is life or death for me, and I am willing to pay you very, very handsomely. Name your price."

"Give it a rest, kid," Jay sighed. "Just... I'm not a bodyguard. I have shows scheduled. I can't just walk out in the middle of a season."

"But I--"

He drained another pint. "And you're right, you do ramble," Jay grumbled. "You give me a headache." He patted him on the back and shoved past. "Good luck, kid."

"I'll tell," Lucas said.

Jay stopped in his tracks. "...What?"

"I'll tell everyone your secret."

Jay set his jaw, and turned with a raw fury. He grabbed the young man and pushed him back into the bar counter.

"You want to die tonight?" Jay hissed.

"You left me no choice," Lucas hissed back.

They stared each other down. Lucas shivered.

"You... You might as well," Lucas whispered, his voice cracking. "I'll be dead soon anyway." His lip quivered. "I'll be dead by morning."

Jay's anger faded. He took a deep breath and righted the young man, and smoothed out his rumpled shirt.

"Don't cry," Jay said. "Don't..." He shushed him.

Lucas made a good effort, trying to hold it in. This wasn't exactly the place for tears. He choked a bit and a sob escaped.

"I'm going to die, and so, so many people are going to die, because it's more profitable to keep them sick," he whispered. "They don't want my research getting out, and I'm not going to be able to save anyone."

"Oh... Shoot." Lucas's knees gave out, and Jay caught him just barely. He could feel his shirt get moist, and he gently patted his head. "Shoot, kid."

"All good, Jay?" The bartender called out.

"Yeah," Jay called back.

"Something for the kid?"

"I'm 27 years old," Lucas grumbled, wiping his eyes. "I'm not a kid."

"Yeah, grab one for the..." Jay paused for a double-take. "Wow, really? 27?" He eased the young man into a chair.

"I mean, I'm in graduate school," Lucas muttered. "...Was."

"Okay, yeah." Jay scratched his chin. "Listen, fine, I'll help you out. I'll tell my manager I have an injury from the last match and take the flack. In return, I need half up front."

"R-really?" Lucas lit up.

They discussed the amount and terms of payment over drinks.

"I appreciate your cooperation," Lucas said.

"And one more thing," Jay said, very somber. "This is very, very important."

Lucas nodded.

"Don't tell anyone about the whole... Power thing," Jay said. "I mean it."

Lucas frowned. "I will uphold my end if you uphold yours. I am a man of my word."

"... Fine, I'll take that," Jay said.

You are a gladiator that can win fight after fight against even the most powerful wizards. Your secret? You were cursed as a kid to nullify any magic that came close to you.

The squall pushed them straight into the rocks, which tore clean through the starboard side. The hull was damaged beyond repair. Gwen screwed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn't have let Harvey goad her into trying to prove herself. She knew she wasn't ready to be captain. She knew she wasn't enough. She just wanted so badly to be taken seriously. And now they were all going to die for her pride. This was her fault. This was all her fault.

"Snap out of it, Captain!" one of the crewmen cried. "We need to evacuate!"

Gwen shook, heaving, with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She stared ahead, wide-eyed and shellshocked.

"Leave the wretch! She'll take us down with her!"

"I knew we shouldn't've trusted her!"

Gwen snapped out of her trance. She had a job to do. "You lot! Move the cargo port side! You two! Hold the life boats! I repeat, hold the life boats! The current is too strong and we'll be dashed on the rocks! Wait until my signal!"

Her arms shook, fighting the pull of the wheel. She had trained for this. She had trained so long for this.

The ship was losing the battle against the punishing wind, pulling them toward a rocky alcove. Gwen knew what she had to do, but it would take them wildly off-course.

"Brace yourselves!" Gwen screamed.

She began to turn the ship.

"Captain, what are you doing!" one of the crewman cried.

"We must change course or be drawn further into the rocks!" Gwen yelled over the howling wind. "This will draw us to safer waters!"

"Are you insane! We need to go towards land!" Joshua cried.

"We won't make it to land in these waters!" Gwen screamed.

The ship groaned and pitched. The crew clung helplessly onto the bough and rails. Foaming waves crashed over the deck. In harrowing minutes that felt like hours, they were tossed about in the squall. Finally, mercifully, the ship calmed. The worse had past. The water was rising still, and they were running out of time.

"Drop anchor! Deploy the life boats!" Gwen said. "Begin evacuation!"

"Cap'n, it's customary for women and children to--" Joshua began, reaching for the wheel, and Gwen turned on him with a wild fury.

"I am the CAPTAIN, and I WILL be the last to leave," Gwen snapped.

"Captain--" Joshua protested.

"You are in charge of ushering our passengers onto the life boats," Gwen said, a little softer. "There is a trade route a few clicks off. Someone will see us and come to our aid. You are the only one I can trust with this task."

