Chapter Text
As Wednesday swam back to consciousness, she was alarmed by her unfamiliar posture. Instead of her usual corpse pose, her arms were limp by her sides, and her legs were uncomfortably relaxed.
A sense of unease prompted her to full wakefulness. Wednesday’s eyes snapped open as she lurched into a sitting position. Sterile white walls surrounded her, the soft hum of medical machinery filling the air of the crowded room. The room that greeted her was decidedly foreign. This was no infirmary of Nevermore. She was in an unknown location.
That was one mystery to solve, she noted to herself.
Wednesday did an inventory of her physical state next, finding no visible injuries. There was a heaviness in her limbs and a low, persistent buzzing in her ears, but both sensations were easily ignored.
Swiftly, she removed the oxygen mask and disconnected the IV and heart monitor, ignoring the resulting cacophony of beeping machines. Her keen eyes scrutinised the outdated heart monitor. Despite her familiarity with all types of medical apparatus from experiments with Pugsley since he was tall enough to reach the manacles in the Addams’ torture basement, nothing before her resembled those.
A second mystery.
Abandoning her inspection of the machines, Wednesday surveyed the rest of the room. Metal filing cabinets lined the walls, appearing to have been hastily shoved aside to make room for the bed. Amidst the clutter, her black backpack rested against one cabinet, a lone familiar sight in this unfamiliar environment.
Curiosity piqued, Wednesday reached for the medical chart. It was written in Japanese. She drew on her long-forgotten knowledge from childhood to translate the characters.
When Pugsley was a babe, too young to partake in anything remotely traumatising and fun, the Addams family had taken a family vacation to Japan where Wednesday caught a fascination with katanas. She proceeded to take lessons from a dojo master. To learn efficiently, young Wednesday took it upon herself to learn Japanese. And she put the old knowledge to use once more.
Unfamiliar environment, outdated technology, foreign language — this day was turning out more interesting than she first suspected.
Before she could delve deeper into her musings, the door creaked open, and the familiar scuffling of Thing heralded its arrival.
“Great, you’re here. What can you tell me?” Wednesday greeted Thing, her tone was as composed as ever despite the slight rasp from disuse.
“Good to see you awake.” Thing replied, gesturing energetically. Perhaps he was glad to see her too.
“How long have I been out?
“A month.”
“Quite a while. Interesting, I don’t feel any pain.” A pause to flex various muscle groups. “How disappointing.”
“I assume you have been gathering information while I was out? Good. Report,” she instructed.
“We’re definitely not in Vermont anymore.” Thing began. “There was a bright light, and then we were in a forest, just the two of us with your backpack and that book. You were out cold and unresponsive. I scouted the area but found nothing of note. Except that the trees were not native to Vermont. Around mid-day, a group of four people, one adult and three children, found us. They were led by a dog that caught our scent. I hid in your backpack while they decided what to do with you. Initially, they seemed wary, but the adult declared you ‘civilian’ and their guard dropped. This village seems to be taking in refugees; they assumed you were separated from a group. One of the children searched your backpack. He didn’t seem surprised by the survival tools you have stashed in there. They carried you back to this village by jumping through the trees like a flying squirrel. Even the dog.”
Wednesday was listening stoically to Thing’s report but with that surprising statement, her eyebrows rose.
“After talking to some guards at the gate, the adult dismissed the children and immediately brought you to this hospital. He dropped you off and left. Haven’t seen him since.”
“What language did they speak?”
Thing imitated a ninety-degree bow, expecting that question. “Japanese.”
“That’s consistent with the medical chart. Have we somehow travelled to Japan?”
“Maybe,” Thing ventured. “But I don’t think so. People here are strange — they travel through the trees, walk on walls and medical practices here revolve around a green light emanating from their hands.”
“And all these behaviours seem normal?” Wednesday was keenly aware that any special powers were usually kept under wraps in her community. Outcasts were often shunned or targeted by the normie population at any show of otherness.
“Yes,” Thing tapped, his anxiousness peeking through his report. “It appears that we are in a world vastly different from our own. People here do superhuman feats and no one bats an eye.”
“Intriguing,” Wednesday mused, her mind going a million miles with the flux of observations Thing shared. "And the machines indicate technological regression, but the emergence of these strange abilities suggest spatial or dimensional travel, not just through time.” The uptick in her voice gave away her excitement.
