Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

One old clock ticks away in the room as parchments are flipped, books are pushed aside, and a frustrated sigh fills the office. To the right was a trophy cabinet of certain oddities, limbs, teeth, eyes, and guts. Name it, and it’s probably there on display. To the left are plenty more treasures, neatly arranged to regions. To the end of the room is a table that is forever swamped with paperwork. The occupant of this room, reminiscent of the deep ocean in its decor, rests his head on his left hand. The Lord in Black, Wiggly, holds a black quill in hand, staring begrudgingly at the parchment to his right. Stupid, petty complaints from the White; at this rate, they must be out to drain his blood. He scratches at his empty parchment with the sharp tip of the quill, running out of niceties to address these difficult folks. Sure, he’s tearing the parchment, but if it’s still readable at the end, he’ll still use it. Wiggly's gaze drifts up to the tall door on the other side of the room.

It's made of beautiful black wood and he had personally carved intricate tentacles into its design. The wooden tendrils entangle around a vast ship, pulling it into the deep. The door swings open and slams against the wall, and a mess of limp tentacles and green blood staggers into the office. Wilbur Cross stumbles over an exotic fur rug and collapses onto the floor. "Gah.. hhk... hh...." 

The sudden slam of the door startles Wiggly to his feet. “I told you, do not burst through my door; what is the—“ He notices that triple denim get-up right off the bat. Ah, a familiar fellow. He had the mind to shoo him away from his office, in case Wiley was intoxicated up to his ears again… until… Toxic green glowed against the dark floor, trailing in from outside to his office. Wiggly sweeps off the reply parchment and the annoying clean one in gold ink to the floor beside him as he jumps right over his desk to get to him. He rolls Wiley towards himself, using his tentacles to prop up Wiley slightly. Tapping his face firmly, he reaches up to hold Wiley's shoulders; he tries to have him speak to him. “Wiley, what happened?”  

Wiley's head lulls to the side, eyes rolling back into his head. His body barely moves even to breathe, let alone to think. The buttons of his denim shirt have burst open around his chest, and an immaculate amount of blood stains the fabric. Any wound on Wiley should have healed almost instantly, but the hole still gapes and oozes, clotting slowly. "Hak.. ngh... please... hhhh.... stah... stop... Dill.... ss-.. please..." He wheezes pitifully, pleading painfully.

Peering down through the aperture in Wiley’s chest, Wiggly’s expression soon grows confused at why this wound struggles to heal. A tentacle reaches to the wound to touch it, feeling the icky liquid upon his tendril. Wiley is not talking to him, however. “Wiley, it’s Wiggly. I need you to tell me what happened, clearly.”

The disciple winces and emits a pained whimper. Wiley's lanky frame shakes and his skin feels cold as ice, yet his skin breaks out into a sweat. Shock. Wiley was in shock. The tentacles upon his back dissolve, finally deactivating with a squelch and a ripping sound. "John...." The word slips past the almost human's lips like a whisper, a murmur, a faint sigh of exhaustion. Wilbur's breath is visible as the nearby candles flicker and whisp out, dimming the light into darkness. 

"I'm Wiggly, Wiley. Look at me." Wiggly gently caresses Wiley's face, trying to angle him to look up at him. What could Wiley have possibly gotten himself into? He thinks hard about who Wiley could have angered. Or what weapon in the world could inflict such a grievous wound upon him? 

Wiley fails to answer the King of the Black, instead almost nuzzling against Wiggly's palm, seeking the feel of another's touch upon his flesh. Briefly, he manages to stare up at Wiggly. Does he recognize him? Wilbur's shoulders lurch as he breaks into a coughing fit, green blood splattering up past his lips.

The look in Wiley's dazed eyes appears to tread on a fine line of pleading and staring off into the distance of something else entirely. What was in his head at this moment? Wiggly will have to act fast. How long has Wiley been like this? Ignoring the blood splattered on him, Wiggly sets in motion. He closes his eyes while shaking his head and letting out a sigh. "... Well, this is going to feel unpleasant for someone like you, like always." Cradling Wiley closer, their foreheads lightly touch. And thus, does his dream-walking begin. 

".... ngh.... hh..." First, there is nothing.... then... there is pain. "Gah! AAAH!!" The remaining candles snuff out, plunging the room into a pitch-black darkness. Slowly but surely, the nearly run-down interior of a dimly-lit murky warehouse comes into view. From the biting cold air stinging one’s nose, it's clear they were way up in the mountains. Wilbur Cross kneels on the floor, dripping wet, in the nude. Hands tied behind his back and blindfolded, he is not alone either; other men are there in a similar position. This is a memory.

In the memory of his Disciple, he stands at the corner of the warehouse. Wiggly has been acquainted with this memory space before. Great big fans further intensified the chilling sensations of freezing air blowing through the large warehouse. Misery, as far as his eyes can see. The sergeants in this dream pour buckets of freezing cold water and bellow at those who flinched; the chattering of teeth and the hushed whimpers can be heard. If not for Wiggly's own acute hearing, those sounds would be drowned out by the fans and the brutal sergeants subjecting their future elite forces to gruelling torture. Then, does the King, posing as an officer in a vibrant green with apt winterwear, catch sight of an oddly familiar, yet misplaced face. Holding a baton, smoking a cigarette... in the mountains... long dirty blonde hair... "If I see one of you squirm just a few feet from where you are, or even beg to stop, five more minutes for all. The enemy is relentless; they don't give a damn hell whether you're freezing your balls off! They want their answers, and your job is to not let a word out of your mouth." 

Wilbur Cross trembles viciously, his hands clutched into fists behind his back as his teeth clench shut, trying to keep quiet any noises he may possibly make. Tears run down from behind the blindfold; internally, he wants to call out to ask John what is going on... This isn't right... something was.... different.... this wasn't what happened; John was among them, tied up. And even if- even if.... he'd never... Wilbur attempts to wring his wrists from the ropes, but something is terribly wrong. "John.... Jo-hn.... p-lease.... " John would never do this...

The person with the black beret tightens his grip on the baton and looks over at Wiley. Wiggly is mainly perceiving the back of this... this anomalous remnant. Upon a quick scan, where... is John in this memory? He knows for a fact, that this knightly fellow should not be the one standing up. He was hardly even qualified at that age to be higher than Wiley himself. As boots stomp upon the ground, Wiggly moves forward to follow this... "past" John MacNamara, who bellows aloud. "Who said that?"

The silence that follows is deafening. No one answers, and certainly not Wilbur. The concrete hurts his knees as he shuffles slightly; the skin there is purple. It had been hours... days.... he couldn't tell at the time.... but every memory made the events seem like a few minutes. Why was this being drawn out? ".... s-stop-... "

The stomping of boots now gets louder and louder. John... or at least someone sounding like John, is closing in. But the voice itself sounds right next to Wilbur's ears. "I heard that, Cross." The light smacking of the baton upon a gloved hand drew closer and closer. But so did the light footsteps of Officer Wiggly, following close behind this person who was simply put out of place. Speaking too harshly, unlike what dear Johnny would say. Mockingly, rather. "I heard your little little little whiiiining. Do you really like me that much?" 

Startled by the sudden closeness, Wilbur tries to pull away. Swallowing a sob, he shakes his head. This wasn't John. "No..." His bound squirming only renders the man to lay on his side.

This... John. He's the only clear outlier, no matter how lifelike the other officers may be and how true they are to the memory. So, as Wilbur falls to his side, and John is about to yank Wilbur back up by his hair, a clawed hand catches John's hand and holds it tight. Or should he say, the crude mimicry of John. "Enough." John turns his head to look into Wiggly's stormy blue eyes, his eyes of sunset hue glaring back. Purple and orange. This is before he turns around with a wide and wicked smile, showing his sharp teeth, and lets out a little laugh to ease the tension in the air. The King of the Black, however, remains most unamused. Slowly, things begin to fall into place for him. "Dill." At that instant, the sham of a John stops his laughter, rolling his purple-orange eyes as the baton falls to the ground with a clatter. However, with this, he began to turn into intangible smoke as the muffled, malevolent giggles of a stranger echo throughout the memory. Wiggly attempts to grasp at nothing as he watches this thing simply dissolve away in maddening laughter. Almost immediately, the falsified dream begins to crack apart. 

Wiggly turns to look at Wiley as he takes off his winter coat (mainly for show) and wraps him up in it. He follows this by deftly undoing the blindfold just to look into Wiley’s eyes. With a sense of urgency, he yells at Wiley, " Wiley! WAKE UP!”  

Wiley's eyes snap open and he sucks in a heaving gasp, as if he's been deprived of air. In a sense, he had been. "Hhhhhhh-" He's no longer in the merciless training montage he had tried so hard to leave behind. Wiley now lays shirtless on a luxurious green bed quilt, the silken drapes curtaining the rest of the room from his view. Head, still heavy with sweat, lays upon a feather-filled pillow. A Gaping hole still in his chest... ah great.

The curtains parted to his right, revealing the cephalopod Lord in Black already busy with something. Wiggly had taken on the task of being the one to clean Wiley up. Usually, he would have gotten his healers to do it, but something must have warranted Wiggly to handle it himself. Quite a few towels, soaked green, have been placed to the side on a table of black obsidian. Wiggly was now picking out little bits of something crystalline with a little knick-knack called tweezers. A tiny dish of these crystal things soaks in a liquid on a trolley that Wiggly requested just for this peculiar debacle. Seeing how Wiley tries to get up, one tentacle gently pats him to remain lying down on the bed. “Oh. Morning sailor man.”

Groaning in pain, Wiley resides himself lying down. Crap... ow... he runs a hand through his hair as he tries to recall what happened, his head aching like he's been hit by a speed boat. "Augh.. ngh.." He raises a brow as he looks up at Wiggly, staring at the concentrated and attentive eyes of the King of the Black. The gold bejewelled crown no longer rests upon the green-haired head. Wiley lets out a sigh as he relaxes down into the sheets. ".... Wiggly... lord... w-what are you- ngh... doing....?"

With a huff, Wiggly clinks his tweezer of crystalline stuff into the tray as he scrutinizes the wound. Who is this Dill person, and why has he had such an effect on his Disciple? Nothing he can put a finger on except the vague familiarity of him being... some fragment of an Eldritch. Of whom, however? "Picking out little things from your chest, apparently. Your wound is filled with all these shards... they are just tricky little things..."  

There is a pitter-patter of rain pelting the glass windows of the castle; Pokey must be having one of his melodramatic moments again. The Lords' moods often affect the environment of Drowsy Town. But there was nothing wrong with a good rain storm now and then, so Wiley let himself settle in to Pokotho's temper tantrum. "Yeah, I got stabbed... it was um.... was like a glass knife.... or something.. but, that's not the actual weird thing.." 

