"So... where are we going next?" The assassin was packing his things. The assassin, her assassin. He was within reach and yet Everette found no desire to exact revenge. He'd been searching for it, every day, and found there just wasn't any care in him left to give. Instead he hovered, unsure of where he should go and what he was allowed to touch, just by the doorway.

Corpse Flower snapped up his trunk, wiping down the last of the surfaces just to be safe. It was jarring to see such a horrifying figure in ordinary clothes. Well, not entirely ordinary. He dressed a little like he owned a club. Corpse Flower was astonishingly unassuming under the mask, almost enough so that Everette could believe he was some semblance of a real person. His skin was a deep umber and shimmered a sort of bluish-purple when the light hit it just right, and he had tousled, fluffy black hair nearly tinted indigo with faint white streaks at the front. Everette had done enough reading to recognize that he was likely part siren. He spoke quite normally, though—except for when he didn't.

Everette reminded himself that this man had killed his stepmother. He wasn't redeemable, no matter how human he seemed this way.

"Rose," he responded shortly, doing a routine sweep with his eyes around the room before apparently determining everything was cleared and they were ready to go. He gestured for Everette to follow him with a flick of his wrist. "I hope you like Ponzi, because he's coming with us."

"Corpse—"

The assassin swung open the door. "We're not in costume, kid. Just say Lucien."

"Alright, Lucien." Everette hovered just short of following him out. His eyes rose as Lucien turned to face him. "Do you think it's worth it? Risking life and limb for this—will it really make a difference?"

Lucien shifted his weight, slumping into the doorway. "Everything makes a difference," he said, quiet. "It's a matter of how much, and what it changes. Won't know till it works out."

"Are you sorry?"

His brows dipped, eyes hazel and unwavering, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Everette wholeheartedly believed him when he said, "Why would I be? I haven't done anything wrong."

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"It's getting worse," Wolfgang muttered, setting down his work phone. "According to the duke and his forces, they've reached Valencia."

Beauty gave a slow, pensive nod. "It's reasonable to assume they intend to eventually make their way to the capital."

"I don't know what for. But it seems like it. They have released no demands, and gotten in contact with no officials. I just..." His head collapsed into his hands, massaging his forehead. "I have no idea what they want. It's like they can't be reasoned with." He released an exhausted sigh. "I apologize, Your Majesty. You have done well with moving forward the economy repairs. I've never seen laws move so quickly through the senate, but I haven't slept in days. Until little more than a week ago, we had world peace. Our soldiers have no idea what they're doing! They can't handle this sort of thing."

The queen's gloved fingers pressed gently to his wrist. "De Roches, you need to rest."

A light laugh escaped him. "You know I can't do that."

"Take a few hours to clear your head. I promise this war will still be here when you return."

"By then there'll be hundreds more dead, more cities burned, pillaged." He scratched his beard. "You know the Royal Alliance accuses us of war crimes."

Beauty pulled back, smoothing the bodice of her dress. The meeting room was eerie this empty, absent of bustling servants and frantic lawmakers and advisors. "The worst they can do is impose tariffs. And they won't."

"Doesn't a lack of peace defeat the purpose of an alliance, Your Majesty?" And open the doors for more agreements to be broken. His eyes locked on hers. "I've known you since you first arrived at this palace, since you were only a girl trapped in a cage and I was only a candelabra. You will find yourself hard-pressed to lie to me."

Her eyes averted. "You've served me well, de Roches. I trust you will continue to."

"I will. You have my loyalty. I believed you were wise, and I believed you had a strong heart—I still do, Beauty. I wonder if it will take you places you never intended to go." Wolfgang straightened in his seat, closing the stack of file folders before him. "Now I believe you will prioritize the good of this country over all else. I will strive to do the same."

He stood to leave, and as he went, Beauty hesitated before speaking once more. "I am sorry, if it's any consolation."

He shook his head. "You knew the danger you were getting us into. I believe many things of you. I don't believe you're sorry."

Her fingers drummed the table. He was probably right, but it hadn't hurt to try.

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Pulling aside the curtain, Ramona slid into the booth, dropping a handful of coins in the slot and her bottomless bag on the small circular table that stood between herself and the tall mirror hung on the wall. Turning the crank, the coins jangled in, registering her purchase, the little numbers in the corner of the glass blinked 30 MINUTES, and she sat back, watching the surface ripple. Thirty minutes should be more than enough to convince an old friend to lend her a hand.