Wednesday often contemplated time and dimensional travel at dinner, despite her parents’ incessant interruptions with inane comments like ‘How is school’ and ‘My little stormcloud, one day you will make friends and they will wholly accept your bloodthirsty nature’.
Those discussions would have come in useful now. Wednesday snarked silently, rolling her eyes at how unhelpful her parents could be.
“Adequate reconnaissance, Thing. Now we need a plan.”
Before she could proceed, Thing tapped urgently.
“One last thing…you seem to have been reverted to a younger age.” Thing shifted giving a fleeting ‘about so’ gesture, “10 years old, I’d say.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows shot up. She didn’t feel much different, except for the persistent buzzing in her ears, but throwing the blanket off her legs did reveal she was now shorter. “Interesting. Something to consider, but on the grander scale of things, not as worrying as inter-dimensional travel,” she quipped blandly.
The door slid open suddenly, revealing a nurse whose eyes widened at the sight of Wednesday sitting upright.
“You’re finally awake!” The nurse exclaimed, visibly relieved. “I’ve been checking on you every few days, and I must say, it’s good to see you up. I was starting to think someone needs to kiss you awake!”
Wednesday glared. Judging how the perky nurse’s smile died an immediate death, her glaring skills remained intact from the dimensional jump. Wednesday spoke in Japanese, “Why am I here?”
The nurse shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering nervously to the filing cabinets. “The hospital had a space shortage due to the influx of refugees into the village,” she explained hesitantly. “So we had to move you to this old storage room temporarily. Sorry for the inconvenience. But most patients have been discharged, so we can move you back to a regular room now!”
Wednesday cut through her spiel unforgivingly, “I prefer to be discharged.”
“But we haven’t found the cause of your collapse yet!”
“Indeed. If you didn’t find anything in the entire month I was lying here, I doubt you will find it now.”
“Oh…I really shouldn’t.”
“I show no sign of injury and am capable of simply walking out of here. Since there is nothing you can do to stop me, I’m getting discharge either way.”
The nurse hesitated, obviously torn. Tired of this conversation, Wednesday swung her legs off the bed and made to stand.
“Okay, okay!” The unhelpful nurse relented. “Let me grab the discharge papers. After that, you’re free to leave. I was instructed to tell you to go to the Hokage Tower to get registered. All refugees are to report there upon arrival.”
“Acceptable,” Wednesday nodded.
She sat rigidly to wait as the nurse hurried out, signalling at Thing to stay out of sight for now. Plans swirled in her mind; she had mysteries to unravel.
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Wednesday emerged from the hospital into the glaring sunshine of a summer afternoon, her lips flattening into her trademark deadpan line. The brightness assaulted her retinas, a stark contrast to the perpetual gloom of the Addams Estate and the dreary halls of Nevermore.
Her first impression of this town — this world — was disgustingly bright.
The buildings, which she noted didn’t seem to go beyond five floors, were painted in an assortment of light colours and constructed predominantly of wood. The architecture had a distinct Japanese influence, yet it felt antiquated, a far cry from modern-day Tokyo.
People milled about, visiting shops and dragging their small children. No cars, phones, or modern technology in sight.
Wednesday might have deduced that she had been displaced in time and location, if not for the modern attire of the townspeople. The clothes were modern enough, so she hadn’t gone back in time to feudal Japan.
A different world entirely. With outdated technology and people possessing superhuman abilities.
In the crowded street, her eyes singled out the individuals clad in green vests. They were more physically fit, kept their hands free, and slunk down the street with soundless footsteps.
Soldiers, her mind whispered.
Her first priority was to gather information on this world and any dangers that lurked. The presence of soldiers in plain sight was an obvious indicator of hidden threats. Wednesday knew all too well that malevolence could lurk beneath the brightest of facades. After all, many called Jericho a fairytale tourist town, until Wednesday blew all its dark secrets out into the open.
“At least I won’t have to endure the mindless prattle of teenagers here,” Wednesday murmured to Thing, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. “This mystery promises to be more interesting.”
She set off to conduct some reconnaissance of her own.
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Yamada Shou regretted his rash decision to transfer departments. Earlier this month, ever since his three-year relationship crumbled to dust, he thought of nothing but getting away from the Marriage and Family Registry department. Helping happy couples register their marriage or adding a baby name to a family register made him sick. He had snapped up the next available transfer opening.
But now he was in a different kind of hell.
Excluding the Mission Desk, the busiest desk in the administrative offices was undoubtedly the Refugee Welcome Desk. The department was new, established when Konoha started to accept refugees earlier this year, three years after the end of the Second Shinobi War.
