Adam sat on the floor, his back against the bed's frame. In his hand was a book, "Parallel Lives" by Plutarch - a book filled with stories of great men in history who conquered lands, and ultimately, conquered life. It features their legacies, their choices, and their ambitions. Heroes and legendary figures, contrasted and compared with one another, their vices and virtues exposed for his eyes to read.
These great men all lived lives filled with adventures and honor, yet all fell and lost everything. At the end, only their names persevered, their physical legacies gone in the history of time. Their conquered lands gone, their people serving another as they perished in their aspirations. Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, Theseus and Romulus - their names immortalize yet their deeds fail to live as long. They conquered life, they could not conquer death.
He flipped to the end of the book to the last pair of Dion and Brutus. The former a Greek statesman and the latter a Roman senator. Both men were tied to the cause of ending tyranny, both believed that they're doing great things, noble things. That is, however, where their similarity ends. Brutus was stoic, dutiful, while Dion was idealistic and distant. Brutus was human, Dion was an ideal. What differentiates the two is what made them similar in death.
Both lacked the eyes to see through lies, blinded by their principles and values. Brutus killed himself in defeat, Dion was betrayed by a supposed friend. This made Adam form a simple idea, 'Leaning on one side will make one fall.'
Adam had also read about "Paradise Lost" by John Milton, the poems describing the story of a man named like himself - Adam, and a woman named Eve. About the fall of an angel, beautiful and proud. About the destruction of empires, the collapse of a tower, the wrath of a God. In a sense, he's lived their lives. To him, these books are real, facts. Between these words, perhaps, is another world, another to explore. He lets himself be lost in it.
Since he's learned to read, he has not stopped. His curiosity became even more unsatiated; he could not sleep. Maybe this is what happens to men who have not lived; they drown themselves in their heads with imaginations. Adam closed the book as he finished, putting it gently beside him. He rested his head on the bed, closing his eyes as he breathed. 'Tomorrow, I will attend this school.' He thought. The idea made him excited, but also afraid. He'd seen them from his window, when he peeked his eyes through the gaps of his curtains.
He saw how they talked, how they walked and carried themselves. With that, he also saw how different he is to them. Their skin is flawless; his is roughed, patched together. Their eyes matched; his contrasted one another. With every difference, the belief that he is 'human' gets fainter. He stood up, walking closer to the mirror. His body lay bare before him. He could see his muscles move, his veins exposed. He could see his abnormalities.
"What am I?" He muttered to himself. Touching his reflection, hoping for it to answer back. It did not. Could he, in all his difference, live among those outside? Larissa told him he is an Outcast, yet she did not specify what. He saw the twitch in her face, the hesitation in her eyes; she knows but she did not tell him. He did not notice it before, but he knows now; he understands.
"I want to know… who I am." He paused, tracing his reflection on the mirror, "Where do I come from?" His time in that darkness flashed before his eyes. The time when he was nothing, no physical body, a spirit, perhaps. Now inhabiting this body that moves and talks and thinks, with no concrete origin to come back to, "Life… could only come from birth." he muttered, "To whom do I come from?" He asked himself. Whose womb is it that developed him? Parents, mother and father. Who is it that nurtured him to existence?
Adam thought for a long time, coming up with nothing. He had no memories other than that darkness. He had no childhood to refer to. His mind was a blank slate. Another idea formed in him, idealistic, born from hope rather than pragmatism. He thought back to the story of the original Adam, of his creation by God, to whom eternal life was granted and taken back. "Creation. If birth is not my dawning, then perhaps… creation." A revelation formed in his mind.
But Adam was formed from clay, moulded in the image of God. He was flawless, beautiful, embodying the greatness of the divine. This idea struck him and a primal fear coursed through his body, his knees went weak as a morbid thought formed. The stitches, the mismatched eyes, the scars in his body - he slowly stepped back from the mirror, his steps heavy as he cradled his body. "Ahh…" he whispered in despair.
He felt himself run out of breath, his racing heart struggling to keep up. He held his arms close, as if it would ever go away. It is not clay, his body was not moulded from clay nor was he made by God. Tears began forming in his eyes. Foreign emotions assaulted him once more. His body… 'It makes sense.' He thought. How everything seems to be an extension of another, why he seems unnatural. He's an abattoir, a product of a slaughterhouse, he's… a monster.
—-
Tomorrow is the Poe Cup, the most awaited day for all Nevermore students, teachers, and staff. An annual celebration for its most famous alumni, Edgar Allan Poe. The mechanics are simple - canoe race to reach Raven Island, foot race to get their flag, canoe race back to the docks. Easy, right? Well, no. Not when you could get sunk out of nowhere. Still, that's part of the game! Makes it more exciting! Everyone's looking forward to it, except for one goth girl hiding inside her classmate's closet.