”Glass knife… that broke into shards in your body … they have been affecting how you heal, and—” He picks out one, covered in green blood. It was a deep blackish-purple. Under the lights, it scintillates with hints of orange and red in between. It’s curious… very curious indeed. ”Weird? Hmph, tell me about it. Whatever it did, it did not make it easy for you to claw yourself out.”  

Wiley thinks for a moment, tracing circles into the fabric of the sheets. It had been strange, despite strange being his life... it didn't beat this. He stares up at Wiggly, watching how he works, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the small splotchy green patches on his arms. "Bill Woodward did it. Except, it wasn't Bill.... it looked like him sure, but that thing... was nowhere near human... but I will say... it's good at pretending to be human...." 

Wiggly glances at Wiley as he flicks that tiny shard into the liquid-filled tray beside him. Those brows of his furrow at the mention of the name, stormy blue eyes looking up in thought as thunder rumbled softly in the skies. It is soon followed by a sigh when he has reached his own roadblock in his mind. "Bill? Bill Woodward? How would it be him? Which timeline did you encounter this Bill Woodward?"  

Wiley raises a brow; that is a stupid question, at least by his standard. The wooden dresser on the other side of the room catches his eye, made of dark black wood with emeralds as the handle knobs. Upon the top sits a woven little doll from a bygone era. It's head a small Hessian sack with a face drawn on it. Hands and legs made from wood, it wears a little linen dress. The dried honey suckle flowers made for hair sit wilted and dead upon its head. Wiley never questioned it.... and it never was moved... it was always there, on the dresser in Wiggly's room. "The Timeline you told me to get the Margo kid from. Obviously."

A small huff again. Wiggly was busy wiggling out yet another shard out with much concentration. "And that timeline has Pokey's Apotheosis in session, isn't it? Still, I'm certain it won't be Pokey being pissy with you to do this. I'd say he doesn't even have such a thing in his own arsenal."  

"Ngh-- ah... yeah... thaat's the one one one alright..." Wincing lightly, the disciple stares up at Wiggly's expression, furrowed brows concentrating hard. ".... It wasn't Pokey. Heh... agh..." Wiley coughs a little, "Just wait till he strikes your ass with lightning... not fun..." 

The octopus man rolls his eyes as he wiggles that piece right out. That...that is a long shard indeed. "Yeah I know my brothers very well, fancy he is, this is just not his type of thing. Besides, I met him a while back and he knows better than to hurt you." This longer shard takes up most of the tray, this dark crystal glowing faintly with residual power. Wiggly takes a while to show Wiley what he just took out. Curioser and curioser. Not even something Blinky would be in favour of. "...oh does this bewilder me so. Glass, more like a crystal. Don't you think so, Wiley?"  

Wiley shuffles uncomfortably; the wound in the middle of his chest begins to bleed freely again. Slowly, Wilbur's head leans back against the pillow, eyes shutting in relief as the skin on his back begins to work itself closed, the inner muscle knitting itself back together all the way from his spine to his chest. Which eventually clots over and scabs away by itself. The new skin is as fresh and soft as a new-born. "That.. was the last piece?"

Seeing Wiley shifting, Wiggly brushes a tentacle against the back of Wiley’s knuckles. Another has fetched the blood-soaked towel to dab away the excess blood where needed. With the large piece clinking away against its smaller pieces, he looks back at Wiley. He does not want to say he saw a few more sparkles, so he takes a while to think of his answer. ”…as far as I could manage, it was the last significant piece.”

".... good....." Now that his body is healed, Wiley starts to sit up. He still has a job to do, after all. And that mind fucking asshole has just made it personal. This time, he wouldn't be so easily caught off guard. "I can go as soon as you want, Lord, I can get the kid."

”No, no, no, lie back. It’s been a while.” A velvety tentacle pushes Wiley back upon the bed, and Wiggly starts to look at the crystal. Is it of anyone he might recognize?

"What-- What do you mean it's been a while!?" Unable to struggle against the tendril keeping him on the bed, the disciple groans and flops, rolling his eyes. Wiley shuffles to lean on his elbows. Wiggly hasn't ever fussed over him in this way since.. well.. since they first met. "..... It's magic magic magic... innit?"

”Yes sure it is magic, but I’ve never quite seen it manifested in this manner. I should recognize any others who dare to mess with my schemes, but this is an enigma.” He watches as this crystal emits wisps of smoke and feels the need to bite it for a taste. But seeing how bad it’s done a number on Wiley, he cautiously puts it aside. He turns to Wiley, a tiny smile on his face, as he slightly strokes Wiley’s face with the velvety side of his tentacle, pressing him down gently upon the bed. ”Shhhh easy now. And I mean, you could do well with a rest for a day or two before you can scurry around again, don’t you think so, Wiley?”  

"Ssfff... ha-...." Wiley sucks in a gasp of breath, back arching slightly as a groan slips past his teeth. A lot of people often forget how strong Wiggly was. Until they were on the receiving end of his strength. Wiley couldn't get up even if he tried. The tentacle is soft and heavy on his skin. "Nnngh.... you're really not going to let me go... are you?"

He may be old enough to have seen the rise and fall of civilizations, but at this moment, Wiley could see his Lord’s eyes glow with a youthful cheekiness. To this Eldritch King, however, further observation of his disciple is much needed, especially when he did not quite get all the bits and pieces of such a curious weapon. He would not want his Wilbur Cross to face issues if he dashed out now. Besides, a few days to see this man’s face before he leaves him to frolic in the current Apotheosis… to try and retrieve little Margo Shrike. ”Not if I can help it~ but I also just want to make sure you are certainly doing alright before I leave you to help me with the little miss Shrike. Don’t you trust my judgment, Wiley~?” Shifting closer to the tricky snark of a man (fortunate he knows his place in front of Wiggly), Wiggly lightly tickles Wiley upon his chin with the fur that lined the back of that tentacle, keeping Wiley in place on the bed. 

Wiley's nose scrunches up as he snorts a snicker, turning his head side to side to escape the wandering tendril. Sighing, he relaxes into the bed. The rain still patters heavily, the wind howling like an ancient ghost, tree branches slapping against the windows of Wiggly's chambers. Wiley stares up at the King, those eyes that glow and pierce like they always have. They provide a comforting familiarity for the ex-soldier. ".... so, will you be using Mrs Lauter as a stress toy over this?" He gives Wiggly a mischievous wink. Only that woman could get under Wiggog Y'Wrath's skin and remain with her own intact. Wiley never wanted to cross her. That was for sure.

”…don’t you jest me with that, you sly fox.” A roll of the eyes as Wiggly nudges Wiley’s arm playfully, turning his face away slightly to hide a fleeting smile. He uses a tentacle to pat Wiley on the head, playing with his hair slightly, smoothening it back. Another gently caresses Wiley upon the crook of his neck as Wiggly shifts himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Rubbing the back of Wiley’s knuckles in his hands, having cleared up most of the bed of soiled towels and the like (tentacles are most handy, in all honesty), Wiggly sighs as his mind slightly drifts to the thought of dear Mrs Lauter. ”She’ll understand why once I explain to her what happened. But for now, rest for a few days, Wiley. I apologize for not having noticed your condition sooner.”  

"Mhm, sure, give her my best." A Disciple, a soul, and a damned witch. Wiley wasn't the only human Wiggly kept entangled in his tentacles. Whether they knew it or not, there were others bound to the King's side. The newest edition was that child. A fate decided long ago. "Also, about the kid. How, how, how, how does she have the Touch of the Gift?" He shuffles onto his side, using Wiggly's tentacle as a neck rest. Wiley's eyes glow green before they fade into brown, and he closes them as he relaxes into the feeling of the other tentacle running through his hair. "She's not even from Hatchetfield...."

”Long story short for you… you’re not from Hatchetfield either and you believe in what I can promise you. There’s much you need to see and learn.” He leans in as if he were about to let in a little secret, despite the room mostly free of others besides them two. ”As for her, consider it… a long-awaited homecoming.”

Although it had taken them a month to extend as far as they had, it only took the Hive a week to return to Hatchetfield. After commandeering a few school buses, they now drive down the Nantucket bridge in neat rows. Ted stares out the frost-covered window; Pete passed out on his shoulder. He keeps an arm around his little brother, looking over the rows of seats to scan for Bill... The Maestro had yet to heal the bruises covering Ted's body; they had faded a little, but boy, they smart like something else. Ted and Bill have yet to talk about what happened, but it doesn't seem to matter now.

White skies were all that one could see as the buses neared Hatchetfield. “Bill” was some rows down in the bus, his head leaning upon the window. A much shorter stature belonged to a young girl called Margo, “Bill” had decided to make her sit next to him. Alice sat behind “Bill” alongside Deb and scrolled through social media, images of nothing but blue adorning the site. It seems that “Bill” himself is out like a light even in the day… what time of the day is it anyway? It was proving hard to tell when the clouds blocked the sun. Blue saliva flows down the side of Pete’s mouth as he snored quietly. The yellow scarf, draped upon the nape of Pete’s neck and shoulders, was about as soothing as a hot water bottle. Pete’s height meant that he sat askew, with his feet along the pathway, just to get in a comfortable spot. While the rest of the bus was either at rest or dealing with their own thing, that left Ted with his own thoughts as he attempted to wipe the frost off the window to look outside more clearly. 

The road of the bridge is covered thickly with snow. Usually, the continuous cars would have kept the road somewhat clear; the sheets of ice down below on the lake are now thick and ripe for ice skating. Ted had never really done so, but he used to watch Pete play there when he was small. Three busses behind, and one in front. And not counting the many jeeps and cruisers along the way. The Hive had made several pit stops along the way, along the desolate towns they had overtaken on the way through. The enlightened folks of those areas had provided them with supplies for their journey homeward with joyful song and dance. After a cautious glance around, Ted peers down at his free hand. He focuses on the sensation of the invisible force in his palm, like a pressure that slowly builds the more he pulls on it. Slowly moulding it, growing it, cultivating. As he traces his finger in a slow circle, the energy shoots off the digit and tears open a small yellow hole in the side of the bus; almost instantly, Ted releases the grasp, and the hole closes once again. He's been slowly practicing and getting better. Ted isn't sure how he's able to control such things, but it's much preferred than falling into them at random.

The teen leaning upon his shoulder for rest startles slightly from the jerking, grumbling incoherently as he shifts back into a comfortable spot to relax. Pete finds himself unable to fall asleep again, groggily taking a small peek at what Ted is trying to do. That scared the bejeezus out of him. "Ted, are we even there yet? What happened?" 

Shoving his hand back into his lap, Ted squirms so Pete's elbow isn't jabbing into his ribs and wraps an arm around his younger brother. Ted's eyes have bags around them, his moustache is uncombed, and his hair a bit frazzled. Ted rubs his nose with his wrist. "Yeah, we're almost there bud... and you fell asleep, that's what."

