05   i'll keep my ears on, i'll keep my eyes open

Mercy's finger tap anxiously against the outside of her truck as her other hand clutches the bottom of her steering wheel. The wind whips against her skin, freckles and grey dots flashing in the June sunlight. Her bottom lip is bitten blood-red, gnawed at by gnashing teeth and sharp nails pulling at the skin until it rips. It's quiet. Her stereo hums restlessly with the pulse of a miscellaneous rock song that she'd smuggled past her mother, but there's a distinct lack of underlying white noise stirring the air at her ears. Mercy pulls her hand from the window.

It's only a matter of time.

She's barely been home this week, her dream's misplaced. Mercy has bounced between Nino's, Henrietta's one coffeeshop and driving aimlessly through town's wide, maze-like streets beside her stops at St. Agnes and Monmouth Manufacturing, finding herself hot on Ronan Lynch's trail without meaning too. It's easy to get lost in Henrietta's hold unless you've grown up there, wandering senselessly amongst the greenery of an endless labyrinth of the town's own creation. It's a trap. Outsiders are hooked by the claws of the countryside, blinded by the small-town quality of charm that Mercy thinks Henrietta distinctly lacks, and then lose themselves within the winding streets.

          "You're becoming boring, Little Spider." Illusion's chin tips down towards their chest, head leant back against the headrest as they look to Mercy. "Why are we driving aimlessly when Henrietta has so much to offer you?"

          "We," Mercy says, gesturing between them with her free hand, "aren't doing anything. You're free to leave at any point. I don't want you here."

They poke at her phone, resting in the cupholder of her truck. It's new, plucked from her dreams the night before, without a charging hole or cable and it's reflective screen free of the spiralling cracks that branched from her old one like the roots of an old oak tree. Their presence is particularly strong today. Hand tightening against the steering wheel, Mercy scowls. The radio volume shifts, sound increasing with every crank of the dial.

          "If you're going to be annoying, the least you can do is get me a cigarette." Mercy's gaze pointedly flickers to the Marlboro packet resting next to her phone, lighter stuffed into the crumpled carton. "Then you're not useless."

Illusion sneers. Their fingers snap and a flame dances on the point of their nail. "I'm not your puppet to play with. Nor will I indulge in your bad habits."

Mercy looks over as they come to a stop at a fork in the road. She isn't heeding the stop sign in front of her. Her head cocks, lips slanting into a jagged smile. Mercy's gaze fixates on Illusion's finger, watching the flame grow, divaricating, crawling into the space of the truck's front that air holds. Her eyes flick to their face and the flame snaps from existence. Illusion snarls, teeth bared and their tie constricting their neck. They don't need to breathe, but a chain collar is choking all the same.

          "No," Mercy's voice is iron. "but that's exactly what you are. Aren't you?" Her lip curls: something wholly un-human that winks in the sunlight of her pearl-white teeth. A piece of her is missing. There's a distinct edge, unhinged anxiety that pushes through the threshold of her Cheshire cat smile. "You're apart of me: an extension of a plague that I can never fucking rid. You are my bad habit. And if you're going to be here, you can be useful for once in your miserable existence."

An existence they share. One cannot exist without the other—two indistinguishable sides of the same silver coin. She watches, a predator leering over prey. Never once did Mercy think that Illusion could pale, their vampire-like skin already pale enough to consider them a ghost. But looking back at her, they harden and their face drains of colour. A car behind her honks, and she sets her truck in motion. They don't speak: Mercy's grip on her steering wheel tightens and Illusion focuses on pulling a cigarette from her crumpled carton. She grins as she takes it, tanner fingers flashing through grey. Another fork in the road and the stick of nicotine is lit between Mercy's fingertips. Headphones around her neck and cigarette in hand, Mercy is the perfect picture of teenage disaster.

          "It's gone." Illusion says. They're unusually quiet.

Mercy sighs. "I know. Leave me alone."

Illusion releases themselves from existence, and Mercy is left to herself.