She had just gotten back from investigating Rowan's crime scene, confirming her suspicion of it being a cover-up when she found his bloodied glasses on the ground. The Sheriff's men really were blind. When she went to touch it, she got a vision: Rowan's first attempted murder of her, his argument with Xavier, and when he collected the book with the same logo as the prophecy. She already knew about the first two; the last one proved to be the most useful.
She knows what she's looking for now: a purple leather-bound book with the same logo. A skull over a Nightshade flower. 'I've already looked at the library. It has to be here.' Wednesday thought as she waited for Xavier to return. 'The Nightshade society… disbanded 30 years ago over some incident. I wonder…'
A few minutes passed, and the door opened, Xavier coming back from his afternoon run going straight for the shower. 'Now.' The moment he closed the door, she immediately got into action. "That purple book has got to be here somewhere. Start investigating." She said as she glanced at Thing.
She went over to his table, filled with art materials and sketches. She opened one expecting a clue, only to be surprised with a sketch of her. She internally cringed before moving on to Rowan's bed, taking out a UV flashlight— a detective necessity. She turned his side of the light off, flashing the bed with the light, but nothing.
'Maybe under.' She thought, crouching down to get a better view. You'd be surprised with what people hide under their beds. 'As expected.' In the middle of the floor was a crack, an obvious hidden compartment. She pried it open to find an opera mask with feathers. "Rowan's full of surprises." She muttered. She wanted to investigate more, but two knocks on the door interrupted her, prompting her to hide under Xavier's bed. Just as she did, Xavier came out of the bathroom.
Wednesday heard two voice converse, a frustrated Xavier and… an obnoxious Bianca. 'Great.' She thought with resignation. The two talked, Xavier accusing Bianca of abusing her powers while the other defends herself. Thing crawled slowly beside Wednesday, intrigue with the gossip.
Xavier changed the topic, "What do you want, Bianca?" Bianca stepped closer, her face concerned, "To see how you were doing. I'm sorry about Rowan. I know you guys used to be close."
"Since when did you give a damn about Rowan?" Xavier retorted, snickering. "You were the one afraid he'd do something to Wednesday." Bianca replied, "Isn't that why you've been following her like an eager-eyed puppy? Or is there something more?" Xavier stayed silent, moving to his desk. Bianca continued to interrogate him, jealousy seeping through her tone.
Then, spontaneously, the topic changed again. "Why are you so fixated on Wednesday?" Xavier asked. "Because she thinks she's better than everyone else!" Bianca yelled, her ego stung. Wednesday's listened even more, it just got personal. Bianca iterated her plan to crush their dorm, throwing out insults to her here and there.
"Trust me, Wednesday Addams is not the girl of your dreams." Bianca paused, preparing to go out, "She's the stuff of your nightmares."
—-
The art of escaping is not something new to Wednesday. She's learned from the best, her uncle Fester Addams - arguably the best to have ever done it. She'd been his assistant for one summer, robbing the most prestigious artifacts in the world. Those days, the nostalgia could melt her heart, if she had one.
She stepped carefully on the edges of terraces, careful not to fall. Her fingers holding on to the tight cracks of the walls. It'd be a great shame in her family name if she did. But why is she doing this in the first place? Why not just walk to her dorm? Well, dinner time's done and it's already curfew. It'd be all for naught if she got caught for detention right after an investigation. "Thing, don't move." She said, shaking her backpack.
She hanged on a ledge, trying to swing to a nearby balcony. 'One… two…' she counted in her head, bracing herself, 'three!' Landed perfectly. She brushed the strands of her hair that fell in her eyes. 'I'll take a breath first.' She thought, leaning propping herself to the balcony's side. It's still a long way from her dorm room, being at the peak of Ophelia Hall's tower.
She dusted her hands, checking her pockets just in case anything fell while she played mountain climbing. Nothing, good. She took out Rowan's mask out of her backpack, taking a better look now that she can. "Secret societies and their traditions." She muttered. Her gaze met Thing who's examining the mask with her, "Rowan's part of it. Which means Xavier could be too. We just need to find their secret room." The secret room mentioned was where Rowan got the book. It didn't look like anything she's been in at Nevermore. Not like the library nor a classroom.
Wednesday tried to think of where it could be. Backtracking her checklist of signs of a secret room. 'Tomorrow.' She thought, her mind drifting to the Poe Cup now. Her scowl became even deeper, Thing isn't sure if it's the wind or her that's making him cold. "The queen bee think she's invincible." She paused, "I'll pull her sting out." The way she said it isn't threatening, feeling more like a promise.