"Well, it's been a while since there's anything that is not snow to sleep on." As the brothers bantered a little, adjusting his coat over Margo, the one who shares Bill's face peeks over his shoulder with one eye open. Acting like he was sleepy, his eye was half-lidded but no less alert. Something is up with this anchor, this tech support colleague of his, and he feels that sooner or later, unlike himself... the blue intruder may come looking Ted's way. Power. Something he craves, but it is hard to find any in these dire straits. Turns out it was harder than it looks, extracting power from the Hive. The Blue Goo is not a generous fellow it seems. 

Margo snuggles closer to Bill's side, the child somehow sleeping despite the uncomfortable positioning. The hairs stand up on the back of Ted's neck, an eerie awareness running up his spine. Briefly, he looks back and sees Bill's one eye staring back at him. The hue of purple shade around the lid almost appears like eyeshadow. Still, Ted feels his heart thrumming in his chest.... his yellow scarf flaps around like a kite, despite no wind entering the bus. "...." He swallows as he locks eyes with Bill.

The eye slowly shuts, as if the man, Dill, was just sleeping with an eye open, but he does, in fact, see the apprehension. How Ted is trying to assess him. How he’s wary about him. Whether he could be trusted or not. Not to worry at all, not to worry. Ted is still the closest thing to a pal, unlike the unfortunate man he stabbed some week earlier. He does not need to scare Ted too much; those yellow eyes feel like they are trying to pierce into his soul, the same way he read Ted over and over again.

And the same way, Pokey should try to understand Paul over and over again. Except Paul, for nearly a week or so, has now refused to voluntarily rest in the bed he made and even eat the food he created. He means... made for him. He could pull the strings and force Paul to comply, but he did not feel like doing so. After all, it’s cold out, and Paul, at any moment, should be yearning for warmth. Pokey has helped himself to the bed, which is perfectly fine; the food, which is tasty, and everything else, and it is all working as intended… still, he stands on this stage alone, as he “pathetically” pleads for Paul to make his appearance. Paul~ your little hide-and-seek has been going on for quite a while. Don’t you think the act is getting stale?  

Up, up, up upon the roof of the theatre house, Paul hurls snowballs at the nearest lamp post. He's been doing this for fifteen minutes; it's a good and slightly thoughtful pastime. For a moment, he pauses when he hears Pokey's voice ringing in his ear... Paul shakes his head, frowning. "I'm actually quite happy to continue for another week." He shoots back sassily, a mocking tone lacing his voice. No food, he can go another two weeks, no bed? He can sleep on the floor. Paul peers over the ledge of the buildings and grins when he sees his shoes on the footpath.

I know what you're doing and I have the utter inkling that you want your feet frozen off again; you ought to take better care of yourself, Paul. Pokey's shoulders sagged while he relaxed on the sofa, ankles crossed upon an ornate footstool. When will Paul cease his own tantrum? It is only a matter of time before Pokey tugs on the strings to remind Paul about himself. His Shining Star ought to get more prepared for the Hive that was coming closer and closer. Your friends will be home soon, dear Paul; there is no need to fret.  

"What?" Paul looks up, turning to face Pokey despite the being not being visible to him. What did Pokey mean by that? Blue ribbons swishing around, hopefully, the Hive King walks away from the edge, wondering if Pokotho meant they were really nearly here or if this was another trick. "They're back?"

Not yet, but I sense them nearing certainly. On those large, noisy things once more. Paul could hear the tired sighs of the being talking to him. Its to the effect where it is just possible to imagine the annoyance all over that thing's... does he have a face? Somewhat. In a while. In a while. Soon you'll hear their droning in your ears very quickly.  

"........ So... does that mean I can go outside now?" Paul's voice has an edge of hopefulness, and blue sparkly eyes light up. Bill.... Ted.... his friends.... his friends are back! He can't help but smile as his eyes begin to water, dimming his vision momentarily. "I have to go meet them-"

No no Paul, why would you want to go outside? They have yet to stop... In a moment of playful jest, he grabs Paul's shoulders and gives a good solid pat on them, as if Paul would make his way down by hopping right off the building this instant. Sure, there is snow, but that fall down would still hurt his little Starling.

It's not important for you to be outside, and you are already pushing that limit by being on the roof. At the very least, Paul should come back inside to stay warm. He can already predict what he'll need to do on Paul if he does manage to coax him back to that comfy bed he has. His thoughts were interrupted once more by the roaring of diesel engines down the road, miles away. ...such a din. Even being inside here does not do my ears any good.  

The Starlet looks towards the Nentucket Bridge, which he can see from the roof of the Starlight Theatre. The yellow buses and the cars driving through the gate which has decided to remain raised. Finally, he won't be alone anymore! Grinning, Paul rushes for the fire exit and runs down the stairs, and bursts into the backstage. "This is good! Finally! Oh fucking Finally!" He exclaims, pulling off his coat and throwing it down onto the bed; they're home... they're all home.

Pokey looks up from the armchair in the direction of Paul’s voice, eyes twinkling like a cloudless, dark night sky. Paul’s finally obliging to touch the bed, at least. Whatever change in perspective does Paul have, to be all pleased as punch?                                                                                                                                      

Soon enough, the vehicles streaming into Hatchetfield all stop at various places. Some unlucky fellows beat through the cold upon pickup trucks and motorcycles. Some hitch a ride on RVs and school buses; you name it, it might be used. At the docks, a ferry’s horn sounded as it haphazardly docked at the ill-maintained jetty; someone from the boating society must be at the helm. Finally, the school bus pulls up, recklessly sideswiping some cars left on the roads. Car alarms sound, lights are flashing, and the bus finally screeches into a halt. “Oh my fellows, we are back in good old Hatchetfield!” Dill, not opening his eyes, pretends to have never heard the drawl their horrible driver was saying. Of course, they were in Hatchetfield; the other’s minds were buzzing off all about reminiscence of their home… just like him totally . There is nothing different about the dilapidated state of the town, with trash still strewn around as they had left it. The wildlife was startled by roaring engines after months of quiet. Hmm, wonder what’s left of those Checker-tailed Nighthawks in such weather. At some point, he seems to have swapped seats with Margo. So that she was at the window while he blocked the aisle. He brings her close to himself; now, it won’t do anyone good for dear Margo to be found Ungoopified and Not Singing.

"ACk!-" Ted is jolted forward with the sudden stop, cracking his face against the the metal bar that lines every single seat on the bus. Melissa giggles with a beaming smile as she watches Ted fall out of his seat and lie on the floor for a moment. Oh what a silly dog! Her eyes leak glittery blue goo; at least they were home. Back to their safe haven. "Laaa dee dah dah daaay laaaa deeeeeee daaaah daaaah daaaaayy~" The whole bus joins in the chorus as they begin to file out of the vehicle, filling the streets with their insidious melody. Margo jolts awake and looks around; where was-- no--.. wait... scrambling for her hoodie, she quickly hides her face, the song sending a wave of tinnitus ringing through her ears. "Bill-?" She looks up, not protesting "Bill"'s arm around her, with the rest of the Hive now flooding the streets, including Alice, who collectively decided to ditch the man in favor of heading back to her girlfriend's house. Ted pulls himself to his feet and groans. He's pretty sure he was just trampled. "Ow..."

“Bill” shifts to pat Margo’s head gently as he cautiously opens an eye to look. Once the bus emptied of the rest of the passengers, save “Bill”, Ted, and Margo, “Bill” opens his eyes and looks down at Margo. “ …I guess we should start going someplace away from the rest to, well, hide ya, yeah? ” Ted holds onto a seat to steady himself. He winces as joints pop and creak. Something about this icky blue coming out from his mouth is doing things… and “Bill”, for a long time, has not had to deal with all the grossness of someone else dancing in his skin. “ Holding up well, bud? ” 

Ted nods his head voicelessly. Indignant that once again, he seems to be literally shoved to the bottom of the social well by the rest of the Hive. So much for heroics at all. They seem to respect Bill more than him. Ted's scarf waves two and fro. "I'm fine, Bill. " He rolls his eyes and starts for the bus door. "I'm going home, Seeya." He gives an uninterested wave to his colleague. At least in Hatchetfield, he has a house.

“ Mhm, well, see you some other time. Will be pretty soon, I reckon, but of course, I’ll be finding my house in the meantime. ” With a hand on Margo’s shoulder, “Bill” gives Ted a small wave salute. His cloak swishing as he turns, showing some of the eyes, the tall man heads the other way, leaving Ted alone upon the streets as the rest of the Hive went on to sing and dance to some other rhythm, with the screechy noises of a loudhailer calling them to gather round. Mr Davidson has been such a show-off lately…

Ted groans, wincing as Mr Davidson's voice racks his brain with a headache. It'd look weird, though, if he didn't join the song.... it was good to sing, dance, and frolic... but he wasn't feeling it today. Begrudgingly, Ted drags his feet through the snow as he joins the crowd gathering around Mr Davidson, who stands on a car. Great.... a speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have now returned to our roots, our most beloved Hatchetfield! We will…” With a hand on his hip and his red tie tinged purple with blue goo, Mr. Davidson yells into the loudhailer, spelling out what deed they shall do in the name of the Singular Voice. Most are at attention, but a few straggled away towards home first, some stopping to turn towards the announcement and others breaking away, possibly out of exhaustion. Where could the teens have gone to? 

The doors of Hatchetfield High School burst open with a loud bang, and students flood into the dark and freezing halls, chorusing laughter and melodic cackling filling the school. Kyle bangs his fists against the lockers like a drum. "Laa daa day! Laa dee dah!!" "C-c-come on! Go Go! C-c-come on! Go Go!" Stacy and Brenda burst into a cheer number, high kicks, twirls, and jumps, Ruth awkwardly attempting to join their ranks.

Richie also starts into song, even though he is trailing behind the football team, singing softly compared to the rest. The loudest one, of course, was Max Jagerman, belting out his war cry as loudly as his vocal cords could remotely go. The gym door creaks slowly on its hinges, and Pete stands in the doorway. He appears lost as he scans the noisy singing crowd of the student symphony for one face. Now, where is Steph? He’d very much want to see her face. He hums a soothing tune, as he stays alert for aggressive individuals. “Oh woah oh… oh woah oh…” 

There's a hissing of spray paint as the artsy kids decorate the hall with slogans and rebellious phrases. Now, there are no teachers to tell them what they can and cannot do, and the students are going mad. Jason rolls a Keg of alcohol into the gym. Steph laughs and sits on the bleachers, rolling a joint filled with blue mold. "High school is killing me; it's got me all out of rhythm with my melody,"

"I'm as cool as she thinks I am, I'm as cool as she thinks I am, oh woah oh... woah oh oh." Pete follows the rest of the kids into the gym. If it was cold then, now it's warming up with the cacophony of students singing, dancing, getting into trouble, being teens... without any school pressure. Lawless fun. He should feel relieved at this; he no longer has to cram his studies anymore, but he does slightly miss his physics class at least. Now, there ahead of him is Stephanie Lauter. She managed to be nice to him regularly, but this must be out of pity for someone like him. Who takes the Math Club over sports. Who tends to help at the school library for some itty bitty cash and rapport with the teachers. No way can his vibe match up to one of the popular girls at school, the Mayor's daughter. "Oh woah oh…" 

Steph looks up; in the chaos, her glowing eyes lock with Pete's; she smiles and gestures for him to come over. After spending the Crusade hanging out with Spankoffski, well... He's actually pretty funny for a Nerd. "Hey Pete, wanna hit?" She asks him, holding up the joint.

