The 'incident' revolving around Mayor Walker's hospitalization rallied a series of dominoes to fall.
Half an hour later, all of Nevermore is in lockdown. Curfews were cut short, students grumbling as they read the notice on the bulletin board. A criminal is on the run, with the police having no concrete description except for the vehicle used; anyone could be a suspect.
The mayor was… beloved, despite some few's opinion on him. He was agreeable, a man of the people, as they say—he wouldn't have won if not. Well, counting out the Gates family's support for his campaigns. Regardless, the whole of Jericho is on alert for a blue Cadillac with no plate.
Wednesday, on the other hand, found herself berated by Weems, her off-campus privilege revoked, and once again under heavy surveillance by the whole faculty by the subtle orders of the principal herself. The presence of Ms. Thornhill proves it so.
"I can't believe you witnessed something like that, Wednesday!" She exclaimed in worry, prancing around their room back-and-forth. "It's unfortunate what happened to Mayor Walker, but I'm sure the officers are on the case. They'll find whoever is at fault, and if you ever need someone to talk to, I— I'm right here."
Wednesday's gaze flickered to the letters on her typewriter, her fingers moving before she could even think. She had no interest in platitudes or the hollow comfort of Ms. Thornhill's words.
"I do not require therapy, Ms. Thornhill. Seeing something like that has always been in my bucket list." She replied, voice cutting through the air like a shard of ice. "You may tell your warden that the prisoner is comfortably in her cell."
Thornhill hesitated, caught between her concern and the unease brought by the event. "I assure you, Principal Weems' priority is your safety." Her gaze flickered at the words on the transcript; she conjured an awkward smile. "How goes the novel?"
Wednesday turned her head. "Viper's investigation has been thwarted on several fronts, but she's plotting her next course of action."
Ms. Thornhill let out a cough. "Sounds intriguing." An idea flashed across her face. "Oh, I brought something. I saw this on my bookshelf and thought of you."
She handed her a book, a gray leather cover in Gothic font. Words written at the very top—Mary Shelley, the title in bigger words—Frankenstein, with a sketch of a heart in the middle.
Wednesday met Ms. Thornhill's large, bubbly eyes. The latter woman chuckled, adjusting her glasses. "Mary Shelley wrote it on a dare when she was only 19." She held the book in two hands, scanning it.
The room quieted for a while, or Wednesday did. Her mind went adrift the moment she saw the words written on the cover, carved in silver-blue. A figure emerged, a face formed, familiar with those two ember eyes and a pocket full of literary quotes.
Who would've wondered that Frankenstein's creature could be made tangible? To transfer what is written in words and imaginations into a physical creature born from maddened genius. Wednesday did not notice the length of her stare.
"Ehm—" Ms. Thornhill continued, ending the thickening jitteriness of the atmosphere. "It's always been one of my favorite books. One of the most tragic stories ever written, it really breaks my heart every time I re-read it."
"Yes," Wednesday finally said, placing the book beside her typewriter. "It must've taken a considerable amount of good ideas to conjure a story like hers."
"I'm glad you're aware," Ms. Thornhill replied with a smile. "Though, I'd like to think the idea came from her love for plants. A sort of… human grafting, I suppose."
Wednesday raised a brow, which Ms. Thornhill immediately noticed. "It came to me when I visited Syracuse University for a lecture. I'm not sure if you've ever heard of it— A Tree of 40 Fruits? By Professor Van Aken."
"Familiar." Wednesday replied simply.
"Mary Shelley liked plants so… that's where I got the idea. It's also one of her characteristics she gave the creature in the book." Ms. Thornhill swatted the air. "I'm getting sidetracked! I'm just glad you're focusing more on literary monsters rather than real ones that police may be looking for."
Wednesday's fingers lingered over the keys of her typewriter as Ms. Thornhill paused, waiting for a response.
"I find it peculiar," Wednesday said at last, her voice low and deliberate, "that people are far more comfortable with fictional monsters than the ones living next door."
Ms. Thornhill's smile faltered for the briefest moment before she recovered, clasping her hands together. "Well, I suppose that's the beauty of literature. We can confront our fears in the safety of a story."
"Safety is an illusion," Wednesday replied, finally turning to face her visitor. "The mayor was assassinated in broad daylight. I'd hardly call that safe."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Ms. Thornhill's gaze darted toward the window, where the moon lay bare, shining on Nevermore. "You're right," she admitted softly. "But that is more the reason why you shouldn't pursue this anymore. You could get hurt, Wednesday—or worse. You could even get expelled."
Wednesday's eyes glinted, catching the dim light like polished obsidian. "I'll consider."
She will not.
As Ms. Thornhill excused herself, leaving the gray book on the desk, Wednesday returned to her typewriter. The familiar clack of the keys resumed, each letter hammered with precision. Viper has managed to escape from another thwarting attempt. She would continue, in the shadows of malice where evil will be raised.
—-
Tomorrow came, the sun once again glaring on Earth through the holes of the clouds. Nevermore is still in lockdown, but the news of it all has been spread through word-of-mouth.
