Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The feeling of going intangible has always terrified William Wisp. There’s no easy way to describe it, he’s tried, but something about it has always felt so unimaginably wrong. Perhaps the closest thing would be a sort of… numbness, but even that isn’t exactly accurate. William can still feel his limbs, just more detached. Far away? Foggy? Whatever the word is, it’s a disconcerting experience, especially when it’s so often accompanied by the stomach lurching feeling of falling.

What’s more disconcerting, however, is the unfamiliar experience that comes when he feels his intangible body gripped by a cold dead hand. He looks up, eyes widening in shock as he stares into the soulless eyes of Mallard Conway, and stumbles backwards, only to be quickly wrenched back towards the man by the hand that connected with his chest.

“Oh, Wisperer,” the man chides, a small grin flickering across his pale, angular features, “you know not of your powers, do you? Where they hail from?”

“What the hell are you?” William bites back, anxiety coursing through his body. He’s losing time, he has to help Dakota and Vyncent, but at the same time, some of the things this man is saying, if he really knows the answers, could give him the closure he’s been looking for, the final truth on what he really is. Hell, he isn’t even sure if he’s alive.

“I am, well–” the man begins, his speech casual, as if talking to an old friend, but William somehow doesn’t feel very welcome, “--Mallard Conway, as I’ve said.”

William resists the urge to roll his eyes because surely this man knows what he meant.

“But I am much more, as could you be.” That final sentence from Mal is enough to cement that curiosity in William’s mind. He had to know more, but he couldn’t just leave his friends behind. Fuck, why did this all have to be so difficult? He missed the days when his biggest decisions were what tie he was going to wear to church on Sundays.

“Okay,” he mutters, anxiety creeping into both his speech and his mannerisms. He’s sure Mal sees it as well, the way his eyes dart from the face of the man looming above him and the ruined base where Dakota was fighting for his life with no assistance.

“You’ve merely scratched the surface of your powers. Sure, I come here on business with them,” the man gestures towards the building, “but my fate was to meet you here today.”

“Yeah, listen. I know I’ve got a lot of kinks to work out, but right now–”

“Kinks?” He sounds almost amused now, and William hates it. He despises the way this man can look at him and feel some twisted sense of enjoyment, when nothing in his life has been the same since he got these powers. He can’t even go home because of them! What right does this sketchy dracula wannabe have to laugh at him? “You… you don’t know, do you?”

And isn’t that the truth. William doesn’t know anything. The wisps aren’t exactly great conversationalists, and he can’t exactly talk to a scientist about it because it sounds crazy! ‘Hey doc, I totally died but now I'm back because these balls of blue fire saved me or something and now I have freaky ghost powers.’ Yeah, that would be a one way ticket to a padded room.

“Wisperer, you are a planewalker, one not in need of a guide,” Mallard explains, and William feels a tug in his stomach. What the hell? Was this really it? The answer he’d been searching for since he’d woken up in his broken body at the base of that cliff? “You see us, who walk amongst both planes, we must have a lead, an anchor. You don’t even need such things, yet you waste this power on trivial bags of flesh!”

Fuck, his flesh. Wait, no, that wasn’t right. Fuck, his friends. William forces himself to pull away from the man’s gaze, swallowing the questions in his throat. There will be time for answers later, right now he needs to help Dakota and Vyncent.

“I don’t want to buy any of your healing crystals, let me go save my friends,” he quips, attempting once again to tug his shirt out of Mal’s grip, succeeding this time and rushing past him in the direction of his burning home. He turns back one last time after making it a couple of feet away, “Listen buddy, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna go with the wisps over spooks like you.”

Mal lets out a quick laugh and looks as if he’s about to speak, but William cuts him off, “Now I’m gonna go save my friends.”

“Well hang on, William. Just another moment!”

William freezes in his tracks, having just turned to run once more.

“If you’re not to join me, then you are against me,” his tone is still jovial, but his eyes, still empty and void of any emotion, narrow, “and that is your mistake.”

Nothing could have prepared William Wisp for the sight before him now. He had thought the monsters back in Deadwood were scary, but they had absolutely nothing on this. Mal, or whatever he was, morphed into some kind of beast, with milky white skin and jagged teeth, eyes glowing red. Sweat trickles down his neck and black as he trips backwards, scrambling away from the ghoulish form in front of him.

This creature bares its claws which are wickedly sharp and leave William feeling a little more conscious of the fact that he is wearing nothing but a hoodie and binder to protect his vital organs.

William attempts to stay visibly unfazed, because who knows, maybe there are civilians around, but the words coming out of his mouth are honestly pathetic. “I actually think that that kind of thinking is really black and white, and maybe if you say that you’re a planewalker, try and live in the shades of gray, it’s really so problematic.”

In all honesty this rambling string of words doesn’t even make sense to William himself, but it’s better than not saying anything because at least if words are coming out of his mouth, he isn’t thinking so much about the fact that he might get killed here, and this time, it could be permanent.

The creature doesn’t take his advice, instead letting out a guttural roar that seems to shake the earth as foul-smelling saliva is flung into his face and hair, dripping disgustingly from his cheeks where it lands. William gags at the stench and the sticky feeling of spittle on his skin, and attempts to wipe it away to no avail.

This creature swings its claws at him, grabbing him off of the ground and lifting him, from the shirt, to his face.

“I can show you the way,” the monster claims, voice distorted in a way that was distinctly inhuman, although with the look of the guy, a voice that sounded like it came from the depths of hell wasn’t all that surprising.

Then, in an all too familiar sensation, William Wisp is sent slamming into the ground at high speeds. He barely has a moment to register the agony that ripples through his body, before he feels himself falling once more, further than the asphalt road, in a different world entirely perhaps, a world he remembers from fleeting moments in his dreams, and from the experience of death itself.

Colorful lights of every hue light up the void around him as he falls through seemingly endless nothingness… until they don't. William blinks, and the lights that had been every shade of purple, red, blue, green, and yellow are suddenly snuffed out like candles between the fingers of a million hands.

He lands with a thud and lifts himself to his feet, drinking in the sight of his unfamiliar surroundings. This is not the forest that he so often finds himself in when he dreams about this world, but instead a graveyard full of eroded tombstones, overgrown and forgotten with time. He cannot see the end of these rows of graves that stretch in both directions as far as the horizon and still further.

William kneels down, brushing the grime from a stone directly to his left, squinting to make out the name carved into the marble, and then springing back upright because that name cannot be right.

William Wisp
Beloved son and friend
2126 - XXXX

The year of death is unclear, completely faded from years of neglect until nothing remains but a small groove that might be a one? Even then, he isn’t sure if that’s right.

In a moment of panic, William checks the grave to the right of his own, and almost chokes when he reads the name ‘Virion Sól’.

One by one, he begins to read the names off of the tombstones, panic rising in his chest with each one. Dakota Cole. Tide. His mother and father. His friends from Deadwood. Each and every single one of their fates marked by an unloved marble slab that listed them as a name and two dates, nothing more.