It's a flash of orange splashing against the pastures of green that catches Mercy's eyes and brings her to a slow stop, pulling to the side of the road. It's Ronan Lynch posted at the side of the Pig, broken down in it's appearance and parts. She hasn't seen the Lynch boy since she'd stepped foot through the threshold of his inner workings, the door to Monmouth Manufacturing both open and closed to her, in both dream and consciousness. But Mercy hasn't dare go near the building in the past few days. She needed to think. It's an effort to compose herself, peeling her sticky skin from her leather seats and huffing with effort as she pushes open the door to her truck. Dragging smoke from her cigarette, the act forces Mercy to breathe again. She lets it drop, stubbing it out with the sole of her Doc Martens. Ronan doesn't look up, Mercy's shoes crunching against the asphalts broken pieces. She stands beside him, arms crossed. The boy lets out a vicious swear, the words melting beneath the vehemence of his anger.

          "Lynch," she greets. Mercy moves past Ronan to lean on the passenger seat window where Blue Sargent has slipped herself into the empty space. Adam Parrish rests silently in the backseat, his watching unsettling. "Baby Blue and Co. What brings you round here?"

Blue's nose scrunches, mouth opening but Gansey cuts her off, bug-eyed and off-kilter at Mercy's appearance by his broken down car. "A matter of battery life or death."

Mercy snorts. "Now that's not quite truthful."

          "What's that supposed to mean?" Blue Sargent's glare is indignant, almost even terrifying but Mercy lets the feeling sink over her, flashing her a grin.

          "Well," the redhead begins, "you can feel it too, can't you? Something is distinctly missing and it's not just the organs of your Pig, Dick."

A silence falls pregnant in the air. Mercy taps her fingers against the glass next to where her chin rests. There's a million questions that Gansey wants to ask: how does she know? Has she been there? Does she know why it's gone? Behind Mercy, Ronan flings a stone into the bushes creeping against the road.

          "That's helpful!" Blue launches the words over Mercy's shoulder to the Lynch brother. Unimpressed, she looks to Mercy. "Is there anywhere we can walk to? Or that you could drive us?"

Mercy jams her thumb in the direction she was originally going. "General Store is that way."

Blue and Gansey busy themselves, pulling the store up on Gansey's phone to search their map options. Mercy's finger taps against the roof of the Pig, a steady incessant beat against the humming of crickets. Stomping his way over, Ronan forces his presence beside Mercy and crowds the passenger door. Their shoulders knock.

          "The Deering General Store?" His voice is blistering, striking like the rock against the asphalt. "Look at it. That's not a place to get a battery. That's a place to lose your wallet. Or your virginity."

Mercy scowls.

          "Do you have a better idea?" Blue demands. "Maybe we can hurl some stuff into the underbrush! Or hit something! That solves everything! Maybe we can be really manly and break things!"

Adam's hair glints in the light as he presses his face to the headrest of the driver's seat. Mercy gnaws on her lip, brow raising. It's silent for a moment, tension simmering within the already boiling car. Mercy's phone buzzes in her pocket and her headphones are hot against the skin of her neck.

          "I'm calling Declan," Gansey says. "And telling him to bring a battery."

Ronan curses, throat raw and ragged. Mercy has never seen Ronan Lynch so very against something. There's a flicker, another match lit just by the very mention of Declan Lynch. Gansey, used to the temper, nods along as he dials Declan's number. He turns to Ronan.

          "Sorry." Gansey says. "Everyone else I know's out of town. You don't have to talk to him. I'll do it." There's a tone of finality that Gansey's voice punctuates itself with.

Ronan's fist slams against the roof of the Pig and Mercy holds back her flinch. The sound reverberates, echoing within the confines of her skull. Her hand twitches, and Mercy itches to pull her headphones from around her neck. Noah shifts in the back of the car, and she forces her fingers to wave. His faint form waves in return. Mercy smiles, this time ringing true.

Gansey rounds on Adam, fingers pressing heavily into headrest. "Why is it gone?"

          "I don't know." Adam blinks.

His next target is Blue. "Why? Is it science, or is it magic?"

Mercy's bark of laughter is vivid, barbed as it snags in the empty space. Noah wriggles, slipping momentarily before flashing back. The redhead clamps down on herself, pressing two fingers into her sternum.

          "No." Blue side-eyes Mercy. "I know what you mean. Did it go, or was it taken?"

Mouth curving, Mercy pulls her fingers off her chest. "You're finally asking the right questions."