Shou had seen the full spectrum of emotions haunting the people who came to his desk. Refugees travelled from war-torn villages, tired and beaten down, or had lost so much that starting anew with nothing to their name was the preferred choice. Many were grateful for the life-saving opportunity, but their gratitude was mixed with grim determination and the acknowledgement of a trying future.
It didn’t help that these people stood in line for hours, waiting for their turn to speak or plead with him. When Shou submitted his transfer papers, the department manager assured him that the bulk of refugees had already passed through, arriving in the first month of the announcement that Konoha was accepting citizenship applications. He was supposedly only dealing with the stragglers.
Even with just the stragglers, Shou worked long hours and felt done with his day the same hour it begun. His only solace was that after a month of non-stop work, he had developed an old hand and could perform his tasks by rote.
A girl, looking to be no more than eight years old, stepped up to the front of his desk.
Shou swept his eyes from her feet to her face, a shiver slipping down his spine as he swiftly looked away after making eye contact. Her face was a stoic mask with cold, hard eyes, and her posture was ramrod straight. He didn’t think such an expression belonged on a child. She stood alone.
Sadly, Shou had received many orphans at his desk. While most refugees were small families, small settlements that were hit hard by the war and subsequent disease outbreak found sending orphans to Konoha a neat solution. Fewer mouths to feed.
It was a win for Konoha too. Refugees were legally required to do one of three things to qualify for probational citizenship: pay a large sum of money, showcase a valuable trade or skillset, or send an age-appropriate child to the Academy.
For a young orphan girl, there was only one choice.
“Hyuuga-san! Do you mind?” Shou twisted in his seat to regard the Chūnin on duty in the back office. They had done this enough times that Hyuuga Hikaru didn’t need any explanation before activating her Byakugan.
The girl’s only reaction to the Byakugan’s unnerving gaze was a narrowing of her dark eyes. Shou was impressed. Many other children startled or cried when the Hyuuga revealed her disconcerting dōjutsu.
“Yes, she has sufficient chakra reserves. Although it looks like her Yin overweighs the Yang.” A blink, and the protruding vessels around Hikaru’s eyes receded into her skin.
Shou nodded in thanks, flipping through paperwork to find the right form. “Okay, kid. That’s good news. Your refugee application will be accepted if you sign up for a shinobi career. That means you study at the Shinobi Academy until you graduate, become a genin, and then it’s a minimum of five-year service.”
He paused, glancing up from the paperwork to see if she had any questions and was greeted with an unimpressed eyebrow.
“You’re calling me a kid while telling me you’re signing me up for a career where death is almost guaranteed.”
Shou blinked, taken off guard by her matter-of-fact tone. He didn’t expect an eight-year-old to grasp such harsh realities. Most children saw becoming a ninja as saving princesses and being a hero. Although…it made sense that children coming from outside the gates had a more accurate picture than those that grew up safe within the village walls.
“Not that I’m against it,” she went on, her words measured and deliberate. “I find becoming a shinobi is the best course of action when the alternative is relying on others for protection. Continue.”
“Well, uh, I suppose you’re right,” Shou uttered, bewildered by her attitude. “Right. Um, I will need some details from you to, uh, complete the paperwork for probational citizenship and academy enrolment. Your name?”
“Wednesday Addams.”
Shou fumbled with his pen. Her name was sounded entirely foreign. She must have travelled from very far indeed. He asked her to sound out the syllables so he could write in Katanaka.
“Wed-nes-day. Ad-dam-s.” Enunciating in an unforgiving foreign tone, she regarded him with impatience.
Struggling to find appropriate characters, Shou settled on “Nezu Damasu”. It was far off the mark, but he did his best.
The newly minted Nezu-san was annoyed but seemed just as done with this business as he was.
The rest of the application proceeded more smoothly. Shou filled in most of it automatically, leaving many fields blank as civilian child refugees had little to declare in terms of monetary assets or family backgrounds. For address of residence, he listed the orphanage after confirming she had no family in Konoha who could care for her. He noted the hospital discharge note and the mission identification number from when the genin team found her just outside the gates.
He was surprised to learn that Nezu-san was ten, rather than eight as he thought. She was tiny for her age. While it wasn’t uncommon for orphans to be malnourished, he cringed thinking about what a disadvantage a smaller stature was for a ninja, especially a beginner.
Hopefully being placed in a younger class due to her civilian status and inexperience will give her some time to catch up.