Ramona closed her eyes. Pictured the way she remembered her, a mass of frizzy hair and a scowl like no other. "Show me Charlotte Ravenscroft."

A mechanical whirring sound emanated from the mirror. She wasn't sure she'd actually find Charlotte Ravenscroft, but she was positive she was alive. Ramona had it on good word she was captain of a ship now, and that she'd changed quite a lot. After a moment that felt like forever, there was a ping, and Ramona straightened eagerly. The witch had a mirror after all.

A large wooden desk came into view, and seated atop it, with her trademark scowl furiously glaring down a stack of papers, had to be Charlotte. Only it wasn't Charlotte, exactly. Her long dark hair was gone, and a hat was pulled over her forehead, a single hoop in one earlobe. From her collar to her trousers, Charlotte was a pirate captain.

Ramona clucked her tongue. "You're a man now!"

Charlotte startled, leaping instantly to her feet on the desk and unsheathing a sword in seconds flat. She spun, looking for someone to attack, and found the mirror instead, eyes going wide. "Who—Duckie?" she said incredulously.

Ramona beamed from ear to ear. "Aye, you remember me!"

Expression shifting from bewildered to raving mad, Charlotte slashed wildly at the air, like she'd somehow exact her revenge on Ramona from thousands of miles away. "After all these years, you've got the gall to call me?" she whisper-hissed, sparing glances over her shoulder at the door. Ramona found she hardly recognized her voice. "You really have some balls, Duckie—"

"Now, that's no way to greet a former friend—"

"Friend?" Charlotte slammed a boot on the desk, giving up all pretenses of being quiet. "You left us for dead! Ran, and took the money, too—"

"Look, it was a botched job," Ramona admitted, holding up her hands defensively. "But hey, I got us out of Black Apple," she added, brighter. "Why, look at you now!"

"Yeah, I got out of Black Apple, and I had to go on the run, you idiot! I was forced to get on a ship and join a crew just to escape," she seethed, stabbing the sword back into its sheath. "You're a crazy, crazy witch—"

"And now you're filthy rich," Ramona sang, rhyming with what she'd said, "so you're welcome, Charlotte Carnage." Their nicknames in Black Apple Villainy were a little over the top, but aspirational, hoping that one day a Charlotte Carnage might become the next Big Bad Wolf. At least Charlotte had gotten to pick hers.

Charlotte sighed, tugging off her hat, letting it fall to the desk, and dropping down to slide off the edge. "It's Charlie now," she said after a beat, running her fingers through her short hair. Ramona realized it wasn't just her hair; her chest was flatter, too, and her trousers loose. And a thin gold band encircled her neck. It occurred to her that her voice really was different, deeper. A voice corrector and everything. She really had changed. "There aren't female captains."

Ramona raised her eyebrows. "How long have you been running the con?"

She folded her arms tightly into her chest, approaching the mirror slowly. "Been so long it's hardly a con anymore. I boarded the boat as a boy. Since we split up, so I guess..." She considered it, Ramona mentally tallying the time, too. "Five years? And, ah, eventually I took some guys and got my own ship and became Captain Ravenscroft."

"You like it?"

Charlotte relaxed considerably. "Yeah," she exhaled, shoulders settling. "I guess I like it. Wouldn't want anything else. The wind at your back and all." She narrowed her eyes, as if remembering that Ramona was here and what that meant. "You want something. Why'd you call?"

Ramona's grin was more sheepish than usual. "I need a favor."

"Not in a million years," she replied instantaneously.

Huffing, Ramona tore open the zipper on her bag, fished around, and wrestled out one of the crowns, placing it on the table in full view of the mirror screen.

"How about now?"

Charlotte leaned towards the mirror, eyes glittering. "Whoa. Is that authentic?"

"Got it from the palace, so I hope so."

Leaning back with slow reluctance, Charlotte watched her suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"I need to get me an' a few friends across the bay to Rose as quickly as possible. You know a good route for that?"

Charlotte released a disbelieving laugh. "You want me to stow you away?"

Ramona shrugged. "We can work, if you want." She tallied off everyone in her party on her fingers. "It's me, five others, a baby, and a chicken."

"A chicken? Really?"

"The chicken's coming."

"Hmm." Drumming her fingers on the hilt of her sword, after a prolonged pause, Charlotte inclined her head. "I'm a new captain," she said, finally. "I don't touch Bluebeard's territory. But I can get you most of the way."