Gansey's expression is one of confusion, eyebrows contorted and forehead creased. Mercy matches him with equal gaze; hardened and unwavering underneath his stare. Her hand rests against the window, pushing herself backwards to stand up straight. Ronan's eyes flick towards her, clearly listening even while playing nonchalant.

          "Maybe it's invisible." Blue says slowly, shifting the tension.

Adam turns to Noah, "Are you still there when we can't see you?"

Noah blinks, faraway and untethered. He's far away: distant and corrosive from this reality. Mercy's fingers ache to reach through the glass and press themselves against Noah's temples, feeling the pulse of the Ley Line fade like a dying heartbeat. Her lungs constrict, a weight against her chest, and she forces herself to press her hands into her chest to keep herself from reaching out towards the presence. Illusion flickers in and out of existence by her truck.

          "At the store, when he disappeared, he didn't just become invisible." Ronan breaks through Noah's lack of an answer. "He went away. If you're saying Cabeswater's like Noah, it's not invisible. It's gone somewhere."

          "If the Coedwig has gone somewhere," Mercy says, looking at Ronan, "we can find it."

          "We?" Ronan presses, glare fixed onto Mercy. "Who says you're apart of this, King? And what the fuck is Coedwig?"

          "That pretty little forest of yours." Mercy flicks her fingers, grin wicked. "We have mutual goals, Lynch, and are of similar kind. You would be stupid to decline my offer. We both know you aren't stupid."

          "And what is your offer exactly?" Gansey weighs the balance between Mercy and Ronan.

          "You help me," Mercy begins her simple equation, "and I'll help you."

It's the tires of Declan's Volvo sounding against the asphalt that interrupts their conversation before Gansey can answer. Noah The sight spurs Ronan into action, ushering Blue forward enough until he can squeeze into the backseat and collapse, half on top of Adam, and pretend to fall asleep. His leg rests on top of Adam's, jeans pressed against jeans, and warm skin radiating from underneath the material. Declan's door slams closed, Mercy tracing his figure against the horizon as he comes to a stop next to the driver's seat. 

          "Lucky I was able to get away," Declan Lynch's voice is grating against Mercy's skin. Something within his bruised eyes is unsettling; almost fearful, unearthing the divide between him and his brother as he eyes Ronan in the backseat.

          "Thanks, D." Gansey says with ease, pushing open his door and gently forcing Declan to take a step back, away from Ronan. The conversation moves, finding itself at the front of the car, away from the others.

Mercy doesn't watch the gestures, practiced smiles and thesaurus of words deemed appropriate. Her attention fixates on Adam and Ronan, leg against leg, and Blue in the front passenger seat.

          "Who gave your brother that shiner, Ronan?" Adam asks, almost tentative.

Ronan's eyes remain closed. "Some person who fucked his nose over."

          "And who was that?"

Ronan laughs, a single huff, and Mercy snorts in tandem. "Burglars."

          "And how do you know this?" Adam looks at Mercy pointedly.

She shrugs. "Same church."

There's a single fact shared between the three teenagers, vagabonds of the same broken church and it's cracked stone: Declan Lynch is lying and Ronan Lynch can only tell the truth of what he's been given. Adam's lips purse, thoughts churning. The drivers side door is ripped open, resting precariously on the edge of it's hinges, and Mercy flinches violently. Only her fingers gripping the window manage to keep her in place.

          "I know you want to do the opposite of everything I say," Declan snaps, desperation lacing his tone, "but you need to keep your head down. Do you remember when I told you to keep it down, months ago? Have you forgotten?"

Like a lazing Lion, Ronan's eyelids only crack open by half. They're sharp, from their place hidden beneath the dimming sun that creates a kaleidoscope of light through the Camaro's windows. Match meets flame. "I haven't forgotten."

          "Well, it feels like you have. People are watching." Mercy is watching, green eyes florescent. Declan continues. "And if you slip up, you screw things up for all of us. So don't slip up. And I know you've been on the streets again. When you lose your license, I—"

Gansey tugs on Declan's shoulder. "Declan. We're cool here." Declan remains simmering. "I know you don't want to make a scene in front of..."