"Huh, OH!" At some point, his feet have brought him all this way to right. In front of. Steph. Oh fuck, is his bowtie straight? Is his shirt neat? ...does it really matter at this point? After briefly arranging his bowtie, and clearing his throat to speak, what comes out of his mouth was more like an embarrassing chipmunk squeak, rather than the manly voice he was imagining. "hEeey, Steph! Uh... should we be? I mean, should we even be drinking that??" 

Steph raises a brow, looks at the smoke in her hand, back up at Pete, and laughs. "Drink? Pete? Really?" She takes a long drag and breathes out dark blue smoke, the sparks on the end of the joint popping. Steph pats the bench, offering Pete room to sit down. "Man, I'm glad to be back in Hatchetfield!" She exclaims, sighing.

Pete stood there for a few long seconds, shifting his glasses further up his nose bridge. He lets out a huge exhale of air. Oh boy, he knows he messed up Rule 21 of getting a girl to like you. As he hums a nervous melody string, he warily sits next to Steph, wondering if he should have a puff himself. Ted’s not watching. “Yeah, yeah… how glad we are to be back, I MEAN YES, I’M HAPPY WE’RE HOME! That was such a TERRIBLE time out there in the damn cold, you know, aha…” He glances at the keg the footballers had dragged right in. Who knows where they got that one from. "God knows what’s in those things, but probably beer. Oh… fuck it, let me have a puff Steph.” 

The Mayor's daughter laughs and gives Pete a nudge, handing him the blue weed. "You're such a nerd, Spankoffski." She says jokingly, watching as Kyle and the others chant, "Chug, Chug, Chug, Chug!" Handing Ruth more bear cans that she is able to handle. Richie hangs back a little, his own head feeling a little fuzzy just from watching the shenanigans. Man, he could use a drink too.

Pete, ignoring what those he had to call “friends” were doing, snatches up the blue weed from Steph’s hand. He proceeds to suck in way too hard, and he passes back that blue weed right back to the cool girl. Beginning to cough up quite a bit, how embarrassing, he didn't even know how to joint. “ Cough cough …gah… cough cough , what the hell is this weed even? God, it tastes goddamn awful.” 

Steph laughs with a bird tweet trill and takes an easy drag. She's had a lot of practice. She smiles kindly at him. The goo lines her lips with a turquoise stain like she's been eating sour candy or paint. "Want to come back to my house later? We can... you know, chill."

Pete was hacking away at his lungs for a bit longer before he could find his breath to speak once again. Wiping away blue goo for saliva, he reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief... he should have one, right? Oh, thank god he has it to wipe his hand, even if, well, he is not the one with sweaty palms. Cleaning it off as he turns to Steph. Should he? "...to your house? Well, uh...maybe not? I... I... wait, no I... I don't mean it in a bad way!" Oh to stumble on his words now. What a life. What a nice curveball throw talking to the Mayor's daughter; she must think you are an idiot now. "You're... you're pretty cool." 

"Yeah, well, so are you." She answers, smiling at Pete like he's a person. Not just a Nerd or a Hive member.... a person. A friend. "Hey! Steph!" Brenda waves from the other side of the gym; Steph smiles and stands up, starting towards one of her friends. "I'll see you around, Pete,"

Shuffling across the bench as if to get closer to her, Pete stares as Steph slowly makes her way across the gym. Wow. That beaming smile. It makes him blush, and he desperately tries to cover his face with the handkerchief. "...see you around, too! Steph... did she just call me cool too?" Each time he shares the same space as Stephanie Lauter, his heart thumps madly in his chest. He hopes that it's just an infatuation. And it might go away as soon as his puberty is all done and dusted. But yet again, from where he sat, he looks at Steph's empty hand... it would be nice to just hold it... keep it warm like he did during their little musical crusade... 

Whack A football thrown at high speed smacks Pete in the face, knocking the glasses off his head. "Hey! Spankoffski!" The imposing figure of one, Maxwell Jaggerman, is a terrifying and threatening one. Even to this day, ever since 4th grade. The boy grabs Pete by the collar and pulls him to his feet. "Who said you could join the pep rally, Stringbean?" 

Pete lets out a yelp. Well, shit, he totally forgot to keep track of him, of all people. Just as he could grab his glasses, he was hoisted up, now face to face with the up-and-running football star. At least, that’s what he’s heard. He whimpers a little at Max. What can he do right now to get himself out of trouble? “h-hi Max, don’t call me that; if you want my lunch money, just ask for it! Whatever I have in my pocket, I’ll give it to you…” 

"I don't give a flying fuck about your rich cash Spankoffski!" Max gives Pete a rough shake before punching him harshly in the stomach. With the Singular Voice, Max is strong; he is mighty! The Conductor harmonizes their minds and hearts! But. With that said. Max is still the King of this jungle, and Nerds deserve to get pulverized.

Pete yelps in pain from the sheer strength of the punch from this guy. Oh god, not this again. Why is it that the Singular Voice still cannot do anything about bullies? Come to think of it, he was largely able to avoid Max earlier on… but now he wishes he did not go back to school to check out the crowd. “Please, I swear I wasn’t joining the pep rally! Just let me go, Max! I didn’t plan to get in your way! Just… let me go!”

Ted steps into the icy cold apartment that he and Pete shared. He drops the rucksack onto the floor and flicks the light switch, ... nothing. Ted closes the door with a perturbed sigh and enters the living room. Such a chill is in the air that he doesn't bother to remove the blue coat that hangs around him. Of course , the power went out. 

It had been out, probably for months now, considering how it had long become winter. The last time he checked, it was still all autumnal glory and shit. Geez. How did time pass by that quickly? Somehow, his watch was still ticking away, a golden watch he got for his 21st birthday, not that it mattered much now other than being a trusty timekeeper. Creak. The hinges of the apartment door creak open. A tired sigh can be heard. A groan too. “Good god, I’m home… ugh” 

Turning, Ted tilts his head at his lil brother. What's Pete doing home this early? Well, of course, it was good to be back, but... he thought the kids were doing their own thing. The way kids tend to. Ted smiles and slaps Pete on the back, ruffling his head. "Hey kiddo, what're you doing back? Not hooking up with that Steph kid? She got a pair, right?" Ted jokes, winking with a chuckle.

“Ow! Don’t hit so hard, Ted!” Pete winces as he shrinks away from Ted. He is slowly feeling better, but that was SUCH a stinking pain in the back. It's not Ted’s fault, but he still has to mind himself.

Ted pauses, frowning a little bit. Had something happened? He carefully turns Pete around and lifts up his little brother's shirt. His blood runs colder than the ice outside; Pete's back is littered with bruises, big ones, small ones,... is that... Ted traces his fingers over a boot print. 

Pete hisses softly as Ted touches the bruises on his back. This is embarrassing; he should have just not approached Steph. The cold air bites at the wounds… and his exposed midriff, so Pete pulls down his shirt quick before he gets colder. “It’s fine, Ted! It’ll recover soon… At best, I just maybe need to ice that… why is it stupid friggin’ cold.” 

"No it's Not fine! Did that Jaggerman kid beat you up again!?" Ted exclaims, gosh, he just wants to go and find that lil shit, and, ARGh- He takes comfort in knowing The Singular Voice will heal Pete sooner or later. He lets Pete pull his shirt down before gesturing to their home. "The power's out; must have been aallll winter,"

Pete stays quiet for a while, unwilling to say the usual culprit’s name again. Maxwell Jägerman, with all his popularity with most guys, will never stop. Why, of all people, did Max have to be the guy in every class he is in? If only he could just change schools. Or just get Max expelled or something. “Yeah, figured. No gas, no lights, no nothing is working. School was still dark all over save the daylight coming in…” He is still rubbing at other bruises on his arm, hidden under his sleeves. He does not need to keep stressing Ted over this. He will have to figure something out. 

Ted sighs, his breath coming out as steam. The wallpaper was beginning to peel on the wall in the damp and freeze, revealing the old concrete underneath. Resigning himself, Ted tightens his jacket, giving Pete a side hug. "Come on, let's go see if they've made any bonfires." He ruffles his lil brother's hair affectionately. Not everybody will be content with bearing the cold.

Pete leans into the hug slightly. He’s 16, and he does not need hugs like this. Nor does he want to step out of the house, or rather, apartment, right now, even if the house is freezing. He just wants to mope down here and think about whether it is worth getting any closer to Steph. “No, I just want to go to my room and... Lie down… I don’t feel like going out now.” 

"Nuh uh, nuh uh, you fall asleep, and you're dead!" Ted may be exaggerating a little bit, but he's pretty sure that's what they used to say on TV. Fall asleep without heat, and you'll freeze to death. He doesn't want to take any chances. Besides, Pete could use a pick-me-up. And to take his own mind off of... other things... "Anyhow, it's fucking freezing in here."

“Ughhhh, must we? I don’t really want to see Max. He’s probably outside right now hollering.” Pete flops on the couch and tries to roll himself up in his coat. Luckily, his glasses are not cracked… though he considered getting the spare from his room, given the wonky spectacle leg bent upwards and not quite sitting on his ears. 

Ted raises a brow, taking in Pete's disheveled appearance. The yellow scarf flapping furiously. This was just bullshit. He knows he'd go to jail for beating up a minor, but he was seriously considering shanking the lil shit. Ted didn't care; nobody messes with Pete except him. There had to be a way to cheer him up. Hmmm.... "Well you know what, who cares, right?" He flops down on the couch and ruffles Pete's head. "But you know what I always do when people try to drop dirt on me?"

“Mmm? You sure people don’t care? I just like books more than hitting the gym, but he makes it a pretty big deal…” His voice trails off in an awkward squeak as he relaxes, feeling his brother’s hand on his head. Wonder what wise words Ted will tell him this time, on yet another miserable day in the life of Peter Spankoffski. He watches as his breath makes a mist that fogs up his glasses in the cold apartment. He now brings his hands up to touch his cold nose. God, please be something appropriate and not just another of Ted’s jokes. “Sure go ahead, spread your wisdom, Mister “Obi-Wan Kenobi”.” 

