Soft, brown leather boots pounded the forest floor, short red hair sticky with sweat flying, and fleetingly Calico Bygul thought that this was what freedom felt like.

Whether she was truly free... that was debatable. She'd sworn loyalty to the queen on her eighteenth birthday and had climbed from stablehand to the royal errand runner in the seven years that followed. In this way she did have a master. But this—oh, running through the trees with the warm wind at her face and the rush of adrenaline in her veins—this had to be freedom. Because there was no greater feeling in all the world.

She skidded to a stop at the base of a tree and redirected her momentum upward, latching onto a foothold and scaling the branches fluidly as a cat. From here she could see the whole wood. Her fingers flew to the digital monocular fastened behind her ear and around the back of her neck, flipping it down from her head to zero in on her target. Damn. These guys were further than she'd thought.

Calico stepped carefully onto an outstretched branch, nimble on her toes, and inched towards the end of it. One step. Two steps. Three...

She leaped, grabbing on tightly to a branch on the next tree. She continued to move from one to another as silently as possible, keeping her gaze trained on the masked bandits following an uneven dirt path. As soon as they made it out of the forest and reached whatever vehicle was waiting for them on the other side, she would lose them, and this would all be for nothing.

But that wasn't going to happen. She'd done this a million times and knew these Central Tower forests like the back of her hand.

Minutes later, she was finally close enough to hear their raucous chatter and the clinking of gold coins in duffel bags. Bingo. Calico snatched up a sticky purple vine, braced herself, and swang.

She was soaring, soaring, soaring... and then she'd landed in a crouch right behind the bandits, saber extended.

"Hello, boys."

They spun, weapons drawn in an instant. There were three.

"Ah, great," grumbled the one on the left, brandishing a jagged dagger. "Who's this sonofagun?"

"It's Calico Bygul, an' I'm delighted to meet you," she said with an air of mocking politeness, taking a bow. She didn't imagine that she looked an intimidating foe, a young woman of average stature and willowy frame named after a breed of cat. "That money you stole from the tax collector's office belongs to the royal family."

One of the thieves snorted, tightening his grip on the bag over his shoulder. "Does it, now? The people's money belongs to the royals, yeah?"

Calico spun her sword in her hand, shifting her weight to stay light on her toes, prepared for a fight. "See, maybe you didn't go to school," she taunted, "but the people pay money so that the royals can give it back to them in service. Isn't it magical how that works? Oh, no." She made a face. "Don't tell me you all don't pay your taxes."

"All we doin' is takin' back the citizens' cash," drawled the one with the dagger and the mohawk, prowling forward.

"So... you're going to donate it to charity?"

When he responded with a flat glare, she exaggerated a horrified gasp.

"No! You're only scalin' it for personal gain? What a way to stick it to those selfish royals, right?" she said wolfishly, baring her teeth. Scale meant steal—she had long picked up Towerian slang. Her voice sharpened and she pointed her blade at Mohawk, waving it impatiently. "Give it up. You can leave this broke or with broken limbs."

"In your dreams, kittycat."

Mohawk slashed at her and she parried, twirling with her saber like an acrobat and transitioning smoothly into a back walkover, giving him a faceful of her boot along the way and ducking the second thief's sword while slicing at the third one. He had little in the way of weaponry and was stuck carrying the most of the money. Unfortunately for Calico, he was also the largest of the three, and swinging at her with the force of his weight combined with one of those heavy duffel bags would've knocked her out had she not managed to sweep in a graceful arc through and around the tangle of limbs and blades.

She used her weight or lack thereof to her advantage, darting past blows as a frustratingly small and constantly moving target. Her blood rushed in her ears, the thrill of the fight bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. Sure, it was her job, but she took pride in it, and not just because she desired to serve her queen but also because a small part of her that she pretended wasn't there thought this was fun. The most fun anyone could ever have, in fact.

And who could blame her? She was terrific at it.

Calico struck down the one with the large nose hoop by maneuvering him and the bigger guy into each other. She grabbed his bag and spun, using the momentum to swing it hard at his head and render him unconscious before whirling around to aim for Mohawk's gut all in one fell swoop. He stumbled backward and doubled over but recovered quickly with that knife flashing tauntingly in her peripherals. He was good with the little dagger; too good.

She didn't have a chance to go one-on-one with him just yet. She still had to take care of the big one, who was constantly at her back. She quickly scanned her surroundings for something to spring off of, gymnastics moves spinning through her head. Her eyes landed on a low-hanging branch nearby.