He looks pointedly towards Blue, Declan following his gaze. The older Lynch brother retreats behind him with a composed expression. Looking apologetic, Gansey says jadedly to Blue, "Sorry, Jane." Then, he lifts the battery into Adam's view. "Adam, you want to do this thing?"

Mercy and Ronan stand side by side in silence against the Camaro as Adam works on it's insides, Gansey hovering over his shoulder. Underneath the summer heat, Mercy's hair roars like flames, almost blinding as she shifts to look at Ronan. His eyes are casted down, fixated hotly on one of his shoes tapping against the other. There's a thump against Mercy's truck, Illusion's fist against the metal. Nobody else looks towards them but Mercy. She shakes her head, hands coming up to clasp her headphones.

          "I'm staying with you tonight," Mercy says, "we have a lot to discuss."

Ronan nods and Mercy pulls on her headphones, cranking up the volume.

The world of the logical dictates that in a state of R.E.M. sleep, heartbeats become irregular, quickening and hastening in a non-uniform state; eyes move beneath closed eyelids, frantic and jerky; your blood pressure rising in tandem with the almost unhinged state of your breathing. It's paradoxical. Your internal world has never been more active but it's trapped within the confines of your body, losing muscle tone to ensure that your physical body is not hurt in the act of performing your dreams. Some aren't afforded this luxury, waking with red-raw scratches down their chests, bruises around their necks or their feet taking them places they know they don't belong. This state is when dreams take place—an unanswered question within the brain's capacity. The truth of it that dreams are a fickle construction of unconsciousness: unreliable but rooted within truth. A half-way point between consciousness and unconsciousness. Where Ronan Lynch has never felt more dead but alive; more out of sync but in control.

Even within the confines of his dreams, Ronan never could set foot within the Barns, but it brings pieces of itself to him. Hanging on the wall of Adam's apartment, cracked plaster covered by a coat of white-paint, his father's mask. Reality says that it hangs on the wall of the Barn's dining room, carefully placed out of reach of curious hands. Ronan's dreams place it before him, well within arms reach and at eye-level, dangling before him with an unrelenting gaze. He almost lets himself trace the smiling teeth with his fingers—the easy smile unsteadying but familiar to his striking blue eyes. Ronan resists, tightening his hold around cardboard.

          "This is cheating," Orphan Girl says, Latin dripping from her mouth like honey between little jagged teeth.

Ronan rakes in a breath. She's a reminder, a stark one, of everything that he's ever created—wrestled and pulled from his dreams while draining himself of energy. He could do whatever he wanted with this, his own creations. Pull the mask from it's hook; take Orphan Girl's hand and drag her through the threshold; another forest from the ivy tendrils of his dreams.

Orphan Girl persists. "Cheating, dreaming a dream thing."

          "It's my dream," Ronan says, hedonistic but still lingering with doubt. "Here, I brought you some chicken."

He drops the cardboard into her hands, the box filled with a small variety of fried chicken that he'd picked up after watching Gansey settle Mercy into Monmouth Manufacturing. The teen hadn't questioned her presence at the building when her truck pulled into the street, parking behind Ronan's BMW and following them inside. Gansey hadn't even questioned when she walked confidently through the space like she'd already been there. Because she has, and Ronan doesn't lie.

          "I think I'm a psychopomp." The words aren't as smooth from Orphan Girl's mouth like before, stumbling through the meat and bone of the chicken.

          "I don't even know what that means." Ronan watches the mask.

          "I think it means I'm a raven." Orphan Girl says simply. She stuffs another chicken wing in her mouth, teeth snapping the grey bone. The noise is sharp, a single thump to Ronan's ears. "That makes you a raven boy."

Ronan scowls, prying the box of chicken from her hands and placing it on a piece of furniture. She grumbles as it vanishes, eyes narrowed into slits but Ronan isn't looking.

          "Cabeswater's gone," he tells her.

          "Far away isn't the same thing as gone." Mercy and Adam's voices answer in tandem.

It's Mercy, her red hair: a ferocious flame in the light and freed from it's confines of the Dutch braids that Ronan has become familiar with, that steps forward towards him with a crooked finger tipping his chin towards her. She's a wild thing, black-painted nails free of chips but the bones aren't set right, broken at the knuckles and a footprint stamped on the back of her hand in a paint-like substance. As Ronan looks closer, he realises the ruby red is blood, matte and dried against her crumbling skin.