"I just Dance." Ted is almost surprised by his own suggestion. It's a new one, but he feels with every ounce of his being that dancing is, in fact, the solution to all their problems. Because why the hell not can't the Spankoffski's just dance their troubles away? Ted jumps up to his feet, pulling Pete with him. Bouncing into a boisterous tapping. 

“Please don’t… hey!” He hardly has any time to come up with his highly effective counterargument before his older brother starts to literally dance tap with the wrong shoes. Oh, come on, how old are they? Why would tap dance be the only way to solve all problems? Max might just prefer to throw a tomato instead of participating in the activity that Pete had started when he was younger, along with Richie and Ruth. However, he eventually felt inclined to try and keep up with the dancing. Since when did Ted know tap? How can he do it better than him? “Why? Are we? Dancing? Ted, really… when did you even know this? We’re not even in the right shoes for this! I don’t even think Max would like tap!” 

"Who caaares what Max thinks. You're you, and you’re smarter, better, and a hell of a good kid than he is." Tightening his grip on Pete's wrist, Ted steps backward, a portal opening up on the floor. The two fall through and land in the snow-filled streets of Hatchetfield. Ted jumps into a showman stance, bursting into song. Meanwhile, Pete falls face-first into freezing snow with an “oomph!” Wait. WAIT. What just happened? Pete stumbles up from the snow as he senses some form of… song and dance in his head that he could just hear. It feels so good, but he guesses he still cannot get used to it… "Now you are a boy, one lonely boy and deep inside of you, one broken soul, a gaping hole, has left you feeling blue.” Ted begins to kick up the snow to make little flurries. His eyes shimmering blue, and he starts to dance down the street, moving to the jazzy jig in his head with an enthusiastic grin. Pete starts to warily follow along, trying to figure out which tune to tap to. “But you're not like the other boys; you've got that magic flair.” It almost feels like a spotlight is on them as dark clouds paint the rest of the street darker. Like on a stage. He skips in step behind Ted, wishing to ask questions, but also being curious about what Ted is up to. As the man he calls his brother, 18 years older than he is, walks up the top of a car and is preparing to hit Boardway with the jazz hands of the century. “Cause when you start to sway, ya get carried away, and no one can compare..." Wait, what was that piano boss music? “Ted, how did we—“

With the roof now thoroughly dented, Ted leaps off the car and grabs the nearest lamp post, swinging off it and landing back on the pavement. He nearly skids on some ice but grips Pete's arm, pulling him along. "I've been watching you play, I've been listening to the things that you say, and I've come to tell you today. Your no ordinary blighter." He claps Pete on the shoulder and ruffles his hair. Ted taps his feet rhythmically on the pavement, approving smiles from the other members of the Hive who dance their own way downtown.

“WOAH—!” Pete skids slightly over some ice but barely manages to regain his footing in fresher snow. Eventually, the infectious rhythm snakes its way into his feet as he tries to join the dance with his brother. Still, an uneasy smile is on his face as he tries to comprehend what Ted tries to convey in song.

"You've got a broken heart, and you keep reaching inside to tear it apart, but I'm here to give you a brand new start and to make your spirit brighter." Ted wears his usual shit-eating grin as Pete joins his choreography. They galivant down the road in a way they probably haven't done since elementary school. Ted jumps up onto a sidewalk bench, leaning over Pete with his hands on his hips humorously. "When the other boys start to laugh and jeer, I know a secret way you can make them disappear. You've got the talent, kid; here is your chance." Ted steps off the bench and slugs his arm around Pete's shoulders. "They might not understand, but just stick to the plan and show em all it's time to dance."

Ugh, he is not feeling like that about Steph. He thinks she is really cool, but how can he have a chance with the Mayor's daughter by being a nerd? Still, he appreciates some form of sentiment that his older brother has to offer for him in these trying times. He bites his lip, trying to stifle a laugh as he rolls his eyes. Sure Ted was always overdramatic, but this ridiculousness is something out of the ordinary. It is undeniable that Ted knows what stage presence is, given that whatever he is doing to make Pete smile has gained some extra backup dancers in turn. The tune, however, catches onto him as he grabs hold of Ted's hand and swings him outwards to the well-timed chords being played out in his mind. 

"Always dance, always dance, though they'll try to stop you, always dance." Ted laughs as Pete gets into the groove, finally! The streets are a series of tapping shoes on the pavement; other members of the Hive join their choreography. "Shut your mouth and stop your yappin! Take your foot and set it tappin! You were born a magic boy, so leap and twirl and prance." Proving his own point, Ted leaps through a portal and enters out behind Pete, grabbing his little brother and giving him a noogie. He stops his singing for a moment to address him. "Well Petey, whatcha say? Wanna give it a try?"

“Ah! —How’d you, how’d you do that?” Pete points from where Ted was to where he is now confusedly. Until the question clicked in place. “What are you saying?… of course!” Now, Pete hops upon a park bench, continuing his dance before he stops for his heart to burst out into song. “I’ve been waiting to go, for how long I really don’t know.” He points toward the Theatre as though having sighted new land. His foot is barely stable on the armrest of the park bench, but he leans upon one knee and now turns towards Ted to address him. “But one look at you and I know, that you would never fool me.” He barely manages to recover from nearly slipping off the bench; fortunately, he did not go face-first into the snow. His foot instead thumps back down… luckily to the beat. He hops off, continuing down the street, dancing backward for Ted to see. If there’s one thing he should be certainly better than Ted in… it’s the magic of the tap dance. The magic, however, seems to briefly escape when he thinks about… what about Max? How would this do anything to Max? His steps start to slow as he bemoans how Max is still being horrid to him. “I’ve been living a lie, ever since I left my soul to die. I’ve been softly wondering why, they all choose to ridicule me.” 

"When all the other boys start to laugh and jeer," Ted extends his hand to Pete, giving him a wink and a cocky grin.

Oh well, screw this. He shrugs his shoulders, with the golden guess that dancing is the only way out of this slump. After all, his feet are already moving on their own accord, even without proper tap shoes. He grabs Ted’s hand firmly with a smile on his face. Dance challenge accepted. “I know a secret way that we can make them disappear!” Sung in unison, they now engage in a funny little dance between brothers upon a snowy street. Rather slippery on the dance floor, but they are managing just fine. 

Ted opens a portal and pulls Pete through, disappearing from the street and reappearing in the park. He spins Pete and releases him, kicking up the snow a little. "You've got the talent kid!"

“This is my chaaaaance!” He continues to dance and prance about, feeling the frigid air in the park whoosh past his face. That’s… they sure got to the park much quicker than he thought.

"They might not understand, but we'll stick to the plan, and show em all it's time to dance!" Ted zips from the ground to the nearest picnic table in a flash of gold light, the brothers singing in unison. Ted shoots Pete a finger gun as he steps through another portal and appears by the playground. "Always dance, always dance, though they'll try to stop you, always dance." He reappears beside his brother again and yanks him forward. "Shut your mouth and stop your yappin! Take your foot and set it tappin!" 

A song … and a dance in unison. Did his old brother have some talent in him somewhere? No, moreover… what choreography Ted has with all that well-timed footwork and all that… all that portals he’s doing. Gah! Whatever! They are having a whale of a time, and nothing can stand in their way of having a good ol’ sibling dance. Time in the palm of their hands to do whatever they actually wished. Ha, he wished he had continued tap beyond middle school; he is doing so well. Sure, his dancing feet are a little rusty, but improvisation saves the day for this one. “I was born a magic boy, I’ll leap and twirl and prance!” 

Members of the Hive watch the performance with apt attention. Ted laughs as he pulls Pete through another portal, incorporating the gift into their choreography. And the more Ted shows off, the more of the Hive starts to gather around. Mr Davidson, never to be left out of things, shoves his way through the crowd.

“Oh, Petey/Ted, I’ll always dance!” Yellow portals rip and close up at will, making for a rather golden spectacle before the Hive. Now comes the dance break, as the Spankoffski brothers pull out all the stops.

The Hive shares a gleaming grin, dozens of eyes glowing bright blue, like lanterns against the white. "Look at his style, look at him go, watch his technique, check out his flow." They chorus together with communal humming. The low sound passes through the Hive; one by one, the whole of Hatchetfield joins the low frequency of sound. Passing along the message. Touch of the Gift. Touch of the Gift.

A Touch of the Gift? What does that mean? What is its poignant significance to their livelihood? For an adult whose Touch of the Gift is making quite an ostentatious reawakening? Most of the Hive struggle with this concept verily. Whatever the Hive knows, however, this phrase means something very important and noteworthy. A most significant change to be made known across the board… all the way back to The Singular Voice. “My, how he leaps. Oh, what a prance. Look at him, look at him, look at him, dance!” 

Ted and Pete disappear and reappear rapidly through golden portals; there is no denying it now. There is no hiding it. But then again, why would they want to hide? It was good to be noticed. Ted feels the praise of the Hive running through his bones as they join in his song. See!? Even they like Pete's dancing! He puffs up his chest as they finally cease the choreography. Pausing to catch their breath. "Always dance, always dance, though they'll try to stop you, always dance. Shut your mouth and stop your yapping, take your foot and set it tapping. He was born a magic boy, so leap and twirl and prance. Always, always, always, always, always, always dance!" Ted feels the music in his mind slow to a stop. The song is over.... nudging Pete, Ted gives his little brother a wink. "So you see, Petey, when life sucks, just dance! And since life always sucks, always dance." Steph nudges her way through the crowd, smiling, lips painted a dark blue. "Pete!" She calls to him. 

He was about to shoot his question about what Ted meant before he turned his head in the direction of a familiar voice. Oh boy. It’s Steph! Pete finds his voice growing small, hoping to hide in the cracks of the walls like a mouse. “… oh my god, it’s Steph Lauter…” Before he begins to lean closer just to whisper to Ted. “Ted…what do I do? She’s standing there.” 

Ted rolls his eyes; gee, how Pete managed to score the Mayor's daughter is a mystery within itself.... must be the good ol Spankoffski charm. Ted gives him a playful shove. "Go on little brother. Remember the rules!" He gives him a wink and a finger gun before pulling open another portal and letting himself fall through the ground.

 Pete quickly makes his hoppity skippity way to Steph, only to turn back and realize his brother has suddenly disappeared… well, never mind, Ted can take care of himself.

Pokey scutters about on the stage with audible clacks of his heels. He has been doing his own warm-ups with impeccable precision. He is not a man of improvisation, but right now… right now… a few more taps of his feet and arms spread wide; it should be about… now. Drum roll, please… the sound of numerous snare drums sounds out in anticipation for this day’s new magic trick. 

A golden hole opens up in the fabric of reality; Ted falls out, stumbling over his feet when he exits the void into an unfamiliar place. Wait- this wasn't home- "Ack-" Ted falls against Pokey's chest.

Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Now, the drums and a cymbal make the sound of “hey presto” in lieu of Ted’s arrival at the Starlight Theatre. Pokey’s hands grip Ted’s shoulders, fingernails digging in slightly. His voice whistles chillingly past the raised hairs on Ted’s neck. What a pleasure to be your acquaintance, Theodore Spankoffski.  

Staring up at the man with the eerie theatre mask, Ted hears the sound of the portal zapping shut behind him.... that was not his doing.... he gulps, attempting to wrench away from the man dressed like he's from the Renaissance fair. Inwardly, Ted feels as if he should know this man... there's something familiar about him. Deeply familiar... it's on the tip of his tongue and runs deep down into his bones. "Who the hell are you, sparkly? Phantom of the Opera?"

A soft hum echoes throughout the Theatre. It’s silent, with only Ted’s breathing audible in this space… does this thing even breathe… With deft hands holding onto Ted’s wrists firmly, the man with the grey mask twirls Ted in a half-circle. By the time the clack of the heels is heard, Ted finds himself face-to-face with the mysterious man behind the mask. His striking blue eyes, with stars for pupils, shone in the darkness of that unsettling mask. Something about Ted’s footing is slightly off, as if strings were attempting to force Ted into a follower position. I am The Singular Voice, little wayward troublemaker.  

That sultry-sounding voice clicks the pieces into place for Ted. His eyes widen as the terrifying realization that he is standing in the presence of the Maestro starts to cement in his mind. The gold irises flicker blue like a faulty lightbulb, but ultimately, the yellow establishes its dominance. The urge to throw himself down in worship coils like a snake in Ted's gut, but his body is under the control of The Singular Voice. He is so fucking dead. "I-... I'm sorry--" He tries to backtrack, hoping his god is not insulted by his remark.

The icy gaze seems to perk up in twisted glee as he slowly twirls Ted once more. Trapping Ted’s hand betwixt interlaced fingers, he gives Ted a dip slightly off the stage. The only thing keeping Ted from falling is a sturdy hand supporting Ted’s waist. So, how did your little ditty go again? Hum that little song you had in your head for me.  

"Eek-" The squeak that escapes the mortal is undignified and lacking of manliness. Ted's cheeks flush red as he silently prays that Pokotho will not drop him. Shit- had he heard the song? Of course he did; he's The Singular Voice! Nervously, Ted tries to find his voice despite his fear. "Uh-.. hmmmm hmmm hmmmmmm.... " He forces a terrible mimicry of the tune he had sung with Pete.

Before Ted could finish the mere sample of his little disharmony, the masked man with icy cold fingers naturally hums along with the proper notes in place. Of course, Pokey is always the best when it comes to music. And now, he shall spin a reprise for this rebellious, ill-fortuned man. ”You’ve got the talent, kid, so you’re my nominee~” He pulls Ted on up, slowly dancing around Ted as if Ted were a wind-up ballerina on a music box. ”You might not understand…” Faint piano keys can be heard in the empty Theatre, and music starts to emulate a sinister tone, creeping up between the happy notes. Now, he brings Ted close again, hands clasped together, holding shoulder to shoulder. ”… but you will dance with me…”  

Ted can't move, his arms and legs tingle with pins and needles. He wants to whimper as the painful sensation bites and jabs at his limbs, but his mouth is wired shut by invisible strings. Ted's fingers curl through Pokey's, holding the eldritch being's hand as they slowly sway to the piano. "....." Under normal circumstances, Ted wouldn't complain if another body were pressed up against him. Hell, he'd encourage it. But not today. Not on The Singular Voice's shit list.

”Always dance, always dance, though they’ll try to stop us, always dance~” They slowly move around the stage, which has a peculiar set-up as if it was someone’s home. For now, the velvety blue furniture is in the dark, as only a single blue light bathed the two dancers on stage. Such vibrant yellow eyes… why was it proving so hard to properly have Ted’s mind back in synchronicity? Ted’s body is very much at his mercy, but the mind seems to fight to stay afloat, even when consumed with fear. Stroking Ted’s cheek, he leans in, giving a smug sneer. “YOU were born for MY control, so step into the trance…”

The human yanks his face from Pokey's touch, managing a terrified glare. Oh shit, please, no... inwardly, Ted squirms and tries to detangle himself from this thing... this man with the mask. But outwardly he is pliant and still, only moving when the other wills it.

And move does he when Pokey trails his fingers down Ted’s chest, feeling that undead heart beating wildly with such tasty fear. Pokey’s tongue licks his razor-sharp teeth as he watches how Ted struggles against him. He slowly drags Ted around, feet to feet, in successive twirls across the stage, sometimes just kicking Ted’s feet slightly to offset the human’s sense of balance. Now, just wait for the dizziness to set in. “Always, always, always…”  

Crap, crap, crap, crap... Ted is burning up. Is it the spores or whatever shit the professor had talked about.... or.... or... Ted squirms, but his hands remain clinging to Pokey's shoulders, their bodies pressed against one another as he's forced to perform this dehumanizing dance. His head feels weird..... Ted manages out a whimper as his mind begins to buzz, not with busyness.

Watching Ted slowly cave into the disorientation, he continues to drag on his long notes as he keeps twirling round and round. Until he stops suddenly and gives Ted one last slow dip. This time, Ted’s legs are crumbling under his weight as Pokey ends on a soft but triumphant note. A chilly wind that seems to breeze over Ted’s body. “…dance.”  

Ted's hands slip from Pokey's broad, strong shoulders and flop to hang limply; the only thing keeping him up at all is the firm hand pressed against the small of his back, the other cradling his neck. The gloved hand on Ted's flesh sends a series of goosebumps running down his spine.

As the music slowly concluded, Pokey gradually releases Ted down upon the stage, as if he was performing for any captive audience in question. With a soft thud, Ted is on the floor. And with that, Pokey’s fingers gently close Ted’s wide yellow eyes shut as he hushes the human, whose words are trapped behind sealed lips. And now, does the stage become fully bathed in shadow, as the lights go out. 

Alice huffs, folding her arms as she gives Bill an annoyed glower. Why her dad wanted to let a non-hive Member stay with them was beyond her. They couldn't even share frequencies, and Margo was a horrible singer. "Does she have to stay here, Dad?"

“Of course, of course! Just cut some slack on her, her parents can’t be found. She’d freeze outside with her size…” He managed to kick the backup generator to life earlier on to get some hot water boiling on the stove. The heater itself… leaves much to be desired. So…so cold… even inside, they still wore their winter coats. The sound of his wings buzzed, and he feels as if they might just freeze themselves into shards of ice… shardsicles if he did not attempt to move them. 

"But she's not even one of us." Even with the steam no longer leaving their mouths, Alice keeps the jacket on. That little unbeliever could get frostbite for all she cares. Margo does not worship the Singular Voice. She does not sing and dance and most certainly does not connect with herself and the others. "She can't even hear the symphonies."

“Oh, you know, some children take a while before they eventually hear the symphonies, yeah?” Eeeks. He hates that shivering feeling down his spine. He does not wanna subscribe to the symphony, nuh-uh. He’ll do better than what his old self did and shut out the melody in favor of … …well, can he really call it favorable? The world outside is dead and cold, and people’s minds are boring to read due to them all tainted by blue shit and false promises of a better life. It’s a mess alone to clear up his own mind; it is a chaotic landscape to traverse other people’s minds. 

Knock, knock, knock.

He was just leaning upon the counter to think when he hears a knocking. Where's that coming from? He pushes himself off the counter to walk about the house to locate this sound.

Alice frowns a little, looking towards the front door and then back at her father. This was weird. "Dad... it's just someone knocking at the door..."

"Oh... really? Ah well Al pal, I'll answer the door myself, don't you worry a thing." Who could be knocking at his door? He should not be expecting anybody else to come to his wonderful house with a view of the Witchwoods off to the... well, a drive on down this road basically. Whatever, this is the bestest house because it's his house; who might be so wonderful to drop on by? He walks up to the door, his cape swishing by with a subtle purplish glow, before he happily creaks the door open. "Who might that be..." 

Outside, Paul tilts his head, ok that was.... weird. The Hive King brushes it aside; of course, Bill wouldn't be Bill right now... at least... he had seemed himself weeks earlier, but... Paul forces a smile, he really didn't feel like smiling right now. "Bill, it's me..."

“OH HELLO PAUL!” Mr Dill exclaims Paul’s name to the world at large, almost to the point the house’s walls shook. He seems to have fanned the wing cape out slightly in his excitement. Opening the door a bit wider, he ushers Paul into his surely humble abode. “What brings you here? Come in come in, Paul! What can I do for you? It's chilly out; don’t just stand there. We’ve got hot water at least and no other distractions.” Would Paul realise anything about the tiny girl that is not under the Apotheosis just yet? Drats, how does the blue shit infect someone again? Well, since Margo’s mind seems most coherent, without the added noise of a haunting melody, it must mean Margo’s all fine and dandy. Wait, would Paul take notice of that? Come to think of it, he has not ever had the chance to observe dear Paul’s reaction to uninfected personnel up close. Paul, however, is still rather lucid, much like Margo, in fact… maybe the little mister Hive King can let it slip somehow? “You could… hang out at the kitchen for now while I… do my own thing.”  

Paul is quiet for a moment.... this wasn't exactly like Bill. Sure, he was one of the friendliest people you could meet, but Bill wasn't normally this energetic. Paul bites the inside of his cheek as he wrings his wrists. It's been a week. Only a week. He tries to remind himself. He's not been trapped inside for longer than a week. Paul smiles again. "That'd be great, actually... I've been needing to speak to you anyway....." Okay... okay... okay okay okay... Alice peers around the corner from the kitchen and waves. "Hive King-" "Please- just Paul-"

“Um sure! Let me just clean up for a sec!” As far as he is concerned, Dill thinks he is being sneaky about casually scooping up the kid he parked on the sofa into his arms and hurrying into the guest room. At least the guest room has a nice bed too. At least Paul is kept busy by Alice so that he does not have to be questioned about a random barely-teenager kid being in his house. 

Paul looks between Alice and Bill as he watches the man abscond with the sleeping kid in his arms. You know what, he's just not going to question it. Entering, he shuts the door behind him. "So.... how was the trip back?" Perhaps he's just desperate for conversation.

Oh perhaps he really needed someone other than a certain blue shit crow man thing, to have a jolly good conversation with. And as of the present time and day of a very terrible winter, the man who just buzzed on back out to the living room may be the guy to talk to. What a joy! A joy to be sought after, a joy to be the shoulder to lean on! At least Paul Matthews knows his guy to rely on! “Oh, pretty much eventful. We “borrowed” some buses, we wandered around many cities on foot… if only the water was not made of ice cubes we could have a foot bath so that my aching feet could get some rest and I can thaw out my cape— well you get the idea.”