She could make use of that.

With a running leap, just managing to avoid the big guy grabbing at her, she grasped the branch tightly and spun a wide loop around it, letting go in time for her kick to connect with his chest. He lost his footing and collapsed to her level, unable to recover before she located the pressure point at his temple and delivered a swift blow. With that, she'd successfully rendered two opponents unconscious. But where was—

She spun just in time for Mohawk's knife to graze her from behind, tearing through her clothes. She'd allowed herself to get distracted with one and forget about the other. Mohawk was looking more than a little pissed by now. She dodged silver slashes, stumbling back further each time. It filled her with panic. She couldn't let him back her into a corner, not now, not when she was so close to defeating all three of them.

So she feinted left. Mohawk's blade chased her, but hers went right, and she confused him long enough to kick his legs out from under him.

Her boot on his chest, she finally emerged victorious, the point of her sword at his neck. Both she and Mohawk were out of breath. He was still clutching that little knife like a lifeline.

"You know what the punishment for thievery is where I'm from?" she breathed. In that brief moment her eyes were steady, his wide.

Her saber came down harshly, and with a sickening squelch, his knife-wielding hand was no more.

As Calico made swift work of tying her fallen opponents to a large tree, Mohawk was bleeding profusely from the stump where his hand had been. He hissed through his teeth in pain, but she had to give him credit where it was due—he did not scream. She certainly would've. "You're just another self-righteous little prick who thinks the royals can grant all your wishes and fulfill all your dreams," he panted, on his knees in the yellowish grass.

Calico hefted the bags over to the bushes nearest their tree and dropped them, sliding her cell out of her pocket. Her salary was worth more to her than anything a thief had to say, so she ignored him, sharing her current location and a photo of the bandits and the money with the local police department on the rather helpful Central Tower law enforcement communication network her job made her privy to. Problem solved. She'd taken on the task of tailing them since their initial robbery in the village, where she'd passed by while making a trip to the tailor's to place the orders of fabric that would go into designing the queen's new Spring Ball dress. Of the things she got to do for the royal family, chasing tax-snatching bandits was probably among the most exciting and ordering dresses among the least.

If it was her dress, of course, that would be a different story, but... she didn't exactly picture herself being invited to the Spring Ball. Being the royal errand runner was a gift for a former slave, but it didn't make her a noble. Oh well.

She strode past the immobilized robbers, stopped, and backpedaled. She crouched down and tore off her short cloak. "Be wise of you to stop the bleeding while you still can," she said, handing it to Mohawk, whose wrists she had left unbound. "The cops'll help you when they get here." He gaped at her but took it and wrapped his arm, soaking up the rapidly pooling blood. She regretted not having anything else to assist in avoiding infection, but it wasn't as if she carried first aid on her person. He'd deserved it. She still wondered if her bout of absolute confidence had temporarily taken her compassion from her.

Her trudge back toward the village to catch her ride in time to make it back to the palace didn't feel as refreshing as it had moving through the trees the first time.

"Took you long enough," remarked Linus, one of the royal drivers who spent every other week as her chauffeur. "Handle the situation?"

She smoothed her hair, which was a mess but, regrettably, too short to tie back and out of the way. "I always do."

He handed her an envelope with dark, thoroughly callused hands. He, too, had once worked long days in the stables. They'd both come so far. "Bird delivery came for you. Got the Rose royal seal on it."

Calico sat up straighter, intrigued, and took it. "Really?" Sure as the sun set in the west, the letter was from one Camilla Foxflower, Seventh Fairy Godmother of Rose. "Who's Foxflower?"

Linus scratched at his stubble. "Think she's the advisor, aren't she? Or one of 'em."

Foxflower's looping script danced in her vision as the content of the letter sank in. Her queen needed help. She was being asked to offer her knowledge to prevent the Corpse Flower killer from striking again.

To protect Rapunzel, who had offered her refuge for a life of slavery? No one had to ask her twice.

Calico refolded the letter and pocketed it. "Let's head out. I've gotta get packing."

🙤 ˖ ࣪⭑ ┈┈┈┈ · ✦ · ┈┈┈┈ ˖ ࣪⭑ 🙦

The day of the Blackhearts was one of pure, unbridled exhilaration for Ramona Swan.

Nostalgia of her time as the Ugly Duckling stuck to her like candy as she hummed to herself, drawing on winged eyeliner. Black on the left side and white on the right, opposite the pattern of her hair. She rummaged in her cosmetic bag and frowned. "Hey, Amata—you didn't take my white mascara, did you?"