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It had been three weeks since Wednesday and Thing first landed in Konoha, and they made the most of every waking moment.
Information gathering was paramount. For two weeks straight, Wednesday devoured the books accessible to civilians and academy students in the library, while Thing scoured the streets for valuable intel and hand-drew an elaborate map. She read up on the history of Konoha, its role in the First and Second Shinobi Wars, and the militant hierarchical structure of the village. Her notes, meticulously written in English and conveniently serving as a code, detailed the major clans, their observable traits, and suspected affiliations. The lofty language in ‘The Notable Clans of Konohagakure, Vol 1 and 2’ reeked of the same age-old class privilege Wednesday was familiar with in her old world.
She paid special attention to any information on how to survive and adapt to this world. She reworked her modus operandi to account for shinobi abilities, refining her breaking and entering techniques to bypass heightened senses and hidden traps. The shinobi were a paranoid bunch and had no qualms about casual maiming.
She hypothesised correctly that this world had more interesting things to teach her than Nevermore did. There was a plethora of skills she was eager to master.
From the library’s opening hours to closing, she systemically worked through the books, even reviewing ‘Konohagakure Law: Comprehensive Statues and Amendments, Revised Fourth Edition’. She needed to be aware of all the rules before she began to break them.
All that reading had the additional benefit of refreshing her memory of Japanese and shoring up new kanji knowledge.
She obsessed over any mention of chakra — the mysterious, innate energy of all living things that fuelled the superhuman abilities of this world. After several increasingly elaborate experiments, including submerging her head into a sink full of water and nearly asphyxiating because she missed that stress relief, Wednesday hypothesised that the consistent buzzing she ‘heard’ was chakra. Her chakra. In her strangely de-aged body. It wasn’t a sound she was actually hearing; she could perceive it, like a sixth sense.
But none of the books available in the general access section of the library had information on how to use this energy. She was working on a plan to break into the higher access sections.
Another three days were dedicated to reconnaissance. She cased out the village’s layout, major landmarks, noting entry and exit points and patterns of guard rotation. Being deemed a mere ‘civilian child’ — a label she found irksome and demeaning, regardless of of the current advantages — she was often overlooked and no one paid attention to her lingering in places.
One afternoon, she put her newfound knowledge to the test, stealthily bypassing the Chūnin guards stationed at the gates with a timely distraction from Thing, to revisit the site of her arrival in this world. Thing was right, there was nothing to find. No clues on how she got there or why she was brought here. She spent some nights carefully investigating the mysterious book but to no avail, just the maddening poem written in her mother’s spidery hand. She concluded that she was stuck in this strange world for the foreseeable future.
Soon came the day she was due to attend the academy.
It took less than a day for Wednesday to lose all patience. Classified as a civilian with no shinobi background, she was placed with the other first-years. The eight-year-olds.
It was a cruel and unusual form of torment she found utterly intolerable.
That night, she pored over academy textbooks and demanded to be tested for a higher grade the next morning. This accelerated her into a class slated to graduate in two years. The academy teacher baulked at placing her any higher. While her theoretical knowledge was superior, she had definite gaps in the physical aspects. She didn’t know the standard academy taijutsu style, the Burning Leaf, and usually dropped into the Tibetan martial art moves that Uncle Fester trained her in, earning the ire of the sensei. While her weapon handling and aim were impeccable, her strength lagged behind her peers. And she didn’t know any jutsu whatsoever.
So Wednesday found herself stuck in a class full of eleven-year-olds.
It didn’t take long for her to recognise that none of her classmates were from any prominent clans. She had been slotted into a class consisting of civilian-born children, many of whom were orphans, judging by the regulation cheap white t-shirt and blue shorts combo that several kids sported.
Within her first week, a group of boys attempted to harass her, but Wednesday laid them out in the blink of an eye. They approached her in an unimaginative formation: a sneering boy with a stocky wrestler build, flanked by two equally unintimidating lackeys, and threw out several pathetic verbal jabs.
“You fake Uchiha!” The leader shouted, shoving a finger straight at Wednesday’s face.
That was an invitation if Wednesday ever saw one. With lightning-quick movement, she grabbed the offending hand and twisted sharply. The boy’s body twisted in an attempt to keep the wrist from snapping. His flailing allowed Wednesday to lock his arm behind his back and shove him to the ground.
The two lackeys lunged for her unprotected back. She snapped out a side kick and knocked one boy into the other.