The faculty isn't quite sure who started it, how, even. But the news of Wednesday's presence during the mayor's incident has spread far and wide. Students whisper of conspiracies, theories of the weird girl being involved in it—just as she had been for the past strange occurrences in the school.
Adam has lost count of the stares, and the whispers, and the fingers pointed at Wednesday. Granted, he could count very well. They stood at the balcony of the 2nd floor, viewing the Quad above in a bird-eye's view.
"Are you not bothered?" asked Adam with a tilted head.
"No." Wednesday replied, thinking.
"You should be, though," Adam murmured, "they've begun forming profoundly disturbing ideas regarding your… involvement."
Wednesday turned her head slightly, her black braids framing her pale face like curtains drawn for a tragic play. "Better. They would fear me, giving me peace to solve this case."
Down below, a group of students huddled together, their voices low but their eyes darting up toward the balcony. The moment Wednesday met one of their gazes, the group scattered like startled crows.
Adam frowned, his hands gripping the cold stone of the balcony. "With the lockdown, I'm afraid we're giving time for them to finish their plans."
"They stopped," Wednesday said, her tone calm yet sharpened with certainty. "I believe the mayor's investigation startled them, alarmed them enough to silence his findings. They'll continue once they swept it all under the rug."
Adam narrowed his eyes on the sun-light. "You… you think they'll finish him? That would put the spotlight on—"
"On no one," she cut him off, "no monsters, no mutilations, no Outcasts— just plain old car accident. Perfectly planned, isn't?"
"Perfect? So we let him die?" Adam shook his head in denial, "We have to do something."
"We CAN'T do anything." Wednesday emphasized, "We're short-handed, lacking in concrete evidence. I already tried, Adam, they dismissed me. Like always."
Adam's jaw tightened, the weight of helplessness sinking into his chest. He leaned forward on the cold stone balustrade, watching the courtyard empty as the last group of students scuttled indoors.
"We could tell Larissa," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "She'd consider it… if it's me, she would."
Wednesday's fingers drumming against the stone froze, stopped dead. A deep frown begin to form at the upper edges of her face. "No." She clicked her tongue, the thought of telling someone like her felt like poison on her tongue
"Why?" Adam asked in urgency. It felt like the best course of action, it felt right.
Wednesday's voice was firm, the finality of it echoing in the quiet corridor. "No one else can know."
"But it'll be someone's life." He responded, troubled.
Wednesday grunted, gritting her teeth in pride. She clenched her little fists, holding on to what she could. "The moment you tell Principal Weems, I assure you she'd conjure a narrative diverting every aspect of this case to her and for her."
"So this is about control?" Adam asked, narrowing his eyes, "You're ready to take the brunt of a murder on your conscience so you would not lose control."
"It's about their appearances, Adam. Can you not understand that?" Wednesday's eyes drifted away from his eyes. "That is what they do, her and Mayor Walker— they'll plasticized the truth and bend it to their benefits."
"If this is about Rowan, that is a wholly different scenario." Adam defended, "The whole Outcast community was at risk and—"
Wednesday snatched his collar, pulling him to her level as he gazed at her eyes. "Mayor Walker sent my father to face a crime, that from the start, he knew he did not commit. To protect the reputation of this town, and Nevermore he said— but I knew from his eyes that he did it to protect his own skin. The Gates sat him on that seat and he knew they could take him out of it."
"Now, they are all dead," Her grip tightened, her eyes burned, "Presumably. So while he tried to scope the rot of their legacy, the ghosts haunted him back. He found out something and that's what I'm more interested in."
Wednesday paused, as if drawing her blade and all the poison in her hilt. "I am not the cure, Adam. Not the penicillin that will treat the bacteria crawling around Jericho— I am a scalpel, cutting it out. Tyler and his accomplice is a tumor but I am not a savior."
Her fingers loosened, Wednesday gulped. Adam could read the emotions flickering in her eyes, dancing in the shadows and her walls. Guilt, anger, helplessness— so dishonest in their appearance.
Adam stood straight again, and their silence stretched. The murmur of the students below has long quieted, and the clouds fully shielded the sun. The hall is grime and dark, cept for the presence of them two.
"Fine," Adam muttered, "We'll do it your way."
Despite his conscience, the fractured voice in his head screaming to act— he gave. The cold perseverance of Wednesday, her distrust and detachment, it felt like insanity in a different font.
The girl went quiet, gaze falling onto the floor. Her outburst was a surprise even to herself, more so for Thing now perched on the stone railing. She exhaled, patting her wrinkled scuffs.
Breezed past by them, whistling in the corridor. A crowd of crows watched their spectacle, the stone heads of Gorgons, Sirens, and Werewolves a witness to the intensity.
Eyes sheen and black, eyes on fire and gold— opposites in morality and pride and their ways of approach. "We are— no," she paused, "I am one step closer to solving this case."
Wednesday gathered herself, turning. For a moment, the sun bled through the curtain of clouds. "I'll do this my way."
"I understand." Adam replied, rooted on his feet.
Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, he watched as she moved away—
Further,
and further,
and further.
—-