          "The answer is within there." She croons in his ear, tapping a black nail against his temple. The sound warbles, a curling heat against his eardrum and carving itself within the space of his memory.

As Adam steps forward, standing at Ronan's shoulder, she disappears—fading like Noah in the Dollar City. Adam's thin body protrudes from the Aglionby uniform, fingers black with oil and elbows sharp points. Ronan doesn't stop him as he presses his fingers to the mask; it dripping grease residue on the floor that disappears after every second thick drop. There's a pause, Adam's hands hanging in the air before they decide to move, pulling the mask from it's place. He holds it to his eyes. Orphan Girl's shriek of warning is too late as she dives behind Ronan for cover. Adam's already becoming something else—contorted and carved from wood like the mask had been. His mouth stretches into crooked teeth and an easy smile, unchained, another wild thing. A vein pops from the desperation laid bare in his face.

          "Occidet eum!" Orphan Girl clings to Ronan's leg begging.

Within the R.E.M. cycle, dreams occur: heartbeats become irregular, quickening and hastening in a non-uniform state; eyes move beneath closed eyelids, frantic and jerky; your blood pressure rising in tandem with the almost unhinged state of your breathing. It's paradoxical. Your internal world has never been more active but it's trapped within the confines of your body, losing muscle tone to ensure that your physical body is not hurt in the act of performing your dreams. There are times, where the infinite accessibility of imagination begins to twist, nightmares forcing you to wear their clawed hands like necklaces as they bruise the compliance from your body. This is one of those times. Ronan can feel it becoming a nightmare, his horrors moulding themselves from clay into monsters. He can feel their wings, beating in time with his heart. It's no longer just Adam in front of him—the mask and him becoming one in a twisted, textured form. The strokes of wood melded to his face sneer as Adam is consumed from the inside. A rotting disease.

          "Ronan," Orphan Girl sobs, "imploro te!"

Adam's name is lost on him now as Ronan utters it, hand gripping his arm. Shock courses through his veins like blood as Adam takes his neck in his gnarled hands and hooks his fingers into Ronan's pale skin. Blood pumping, Orphan Girl's cries are like radio static. He couldn't kill him. Ronan Lynch could never kill any iteration of Adam Parrish. It's Adam. He sucks in a breath, fighting for air to enter his dying lungs and eyes the gaping mouth in front of him. Niall Lynch didn't teach the Lynch brothers much in his lifetime, but there was one thing. His father had taught him to box, and he once told his son: Clear your mind of whimsy. The fingers digging into Ronan's neck, he clears his mind.

The mask is rough underneath Ronan's fingertips as he fights to pry at it, snatching Adam's hand where it still held tightly to the edge. He braces himself, overthrown by the weight he put into the wrench to pull the mask free from Adam's face. It's easy—a cage for only one. Adam tumbles backwards. Orphan Girl digs her face into Ronan's side, sobs racketing her tiny body with their force and tears dampening the dark fabric of Ronan's tank top. Take me away from here, take me away from here. He remembers what Mercy had said those few days ago: Blondie asked me to take her with me when I woke up. Ronan looks at his hand. The mask is thin, a sheet within his palm. His chin snaps over his shoulder, a split-second look of desperation as horrors draw closer.

Adam is barely even a semblance of what he used to be, Ronan realises with terror when he looks up. The mask had been the only thing holding the pieces together—weathered body still tumbling backwards as free hands claw at revealed muscle and bone, eyeballs bare and stark white against red-raw pulsing fibrous tissue. It's bleeding, a gushing river of crimson from the exposed face. Ronan's stomach plummets, digging into the graveyard at his feet and resting there. He feels sick. A locket chokes Adam's throat, gold and chained tightly. Stumbling after Adam, Ronan grips the mask in his hand.

          "I'll put it back on." He reeks of desperation.

Ronan is snapped from his dream as the blood touches his skin and the mask presses against Adam's face. He's left with the image of him: bare and stripped back, only muscle and bone, desperately clawing at the tissue of his face.