Joshua set his jaw. Nodded.

"You lot! Keep calm!" he shouted. "In an orderly fashion, make your way onto the life boats! I repeat, in an orderly fashion! This will all be over soon! Help is on the way!"

The first life boat was filled, then deployed.

And then, the second.

The first one, slowly, began sinking. One of the children jumped, taking the risk of swimming for it, and found the water too choppy.

"Captain, the life boat is sinking!"

"Man overboard! Throw the life preserver!" They tossed the life preserver and the child grabbed on. The first boat paddled closer and pulled the child to safety.

"Lower the third life boat!" The passengers from the sinking boat clamored to the other two.

The water was rising. "Lose the cargo!"

The cargo fell into the water, buying them time.

They deployed the fourth life boat. The ship was sinking faster. The crew cut loose the final life boat and abandoned protocol. The life boats barely stayed above water, filled well past their intended capacity. The crew unable to fit clung to floating barrels and planks.

"Captain-!" one of the crew cried. Gwen tried to swim for it, but the current pulled her under. Water surged into her lungs. She kicked and clawed, fighting for survival, and losing. Down, down, the ship sank, and Gwen with it. Her limbs were heavy, and her vision grew dark.

Gwen awoke to a burning sensation in her lungs. She gasped in a breath, but felt a lazy, liquid pull, not air. She questioned whether she was dead. Judging from the pain in her lungs and limbs, she didn't think so. Something smooth brushed her cheek. Her eyes snapped open.

"Oh good, you're not dead," a woman said, leaning over her, holding her cheek. Her voice sounded strange and melodic. The lighting too low to see her properly.

Gwen shook her head. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a high whistle.

The woman tilted her head.

Gwen tapped her throat.

"You're breathing because I made you breathe," the woman explained. "Using a little bit of magic I concocted. It seems you're still adjusting."

Gwen tried to speak again, but choked, little bubbles forming around her. She tried to shift away, but something constrained her.

"Where do you think you're going?" The woman tutted. "You're still recovering, and you are many, many leagues deep below the surface. Most don't survive the journey."

Gwen's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. The woman's silhouette was strange, as if her torso were a writhing mass of... something.

"I'll take good care of you," the woman said. "I've always wanted a human for a pet."

You are the captain of a sinking ship. As you feel that the sinking is your fault you decide to go down with the ship instead of evacuating. It is only when your ship hits the bottom of the ocean and you are still alive that you notice that something is off.

Missing in the Snow

Villain drove slowly on the dark, ice-covered roads, their eyes searching frantically. Hero fought with Supervillain and barely managed to escape. They had to find Hero before Supervillain.

They'd installed a tracker on Hero's phone, and this was Hero's general location, but they were nowhere to be found.

They could be lying in the snow, bleeding out, or worse.

They rolled down the windows and tried calling Hero's phone. The cold air stung their eyes. They drove back and forth until at last they heard Hero's telltale ringtone.

They leapt out of the car and dug through the snow.

Their stomach dropped.

Just the cellphone.

For the next two hours they called out for them, frantically digging through snow and circling the area for clues or footprints.

Then a thought struck them.

Supervillain must have them.

Supervillain must have kidnapped Hero.

It was only a matter of time before they did something horrible to them. They had to act fast.

Villain nearly lost control of their vehicle in their haste to return to base.

They left the car running, dashed inside. They had to suit up, grab a weapon and some supplies--

"Whoa, whoa, hey, what's the hurry?"

The villain froze.

Hero emerged from the shower, steam rolling out behind them, wearing cozy pajamas and a towel on their head.

"Yeah, things got really bad with Supervillain. Mind if I crash here?"

Villain stared at them, wild-eyed and speechless.

"…Maybe I should've asked--"

"Why," the villain croaked, "Don't you have your cellphone on you."

The hero blinked. "Oh, shoot, that? Yeah, I had to ditch it because someone tried tracking me. Why, did you call?"

Villain stared at them a little too long, their eyes a little watery. "I, uh, got snow in my eye," they said, and brushed past them into the shower.

"O-oh, okay! I'll make you some hot cocoa!" Hero called.

Hero picked a movie for them to watch. Villain returned puffy-eyed and unusually quiet, and refused to let go of their hand the rest of the night.

Now that his attacker was incompacitated, Alan set about making coffee. The aftermath of the fight left the kitchen a mess, so he opted to drink straight from the pot.

"I guess I should've taken you for a pessimist," the Shapeshifter huffed.

"That really is on you," Alan agreed. "You've been around what, 5 weeks at this point? You really should've known better."

"You knew for 5 weeks I was impersonating your partner?"

"Well, Bart never signed my birthday card. He also never washed the dishes."