Just as Wednesday was thinking of how she could sabotage Bianca tomorrow, a creaking noise from behind interrupted her. Her head snapped to its direction then… nothing. 'What was that?' She asked internally. She stepped closer to the window, slowly, carefully. This room isn't part of any dorm hall, a teacher? She peered closer to the window, intending to sneak a glance at whoever is inside. Her head leaned slowly, between the curtains inside - nothing. Just a room, with a bed and a table with books; and a broken mirror… and a pair of eyes looking back at her.
Wednesday took a step back! The window swung open as the curtain parted ways with the wind. In the middle of a room was a masked man with long black hair, towering over her. His eyes, one eye a bright amber and the other deep black like the night. He stared at her, his gaze steady to her. For a brief moment, only the sound of the curtains fluttering could be heard.
Then the man stepped closer, slowly, "Who… are you?" He said, his voice deep, laced with emotions Wednesday can't place. Apart from his eyes, Wednesday can't see anything about him. His body covered with a long coat, his hands gloved. She didn't answer him, so he took another step.
Wednesday snapped out of her trance, stepping back once more. The man stopped, "What are you doing here?" He asked again. Wednesday met his gaze, "Nothing." She replied, her tone flat, unbothered. She's had her fair shares of horror, a tall man wearing a mask isn't the least bit scary for her.
The man replied with a nod, surprising Wednesday. 'He's not a teacher?' She asked herself. Her curious nature is getting the best of her, "Who are you?" She asked him. The man took a second to answer, as if he's unsure, Wednesday would known only if she could see his face, "Adam…" he simply said. Wednesday's mind began to work, cross-referencing everything she knows - "Adam Cain?" She clarified, tilting her head.
Adam nodded slowly, "Yes.. how did you know?" Wednesday stayed silent again, earning a sigh from Adam, "It is unfair, don't you think? That I answer and you do not." He shook his head. "I didn't force you to." She replied. Adam pressed his lips behind his mask, "Indeed, that's true." He turned around, retreating to his room. "If your inquiry is done, please leave."
Wednesday watched as he picked up a book, turning the page to where he left off. Anyone else would've left, she's not like anyone. "What's with the mask?" She asked, this time, stepping closer. Adam didn't answer anymore, his eyes glued to the book. Wednesday, unfazed, observed the room instead. Riddled with books everywhere, to the table, the floor, to the bed. Messy as it is, the only thing out of place is the broken mirror. It looked intentional, made out of anger over an accident.
"Will you ever tell me your name?" Adam asked as he read, his eyes never leaving the pages. Wednesday paused, it did seem rude, even for her, that she intrudes in his room and refuse to answer any of his question. "Wednesday. Wednesday Addams." She answered finally. Adam looked up, her dark unreadable eyes met him. "I see." He stood up, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Wednesday Addams." He extended his gloved hand, a deep red leather gloves.
Wednesday remembered Weems' request, to treat him with 'hospitality.' How hospitable could she even get? She extended hers, her hand meeting his gloved one, a normal handshake that triggered something. Her head snapped upward, her eyes widening. A vision.
She found herself in some sort of tower, with a raging storm outside. The roar of thunder as lightning struck everything around. The howling wind pushed past the broken windows, jagged with glass. She braced herself as she walked, the wind pushing her body in resistance. Wednesday's never had a vision this vivid, as if she's reliving the moment rather than observing it. The tower's filled with broken tiles some covered in blood, with steampunk machines lit up in neon colors.
The air inside is dense with the stink of rot and iron. Water dripped from the ceiling, collecting in shallow pools on the uneven floor tiles, some of which were stained a deep, stubborn red. Steampunk contraptions lined the walls, all brass pipes, whirring gears, and glass tubes that pulsed with eerie neon light. They hummed and hissed like the tower itself was alive, its breath a mixture of steam and thunder.
The tower felt like a cathedral built for a god of death and invention, a place where devotion and obsession intertwined. Every shadow whispered of experiments long past, of screams swallowed by the storm, and of one man's desperate desire to challenge nature itself. It was less a building and more a monument to trespass against life and heaven alike.
Now out of the maze of machines, she found herself face-to-face with… a man, a crazed man whose appearance is disheveled, his eyes covered in madness. "This is it… this is it… this is it…" he kept muttering, pressing the buttons of the machine in front of him.
Behind him is an altar, a body crucifixed in the middle. The figure was masked, a metal rib placed on its chest with a vial filled with something red. The crazed man laugh in a madness incarnate tone, his pitch high, filled with ecstasy. His eyes were filled with pride, arrogance even. He raised his fist high, like a maestro reaching the final note, and pressed a button that ended her vision.
Wednesday woke up to Adam's arms, his eyes looking at her with concern. He caught her before she could fall. Her body goes limp, like a puppet whose strings were cut, the moment she gets a vision. She stood up as if propelled by springs, the vision still clear in her head. She looked at Adam, her eyes cynical and distrustful. What was that tower? Who was that man? More importantly, what is Adam's connection to both?
—-