Tears welling up in his eyes, he turns away from the tombs, meeting the gaze of Mallard Conway, who stands watching him, the ghoul that he morphed into standing behind him menacingly.

“I told you I had seen their deaths.” When Mal spoke, it was in a way that revealed no pity for the boy standing before him. Quite the opposite, actually. He seems to revel in William’s anguish, enjoying the panicked pinprick tears that threaten to spill out and roll down his cheeks at any moment. “I can show you them, but, as you can see, they will come to pass.”

“Yeah, I get it,” William lashes out, “you’re a tricky, edgy, scary, pale guy.”

Mal lets out an actual laugh at that remark, and William has to admit it wasn’t exactly threatening in any way. If he were a comic book superhero right now, he feels like his comic would have been shut by every single person reading it after that little piece of dialogue.

“You misunderstand me, Wisperer,” he says, and William doesn’t doubt that one. He has no clue about anything that Mallard Conway has been saying to him, and this feeling of being left in the dark is frustrating, “I seek not to contain you, to control you, but to set you free!”

“Okay, can you do that then?” William asks, trying to keep a neutral expression.

“Not from here. Not now,” Mal answers, “Your physical form is–”

“Oh, that’s what I was talking about.”

“--you’re in rough shape up there. I can help you, surely.”

Damn it, William would be lying if he said his interest wasn’t piqued.

“But this, like all things, comes at a cost. If I help you, you are to help me.”

William sees, in the distance, a small blue flame flickering in an otherwise pitch black sky, a wisp, and for a moment he weighs his options.

Either go with this man and learn everything he’s ever wanted to know about himself and the powers he was given, leaving his friends behind to fend for themselves in that raging inferno of a warehouse they used to call home, or make a beeline toward the wisp in a desperate attempt to help Dakota and Vyncent, assuming he’s even alive up on Prime, leaving this opportunity to learn what he is, behind forever.

William takes a breath, and makes a choice that he’s sure will define his future in ways he can’t possibly foresee.

His shaking hand reaches out and grasps Mal’s frigid one firmly. The man grins, smile stretching a little wider than natural, and says “You will not regret this Wisperer.”

Vyncent and Dakota are strong anyways, they’ll be fine without the third member of their team to back them up by flopping around aimlessly like a ragdoll.

And with that final thought, the cemetery around him vanishes, leaving him and Mal standing in the nothingness of the void, before William Wisp’s vision fades to white and he loses consciousness.

Chapter Text

No description of a burning building could have ever prepared Dakota Cole for the real thing. Smoke fills his airways as he ducks and weaves around flaming debris, exhaustion settling in as he searches desperately for a way out. His instinct screams at him to pull the collar of his shirt above his mouth and nose in order to filter the heavy ash that enters his lungs with every breath, but he can’t. His arms are preoccupied with gripping onto Tide as he skids after Doug towards where he assumes there must be an exit.

The ceiling of the cell Wavelength should be in is blown open, and he can do nothing but curse, coughing the words out as he remembers what Doug had said in the midst of their fight: ‘we’re not here for Tide’.

Kicking off of the ground, Dakota launches himself through the gaping hole in the ceiling, gasping for the slightly less polluted air of the outside world, and slamming into Vyncent hard, wheezing and hacking with each breath he manages to take.

His eyes lock with Vyncent’s own, and he double takes at the outfit his friend now wears. He hasn’t seen this one before, and it’s quite a change from the couple he can remember. What really catches his eye, however, is the staff Vyncent now holds.

His friend seems relatively unfazed by the weight that came rushing into him, and Dakota pushes himself upright to examine the rest of the alleyway, eyes landing on Doug and a woman at the end of it. His blood boils as he stares at the two in the distance, glaring daggers in their direction. His breathing is heavy as he attempts to intake enough air to rid his brain of the dizzying cloudiness that had overtaken it.

Vyncent’s voice is quite different when he speaks this time, maybe a slight pitch up and a sort of flamboyant attitude with every word. “You must be Dakota, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Huh. That’s weird. Whatever, Dakota brushes the odd choice of words off and replies, “Hey, Vyn,” coughing up mucus and blood as he speaks, “that’s Doug over there. He set the base on fire.”

“Oh, broski,” Vyncent replies with recognition in his voice.

Dakota gives his head a weak shake, “That’s him. He’s not a broski anymore.”

He watches his friend’s face fall slightly as he lets out a small gasp and a ‘No’ and shifts his shoulders to show the unconscious form of Tide more clearly. “Tide isn’t waking up,” he says, and his voice breaks a little as he attempts to hold back tears of frustration and anger.

Vyncent takes one look at Tide, and his expression seems somewhat grim, though not hopeless, so Dakota hands off Bobo in his direction, “Here, take Bobo. We’re gonna beat it.” His words are shaky, as if he’s trying to convince himself of this, and in all honesty, he kind of is. He’s already lost his home today, he can’t afford to lose anything that can’t be replaced as easily. Tide was not doing well and William… shit, he didn’t know where William was. “Bobo, you’re gonna stay with Vyn,” he instructs the spider-monkey hybrid, taking off to search for his friend, a feeling of dread rising in his throat as he remembers the position he was in the last time he had seen the boy.

Images of William Wisp lying against a dented car flood his mind, and he pushes them away, skidding to a stop in front of the car itself and staring frantically around for his friend.

Nothing.

He runs up and down the street, ignoring the shouting from Vyncent as he searches every nook and cranny that William could possibly fit inside, to no avail. There’s no mistaking things. William Wisp is gone. Where? Dakota has no clue, but panic and anger overtake him as he comes to a stop in front of this car once more, kicking it so hard that it gets shoved about five feet onto the sidewalk.

“Dakota? What’s happening?” Vyncent asked, some doubt creeping into his voice.

“He’s gone!” Dakota shouts, tears spilling down his cheeks, and hands tangling in his hair, threatening to pull it out from the roots.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“William!” he chokes out, “William’s fucking gone.”

Vyncent goes pale as he rushes towards him, scanning the street as he approaches, and he sees the exact moment when the elf fully recognizes that Dakota is right.

“Will?” The aloof voice has completely dropped at this point, “what the fuck, where is he?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Dakota screams, “He was right fucking here!”

The woman and Doug choose this moment to dart into vision, and another figure, one Dakota doesn’t recognize, with scales in patches on his face and arms and unkempt blond hair, flies into view, crashing down onto the street from the sky, almost denting the asphalt below his feet. 

“Where’s the other one?” The gruff voice of the new man calls out, and Dakota doesn’t know whether to answer or not. He doesn’t know this man. Is he a villain? A hero come to help? He seems to figure out the answer to his question by assessing the look on Dakota and Vyncent’s faces, and heaves a loud sigh. “I fucking told him he didn’t have any business getting involved with these people.”

“How the fuck do you know William,” Dakota growls.

“Doesn’t matter right now, kid. We’ve got to fight.”

