Guess who's back?
*realizes what I've done*
Back again?
*regrets everything*
Shady's back
*can't undo it*
Tell a friend
*I'M SORRY*

Another chapter. Take it.

●○●○●○●○●○

~ Y/N's PoV ~

After being so rudely abandoned by my blue-haired friend and her cat, I sat myself on a bench near the woods to consider.

Could I even call Coraline Jones my friend? I supposed I could. Y/N, the cousin of Wybie, could not. But I, Robin Goodfellow, the player behind the mask, could. If I wanted to.

And I did want to. She was bizzare in a rare, deeply intriguing way. Her cat was equally as unsettling. The pair of them were almost like twin ghosts, what with how they flitted around each other.

Wybie was a part of that flitting tangle, as well. He seemed more detached from it, almost to the point where I could believe he and Coraline were average, normal friends.

I nearly laughed aloud at the thought of my cousin being anything close to normal. Ever. He was strange, but I was strange with him, and we liked it that way.

Now, that deserved some pondering. Coraline seemed a great deal stranger than me in the way Wybie always was, and they obviously had some history. It was there in the air when they looked at each other without speaking.

I physically shook my head at the cold stab of jealousy I felt, determined to get rid of it. What reason did I have to feel jealous? Wybie and I grew up together. We had endless hours of shared memories. Some small town girl with sassy remarks and an unnerving cat wasn't going to take the friendship of my cousin from me.

Reassured but still inexplicably uneasy, I stood from the bench and began a calming walk in the woods, running over lines in the meantime.

I found myself mumbling as I walked, which kept away the odd wandering thought.

"If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended." I smiled into the ever-familiar epilogue.

"That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear
And this weak and idle theme
No more yielding, but a dream
Gentles, do not reprehend
If you pardon, we will mend
And as I am an honest Puck
If we have unearnéd luck
Now, to 'scape the serpent's tongue
We will make amends ere long
Else the Puck a liar call
So, goodnight unto you all
Give me your hands if we be friends-"

"And Robin shall restore amends," said a voice behind me.

I whipped around, nearly throwing myself off balance in the process, but I managed to retain dignity and stay upright.

The girl who had spoken was young, I would guess in high school, skin pale as death, with blonde hair cropped short like a boy's, and her hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips slightly pursed, as if she wanted to laugh but needed to restrain herself.

I noted the wheat-colored dust on her boots, which was definitely not native to this drab town, and the old-but-clean condition of her black jeans. Her denim jacket, as well, appeared to be from out of town, with a yellow smiley face pin on one breast pocket and an empty space on the other.

She stood perfectly still, watching, waiting for my next move.

"You're missing a pin?" I had meant to make a statement rather than ask a question, but my surprise at my own choice of remark caused my inflection to shift.

She laughed a beautiful, airy laugh, but it sounded too heavy in her mouth, like she had wanted to chuckle darkly instead.

"Indeed. I'll get the how's your pork pig on there some day," she smiled wryly.

"That seems a rather unpleasant thing to put on such open display, does it not?" I asked, tilting my head and now genuinely curious.

"Darling, you don't know the half of it."

She did allow herself a dark chuckle this time, and while sending a chill up my spine, it was nice to hear a natural sound from her mouth. It felt less like she was lying through her teeth at every word.

"But I shall acquire and wear it regardless," she continued, "Lest I upset my dear fictional characters. My laws, no, that wouldn't do at all."

"My laws?" I scoffed slightly without meaning to. "I haven't heard that before."

She grinned a wolfish grin.

"Merely a Tom Cullenism, darling. I, myself, would never quote a line of that fashion had it not come from the pen of my favorite author and the mouth of my favorite character."

"That's quite the devotion," I remarked.

"Oh, I suppose it is. I couldn't truthfully call him my favorite author, nor Tom my favorite character. I simply enjoy their words more than those of many others."

"And which author do you speak of?"

Her lips twisted into a smirk of challenge.

"The master of horror himself, darling. The wonderful Stephen King," she proclaimed grandly, spreading her arms as if she expected me to applaud.

I stared blankly at her, blinked once, and refused to react in any way.

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion at my lack of response.

"Have you not heard of him?"

I shook my head. She gasped dramatically.

"My, what a travesty this encounter has turned out to be! Now, travesty, that's a lovely one. Not mine, but I picked it up a while back and I can't seem to shake it off. Where was I? Oh, yes. It appears I shall have to acquaint you with him!"

She froze for a moment, as if someone had pulled the plug from a robot, but then continued moving as if nothing had happened.

She swung a worn canvas tote around from behind her, opened it, and began pawing through the contents. I eyed the bag warily.

She pulled out a book. A very large book. My mouth fell open and the girl glanced at me, not even trying to fight the mischievous smile that made its way onto her face.

"One thousand, one hundred and fifty-three pages, before you ask," she said, not looking up from the hardcover monstrosity. "The Stand, unabridged and illustrated. My mother's copy."

She thumbed through the pages.

"Ah! Here we are, listen to this: We got to talk about ships and seals and sailing wax, and whether bees have stings. Also about the papers you're supposed to have for me, and the car, and the keys to the car. Now all I see in your gay-radge is a Chevy pickup, and I know that's yours, Kitty-Kitty, so how 'bout it?"

The girl burst into cackling, barking laughter. I was tempted to take a step back, but figuring it would be impolite, I stayed put. Though, with this girl, she might take it badly if I didn't step back.

She went back to her wolfish grin and took in my not-even-mildly-amused expression. She huffed.

"Well, I suppose most people don't appreciate the charisma of Randall Flagg. Or rather, Richard Fry, seeing as he was Richard Fry around that man. Oh, but he was Randall Flagg toward the end of that encounter. It seems I've reached an impasse..."

She trailed off, staring into the nothingness of the woods with a concerned frown. Then, just like before, the animation suddenly returned to her features and she was smiling brightly at me again.

"Silly me, I've gotten off track. Word count, you see," she said, tapping her nose like she had just shared a great secret. "You're Robin Goodfellow, or Puck, or Goblin, if you like, and you're on your way back to the center of the Shakespeare festival. Correct?"

I nodded, still wary and struck speechless by confusion.

"Good. Otherwise I'd have some issues!" Another cackly, barky laugh. "Anyhow, I might see you there, if my favorite characters aren't taken. Of course, I could remedy that, but I shan't talk about it around one of your lot. Away!"

With that, she flourished a bow strikingly similar to my own, brushed past me, and swaggered up the trail away from town.

I felt the air warm slightly around me. Had it been colder? Maybe, but it would only have been colder around the mystery girl in that case, which was an anomaly I didn't particularly feel like pondering.

With a confused (but also relieved) sigh, I continued my walk.

●○●○●○●○●○

"This has nothing to do with Coraline!" you're thinking, to which I respond: I have introduced a necessary character and have given you a good deal of thought process from Y/N, and I will write more.

Speaking of: my laws, it's been a long time. I don't glean inspiration for this book nearly as often as my one shots. Apologies. This is a hobby, not a profession.

If you're confused by this new girl, good for me. If you didn't understand her references, good for you. The Stand is not for the faint of heart.

I bid you a fond farewell.