"You made it seem like he washed them all the time! You made such a big deal about it!"

"Well, yeah. I hate washing dishes, and you were gullible."

The Shapeshifter shifted his weight to lean against the wall, positioning his bound arms and legs as comfortably as possible. "You really knew this whole time? And you didn't do anything?"

"He's dead, right? You killed him and took over his life?"

"Well... Yes. Shouldn't you be more bothered he's dead?"

Alan nodded. "Ah, well, yeah. These things happen." He poured a little something in with the coffee, swirled it, and took a swig.

The Shapeshifter grimaced at his apathy. "But, wait. You were lying about the drop point long before the birthday card."

"You think I trusted Bart? No one should be asking that many questions."

The Shapeshifter groaned. "No wonder none of the drop points had the Energy Forms. You were giving me the runaround this entire time."

Alan nodded. "Granted, you never had clearance to know they were Energy Forms. That is to say, Bart shouldn't have known to ask about them. Though, well, I only know because I don't trust my superiors."

"Oh, so you really have trust issues," the Shapeshifter snorted.

"Hey, I don't want to hear it from the guy who went buck wild and destroyed my kitchen because, what, I tipped you off that I knew you weren't my partner?"

More silence. "You're not even going to ask why I want them?"

Alan took a deep breath. "Maybe in the morning. It's 3am and I don't have it in me to listen to your monologue right now."

The Shapeshifter huffed. A wall clock ticked audibly. Who kept a wall clock anymore?!

"So, you going to turn me in?" The Shapeshifter asked.

Alan blinked slowly at him. "Well, yeah, I guess I have to now. You had to go and attack me, so yeah."

"You don't want revenge for your partner?" The Shapeshifter asked uncomfortably.

Alan groaned. "What, you want me to kill you too or something? I'm already facing enough paperwork as it is."

"Did you even like your partner?" The Shapeshifter pressed.

"Not as much as you, apparently," Alan griped. He stared down at the empty pot of coffee sadly, and set it down on the table. The table slowly tipped, the legs loose and uneven, and the glass slid off to the floor and shattered. Alan nudged at the broken shards of glass with his toe absently, and then sighed resolutely. "He was always snooping around in my desk and ratting me out for things that weren't anyone's business. Guess I kept to myself too much for his liking. Or maybe he just didn't like what he found."

"Now I have to listen to your monologue?" The Shapeshifter snarked.

"You can't ask a bunch of questions and complain about answers," Alan chided. "Anyways, I guess what I'm saying is I'll miss you as a partner. Besides the whole killing and betrayal thing, you weren't half bad."

The Shapeshifter really didn't know what to say to that. Frankly, what was there to say? "I hope you work on your trust issues, buddy," the Shapeshifter tried.

Alan nodded. "Yeah. No one's allowed at my house anymore."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"You better hope my insurance covers these damages."

The Shapeshifter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seek therapy."

"You… Expected me to betray you from the start?" "Look. At this point I just asume that everyone is going to betray us and I am just pleasently surprised when I am wrong."

How the Turns Have Tabled

Hero approached the cell with all the feet-dragging reluctance of someone who was in way over their head. They dug through their pocket for the key, mumbling something about stupidity and youth mortality under their breath. A quick glance through the small window nestled in the door revealed a form unmoving laid out in the corner.

To their minor relief, it appeared their guest was still out cold.

The hinges squeaked as Hero slowly pushed open the door. They watched closely for any movement and saw none, so they continued.

Once inside, they dropped a bundle of fabric at the feet of the sleeping figure and left a plastic bottle and an aluminum package on the ground. They were back out the door quickly and the lock clicked back into place just as fast.

Hero turned away from the door and let out a quiet breath as they moved away.

A few steps in, a creak sounded from behind them.

Shit.

Hero froze, then spoke calmly into the stale air,“The exits out back.”

Lowly, a gruff voice responded, “Not that easy.”

Hero winced.

“Worth a shot.”

By the time their hand shot to their belt and they made to spin around, Villain had already closed the distance. Their knife was knocked from their hand the second it was drawn. The villain kicked it away in the same move he used to grab the hero’s wrist. Hero used their free hand to punch him in the face, landing a hard hit before Villain used his leverage to twist, forcing their arm behind their back and shoving them face-first into the wall.

Hero groaned into the cinder block, “Fuck my life.”

They would not have even realized that they had said that aloud had it not been for the confirmation of a deep but quiet chuckle.

Fingers curled lightly into their scalp as Villain spoke, “Other hand.”

Hero squeezed their eyes shut and offered up their free hand into the borderline-painful grip behind them.

“You want to tell me where the ties are?”

Hero turned their cheek against the wall so their jaw was free to move with the words.

“Second shelf from the bottom, other wall.”