He’s right of course. Doug looks about ready to kill anyone who gets in his way, and although Dakota doesn’t want to believe that his childhood friend would do anything to hurt him, he’s not sure if anything he knew about Doug was real in the first place. At the same time, though, he feels like he’s about to pass out, and every time he coughs, a sputter of crimson liquid spews from his lips. 

“I’m dying!” he calls out in protest, because he really thinks it might be true. On top of that, he’s holding Tide. Dakota can do a lot of things, but he’s not sure he can effectively attack people while Tide lies in his arms. His mentor is clearly hurt pretty badly, and he doesn’t want to risk the man taking more serious, more permanent , damage.

“Yeah? Well we’re all going to be dead if we don’t stand and fight these people. Suck it up, kid.”

Dakota watches as this lizard man’s fist glows with an energy that seems oddly familiar, and he swings a punch at the woman, making contact. Vyncent is right behind him, clearly attempting to regain his composure, directing a large bubble of water at her, leaving Dakota to deal with Doug. He sets down the unconscious body of Tide, hoping that even Doug wouldn’t stoop so low as to attack a hero when he was passed out. The voice from earlier rings in his ears, ‘we aren’t here for Tide.’

He doesn’t look back at the fight between his friend, his strange ally, and the goth looking woman, running at Doug with a kick aimed at his ankles, hoping to knock his ex-friend to the ground.

Doug sidesteps the kick, a chuckle escaping from behind his mask. Dakota’s eyes narrow as he comes skidding to a stop behind his target, low to the ground in a crouch.

“Lose something, Kota?” Doug’s voice teases, and Dakota is very aware of the hot tears on his cheeks.

“Shut the fuck up,” He snaps, attempting another sweeping kick. This time, his foot managed to catch on the inside of Doug’s ankle, causing him to stumble but not fall.

Through his blurry, teared up vision, Dakota doesn’t see the fist flying at his stomach. The impact whites out his vision for a moment, and before he can process what’s happening, he’s sprawled on the asphalt road, clutching his gut from the pain as he coughs more violently, spurting blood from his mouth. 

He grits his teeth and pushes himself into a sitting position, staring upwards as Doug stands above him. He tries to imagine the kid he knew, the laughing school mascot who called everyone ‘broski’. Somehow, he can’t picture it. When he envisions the face behind the mask, there is no humorous glint in those blue eyes. No bright grin accompanied by an obnoxiously loud laugh.

Inferno, ironically, is cold. 

As his former friend stands over his prone form, Dakota braces for impact, impulsively wincing in anticipation of the punch that is surely coming, squeezing his eyes shut so tight that it hurts, and rainbow patterns dance in his blacked out vision.

Something whooshes past his head, and he hears a grunt of pain. He waits a moment more, and when no punch comes, he opens his eyes.

Doug no longer stands above him, instead lying crumpled against a streetlamp several yards away. Instead, the lizard man stands, hand outstretched.

“Get up, kid. Not over yet.”

“What?” Dakota asks groggily, eyes darting back and forth, searching for Vyncent and the woman.

“Cantrip’s got him on the defense,” the man answers in response to Dakota’s unspoken question, “We sure could use someone faster than she is.”

“Shit, right!” His hand is clasped in the man’s as he pulls himself up, staggering from the dizzying feeling of standing up too quickly, “thanks Lizard man.”

“That's–” the man starts, “Whatever. Just deal with her.”

In a flash, Dakota is gone, barrelling into an alleyway, past Vyncent and straight into the form of this woman.

“Where the hell is William?” he screams, pulling her hair as he slows to a stop, “He’s gone! Where the fuck did you take him?”

“Who?” the girl, Cantrip, asks, feigning disinterest despite the heavy breaths escaping her mouth.

“You know! Skinny kid, black hair! Pale enough to blind you when you walk into a room?”

“No clue what you’re talking about.” Her grin gives her away. She knows. Or at the very least she has an idea. There’s no way she’s going to tell him, though, and with an angry huff, he knocks her head against the wall, wincing as he watches her eyes roll into the back of her head, unconscious.

“We’ve got to go,” Dakota chokes out, wiping the tears that have spilled down his face and onto the ground. His sleeve comes away damp. He gets to his feet and turns to face Vyncent, who is staring at him, eyebrows creasing his forehead with worry.

“Dakota, are you–”

“I’m fine,” he lies, “we’ve got to save Will! We don’t have time to stay here. He can’t be that far away, can he?”

“I don’t know,” Vyncent admits, and Dakota realizes that the mage outfit has disappeared, leaving his friend in his everyday clothes once again.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “Fuck, we’ve got to–”

“Calm down, kid,” Comes the gruff voice of the stranger who had fought by their side, “this little breakdown here? It’s not helping your friend.”

“I can’t calm down!” Dakota yells, frustration oozing from every word, “How can I be calm when William could be hurt or dying or–”

“And how exactly is your tantrum going to stop him from getting tortured, huh?” The man scoffs at him, and Dakota bites back an angry retort.

“We don’t even know you,” he says bitterly.

“Uh, actually–” Vyncent starts, glancing between Lizard dude and Dakota.

“Oh you don’t know me,” the man chuckles, “Trust me kid, we’ve met.”

There is something so unsettling about the way this man laughs, and Dakota wants to scream. Every part of his skin itches and crawls, and he rubs his arms, rubbing away the layer of grime and drying blood that sits on the surface, irritating the top layer of skin underneath. His body is wracked with aches and sharp pains, and fuck he’s so damn tired, but he cannot rest now. Not when William is gone and Dakota is still here. Bleeding, battered, and in more pain than he’s felt in a long time, but still here.

“I’ve never seen you in my life!” Dakota protests, “So if you aren’t going to help us get Will back, then you should just shut up and leave us alone!”

“Dakota,” Vyncent mutters, “he’s helped us so far. Plus, Tide is hurt bad and we don’t have anywhere to go. Please just, don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out, Vyncent!”

“That’s–”

“Wavelength,” the man finishes, eyes rolling as is annoyed by the teenagers in front of him.

A wave of understanding and recognition washes over Dakota, and his heartbeat begins to quicken, anxiety gurgling in his stomach and threatening to rise through his throat, spilling from his lips onto the street. He fought side by side with a villain. With someone who should have still been locked up. God, wasn’t that pathetic? A hero who couldn’t even defend his home and save his friends without the help of a criminal.

“No.” The words escape him with little thought put into them, and he turns away, “Vyncent, grab Tide. I’m calling Harlem.”

“Go ahead,” Wavelength says from behind him, “call your heroes, see what they do. How kindly do you think they’ll take it when your friend is gone and Tide is still here? Wasn’t he supposed to protect you kids?”

“Shut up.”

Dakota’s shaking fingers tap the screen of his prime watch, wiping away the drops of blood that smudge the somehow in-tact screen. He isn’t sure how much of it is his own and how much belongs to Doug and Cantrip. 

The voicemail recording that comes through shatters him. Off world. He tries Ms. G and gets the same result. Every raging emotion in his body boils inside of him, and yet, at the same time, he feels oddly numb. It’s all he can do not to rip the watch from his wrist and send it flying towards the rubble of their base, their fucking home .