The ribbons on Paul's back rise and fall steadily, twisting around one another like writhing eels. The Hive King fidgets with his fluffy sleeves, the fur irritating his wrists. Finally out... different house, fresh air, snow, trees. No crows... "Well, I'm glad you're back. Really... it means the world to me..." Please never leave again...

"And I don't intend to wander around the world in 80 days! That is, if marvelous me can personally help it." He skips across the floor and gives Alice a rub on her head before he wanders to the kitchen to pour some hot water. Mainly for himself, that is. He feels the chill so harsh it might just put his wings to more sleep once again. "Want hot water? ...I think my coffee powder's all gone, which really sucks. We all could use a black coffee... plain without... the eugh."

Since when did Bill like bitter things? He was a sweet tooth through and through. Lattes and Caramel Frappes were more to his taste. Well... it'd be hard to get such things now, but... "Sugar?" He offers, looking at Alice, whose eyes glow blue, not really noticing any difference in her father. "I mean, yeah, I'd love a black coffee."

"Mhm, but again, I'm betting that someone has snatched up all that coffee powder... to mix with their blue spit. 'A cuppa poisoned coffee keeps the dullness away'... no thanks!" Dashing Dill seems to sip away at the boiling hot water like it is his lifeline. It really is his lifeline, after enduring endless nights of cold extreme camping with the rest of the near-braindead. Warms his big hands, warms the chest, and warms the soul. Right... he starts to pour warm water for Alice and Paul. Everyone has got to be freezing. 

Taking the other cup, Paul quickly takes a sip. Finally, something not tinted with the bitterness of Pokey's infectious seduction. Alice hums appreciatively and keeps humming. Paul smiles at Bill... perhaps for once, he can remember he's not completely alone. "... I'm glad you're still here..."

His wings buzzing softly to shake off the cold setting in, and he cocks his head with a very wide smile at Paul. Curious... why is it only Paul and Ted who seem all too aware of the horrors of the current state of affairs? At least Paul, Ted seems to slip in and out of it. He raises his cup of warm water to Paul as he talks. "Hehehe... I have my ways. At least you're a breath of fresh air yourself. Not easy to find someone like that these days y'know." 

The Hive King manages a laugh, despite all the praises the Singular Voice bestowed upon him at every waking hour. What Bill had said, however, even though only words, had wrapped around him like a warm blanket. "How did you manage to avoid Apotheosis?"

When that question came up, he chokes a little on the warm water before he wipes his mouth with his sleeve and clears his throat. That was tricky. Alice did shoot him... never mind, not right in front of the bestest co-worker, Paul. Dill recovers back with a rather wide smile, putting his hands on his hips. "Well, uh... that is a super duper funny question, um, Paul... we drink up, and then we'll talk. How's that?" He gives Paul a good heavy pat on the shoulder, hoping Paul does not see through the sheer fact that he has no idea how he decided on basically "fuck this shit" and be himself. Oh, and putting his bestest foot forward for sure. 

Paul nods his head and takes another sip of the hot water. "Yeah, that sounds good.... hey.... um, you know the Singular Voice. Pokey?" He puts down the still-full cup, leaning on the counter a little.

The other, wandering around with water in hand, thinks about the name intently. He turns around, a deadpan stare past Paul. Those eyes twinkle in the dark as he takes a slow blink. Why is… why is Mister Dill Woodward staring like that? “…right Blue Intruder has a name. What about that pile ol’ goop that won’t leave glorious I the fuck alone?” 

"Wait, what-?" A chilling sense of dread accumulates in Paul's chest; he starts to take a few nervous steps backward. Paul's starry eyes begin to glow as he feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "Bill... are you ok?" Danger, danger,

“Yeah, perfectly fine and dandy . Never felt a day better than now.” He nods at Paul, noting the starry irises glimmering in the dark. That’s… that is odd, but pretty in some sense. He sets his cup down to take a few steps forward, his shawl, cape, thing, swishing slightly. “My house is safe. What about well, Pokey ?” 

Focusing on the question, Paul sighs and looks away, wringing his wrist as he considers how much is right to tell his best friend.... what can Bill do? Nothing.... besides..... what if.... "....he kept me locked inside for the entire week...."

“What do you mean locked inside for the entire week? In your head ?” He continues the unsettling stare, watching how tight Paul starts to keep to himself. Silence hangs in the air between them. Then, as if the sunshine has gushed back into his veins, the ever-dapper Dill Woodward chuckles at Paul before he rests an arm across Paul’s shoulders. “Don’t be so nervous, we’re good, aren’t we?” 

The warmth of another human being actually touching him sends weakness flooding through Paul's whole body; he leans a little closer and nods his head. Yeah... they're good, Bill and he... they go way back. Even if he's acting a little weird right now. "... not in my head.... he wouldn't let me leave the Starlight Theatre... not until the rest of you got back."

“Oh…” He leans upon Paul’s head, an act of endearment he picked up along the way. Why did Paul have to be stuck with the Blue Intruder of all people? If he was not a menace enough to try and evict him out of his space (please, he called dibs on this), the fact that he terrorizes precious Paul makes him…ugh! “That’s very annoying of him—“ Then suddenly, in Paul’s head, a voice rings out oh so clear, a voice… most, most unwelcomed. ’Paul~ Paul, I’ve been calling out to you~’  

The Hive King tenses as he leans into Bill's hug. Trying not to appear too alarmed, great. What did that asshole want now? Hesitating for a moment, Paul answers the Singular Voice. Please let this be important- ' Sorry... I was doing something... what is it?  

The other … man in the room stays very silent, as he seems to be on his guard for something. With something in the palm of his hand, he shifts, now giving Paul a great big bear hug. He looks at Paul, scrutinizing his facial expressions, the tone of his voice… Paul’s inner voice. His thoughts . And that of a very threatening presence that he was… very tempted to throw hands with. ’I have something for you in Starlight Theatre… it is a must-view for yourself! I insist! And… I have a little idea to ride through the winter with, that I will inform you of its details when you have arrived!’  

Shuddering with dread, Paul slowly detaches himself from Bill's arms. Despite the fact, he'd much rather remain in them. Whatever Pokey wanted, Pokey got. And Paul wasn't going to risk the god's tremendous temper again. His shoulders lower and the considerably tall man appears small, or well... at least, smaller than he usually carried himself. ' Ok... I'll be there soon, I was just talking to a friend... '

Similarly, the other man seems to slowly release Paul from his embrace, tucking in something crystalline into the folds of the Hive King’s … childish fit. Certainly not what Paul Matthews would wear to his deathbed as far as he remembered any instance of the man prior to the thing they call “Apotheosis”. Before he knew it, he was physically covering Paul’s mouth while supporting him by his neck. He does not need the sound detector to start coming at him again, he’s had it with this blue oldie! Said blue oldie, being too preoccupied with finally… subservience. Voluntary subservience. All the better. After some few weeks of running from him, his world is coming around. ’… Perfect! Perfect, perfect, perfect! Scurry along now, Starlight; this front-row seat is waiting eagerly for you~’  

Caught off guard by another person's hand on his skin, Paul shivers, eyes fluttering. Before, he hadn't thought isolation would drive him to this level of neediness. After all, Paul cherished his alone time. But, he was never truly alone, not like now. Reaching up, he slowly grasps Bill's fingers covering his mouth, why did he do that anyway? Paul hadn't of spoken; he had talked to Pokey in his mind, did... oh.. it must have been because Bill was part of the Hive Mind.... a little anyway... perhaps not as much as the others. The pulse in his neck beats and throbs against Bill's hand; Paul shivers again as he removes the limb from his skin. "I gotta go now. Pokey wants me."

That was… a little strange to see Paul shiver. Is he cold? Is his own hands too cold for him? But he sure felt how Paul got somewhat excited… shocked? Electrified? He willingly obliges with Paul’s fingers, watching him intently with sparkles of purple and orange dancing in his eyes. “Oh… yeah, sure, just… don’t tell him about, well, me?”

Weren't Bill's eyes usually brown? Swallowing thickly, Paul nods his head, he could agree to that. "Yeah, ok. Um... bye.." And out he goes through the door, tightening his blue frock around him as he rushes through the cold. Couldn't Pokey give him more than five minutes? Seriously. He didn't even have time to check on Ted or look for Charlotte. The streets are surprisingly empty, they hadn't been before. Where was everyone?

Dill tries to reach out to Paul as he dashes to the door before he settles to stare at Paul walking down the street himself. Those wings of his buzzed at the chill through the door. Oh right, Ted. Where could he have gone? He should yell that out to Paul so that he can look for him. “S-see you later! Don’t forget to say hi to Ted!” He now turns back to go back into the house. 

What Paul had been expecting when he arrived back at the Starlight Theatre, had been some dramatic entrance. A banquet where he and Pokey would eat dinner together. A forced dance or two. But what Paul Mathews had not been expecting was the entire population of Hatchetfield waiting to greet him. A red carpet rolls out from the entrance of the Theatre to the end of the sidewalk, and the crowd at the sides cheers his name as if he is a lead actor or a movie star. Paul resists the urge to facepalm out of embarrassment as he hesitantly walks up the red carpet. Blue and black rose petals are thrown by bucket holders before his every step. Gosh, he hopes this wasn't a wedding.

“PAUL MATTHEWS! PAUL! PAUL! GRANDIOSE STARLIGHT! OUR HIVE KING! OUR STAR!” Right at the end of the red carpet walk is the stage. The bathroom area seems to have disappeared into thin air like a secret compartment hidden smartly offstage. The blue spotlight flashes upon Paul’s face, now following his every footstep down the aisle amidst the frantic cheering. “Louder for our Hive King, make him feel the welcome he deserves!” Mr Davidson, standing on one of the auditorium seats, yells into his loudhailer to command the applause and cheers to become ever more intense. He seems to stare at Paul, much like eyeing a little bunny that had gotten away the last time. 

Paul feels himself beginning to freeze. Oh shit. Sweating nervously, it takes a magnus amount of will to force his legs to move. Paul hurries down the aisle and gives Mr Davidson a hard push as he passes by him. Where the fuck was that god. "Pokey." He manages through gritted teeth. Oh, he was going to Kill him.

The dark stage now illuminates the god in question, posed in a supremely pretentious pose to make himself look all mysterious. Now, all the cheering seemed to shift from Paul to the masked man on the stage, as all that thundering noise reached its fever pitch before they plunged into silence. “ALL HAIL THE SINGULAR VOICE!” 

The Hive King scrambles up the stage steps and marches right up to Pokotho, extends a elegant hand and cuffs the eldritch being over the head. "There had better be a damn good reason the entire town is in our house!" Paul fails to catch the word before it leaves his lips, this is the first time he's called the Theatre his home.