Ramona clapped her hands together. "Brilliant."

"I'll send one of my men to meet with you in town on the docks. If it's legit, you can come aboard. If it's a dupe, no deal. And I want three," she added.

Ramona's smug smile wiped away. "Three? What if I've only got the one?"

"You're not fooling me, Swan," Charlotte said impatiently. "I got mouths to feed. Three crowns' worth of real gold and jewels. Take it or leave it."

Eyes rolling skyward, Ramona relented. "Fine."

For the first time since she'd seen her, Charlotte split a real smile. "You just wait, Ramona Swan. Soon I'll be the richest captain on this side of the seas. Then they won't care whether I'm a woman."

"Oh, goody," muttered Ramona, still mourning the loss of some of the money that could've gone to the new van. "How'd you become captain so fast, anyway?"

Charlotte's grin turned mischievous. "Killed the last guy. Sort of a coup." Commotion on her side of the mirror made her turn toward the door. "Dammit, the boys must be hanging Richie off the mast again. Look, I'll be in touch. Just let me know when you're getting close to the border. We'll start making the turn over to Fairy."

Ramona performed an exaggerated, mocking salute. "Aye, aye, cap'n."

Charlotte glared, and the call shut off, the mirror clearing to settle on Ramona's reflection once more. She frowned. Never had liked mirrors.

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Diamonds clinked into the bowl, glittering. Minerva wondered if anyone would notice if she took one or two for herself. But the fingers on her mismatched hand curled, and the thought disintegrated as quickly as it had come. She'd been selfish enough.

How selfish could she be before it was a step too far? Had she crossed the line already, lost forever at eighteen?

Would Etienne remember her the way she would remember this for the rest of her life? How long would he hate her? Did he know she was sorry?

There were few windows in the hotel room, only providing weak light that ricocheted off the jewels just barely. Minerva watched it dance with fascination before glancing up. Hands sliding into oven mitts, Lindsay poured the pot filled with melted gold into the waiting mold sitting before Bear. He sifted it, tapping it on the table, and let it cool for a minute or so before placing it on the waiting scale.

"Nearly twelve pounds," he whispered in awe, scratching his beard.

Lindsay's mouth fell open. She'd stolen Minerva's lipstick, she noticed, eyes narrowing. That witch— "Twelve pounds of gold?"

Claude wandered into the room carrying the baby, eyes circled with gray. "Three hundred, give or take. In Fairy dollars. I'll have to look at the stocks."

"Three hundred thousand dollars?" Penny said disbelievingly, ogling the enormous glob of gold in amazement. "Why haven't we done this before?"

"Even after a car, we'll be rich," Minerva breathed.

Ramona came in hauling the laundry and dumping the bag of it on the couch. "We would be rich, if the lot of you didn't drain money like zoo animals. And you guys don't know how much it's costing me to pay for IDs, and intel. After that and the car, cut that down to fifty thousand."

Bear shot her a look of confusion. "That's a lot less."

"We have to give up a third of that to one Captain Ravenscroft to get us across the Bay. A third of the diamonds, too." She sighed. "Fifty thousand will definitely cover necessities for a while, though."

"This is worse than royal taxes," Claude muttered.

Lindsay clucked her tongue. "We can never have nice things!"

Ramona separated the diamonds, pushing two-thirds to one side. "Today we sell what we can, and we turn in the car. Tomorrow we'll get a new one. Who wants to scout for trucks?"

Penny frowned. "Trucks? Why trucks?"

"The van's a little small," Bear admitted.

Ramona splayed out a hand in the air. "Just—try to be inconspicuous, alright? Nothing too ridiculous. We want to get out of here without getting noticed."

Minerva fiddled with her gloves. "I... want someone else to be the driver."

Ramona's head whipped in her direction. "What?"

"I don't want to be the driver anymore," she repeated, slowly. "I can't be trusted at the wheel."

"It's just your hand, Lynon," Penny told her, mid-braiding her own hair. "It'll get better once you get used to it."

Minerva's arms thrashed wildly. "No, I—I won't! I won't get used to it, alright? Do any of you know what it feels like to lose a limb?" Her breath caught in her throat, and she found herself taking a step back, and then another. Her eyes were enormous and frantic. "I—I can't—I can't, I—"

Everyone stared, and when no one reacted, Minerva's eyes shut, and Ramona realized they were wet.