“Dakota, we need to go somewhere,” Vyncent says, voice cracking with emotions, “the police will probably be here soon, and this is a lot to explain.”

“Come with me,” Wavelength offers. Dakota has never been religious, but somehow this reminds him of that bible story. He and Vyncent are Adam and Eve and Wavelength is the snake, offering help with a tone that is starting to sound so damn reasonable, especially in this exhausted state he’s in.

“We don’t need a fucking villain’s help,” Dakota spits, though his heart isn’t really in it.

“Then where the fuck are we supposed to go, Dakota?” Vyncent asks. When Dakota turns around to finally face him, he’s struck by how small Vyncent looks right now. How the tears spilling from his eyes match the ones currently stinging his own cheeks. Vyncent’s voice breaks as he continues to speak, “Wavelength is our best fucking bet on getting William back.”

Dakota recoils, stepping back, his heel crunching on broken glass that now litters the street. Then, he takes another look at Vyncent and something inside him snaps. Silently, he nods.

He looks back up at Wavelength, who doesn’t smile evilly like Dakota imagines a real snake would. Instead, he nods firmly. “Right. I’ve got a car near here. Let’s go.”

Dakota hopes Adam and Eve’s apple wasn’t as sour as his and Vyncent’s was shaping up to be.

Chapter Text

From the backseat of Wavelength’s car, the world didn’t seem to make sense. The evening sun created a red glow as it began to dip behind clouds and below the horizon, and here Dakota was, sitting between two people, but not his friends, not William and Vyncent. Doug and Cantrip’s unconscious forms lean against either shoulder, and although Dakota doesn’t usually feel claustrophobic, he starts to understand that fear of enclosed spaces. His heart thumps in his chest and although nobody in the car is speaking, everything feels much too loud. His cheeks are raw from the tears that haven’t yet stopped, and he feels as if a sponge has sucked all the moisture from his mouth, leaving it dry, while his throat burns from both his struggle to breathe, and the silent sobs that shudder through his body ever so often.

Both Vyncent and the villain in the front seat of the car know better than to try and strike up a conversation right now, so Dakota is left with nothing but his own thoughts. His mental anguish.

God, what kind of hero can’t even save his own friend? What kind of hero has to work with a villain in order to save someone? Definitely not the Prime Force. What will they think when they get back to Prime and find out what a failure he is? How wrong they must have been about him to choose him, Dakota Cole: Screwup extraordinaire, for their team of young heroes.

He almost has to laugh at that thought, bitterly thinking of another person he hadn’t been able to save. Another person, another friend. How could he call himself a hero with a track record like his? First the girl, now William. It was only a matter of time before everyone else saw it too.

The image of a falling girl sticks on the inside of his eyelids, the terror on her face just as real as it had been the day it had happened. He blinks, and the scene is gone, replaced with another. William Wisp lying crumpled against a car after an explosion, Dakota barely looking back. After all, he had thought to himself, William is strong. It’ll take more than that to bring him down.

Fuck. He really was a terrible friend, wasn’t he?

He doesn’t notice when the car stops, only breaking from his thoughts when Wavelength opens the door, Grabbing Doug out of the back seat with some effort. He meets Dakota’s eyes with something that almost looks like sympathy, and nods to the unconscious form of Cantrip next to him.

“I can’t carry both of ‘em, kid,” he says, “only got two arms.”

Dakota can see that he’s taken the time to bandage his face, maybe since they’ve stopped, covering the scales that had been visible before. Is he self-conscious about them? Are villains self-conscious about anything?

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Frustrated, he nods. He and Vyncent each grab half of Cantrip and pull her out of the car, closing the door behind them. Vyncent doesn’t need to be carrying her at all really, Dakota is more than strong enough to carry her himself, but he doesn’t object to the help. He can see in his friend’s eyes the same overwhelming feeling of uselessness that has been invading his own mind. Only Vyncent doesn’t deserve to feel that way, does he? Not the way Dakota does.

Instead of protesting, he hands Cantrip to Vyncent. He can handle her weight on his own. He should focus on something else: Tide. Once again, his mentor’s weight is in his arms.

His mouth opens once again, a question forming, and it takes a few moments of struggling to get the words out, but he manages soon enough. “Where– uh. Where’s your bathroom?”
Wavelength glances back, eyes alight with understanding once he sees Tide, “Second door on the right.”

He watches as this villain fumbles with his keys, unlocking the door of his home. God, he hasn’t even had the energy to process that Wavelength lives in a normal suburban home. Something about that feels so wrong. Villains are supposed to hide in the shadows and live in abandoned warehouses and caves, not suburbia. But then again, he supposes, this isn’t exactly a comic book. If it was, the sunset wouldn’t be painting the sky in celebratory colors when William Wisp was gone. No, if this was a comic book there would be rain beating against his skin, washing the blood and dirt from his wounds and mingling with the tears, so the only clue that he’d been crying was the puffy red bags under his eyes. The world would be greyscale.

The door opens, and Dakota is only vaguely aware of his feet moving as he rushes past Wavelength into the house, taking in nothing of the decor. His hand finds a metal door handle and turns, opening the door to a tile covered bathroom. There, he stops, staring at the tub in front of him, glancing at the shampoo bottles and body soaps that litter the room.

Gingerly, he places Tide in the tub and begins running warm water, waiting for the bath to fill high enough, before shutting off the tap, and exiting the room, closing the door on his way out. Down the hall, he sees Wavelength and Vyncent, staring at him as if surprised by his haste.

His other senses begin to catch up with him now, and he hears music blaring from somewhere in the house. He’s too tired to care what song it is.

“Dakota?” Vyncent’s voice calls out, “We’re going to, uh, question these two.”

He nods.

“Did you want to–”

He shakes his head and turns away from the two of them.

“Oh. Okay.”

It takes a few seconds before the footsteps signal that they’ve walked away, leaving Dakota alone. 

Dakota wants to be alone, right? He’d asked for it. He sure as hell isn’t ready to talk to Vyncent right now, let alone Wavelength, and he’d rather eat Fartbo again than speak to Doug right now. God, out of all of the knives in his back right now, the one Doug had twisted into his spine hurt the most. They had been friends for as long as Dakota could remember, and now this? This stung.

He opened his phone, staring blankly at the lock screen. While he had changed his home screen to a photo of himself, William, and Vyncent, with Tide in the background, unaware of the camera capturing his soft smile, the lock screen had remained the same. A photo of himself and Doug, Dakota proudly holding the soccer trophy from the year before while Doug grinned, his head the only part of his body visible as the rest was inside of his mascot costume. Had Doug been a villain even then? Had the boy already become Inferno?

Bitterly, he throws his phone across the room, not with quite enough force to do any meaningful damage, but enough to result in a satisfying thud as he slides down the wall and to the hardwood floor.

He buries his face in his hands, shaking and letting out small, barely audible sobs. Dakota has felt this way before. When his aunt died. When he was told the girl couldn’t be saved.