“For students training to become hardened killers, your skills are embarrassingly inadequate.” Not sparing the three weaklings another glance, Wednesday stood and brushed her braid back off her shoulder. She noticed the class sensei observing from the classroom window. Surprisingly, the sensei made no comment on the incident and no punishments were handed out. Perhaps in this world, she could get away with piranhas in the pool.
After that one-sided altercation, the occasional disparaging comment proved sufficient to convince her classmates to leave her alone. Her classmates whispered insults and made up rumours of where she came from, none coming close to the true story.
Despite the seemingly fantastical power of chakra in this world, civilian-born students posed no more discernible threat than the air-headed stooges of her old world. Wednesday was sure that Enid, on a bad hair day, could do more damage than these pitiful soldiers-in-training.
The clan children were a different story.
While the Academy practised blatant class segregation by corralling all clan and second-generation shinobi children into a single class, Class 4A, all classes shared a common lunch hour and used the same yard for survival training and sparring practice. Similar to hyenas, the children frequently found the primal need to brawl after eating, and the clan children tussled with harder hits and clearly practised kata.
Despite sharing the same space, it was like an invisible line existed, with the children of each class naturally congregating amongst themselves. In the three weeks she attended the Academy, Wednesday had only one interaction with a clan child.
Inuzuka Tsume, easily identified by her clan markings and canine companion, trotted up to her.
“You smell like death,” she declared. The canine alongside her growled menacingly. Wednesday cast her eyes on the small beast, glaring until it quietened. When she met Tsume’s eyes, she easily read her uneasiness and annoyance at losing the battle for dominance.
“I should. I slept at the morgue,” Wednesday deadpanned. Her words were completely serious; she'd rather wear Enid’s clothes than stay at an orphanage full of noisy children. Wednesday had reclaimed the neglected storage room in the hospital and set her base of operations there. The previous night, however, she gave herself a treat and slept in the morgue.
Tsume snorted in disbelief and withdrew back over the invisible line. It seemed us versus them existed in all worlds.
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It took another two mind-numbing weeks before Wednesday had a remotely positive interaction with any of her ‘peers’. She was canvassing the forested area behind the Academy, collecting samples of toxic plants referenced in the Field Guide to Plants in Fire Country, when she encountered the three stooges facing off another vaguely familiar boy of average height but abnormal coverage.
An Aburame from the looks of the oversized coat and dark sunglasses.
The Aburame gripped Stooge Leader by the sleeve, using his weight to throw the taller boy off balance. A rock tumbled out of the stooge’s grip.
“You! What—!” Stooge Leader stuck out, hitting the Aburame’s shoulder with an audible smack. The Aburame released his grip, rolling out of the boy’s reach. With impressive speed, he got his feet and dropped into a defensive stance in front of the tree with a heavy bee hive hanging from its branch.
“Stop. Do not harm the hive.” He intoned.
“What the hell! You’re from the clan of bug freaks aren't you!” And there goes the finger-pointing again.
"How unimaginative. I come up with better gestures, and I’m just a hand." Thing tapped out against Wednesday’s wrist where he was hidden in her long sleeve.
“My name is Aburame Shibi. I believe you are referring to my clan’s distinctive trait of cultivating a symbiotic relationship with certain species of insects. We have done so for generations. Which is why I cannot let you harm the bees.”
“Yeah? It’s three against one! You’re gunna get beat up, you freak!” Stooge Leader backed up between his friends and shoved them towards Shibi, an overt signal to attack.
Despite his deplorable leadership qualities, his two lackeys didn’t seem capable of original thought and displayed mindless loyalty. They lunged, putting Aburame on the defensive. He sidestepped a punch and moved in close to trip the other boy, but that left his flank open for Stooge Leader’s hit.
A hit that would have landed if not for Wednesday darting in and landing an unforgiving gut punch.
Everyone halted in confusion as Stooge Leader let out an ugly gurgle, before folding and retching. Spit dripped into the grass.
“Yukio!” The lackeys’ voices sounded in unison, rushing to the fallen boy’s side.
Wednesday observed dispassionately as the boy gulped great gasps of air. His face was pinched and red.
“Perhaps you should bring him to the infirmary. Why? He seems to be having trouble breathing.” Aburame Shibi said, with a slight uptick to his tone.
“Shut up! You’ll pay for this!” Lackey Number 1 spat, as Lackey Number 2 supported Stooge Leader with an arm around the shoulder. They quickly disappeared into the trees.