"No one's taken your cringy makeup choices, birdface!" Lindsay hollered from another room. They were staying at the Lunetta Hotel, one of the better places they'd been, which served omelets and pastries at breakfast. Bear had eaten exactly seventeen beschuit this morning without batting an eye while Minerva looked on queasily. Villagetown wasn't known for its stunning cuisine, so it always baffled Ramona when the options for a morning meal were more than egg-potato-ham casserole and baked beans. Yeah, she didn't particularly miss that place.

Ramona brushed out her bangs and frowned at them, blowing them out of her eyes. Far too long. She was just lucky her hair didn't grow as monumentally fast as Baby's seemed to. In the last week spent stocking up on cash and navigating back alleyways for information on exactly where and when the convention would be, his beard had already come very close to returning to what it had looked like before Lindsay hacked it off. Anyway, she had to look presentable; she hadn't gone to the Blackhearts in—

Claude knocked on the wall beside the door even though it was open. "'Ey. Can you cut my hair, love?"

Speak of the devil.

Claude and Ramona had pretty much cut each other's hair for... about as long as they'd known each other. It wasn't easy cutting one's own hair. Of course, Claude wasn't all that good at it, and he probably didn't find her to be much better, but by now he'd pretty much mastered the shaggy-layered shoulder-length cut and the bangs.

"Only if you do mine, covergirl."

He rolled his eyes, swaying slightly as he came in. Must have been out drinking again—Ramona hadn't missed the word love. She produced a pair of scissors from her bag and ushered him over to the bathtub, taking a seat on the side. "You're way too excited about this crime convention thing," Claude remarked as she took a lock from the front between her fingers and judged its length. The first soft snip came only moments later.

"I offer you," she countered, brow furrowed in concentration, "maybe you aren't nearly excited enough."

"You know, Duckie, I think that if you stopped stealing you'd miss it."

"And you wouldn't?"

"I hope not," he replied with a frown. "It is a bit like an addiction, ain't it?" Small locks of dirty blond were falling into the tub and on his clothes. Ramona hadn't finished getting ready yet, still in trousers and a loose white tank, and though he'd observed earlier that the back of it dipped low, her wings were notably missing. He hadn't noticed when he first walked over. His pupils dilated and he grabbed her wrist. "Oh my fairy godmother. Did you retract again?" It was an unnecessary question born out of shock rather than curiosity.

She paused, the scissors hovering in the air, and flushed red. "What about it?"

"You know full well you aren't fully healed. What the hell's wrong with you?" he said sharply.

She shrunk back, glaring at him. "Whatever. I was just... y'know... testing to see if I could do it again yet. Make things easier."

"Literally what is easier about it? We're in Fairy. You think some idiot at the Blackhearts is gonna turn you in? Surrounded by way bigger cash prizes? Seriously?"

"Maybe I'm not used to walking around with two giant weights on my back—"

Claude shook his head, laughing incredulously. The excuse was nothing short of pathetic. "You know how stupid you are? You have no reason to hide what you look like from us. Us! We're not strangers. I've used Bear's toothbrush. Minerva does your laundry. Penny steals the food off my plate 'cause she's a nasty little witch. So tell me why you feel the need to shove your bones in your back for the sake of appearances. Here's a hint: it doesn't work. We still know every humiliating detail about you."

"Just because I'm not winged out doesn't mean I'm hiding, Clo."

His eyes sharpened. "Prove it, then."

"Fine," she practically spat. Within moments cream-colored wings had snapped outward. But this time, Claude carefully watched her expression and body language, which he rarely paid attention to when she shifted back and forth. Her throat constricted and her eyes flashed with pain, hands gripping the scissors tighter. She relaxed once her wings were visible and settled. As he'd suspected, it hurt her, whether she had an injury or not. So why do it? What did she have to hide?

She tossed her hair, the colors swishing together. The broken wing still dangled at a painfully skewed angle, but she had been steadily healing at a much faster rate than any normal human like Claude would. Fairies. They were ridiculous. "Happy?"

He studied her closely.

"I hope you know that you and the others are the closest thing to family I have after Sicilienne, Ramona," he said finally. "And I hope you know I don't take that lightly."

Family. Ramona wanted to laugh out loud. Of all the people in the world, this group. A princess-turned-ring fighter, a closed-off goth seamstress, a lumberjack with a morality complex, a vanity-obsessed snob, and someone who had always been a thief plain and simple—all searching for fulfillment somewhere in this vast world and all a little bit of a thorn in the side. This was who he was willing to call family. Even she wasn't that desperate just yet. "Just how much've you had to drink from the bar downstairs?" she asked with amusement, leaning forward to have a go at his front bangs again.