The doctor’s had called this a panic attack when it had first happened, and the name feels accurate enough. It is as if all of the emotions he had so desperately pushed away suddenly tackle him from behind, breaking through his defenses and leaving him useless on the floor. He is glad nobody is there to see him, not that he’ll be able to tell if someone walks up to him now, laughing and jeering at him in this moment of weakness. The surroundings have blurred together and all of his senses simultaneously feel like they’re hyper-alert and completely broken. Every sound in his ears could be a footstep, his heartbeat, or the noise of a neighbor playing basketball in the driveway. He can’t tell.

His breath shakes. His head pounds. Everything is wrong.

And then, a hand finds his shoulder, skin cold, but not as frigid as William’s. His eyes drift upwards to meet the face of the person touching his skin.

The person is rather androgynous, with wavy white hair falling over his shoulder, slightly tanned skin dotted with freckles and acne, eye an unnatural grey-ish purple color that Dakota has never seen before, not that his own golden-amber colored eyes were exactly the most normal. He wears black stud earrings, two on each ear, and a hoodie, magenta in color, paired with a grey shirt underneath, along with dark ripped jeans and a light grey beanie. His eyebrows are raised, eyes wide, and lips slightly parted in clear concern.

Dakota quickly pulls away, wiping his eyes with his arm, “Uh, sorry.”

“You okay?” The stranger asked, pulling his hand back to his chest, eyes darting around the room.

“Fine,” he lies, “I’m sorry I’m in uh… your house?” Does Wavelength even own this place? Man, Dakota doesn’t want to be squatting somewhere Wavelength just broke into. Does that make him a criminal? Shit.

“It’s uh… it’s cool,” he says, “so are you one of Mark’s friends?”

“Who’s Mark?” Dakota asks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Does he know someone named Mark? Probably someone at school has that name, but not that Dakota is close to.

“Oh,” The kid seems surprised, “Mark Winters. My dad.”

“Huh,”  Dakota shrugs, “I don’t think I know him, sorry. Um, I’m Dakota by the way. Sorry again.”

“I’m Ashe. You don’t need to apologize, it’s fine. You uh, you look kind of rough.”

Dakota chuckles, “Yeah, I guess I probably do. My friend is… he’s missing and our base is kind of blown up.”

A moment of silence passes before Ashe answers: “Well shit.”

“Yeah.” Dakota picks at the dried blood on his hands. It sticks and peels off in a way that clings to his skin and the tiny hairs on the back of his hands, and he winces slightly when it peels away.

“Sorry about your friend.”

“Hey, you’re not the one who kidnapped him.” Dakota’s laugh is bitter and cold and so unlike his usual loud and boisterous one. Something usually so full of life is now dead. It hurts.

“Still that… It sucks. Losing someone I mean.”

“He’s not lost,” Dakota snaps, “He’s just… he’s just not here right now. He’ll be fine.” He’s not sure his words even convince himself.

“Oh, right. Of course.”

The awkward tension is palpable. Neither boy looks at each other. After all, they’re just strangers sharing problems, strangers who probably will never meet again after today.

Fast approaching footsteps break the silence between them, and soon enough Wavelength and Vyncent have reappeared.

“He’s in the spirit world,” Vyncent calls out, not focusing on the scene in front of him, “Dakota how are we supposed to–”

He looks up and, for the first time, takes in his surroundings, “Who are you?” His eyes are on Ashe, and while they’re just as bloodshot as Dakota’s, there’s a guarded quality to them. Distrustful. 

“What are you doing out here?” Wavelength asks, “shit kid, you’re not supposed to–”

“Oh come on, Dad, I thought someone had broken in!”

“Dad?” Dakota glances back and forth between Ashe and Wavelength, puzzling through all the new information he’s been presented with. God, William would have figured all of this out in a heartbeat, but he isn’t here. “Wait… you’re Mark?”

Wavelength groans, “Did you have to tell him my name, Ashe?”

“I didn’t know what to do! He was like having a breakdown or a panic attack or something! I thought maybe he worked with you.”

Dakota scoffs at that, “No way! I don’t work with villains.”

“Oh yeah, kid? What do you think we’re doing here then?”

Well shit. That is what he is doing here. No way around it. He is currently inside the home of a villain, asking for his help in order to find his friend. No matter how much he protests, he is now in leagues with a villain. Was he a bad person?

The hurt and panic must show on his face, because Wavelength drops the smug look, “I’m not trying to trick you or something, Dakota. You’re a kid. So is your friend. I’m not about to let a kid stay missing just because I’m not the type to buy into this hero bullshit.”

“But he’s in the spirit world!” Vyncent points out once again, “How the fuck are we supposed to get there? None of us can do that! I thought only dead people could go there!”

“Uh,” Ashe interjects, “I might be able to–”

“No.” Wavelength’s voice is firm, “You aren’t getting mixed up in this hero vs villain shit, kid.”

“But–”

“What’s he talking about?” Dakota questions, eyebrows pushed inwards as he attempts to make sense of what he’s hearing.

“I’ve got this book.”

“Ashe, I swear to fuck you are not doing that.”

“Well how else are you going to get there!” Ashe retorts, “I know how to use it, you know that!”

“Uh, hello? Could we please get a little context here?” Vyncent asks, glaring at Wavelength.

“I can take you to the spirit world.” Ashe’s voice is certain, though a certain shaky quality can be heard undercurrenting the words, as if he’s scared despite knowing he can do what he claims he can.

No words after that are intelligible. Wavelength is shouting something. Vyncent and Ashe shout back. Dakota is silent. He just stares at them, hope flickering in his chest, small, but undeniably there.

The noise is so much that none of them hear the bathroom door creak open. None of them register a dripping wet Tide walking out of the room, a look of fury on his face.

The next thing Dakota processes is his mentor’s fist connecting with Wavelength’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Chapter Text

When the world comes back into focus, the first thing William feels is bitter cold. This is a chill he’s felt before. He remembers this all too well and it tugs on him, pulling at his very core, bringing with it a sense of belonging. This chill isn’t entirely unpleasant. Something about it calls to him in the same way he remembers his mother calling him home for dinner. A beckoning that brings him home.

The next thing he notices is the pale blue glow emanating from his own body. His Wisp form. His gut churns, breathing becoming short and labored as he attempts to suppress the panic, closing his eyes. He waits for the swaying feeling of that tightrope with no safety net waiting to catch him if– when– he falls.

It doesn’t come.

His eyes open once again, as he takes in his surroundings. The room is shades of grey with pops of deep, unfiltered color on ornate fabrics, velvet and silk and lace, the good kind, not the cheap kind his mom’s placemats were made of that was frayed at the edges and stained from use. Swathes of rich red and gold that felt out of place with the chill engulfing his entire being.

He swallows hard, running his fingers along the fabric of the armchair he finds himself sprawled in, marveling at how soft it feels, and how his hands brush the surface, not sinking through despite the translucent glow he associates with intangibility.