"I can't do this!" she shrieked, her voice going hoarse, tearing at her hair, her ears, her collar. If she clawed at herself anymore she'd bleed. "I've lost everything! I can't do anything anymore! And if I can't—if I can't drive, if I can't sew, if I can't... then... then what can I..." Her voice got very small, then, and horrifyingly, Ramona remembered how young she was. That she was barely of age, that she'd been sixteen when she left home, just two short years ago. "Then what am I good for?" she whispered, soft and scared now.

Minerva's pretty face, marred by tears and fury, buried into her sleeves, and Ramona looked with horror to the others. They didn't know what to do, either. Who here remembered how to be a child? How to be vulnerable?

So of course, it was Bear who hunched over, pulled her in, and patted her on the back, probably crushing her in his enormous arms. Hesitantly, Lindsay stepped forward, and she hugged Minerva, too. Ramona stood there, frozen, but realizing she had to do something, she joined them. It was warm, but comfortably warm, not the kind of warm that stuck to your prison jumpsuit with sweat. Claude joined, too, the baby cooing, and Penny, however reluctantly, was last.

Somewhere between them all, Minerva sniffled. Lindsay stroked her hair. "It's okay," she said. "Even if you can't do anything at all. You're our friend. That's why you're here. That's all that matters."

Eyes squeezing with tears, Minerva laughed, softly, like that was so absurd it was incomprehensible. But after a moment's consideration Ramona realized it was true. It wasn't as if they would leave Minerva out on the streets now. She was one of them. They were a crew, however small, and they stuck together.

From the floor, Chicken Fingers squawked.

"You too, you deranged lizard," Lindsay added, and despite it all, Minerva sniffle-laughed again. Because that was what they did. When things were hard, they laughed. And life went on. Onto the road again. Up another day. Prepared for another adventure.

Maybe there'd be a day when they couldn't anymore. But not today. Today, they lived.

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The Writer's cane entered the attic hesitantly, eyes roaming the empty stone walls and the dark spire above. Circling the room, the six statues brimmed with red. One for Snow White. One for Cinderella. One for Beauty and one for Sleeping Beauty, one for Rapunzel. One for the Little Mermaid. The pact of world peace was crumbling, and with it, the statues, too. He knew, now, what these had formed to protect. The involvement of the Sandman was starting to make more sense.

The seal was splitting, cracks snaking red through Ella's likeness much like Snow's. It was so strange, now, how he'd watched them grow from afar, witnessed their rise to power from nothing. Been complacent in their deaths.

Once, he was young, too.

The Writer stepped towards the mirror in the corner of the room, tearing off the blanket covering it. His reflection was weary, hair wild and unkempt, eyes dark around the sockets, and there were lines where there hadn't been just a year ago. Tapping his cane, he spoke.

"I am Jack Stellan Sommer, Writer of Fate, Protector of the Center World, and I wish to be shown the open portal to the Underworld."

The reflection in the glass shifted, allowing him a window into the castle. Snaking into the queen's quarters, entering her bedroom, halting at the gaping tear that hovered between worlds. He had to see for himself. The Writer stepped back, jolted. Indeed, Things were crawling their way through, ever so slowly, being beaten back by terrified guards. Things—misshapen, bloodthirsty hellhounds, demons with no minds of their own.

He told himself that was good. The ones with minds were worse. He had to keep this portal at bay, had to keep them from finding out it was open. It was his most significant responsibility.

Sicilienne wasn't ready for this, he thought with heightening anticipation.

The Writer tapped his cane once more. "Are there any more tears in the curtain?" The reflection rippled and changed again. Over an open ocean, the world was splitting, slowly. "Just great," he muttered irritably under his breath. At least this one hadn't yet borne any fruit, but it meant more splits were to come. Surely they would follow a path. "Show me the bigger picture."

The image zoomed out. Red dots began to appear on a map—a constellation, he quickly realized, eyes darting across the mirror. Corona borealis. No, no, no. Where the crown went, the queen and her court followed. He couldn't let that happen. Did the Sandman know? Surely he had to. Was he doing this with intention? Did he want their worlds to crash together again, thinking somewhere in his sick mind that things could be the way they'd been at the birth of the universe?

Somewhere behind him, the stairs creaked, and Sicilienne's voice traveled up the stairs.

"Mr. Writer, sir? I'm back from my errands!"

Swearing under his breath, Jack tossed the raggedy blanket back over the mirror, spinning. It was too late to stop Sicilienne from coming in. She was already here, pushing open the door. As she set foot in the attic, her lavender eyes expanded, taking it all in.