A few seconds of silence passed as the remaining two stood in the quiet clearing.
Seeing no need to interact further, Wednesday turned to leave but was interrupted by a sudden voice. “I have not made your acquaintance.”
Wednesday looked over her shoulder to meet his sunglasses. “There’s no need to. Chance interactions such as this do not obligate us to exchange names and pleasantries.”
“But I have already given my name.” It’s only polite for you to respond with your own, remained unsaid.
“I am not one to trade pleasantries at any time.” Wednesday quipped a subtle challenge.
Beats of silence passed, and Wednesday narrowed her eyes, realising that the Aburame would maintain his stare, however long it took.
“Wednesday Addams.”
Silence.
"Damasu!" Thing wildly tapped. She glared at her sleeve. There was no way she was allowing anyone to call her that name. The fact that the desk clerk mangled ‘Addams’ into something that sounded like ‘damsel’ on her identification papers was atrocious enough. If someone started using the name, she was enacting her plan to light the Hokage Tower on fire. She already procured the right chemicals from the hospital storage.
Wednesday shifted her eyes in annoyance. “Or as the substandard teachers at the Academy resort to address me — Nezu.”
“Nezu.” A pause; Aburame Shibi was proving very deliberate with his words. “Your assistance was unnecessary but not unappreciated.”
Wednesday begun to appreciate Shibi’s straightforward speech patterns. He didn’t waste words on needless pleasantries.
Returning the straight talk in kind, Wednesday let her curiously direct her next question, “Why didn’t you use your insects? I read that Aburames specialise in long-range tactics. If you had immobilised them first, you wouldn’t have risked incurring a hit.”
Shibi shifted his weight as if surprised by her question.
“I was confident I could win against them without support from my hive.” A pause. “My family prefers to keep our hives inconspicuous while in Konoha. Many citizens find them…unsettling.”
Wednesday briefly considered if the reaction of Konoha citizens to Shibi’s insects were any more entertaining than how Normies reacted to Thing, and didn’t stop the smirk surfacing from the fond memories. “I find ‘unsettling’ to be quite the advantageous image to cultivate.”
“My actions reflect the clan.”
“If the rest of Konoha already label your clan as creepy, fighting against their ignorant prejudices is pointless. People will not abandon their sheep mentality without a profound, and often forceful, revelation.”
Shibi seemed to consider his answer carefully, “…thank you for the advice. With your help, the bees were not harmed.”
Wednesday shifted her dark eyes to the untouched bee hive. “Part of me regrets they didn’t manage to provoke the hive. Those are an aggressive killer bee species — the three stooges would have experienced far more agony than what I inflicted.”
With his high collar and sunglasses, it was hard to read Shibi’s expression but Wednesday could see the raised brow.
“Are you familiar with bees?”
“The fault of an enthusiastic acquaintance, I assure you.”
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Wednesday stepped back after setting up her murder board in the Hummers hut.
“Enid wouldn’t let me keep this in our dorm,” Wednesday said, the complaint in her tone audible to Eugene.
“No worries. My hive is your hive.” Eugene said happily, before turning to the board displaying pilfered evidence and sketches of the monster. “I assume this is the creature that’s been rampaging in the woods.”
“You’ve heard about it before?”
“Rumours. Mr. Fitts banned me from bug-hunting until further notice. Claimed a bear was on the loose…which I knew was a lie. Didn’t match their hibernation schedule.”
Wednesday didn’t respond, clearly thinking over his words.
“Speaking of monsters with sharp claws…” Eugene reached for a jar of honey he gathered himself, “Could you give this to your roomie? Put in a good word for me? I hear she’s still sans date for the Rave’N,” he said hopefully.
“Eugene.” Wednesday intoned, a trace of impatience in her tone.
“I know the chances of her asking me are next to zero, but I don’t care. I’ll keep putting myself out there until Enid finally sees me.”
“And if she never does?”
“She will.” Eugene nodded decisively. “I’m playing the long game. My moms say people will appreciate me when I’m older. I know they’re probably just trying to make me feel better, but—”
“Listen, people like me and you, we’re different,” Wednesday said, staring dead into Eugene’s eyes. “We’re original thinkers, intrepid outliers in this vast cesspool of adolescence. We don’t need these inane rites of passage to validate who we are.”
Eugene perked up at Wednesday’s version of a pep talk. “So you’re not going to the Rave’N either.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen imperceptibly, “Actually, I am.”
— Wednesday (2022), Episode 4 “Woe What a Night”