Worn sneakers touch the ground, and he almost feels bad about stepping on such a nice carpet in his converse that are all but falling apart by now. He takes a tentative step, and lets out a sigh of relief when no dirt or mud is left behind where his foot had been a moment before.

Part of him wants to explore every inch of this room, checking under every chair cushion, opening every drawer, and lifting the mattress from the bed, but he swallows it down. There’s a bigger mystery to solve, right now. He has to find Mallard Conway. Mal? Ghoul? Whichever. The sooner he learns what he is and how to control this curse, the sooner he can get back to his friends. Maybe then he won’t be so useless in a fight, left with the choice between being pummeled or using that stupid wisp form.

He approaches the room’s door, half expecting to find it locked. That would be a setback. He’d have to search the room for a bobby pin or something similar he could fashion into a lock pick. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d picked a lock. It was something he frequently found himself doing back in Deadwood. Hell, he could just ghost shape one now, couldn’t he?

The polished, intricate door knob turns without resistance, and the door opens without so much as a creak. Whoever maintains this place is clearly doing a good job at it.

The hallway is similar in color to the room he enters it from, though the carpet has been replaced with a dark wooden flooring. Paintings line the walls, and William is certain that he heard about some of these being stolen in previous years, or being destroyed in fires. He isn’t sure this surprises him. The light comes from some kind of bottled flame, similar to William’s wisps, but not the same color, and unmoving.

He creeps down the hall, for once, glad that his feet make so little noise. Usually it bothered him, a feeling telling him that this lack of a pounding footstep was proof that he wasn’t really all there. It wasn’t as if he’d been particularly loud before the accident, but the silence was still eerie in comparison.

His fingers settle on the handle of the first door he finds, opening it without difficulty. As he peers inside, William is taken aback by what he sees. From what he can tell, he’s on the second or third floor of this building, and yet the room he finds himself staring into is undeniably a dining room. A huge table is centered in the room, although only two chairs are positioned at it, one at the head and the other to the left side of it. The table is set with a teapot, two plates, teacups, and several platters of pastries and sandwiches. He is immediately reminded of the tea parties in historical drama tv shows. He has never been a fan of those shows personally, but his mom had been a little obsessed for a while, so he’d seen his share.

The seat at the head of the table is occupied by a man in a suit, though he’s draped the jacket over the back of his chair revealing a black vest over his white button down shirt, and a red necktie. The man is pale with dead black eyes and a closed lip smile that doesn’t warm his face whatsoever. Mallard Conway.

William steps into the room, closing the door behind him. Only then does he notice that the door he entered from doesn’t match up with the one he sees now.

Mal looks up at the noise, and his smile widens in a way that can only be described as horrifying. “Ah, Wisperer. Awake already?” He asks, and William shudders as a chill runs through his body.

“Uh, yeah. Where the hell are we? There aren’t any buildings this big in the New Haven area.”

Mal chuckles at this reply, “We are not in New Haven, Wisperer. I thought you’d feel the familiarity of this place, but I suppose a lot of things I’ve expected of you have turned out to be overestimations.”

“Familiarity?” William mutters, frustration creeping into his voice. He knows for a fact that he’s never seen this place before. He would remember. He literally has an eidetic memory what the hell does–

Oh.

The chill. The blue glow. The general unsettling feeling of belonging.

“Shit,” He swears, “The spirit world?”

“Ah, there it is. William Wisp’s famous intelligence. Sit.” He gestures to the chair to the left of his own, and after a moment of hesitation, William shuffles over and takes a seat.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Wisperer? You were in quite the state when I brought you here I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, because of you,” he retorts quietly.

Mal laughs at this, “Yes, well. You took my hand anyways, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“So I would say that little spat is water under the bridge at this point, wouldn’t you?”

If that is what a ‘little spat’ looks like to Mal, William doesn’t ever want to face off against him in a full on fight. He thinks that would kill him again in all honesty. Maybe permanently this time.

Despite William staying quiet, Mal presses onwards. “Yes, you asked for my help. I could teach you so many things. What you are. How to control those powers of yours. You could be so much more than a mortal. Why waste your time on heroes and villains? Kidnapped scientists, your little Prime Force? That strange man in the frog onesie.”

“You know about Le Frog?” William blurts out. He isn’t sure why that’s what he’s taking away from this conversation.

“I do keep up with the mortal world, Wisperer.” Mal rolls his eyes, “Yes, I know of Alexander Dubois.”

“His name is fucking Alexander Dubois?”

“We are getting sidetracked. Please, drink some tea. Have a sandwich. We have much to discuss.”

William doesn’t move.

“Do you think I’m trying to poison you? If I wanted you dead I would have finished the job, not taken you into my home. Eat.”

He has to admit that Mal has a good point. He picks up a sandwich and takes a tentative bite. It tastes fine, though part of him recoils at the fact that he knows this sandwich. Turkey, swiss cheese, pickles, and mayo. He packed this sandwich for every stakeout he had done back home, waiting with the rest of the Unwitness Protection Progrwm for a monster or spirit to show up, hoping he’d find whoever had gone missing still alive, just injured. He had never been that lucky.

Maybe it’s a coincidence, but in William’s experience it’s better to assume everything was intentional. Blaming things on coincidence is ignorant at best, suicidal at worst.

“Good,” Mal seems appeased, “If I am to teach you anything you need strength.”

“Fuck, you sound like my mom,” William groans.

“Your mother sounds like an intelligent woman, Wisperer.”

“You’ve been calling me nothing but my hero name this whole time. Why?”

“Would you rather I use your real one?” Mal’s head tilts as he speaks, “William? Is that better? I didn’t want to assume we were on a first name basis. You understand.”

“Right. Yeah, well. William is fine,” he replies, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“I suppose you did choose it for a reason,” Mal says, and when William processes what he’s said, he nearly chokes on his bite.

Not even Dakota or Vyncent know he’s trans. People from school don’t know he’s trans. Barely anyone outside of Deadwood should know about his transition. The only one he can think of who would know is Tide.

“How do you know I was the one who named myself,” he manages to say once he swallows.

“Oh please, William, it’s not as if it’s obvious. I’m just a little more knowledgeable than the mortals you’re accustomed to.”

He does not appreciate that extra knowledge. He’d much rather Mallard Conway think he was cis like everyone else did. Apparently that was too much to fucking ask.

“You seem distressed. I am not claiming your gender is anything other than male, William. I am merely pointing out the fact that your name is deeply personal to you because you were the one who ultimately decided on it.”

“Can you stop?” William spits, “I’m here to learn, not hear stuff I already know.”

“Very well. I believe I mentioned planewalkers before, did I not?”

William nods, still shaken.

“Have you heard of the term?”

“Kind of?” William admits, “I used to play Magic the Gathering with a couple friends back home. The cards were meant to represent powerful people who could move between planes.”

“While your card game analogy is odd, the basic concept is the same. Although, I have never heard of a being powerful enough to cross planes without a guide. Not until you.”