Claude's eyes rolled upward. "Okay. A lot. But they were having ballroom hour—unlimited refills for only fifteen bucks—and I still meant what I said." He fell silent for a moment before adding, "I'm gonna have a banger of a headache later."

She ran her fingers through the freshly-cut curls and then scooted backward, turning his head forward and starting on the back. They didn't talk for the rest of the haircut. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, exactly. She just wasn't sure what to say.

The bathroom was crowded with Lindsay and Minerva applying their makeup and doing their own hair by the time Claude was cutting Ramona's. They kept "accidentally" elbowing each other when one of them began to get too close to the other's designated side of the sink. Penny popped her head in, dangling her wallet in the air.

"I'm heading out to go pick up Gray from the auto shop. Taking the bus; does anyone need anything?"

Lindsay picked up the curling iron. "Yeah, be a doll and get me a vanilla latte—"

"Get it yourself," Penny interrupted gleefully, eyes dancing.

"Well, if you were going to be mean, you shouldn't have asked," she responded, turning up her nose. She fell for that every time. Penny leaned against the doorway, looking unamused by all the time everyone was spending in front of the mirror.

"Don't y'all feel a little frivolous doing all that?"

Minerva stuck up a glossy black manicured middle finger mid-mascara application. Lindsay snorted in a rather un-ladylike manner.

"How is primping frivolous? Society expects us as women to do it."

"Everyone with standards does it," Claude added pointedly, making a face at Lindsay and flicking Ramona's discarded locks of hair off his tunic. "Not everyone wants to look like a hobo. Duckie, stop moving your damn head."

"I am not moving!" she argued. "Where's Baby at?"

Penny jerked a thumb behind her. "Where he always is. The kitchen. Baby likes the kitchen, Minerva likes the steering wheel, and Lindsay likes the mirror."

Lindsay glared, but Claude shrugged in agreement. "Where am I always at?"

"The bar." His jaw dropped, offended. "And Ramona's always with that rooster. Where'd he go, anyway?"

"I'll have you know that our beloved pet Chicken Fingers is asleep on the roost I built out of pillows."

"Oh, my," Lindsay muttered. "No getting rid of that thing now that she's attached, is there?"

"I can't get him to eat anything. He just keeps chasing spiders and bugs n' stuff."

"That's 'cause he's not a rooster, he's a lizard living in a permanent identity crisis."

"You're a permanent identity crisis," Ramona shot back rather uncreatively. Penny just shook her head and ducked out.

"I'm out of here."

A highly anticipated event like this one was nothing to be taken lightly, whatever Penny thought. She had no respect for such an exposition of such grand proportions, but likely only because she was relatively new to the career path of crime. See, crime in Fairytaletopia was a thing of drama and grandeur. It was not the mundane and filthy affair you are accustomed to in your world. It was all about being the greatest, the most memorable, about making your mark on the world around you. There were two-bit grungers like our thieves here, sure. But there were also villains of remarkable power and exceptional ambition, hell-bent on taking everything in sight for themselves. Their motivations may have varied—an addiction to money or power, or a message they intended to leave behind—but they all had this in common: even when they were ultimately defeated by the forces of good, they would never fail to go out with a bang.

Ramona and her crew were hardly worthy to lick the boot soles of these masterful villains. But perhaps they were smarter for it. Their bad deeds were so small and insignificant in the mind of the Writer that they would never face the tragic fates of those much more conspicuous. Rumplestiltskin? Humiliated. The Evil Queen? Beheaded. Big Bad Wolf? Rendered obsolete by too many copycats to count. They would all eventually end up dead, imprisoned, or pointless. But the Ugly Duckling would be allowed to carry out pathetic little robberies for as long as she remained under the radar.

Of course, today, she wouldn't be under the radar.

Today, everyone would think she was somehow involved in the murder of Queen Snow White.

She could either deny the accusations or twist these circumstances to her favor. Really—was it even a decision? After all, she'd always relied on her reputation preceding her, even when her reputation was weaved of bluffs and rumors that would never come close to who she really was. She was counting on that bluff now.

Hopefully that never comes back to bite me.