"Mister—Mr. Writer, sir?" she asked in a soft, hushed tone, looking worried as she circled the room. "What happened to these statues? Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he sighed, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Sicilienne's puffy dress surrounded her like a cloud, making her pink cheeks appear pinker still. She traced over her eyepatch, a nervous habit, and the Writer wondered if she remembered how she'd ended up with that scar. He doubted she did, but Claude did, certainly—the guilt was in his eyes, still. So many broken families and broken hearts, and he had to preside over all of it. It became exhausting, after a while. And he'd only done this for some thirty years. He couldn't imagine how much more he'd hate it once he'd been doing it for fifty, seventy, a hundred years, if he made it that far.

He'd put all this on the shoulders of one little girl. As his Writer had done, to him.

He remembered asking Kanan what he'd seen in him. "I'm reckless," he'd said, "and stupid, and I rush into things too fast. That's what everyone says. What's so special about me?"

The old man—ancient, really—just grinned, much the same way he had that day he'd handed him a palmful of allegedly magic but apparently quite ordinary beans. A test of sorts. "I like your quick wit. But I like your perseverance, too. The world's filled with giants, Jack. You can't slay them all. Sometimes you have to leave things be. That's a hard thing to accept. It takes a lot of heart to understand that and still have the will to keep going. Knowing you won't save everyone, that's the hard part. You have to have a strong will and an infallible heart."

He was sure, now, that he hadn't comprehended it until he'd really done it for the first time. Felt his first death. Watched his first The End. He hadn't thought it would be easy, but he hadn't understood it would be quite like this. He used to have this terrible habit of trying to take too much on, staying up all night, desperately trying to catch everyone who fell, to prevent every hardship. He realized what Kanan had meant much later, once the exhaustion finally truly set in. It was just too much for one man. Sometimes, and even most of the time, you had to let things go.

It was hard, near impossible, to let certain things go. He kept his mother alive for far longer than he should've. When he realized he was torturing her, he allowed her to slip away as she should've long ago, watching the red script fill itself in and stare at her book for hours afterward.

The End.

Someday, he'd have a The End, too. It didn't seem so daunting anymore. It'd be a relief, if anything. He only hoped he passed on enough to Sicilienne before he went.

"Sicilienne," he told her now, resting against the wall for support. "What you see before you is a pact being broken. Peace being ripped apart. The more death, the more destruction, the more our tower will crumble."

She clutched at her sides, dust settling at her feet. "And what will happen to us?"

"I don't know, I'm afraid. Truth be told, I don't know everything. I'm much like you in that way. I have a story, like you. And one day I'll die, like you. I even had a family before this. And a name."

Sicilienne drew back. "You've never told me your name."

He smiled slightly. "It was Jack."

Releasing a little gasp, her hand thrust out to point at him. "But—but I know that story! You're..."

"Yes, I know," he said gently. "It doesn't matter now. My days of wild adventuring and slaying giants are over. But your days of protecting this world are ahead. And I know you'll never be ready, Sicilee. I wasn't ready either, when it was my time. Things will be difficult. So I will tell you what my Writer told me: we cannot save everyone. Nor can we make everything perfect, or give everyone a happily ever after. But that doesn't mean we can't try. We work day in and day out to give the world at least a sense of justice—happily ever after to those who have earned it. We sacrifice a lot for this purpose. Much will stand in our way. Today, a great evil is upon us. If you are willing to take on this responsibility, we can face it, together."

Sicilienne's breath caught, hovering frozen there. This all seemed so... so great and big. "I don't know if I can," she mumbled, twirling her hair.

"That's quite alright," the Writer replied, holding out his hand. "I don't know either, most days."

After a moment of internal struggle, she took it. "What do we do?" she whispered.

"Danger is lurking in places it doesn't belong. Your brother and his crew aren't going to make it across Pirate's Bay," he said. "We have to ensure that they do."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sorry, that was a bit of a wait, I took a break from writing this to work on the TQH rewrite. It's also just really hard and annoying to write transition chapters where nothing major is happening! I did put out a prologue for Seven Soldiers for anyone who's following the Quimbyverse stuff. I have no idea how easy it's going to be to write a ton of LD in the next several months especially with my new school schedule so we'll see what happens I guess??? (send help lmao)

anyway PIRATESS YAY i can't think of a poll brain is mush