“But the wisps—”

“Your wisps are not what bring you too and from the spirit world, William. Perhaps they awakened this power in you, but beyond minor influences, you are the one in control. They just tag along.”

William laughs, “Minor influences? Do you call falling through the floor a minor influence? Because let me tell you it doesn’t feel like one! It feels pretty major to me!”

“You are still thinking like a mortal.”

“Maybe because I am a mortal!”

Mal scoffs, “Mortals do not awaken from true death. Mortals do not get to see the Whispering Woods.”

William is quiet after that. He doesn’t know that he wants to be a planewalker. He doesn’t think he wants to be anything but mortal in all honesty. God, why did he have to fall off that cliff?

“So I can go between the real world and the spirit world then. Is that what you’re saying?” He finally says, breaking the silence that has filled the room.

“Between here and the material plane, yes. Though calling it the real world isn’t all that accurate. This plane is just as real as that one. As is every other plane. How much has Virion told you about where he comes from?”

“Virion? You mean… Vyncent?”

“That is the alias he has taken up on Prime, yes.”

“Not much,” William admits, cheeks hot. He should have asked more. Why didn’t he ask more? “Just that it’s more like fantasy than reality.”

“I daresay his family would say the same of Prime.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Mal nods, “Fantasy is just a word mortals use in order to categorize a set of rules for existence that differ from those of their own plane.”

“Right.”

“As I said, most planewalkers require a guide in order to travel between different planes. You have already met mine.”

“Ghoul?” William speaks the name as if it’s foul and tastes like rot.

“Yes. Ghoul. Without him I would be stuck on one plane, unable to move between them, as if the barriers separating them were nothing more than water.”

“But I can’t do that!” William protests, “I’ve never come here on purpose!”

“But you’ve come here. That is more than can be said of most. Your powers need refining quite desperately, but the raw potential you wield is quite impressive.”

“So you keep saying.”

“And yet you do not listen. Why is that?”

“I don’t know! I’m just some fucking dude! I don’t even want these stupid powers! They fucked everything up for me!”

“And yet you met your two closest friends because of them. Those mortals mean a lot to you, and although I cannot say I approve, friendship is a strong motivator.”

“Yeah well. Maybe Dakota and Vyncent would be better off if I stayed just normal William in Deadwood.”

“But would you be? With all those disappearances it really was only a matter of time before your investigations got you killed. You knew that. Every little detective in your group knew that, and yet none of you could resist a mystery.”

“I–”

“It was a chance to help at first, wasn’t it? You felt useless, but when you realized you could see things others couldn’t, you jumped at the chance to try and find those missing people. But you got addicted to the rush you got from it, didn’t you? Tell me, William: When did it stop being about helping and start being about the thrill of the mystery?”

Chapter Text

Wavelength hits the floor with a thud. For just a moment, all the noise in the room is cut off, leaving the group in stunned silence.

The anger on Tide’s face is unfamiliar. Not that Vyncent hasn’t seen Tide angry before, of course he has, but this? This is new. Tide’s anger, which is so often loud, consisting of disappointed yelling and heated arguments, is suddenly cold and silent.

The squeak of Ashe’s sneakers against the floor seems deafening in contrast as he rushes to his father’s side. Vyncent follows after him, the two of them helping Wavelength back onto his feet.

“You!” Tide spits, voice low and harsh, jabbing his finger in the villain’s direction, “You had no right bringing them here!”

“Tide, it’s okay!” Vyncent calls out, holding a shaking hand up, stepping in front of both Wavelength and Ashe, “He just wants to help!”

“Is that what he told you?” Tide turns his attention to Vyncent, “Vyncent, you’ve fought him, you know better than to trust his word! You three shouldn’t be–”

Tide’s eyes land on Dakota, acknowledging him, before searching the room. His voice dies as he realizes there are three teenagers in the room, but one of them is completely unfamiliar.

“Where is William?” He asks, turning to face Dakota, Vyncent, and then Wavelength once again.

As his eyes meet Wavelength’s, the man gives a solemn shake of his head.

Vyncent is no stranger to the faces of people whose worlds have just crumbled in front of them. He knows the looks of a person at their breaking point.
Sometimes a person screams. Sometimes they slip into silent tears. Sometimes the change is almost imperceptible: a quiet nod as everything they’ve ever known crumbles into dust.

Tide is different. Sure, his actions line up with those Vyncent has become accustomed to. His eyes widen and he takes a step back, almost tripping as he does. He begins to shake his head and his breathing gets heavy. But there’s something strange about how naturally this reaction settles in.

Tide has been here before. Not here exactly but this isn’t his first loss. Not the first core-shattering event he’s experienced. This grief is familiar to him, though clearly no more welcome the second time.

“You’re lying, you’re lying to me, you’re lying I swear to god—“

“What the fuck do I have to gain by lying here, Tide?” Wavelength spits, “You think the kid being gone does me any good? You think that makes me look good? You think doing shit to that kid makes anyone want to trust me more?”

“WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?”

“Fuck if I know asshole now would you—“

Dakota is crying again. It’s silent but Vyncent sees it out of the corner of his eye. The tears streaming from his eyes, as he pulls at his hair.

“Would both of you shut the fuck up?” Vyncent screams, “Tide, he isn’t fucking lying William is gone! He’s gone and he’s in the spirit world and…” His voice cracks and the next words refuse to come out.

“And,” Ashe interjects, “I can help you get him back.”

“Ashe, I told you you’re not doing that shit. You aren’t fucking prepared for that,” Wavelength growls, “you’re just a kid.”

“So was William, apparently,” Ashe retorts, “being a kid clearly means nothing to this freaky kidnapper guy! Do you even know who took him?”

“His name is Mallard Conway,” Vyncent says, breaking up the tension in the room, “That’s what Doug and Cantrip said anyway. They could be lying I guess but if they’re lying then we have no leads so—“

“Nah. They’re not lying, kid. Trust me, I’ve heard the name before in passing.”

“Because you fucking worked for Overlord!” Dakota’s glare is intense. Vyncent is glad he’s not on the receiving end.

“Yeah, kid, because I worked for Overlord. Look where that got me. Those fuckers were supposed to kill me.”

“Do you know anything that could help us?” Vyncent asks, “Please. Literally anything that helps get William back.”

Wavelength’s expression is one of pity as he shakes his head, “I don’t. Never met the guy personally. I’m not exactly Overlord’s poster child for teamwork and friendship.”

“Right,” Vyncent mutters, “of course.”

“I’m sorry,” Tide speaks up, “They were there to kill you? Even though you worked for Overlord?”

“Villains aren’t exactly known for being loyal, Tide. Plus, I betrayed them first.”

“What?” several voices ask in unison.

“I had a conversation with your Wisperer when you first brought me in, didn’t I? Or did he not tell you?”
Vyncent’s eyes widened. He remembered William going in to speak to Wavelength, but the details of the meeting weren’t exactly ever made clear.

“William spoke with you? Dakota, Vyncent, did you know about this?” Tide demanded.