Claude and Ramona finished up their hair and got to work catching up to Minerva and Lindsay. Everyone had to lean into extravagance when it came to their dress. Today, they couldn't just wear their everyday outfits. There wasn't an explicit dress code for the Blackhearts Convention, but it was an unspoken truth that just any old schmoe wouldn't be allowed through the door. There were passcodes and secret locations that attendees had to use their connections to get ahold of before they arrived if they wanted any chance of getting in—had to dispel cops at every turn—but even if one navigated the system and made it to the entrance, a boring appearance could be his final doom. Because, really, who ever heard of an unfashionable villain?

Ramona's ensemble was easy enough because she still fit fairly well into the stuff she'd worn several years ago. It was convincing everybody to look cohesive that was the problem. Her old clothes were eye-catching because of the monochrome palette. Black and white and that was it. Lindsay was horrified at the idea of it, either appalled at the absence of her favorite color or just disgusted that anyone would dress in black and white, and Bear hardly owned anything that wasn't red flannel and jeans. Which was why Ramona had, the other day, taken Lindsay and Minerva out to thrift as much as they could get their hands on. Ramona had begrudgingly allowed Lindsay a splash of green in the end.

Now she held up what she'd bought for Bear and he scratched his head.

"Isn't a striped suit a little overkill?"

Oh, he was going to be in for a surprise when he saw what everyone else was wearing at the con.

Claude would also be wearing a suit, his nearly all white with an oversized, sweeping coat, black tie, and several gold accessories of his own addition. Minerva had come up with the idea of the hats, and she looked like a delighted puppy when Bear tried on his.

"It is kinda fun wearin' the hat," he admitted with a laugh, spinning it to the side. Minerva clapped eagerly before stuffing her face with breakfast. He nodded to her. "Is that what you're wearing?"

Hers was, of course, gothically inspired, and her added color was deep red soaked through right where her heart would be. If Ramona hadn't watched her carefully paint it with her own eyes, she genuinely might have thought, between the strikingly realistic color and the artful dripping down her corset, that Minerva had been stabbed in the chest. She'd certainly hit the nail on the head for the Blackhearts. Ramona had no idea where she'd gotten the sparkly black butterfly clips in her hair or the bloodred lip tint, but she figured Minerva wouldn't answer if she asked.

"I have to go find my stockings," she said between bites, "but yeah. Duckie, are you going sans wings or with?"

"Apparently if I don't go with them Claude will have my head," Ramona replied, splitting a somewhat bittersweet smile. "Since I'm not healed and all."

Minerva shrugged. "Broken wings aren't particularly intimidating, but he is right." It wasn't as if she wouldn't be drawing attention to the title of the Ugly Duckling today anyway. Her skirt was mostly comprised of feathers, along with the collar and epualette Minerva had made.

More important than the clothes themselves were their function: weaponry. You didn't show up to the Blackhearts without knives up your sleeves and a handgun in your waistband. Disguised in Ramona's outfit were various knives. Penny would be bringing her bow and arrows along with a healthy arsenal of handheld blades and throwing stars. Claude had somehow emerged from a pawn shop two days ago with a neat gold revolver decorated in intricate detailing, and he had protected that thing since like a golden goose protecting her eggs. Oh, and Bear... he wasn't too keen on the weapon he'd be taking with him.

"Duckie..." He took the club, weighing it in his hands. "I don't plan on causing any trouble with anyone." It was an elegant asset, long and spiked, perfectly symmetrical and what Ramona would affectionately describe as fashionably rustic (read: dinged up quite a bit).

She tossed her bangs. "Look, you're intimidating enough on your own, but the best way to avoid trouble is to scare it away, and it's about time you carried something around. And besides—you don't know if trouble'll find you."

"So, what, I just walk around holdin' it?" He lifted it over his shoulder to test the feel. It could have made for a fun, evil-looking walking stick if he wasn't so tall. He looked uneasy, and glanced to Minerva for affirmation. She gave a thumbs-up, and Chicken Fingers squawked his approval from the corner where he was scrabbling for a stray cockroach.

"Wicked."

"That's what I'm worried about," Bear responded dryly. The key card whirred in the door.

Penny jangled the car keys. "We'd best get going soon if we're gonna make it through all those ridiculous checkpoints on time."

"Not dressed like a total loser," Minerva muttered, and Penny stuck out her tongue.

"Fine. I'll get dressed. Are we doing black and white to prepare for our future prison jumpsuits?"

Ramona chucked a tube of lipstick at her that she only caught due to practiced reflexes. She made a face upon examining it. "You wouldn't want to look ugly in prison, now, would you?" Ramona replied cheekily.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Man, I love these characters 🥹