They were lifted from the concrete and pulled backwards to the opposite side of the room. A plastic tie soon zipped into place, pinning their wrists together before the villain shifted his grip to their arm to lead them forward.

“In.”

They stepped through the door into the dimly-lit cell, and Hero scowled at the lock hanging broken off the latch.

“Sit,” he ordered with a shove towards where the crumpled blanket rested on the stripped down cot.

The hero stumbled but did as they were told, settling with their back against the wall and feet planted firmly on the floor.

They watched as Villain dragged in a folding chair, flipping it around in front of him to plant a leg on either side and sit backwards, conveniently blocking the doorway.

“Kidnapping, huh?” The villain begun to question, “Is that what you do now?”

Hero leveled their eyes on the blank sheet that was the adjacent wall in lieu of a response. Villain tilted his head at the silence and leveled a disappointed glare at the hero.

“Don’t make me come over there.”

At that, Hero dragged their gaze slowly to the man in the chair.

“I don’t suppose you’ll believe you walked in here of your own free will?”

“Right,” the villain leaned forward, placing his elbows on the seat back and planting his chin on his palms. “And the lock was for decoration.”

“Obviously, given how easily it broke.”

The distaste shown on the hero’s face suggested that they would be having more than a few words with Masterlock customer service.

Villain grinned almost imperceptibly.

“I must say, this is giving my style, not yours.”

“Yeah, well,” Hero bit their lip and averted their eyes again, “shit happens.”

They took the time to notice all the numerous cobwebs in the room before Villain opened his mouth again.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t moving his tongue to push for an explanation.

“You know, they say mimicry is the highest form of flattery.”

Hero, taken slightly aback, could only find the highly dignified words, “Fuck off.”

Instead of lashing out like the hero had predicted with muscles tensed, Villain simply pointed out, “You’re the one who brought me here. I think I might just stick around and find out why.”

With that, he stood. The chair slid across the floor and into the wall as he pushed off.

“It’s in your best interest to answer, so I’d suggest doing that.”

Hero did not dare take their eyes off his form as he approached. He towered over the low-lying cot, and Hero may or may not have forgotten to breathe as he leaned in.

“Or have you forgotten your position here, now?”

Hot breath warmed their ear and Hero bit their tongue.

“You thought you could lock me up?”

“I…made an error in judgment.” Hero spoke carefully, suppressing a shiver.

Another chuckle had Hero silently begging for a Time Machine. An arm was planted on either side of them, leaving them feeling like a bird in a cage, or an ant under a microscope.

“I sure hope the five minutes of success didn’t get to your head,” Villain spoke with faux pity, lips slightly pouted in obvious mockery.

“I think they took five years off my life, actually,” Hero admitted, figuring it was probably clear at this point how they felt about their decision to… well, abduct the villain.

“It sure sounds like you’ve learned your lesson, then.”

Hero almost cheered when Villain rose back to his full height, out of their immediate personal space. That was, until he continued.

“But really, it is best to be certain.”

“How, exactly, do you plan on being certain?” Hero inquired carefully, not that they really wanted to know the answer. Their heart beat a rapid warning inside of their chest.

Villain tapped his chin thoughtfully before a familiar grin spread slowly across his face.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got just the idea.”

Worrying did not even begin to cover the fear that sparked in the hero’s chest at that statement.

“Sit tight,” commanded the villain as he sauntered out the door, not bothering to replace the lock or even so much as close the door.

The hero was left to gawk at his abrupt departure from their place in the corner, unable to gracefully rise and follow him with arms stuck behind them as they were.

A few seconds passed, and they slumped as the adrenaline finally started to drain out of them.

They breathed out into the quiet air as the villain’s footsteps receded, “I am going to die so young.”

Pacing Writing tip

Here’s the thing about pacing: it’s the heartbeat of your story. Too slow, and the reader flatlines. Too fast, and they can’t catch their breath. You need to know when to hold back and when to push forward. Slow down for the emotional beats, the quiet moments of character development. But when the tension builds, you hit the gas and don’t let up until the reader’s hanging on every word. Pacing isn’t about keeping a steady speed, it’s about the rhythm of highs and lows that keeps your reader glued to the page.

utterly beautiful

I don’t care if this world breaks me, cause I was already a wreck in the making, so I will love you gently, hold your hand to help you up, come in to volunteer for a friend, show up to artistic events to celebrate other’s achievements, take the pictures for that evening, then fade into the background as silent as an echo on a blank canvass. I will unbury your skeletons, take note of the world’s diseases, pull those weeds, and plant the seeds so you can live to see hope blooming, and feel a soft breeze as you finally walk free from every tragedy that was haunting your psyche. I will write a world of compassion and beauty and disappear before you can even remember seeing me.

-2024