“I mean—“ Vyncent began.

“Yeah,” Dakota admitted, “I didn’t think it was a good idea! I don’t know what they spoke about though.”

“I don’t either,” Vyncent admitted, “He was the only one who could get in because of his powers. He didn’t exactly give a recap of the conversation.”

“Huh,” Wavelength frowned, “I didn’t see that coming.”

Come to think of it, why had William been so quiet about what he had spoken about with Wavelength? At first he’d wanted Dakota and Vyncent there with him, so what could have made him keep quiet?

“It doesn’t really matter what we talked about but I told the kid some things that I wasn’t supposed to. Some things that weren’t so flattering about Overlord.”

“But how would they know you said those things?” Dakota asks, “I mean, you were in a secret superhero prison.”

“It’s a temporary holding cell,” Tide corrects, “not a secret superhero prison.”

“Whatever the fuck it is isn’t important. I was bugged, kid. I failed in my mission on Harttawa because I went easy on you. That conversation was the mail in my coffin.”

“But if he came for you, why did this Mallard guy kidnap William?” Vyncent asks, “There has to be a reason!”

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Dakota groans, “knowing his reason doesn’t get us to the spirit world. Ashe, you said you can get us there?”

“Kid—“ Wavelength‘s voice is tense.

“I can.” Ashe nods, ignoring his father. “I think I can at least. With this.”

In Ashe’s hand is an ancient looking book, bound in worn leather with tarnished gold accents. There’s a strange language on the cover that Vyncent cannot read or even recognize. It doesn’t seem to be from this world or his own.

“This book has some connection to the spirit world,” he explains, “I can summon things. Creatures. Demons maybe?”

“Holy shit is William in your book?” Dakota asks, “Check under W!”

“What? No, that’s not how it works. I can’t just summon any random person. It’s like… hang on, I’ll show you.”

Ashe flips through the pages of the book until he settles on one. When he opens his mouth next, no intelligible words come out. Vyncent couldn’t replicate it if he tried.

Then, Ashe’s eyes begin to glow. A circle around his feet forms, glowing symbols like those from the front cover, shifting between blue and silver. The glow grows so bright that Vyncent has to shut his eyes to block it out.

A sound of rushing water fills the room. Water? Wait, that didn’t make sense. They were inside. His eyes shoot open again, and he takes note of the change to the room.

The column of water in front of him crashes down to the floor, though nothing in the room seems to get wet, and a figure stands before him.

This figure is hard to make out, partially because of the many layers of clothing, but partially because Vyncent’s eyes somehow refuse to focus on it. What he can make out, however, is what appears to be a man is black robes and a cloak with shifting blue and gold stars, blinking in and out, emitting soft light in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for a garment of clothing in the world of Prime, though he’d seen a few similar cloaks and capes in his own world. In his hand is a paddle, made of dark, black wood.

The strangest part, however, is that the man’s face, all but obscured by shadow, has what appears to be the beak of a bird jutting out of his face.
For a moment, everything is silent as they all stare at this strange man. Dakota is the first one to break that silence.

“Um… Ashe?”

“Yeah?”

Neither of them take their eyes off of the figure.

“Who’s that?”

Ashe snaps his eyes away from the man, and focuses his full attention on that strange book he holds. “It’s the Ferryman. I think?”

The Ferryman slams the end of his paddle on the ground, forcing everyone to once again turn their attention to him.

“What do you want?” He speaks, his voice deep and gravely, but with a strange accent that Vyncent can’t quite place.

“If you’re the Ferryman,” Dakota frowns, “where’s your boat?”

Ignoring these questions, the Ferryman glances around the room. “Who summoned me?” he asks.

“Uh… I did,” Ashe says, raising his hand to show the book to the man.

“What for?”

“We’re looking for a guy named William.”

The Ferryman shakes his head. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, kid. William ain’t exactly an uncommon name.”

Ashe turns to look at the others in the room, and Vyncent realizes that, unless he missed something while interrogating Doug and Cantrip, they’d never told Ashe William’s last name.

“William Wisp,” he says, stepping forward to stand next to Ashe, “he’s apparently in the… spirit world?”

“Now there’s a familiar name,” The Ferryman laughs,
“Haven’t heard about him recently, though.”

“You know about William?” Dakota asks.

“You want passage or what?”

“Yeah,” Ashe says, “That’s what we’re looking for.”

“Right,” The Ferryman nods.

“Do we have to like… pay with our souls or something?” Dakota asks, wrinkling his nose at the idea.

“Gotta pay with something.”

Vyncent is in no hurry to promise his soul to a being from another plane, so he begins digging through his pockets and pulls out a stack of credit cards he’d been collecting.

“Do you take these?” He asks, “Or do you have a credit card?”

To his shock, the man pulls out what appears to be a card, though it doesn’t quite look like a credit card. More like one of those punch card things William had shown him.

“Touch it here,” he says, gesturing to the little dots on the card. One for each of them.

Ashe is the first to make a move, grabbing the card by one of the dots, and Vyncent watches as a glowing needle shoots up through Ashe’s fingertip, collecting blood.

When Ashe pulls his hand away, there is no wound in his finger, but the dot on the card is blood red, quickly shifting to black.

“We have to do that?” Dakota asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah. I’ve read about this. In order to travel to the spirit world, there has to be some kind of payment. A connection that lets you pass through.”

“Well… okay.”

Dakota grabs the card next. Then Vyncent takes a deep breath, and does the same.

Tide steps forward to follow their example, but the Ferryman holds a hand up to stop him.

“Not you,” he says.

“What?” asks Tide, “But I need to go with them! You expect children to traverse the spirit world alone?”

“You can’t go. I sense something off about you. Not a whole soul to latch onto.”

Tide’s eyes widen in understanding, though Vyncent has no clue what’s going on.

“Tide, what is he talking about?”

“You didn’t know?” Wavelength asks.

“Wavelength, let me tell them.”

“Fine, fine! Not my place.”

“Kids… You know how your principle looks like me?”

Vyncent pauses, “I thought he was you.”

“What? No. That’s Magma.”

“Like the superhero?” Dakota interjects excitedly.

“Yes. Like the superhero. He’s also my brother. One of many.”

“Is he like… your twin?” Dakota asks.

“Not exactly. We’re all… clones.”

“What?” Vyncent asks.

“I will explain more later,” Tide sighs, “But for now, just know that I’m a copy of another man. That is why he won’t let me go with you.”

“But Tide—“

“Are we done here?” asks the Ferryman, “Because I have other places to be.”

“Yes,” Tide nods, “We’re done. Take them to the spirit world.”

Ashe gestures quickly for all of them to grab onto the Ferryman’s paddle, and they quickly grab hold of it.
With another hit of his paddle on the floor, the Ferryman calls back the column of Water to swallow them up.

When it drops, they’re no longer in Wavelength’s house, but standing on a grimey sidewalk, staring
around at a strange amusement park.

“Welcome,” says the Ferryman, “To the spirit world.”