A resounding gasp echoed throughout the Theatre before the Hive quickly shut up at Pokey’s quiet threat. He lightly rubs the part Paul slapped him at. It does not hurt, but it has to look convincing. Behind the mask, Pokey smirks. Paul thinks this is his house? That is good for him! But he has yet to get to his script. Oh Paul, please, this occasion calls for celebration. There is no need for violence. We have a show to perform! The Hive starts up their excited chattering before Pokey turns back to the audience to yell. SILENCE! I did NOT allow you all to speak YET… right where were we Paul~  

Many Hive members, including Paul, flinch as Pokey raises his voice. Their heart jumped in his chest with fright. After a moment, he stabilizes himself and folds his arms. Determined to get his point across. "You could have told me before now and- wait... show? What show? Pokey, what did you do!?" He exclaims, waving his arms in the air dramatically. Ugh, Paul hated musicals; the only thing worse are operas. "Pokey, we are not having a musical right now."

Pokey, too, crossed his arms back at Paul, his glee visible only by his eyes. Oh no… what is it? …be at ease, Paul, ‘tis a musical unlike any other. A yellow spotlight that changes to blue soon shines upon the stage. There is no one standing beneath it. Because for this musical, we do have a guest of honor that is joining us for its production.  

What? Guest of honor? As far as Paul knew, Pokey didn't do guest of honors. He was too self-absorbed for that kind of thing. "I don't understand." Ribbons rippling and shaking, the Hive King glares up at Pokey with an air of disgruntled grievances. "You didn't mention this before."

Have no worries; as long as I agree with such last-minute changes, you just need to rest easy for the rest. I already know what I intend to do~ Goo leaks out from the cracks of Pokey’s mask, his voice bordering on a sickening saccharine that could give one the shivers. Is Paul… jealous? Is he being whiny about it? Perhaps he might get the answer when he proceeds to show said guest of honor. Another spotlight now blasts its searing light upon a booth seat on the second floor. Look up, Paul~  

Paul turns and looks up, following the beam till- "Is that Fucking Ted!?" Paul exclaims with utter disbelief. He wants to stomp his feet. The human dressed as a little prince grabs Pokey's cravat and tries to yank him down to eye level. Look he didn't have anything against Ted, but come on... it was Ted . "What are you playing at! You're up to something. I just Know it!" In the red booth, Ted is silent in his chair. He watches the commotion with joyless countenance. He feels.... grey..... Paul frowns, taking a step back. "My god... what'd you do to him..."

Pokey allows himself to be dragged to Paul’s level. There hath no need to fear his wonderful Rising Star. He will be able to understand him… or if not, he will have Paul understand. Silence is not the indication of agreement, but Paul could see it in this blue shit god’s eyes that Pokey was plotting intently. We just need to get inside his head to properly welcome him back into the embrace of harmony. He’s not harmonizing, as you can see. His piercing eyes burrow right into whatever remains of Ted’s soul. He is briefed on what shall transpire for him. He was just waiting silently, like a good boy should, for one stubborn lad to come back this whole time. Yet, he yearns to steal our thunder for himself. 

"W-what..." Terror runs thick and sticky like the blue goo that courses through a thousand veins. Paul releases Pokey and takes a tentative step back. No... this was wrong. Whatever it was Pokey intended to do.... it was evil. Ted was his Friend! "No... Pokey, please, Ted's an ass, but he's not trying to steal anything. He's not doing anything wrong; he's my friend!"

An empty chuckle comes from the Eldritch being before him, slowly walking towards Paul as Paul slowly backs away. The stars in those eyes taunt with a gleam. Friend? Bill would be more of your friend than him. I did not expect that one such as you would hold any feelings of endearment towards him... The Hive seems to start sniggering when Pokey makes that comment. With a little flick of his hands, Ted feels strings pull at his body, but not to pick him up, no. But for him to feel his limbs being pulled apart, like what Pokey had done earlier at some point. 

Ted remains sitting in his seat, unable to move. Though his eyes widen and his muscles tense, agony ripples through his body as his hands tremble in his lap. Through his closed jaw, pained noises manage to slip through. "Mmmph... nnnngh... hhhhhgh... nnnngh-" Paul recoils from Pokey as he listens to Ted's pained groans. "Stop it, Pokey, stop it! What the hell is wrong with you!?"

Oh, nothing; he's been very uncooperative with the rest of the Hive, you see, and is in need of fine-tuning. This play aims to address, well, him. Ted's little noises are much like music to his ears. He is, after all, paying his dues for trying to have his own sound. So he can make all his pained sounds for all he likes. It has been a while since he could find a plausible reason to play with Theodore Spankoffski; his brother has limits on how to play with him. But has yet to set limits on how to play with a Theodore Spankoffski, who is more aware of what is happening around him than usual. He could disrupt... the whole immersion. He yanks at the threads, pulling Ted's arms behind him. The Hive is watching with such bated breath like it was a magic act. He should soon get on with the main part of this act. Why Paul? It's not like Emma's on the end of this thread~ don't be alarmed at all, he's not important to your-  

The Hive laughs and applauds softly, finding Ted's suffering a great entertainment. Their eyes shine like rabid dogs; some of them, such as Mr. Davidson, look only one command away from entering the booth to join the fun. Ted's muffled scream echoes throughout the room. Paul covers his ears, staring helplessly as his friend is tortured in front of everyone. "Not important....." How the hell would Pokey know if Ted was important to him or not? They argue and bicker, and Ted has a habit of getting under his skin, but- this needs to stop.... turning on his heel, Paul marches up to Pokey and pulls him chest to chest, and then his lips are on the god's.

The musical god had just blinked his eyes before he finds his mask pulled away from his face and the sensation of a warm pair of lips meeting his. The sudden shock has him dropping Ted upon the booth floor, losing his grip on those strings for a moment. He had yet to finish his lines! But yet, he is obliged to stop as Paul Matthews starts to... kiss him onstage. The tonal whiplash of this moment... has Paul simply no clue for building up the atmosphere? Still, his tongue acted sooner than logic as he licked Paul upon the lips in the kiss. So too his arms, slowly cradling Paul in his embrace. The Hive had all turned most abruptly to the scene upon the stage... a kiss. Almost instinctively, the entire Theatre was filled with fanatical cheering. 

Paul gasps, lips parting as he feels Pokey's tongue teasing them just so. Still, Pokey's hold not letting him escape, so he forces himself to deepen the kiss, letting Pokotho have what the Singular Voice must perceive as submission, his arms wrapping around the Eldritch being's neck. Just as long as this would save his friend. Ted trembles as he lies on the floor for a moment, the agony in his limbs slowly fading as he manages to pull himself up; oh-- Oh Shit.... he freezes when he sees the display on stage. Damn, how'd Paul pull that asshole? He looks around and begins to try and slip out of the booth, only to run straight into Mr Davidson's chest right at the exit of the special seating. "Ack-"

"Where are you going, Teddy? You're the other man of the hour, take your seat." Mr Davidson, grin crooked and bone-chilling, eyes still gleaming with a harrowing hollowness, steps forward to force Ted back into the booth seat. He has to wait and watch. Until the performance truly ends. “Have a seat, Ted.”

The mask parts away from Pokey's face with goo trails, yet does not fall off. It's clear that Pokey had taken on the appearance of someone very familiar, a guess that Paul could make from the few times Pokey has shown mere portions of the face with the way his mask changed shape each time. Still, Pokey savors this moment, holding this kiss out for a few more seconds before his tongue hesitantly pushes Paul's one away, and finally parting the impromptu kiss before it could get further than that. Pokey looks down at Paul puzzlingly, mildly annoyed but also lacking in proper words to convey it. Some of his goo is at the corner of his lips, to which Pokey wipes it away gently with a handkerchief he had summoned. That face under the mask is flushed blue as Pokey takes some time to recover his own wits. He seems to hold the mask towards the crowd to cover his face in its current state. In a softer voice, still clear enough to be heard, he finally finds some words he can use for this... improv. Paul, I ... n-nevermind... I will need my moment. But you will allow me to finish my script before we get to preparing.  

He pulls away slowly, walking towards the center of the stage. The cheering now dies down slowly after they have broken the kiss. How will their Maestro end scene? What is the new play they shall embark on? They want answers, need new melodies, and they yearn for the exciting conclusion of this merry gathering. 

Paul immediately wipes his lips with his sleeve the moment Pokey has turned his back to him. Ew. Looking back at Ted, the Hive King is relieved to find him no longer writhing under the torture of Pokey's strings. Ted now sits uncomfortably in his seat, his hands gripping his trouser legs as he stares at the stage. He looks like he's about to pass out from fright. Paul forces himself to look away as he walks off stage and down the stairs, making his way to the other viewing booth. He's learned the theatre layout by now, and he knows that there are two.

Pokey, after securing his mask, soon looks back as Paul walks off to take his seat by himself. He could offer a lift for him, but it seems that Paul could not simply stand to await his kind offer. Taking a deep breath, he now looks out to the Hive by his lonesome. As I was saying, this new play that will play out soon enough, is a biography of the very vestiges of the human life.

What could Pokey possibly understand about human life? Paul thinks to himself pointedly, settling into the plush red seat. He wishes he could wear earplugs to endure this. But undoubtedly, Pokey would have a bitch fit.

It is a tale of change, of how naivety makes way for maturity; it is a rite of passage from boys to men, from girls to women; it is the beginning of insurmountable adversity humans will all be burdened with come old age. But, with our shared melody, those troubles now shall remain in the past. Revisiting that moment in time is nothing more but a memoir to the beautiful ideal, called youth. He watches the crowd, all captivated by him as it all should be, save Ted, who shudders in absolute fear in his seat, and Paul, who scowls ever so slightly. He will come around and love music and musicals. It's an eventuality. 

Ted's eyes shimmer momentarily, the blankness sparking into yellow... the light returning. Although faintly. Hesitantly he reaches up for his scarf, relief rushing over him when he realizes it is still there. Thank God.

Through one of your audience members' eyes, we will revisit the best time of human lives, before all of your 9-to-5s, before all of your woes of living came crashing at your door. Some who will call it, the golden years of life.

Paul can't help but bring himself to facepalm. Wondering if Pokey will take constructive criticism.

The god looks his way, noting how frustrated dear Paul is. Oh of course, this is not Paul's story after all. This is temporary. Soon, Paul will get his spotlight back once that other seedling is dealt with. The title of the play that shall warm the hearts for this winter is named...  

Paul remembers the company pentaamines he was forced to see, often someone, normally Ted, would yell out, 'Get on with it!' whenever a scene was taking too long. Paul almost laughs at the thought of someone here yelling such a thing at Pokotho.

However, it seems that the Hive cannot contest the speed of the speech delivery as Pokotho plays his silly snare drum music from god knows where, just to give this as the name of the play.

School Dayz!

Paul facepalms for a second time.