All begins normally for Mercy King. It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep amongst the busyness of Monmouth Manufacturing, sprawled on an air mattress, covered by ratted but comfortable covers and an old set of pyjamas that Gansey's sister had left there once. The teens had chosen not to speak that night, leaving their conversation for the next morning as their body's ached with exhaustion. The tiredness melting the muscle from her bones doesn't dissipate as she enters her dream. St Agnes is cracked, crawling with nature: weeds nestled within the cracks of the floor, a tree breaking through the floor of Adam's apartment and it's branches jutting from the roof. It's overridden, almost akin to the overgrown future that doomsday preppers believe will exist post-apocalypse, where nature once again rules with a deserved iron fist.

The floor cracks further beneath her feet as Mercy walks, the stone cold and sharp against her skin. It's like ice, webs of cracks springing to existence with each step she takes. The paintings laugh, snide and cackling from their position on the walls. Mary points a crooked finger, and Jesus sneers from his cross. She can't bring herself to look at the Angels, a phantom of a giggling Greek Chorus overhead. The gold heart of her locket presses into her chest. Mercy lays her fingers on it, pushing it harder, letting it imprint on her skin like the words of a broken prayer.

Ronan sits in the front pews; shaved head alit underneath the orange sun fading through the window, his tattoo flashes underneath his tank top and Mercy studies the black ink with wide eyes. He pats the place beside him a single time, and she slips into the seat. Her headphones knock against her neck, Mercy can feel the chain of her necklace. The wood is cold against her thighs, the stares of paintings and the large oak tree heavy on her shoulders.

          "What is wrong with you?" Ronan questions, head cocking to the side, eyes dark and owlish.

As the words pour from his month, it's a trail of black ichor from Mercy's nose that follows. Tywyll: it never leaves, not even in her dreams. Mercy is riddled with the disease; an infection that clings to her tissue and has seeped itself into her blood. She presses a thumb to her nose, but it continues to slip through the cracks, a waterfall of black. It takes everything to not push her nails into her skin.

          "I don't know." Mercy answers. Her hand drifts to her throat, fiddling with her locket, popping it open. It opens to nothing, a black abyss where photos should be. She has nothing. Mercy looks at Ronan, tapping his temple with a careful finger. "The answer is within there..." She takes her hand away. "You'll find the answer to all my problems. You and Gansey, that girl and Parrish. You will all find the answer. But it starts with you."

Ronan looks at his linked hands, resting against his jeans. He stands and walks out of St. Agnes. Mercy watches him leave with droopy eyes, exhausted. Her brain stutters, hands twisting in her lap. She pulls them apart, pushing her locket closed and refuses to look at it's contents. When she looks to her side, Kavinsky has replaced Ronan. Bruised knees, hedonistic smile, white glasses and reeking of arrogance, Kavinsky surveys Mercy. The sinful always attract the sinful. A snarl plays on Mercy's lips: mouth curling and teeth exposing, fangs flashing underneath the light.

          "You want control, don't you."

It's not a question; rather a statement of the bold truth. Everything that Mercy has ever wanted is control, to live without disease dripping from her nose and her ears. To be free with the exhaustion that comes with nightmares every night of your life. Kavinsky sneers, teeth sharpening and the corners of his mouth pulling further and further onto his cheeks. It's her golden locket that hangs from his fingers as she looks up. Mercy claws at her face, chest racketing with the force of her lungs choking her throat. It's too quick, how he launches himself at her and wrings the chain around her neck, pulling and pulling until Mercy can no longer breathe. There's an automatic reaction when you lose your air supply: kicking and grasping for a way to rid your body of the blockage. She wrestles against his arms, black-painted nails digging so deeply into the pale skin of Kavinsky's arms that he bleeds red, the liquid dropping onto her dress, her thighs and the cracking floor beneath her feet. It chokes her, cutting off her air supply. Mercy can't make a sound, the noises reverberating within the space of her throat.

There's nothing left.

Mercy opens her eyes, hands flying to her throat as her lungs heave for air. She scrambles, flying from her space underneath her covers. The mattress creaks underneath her weight, folding in on itself and Mercy. It feels like years, how long it takes her to stumble towards Monmouth Manufacturing's only bathroom, past the fridge and her hand hitting the light switch.

When Mercy flicks the switch, and blinks into the light, there's a ring of bruises around her pale neck.

this is meatier than i expected but like, you're welcome i guess?