Chapter Text
Edgar Allen Poe, master architect of the guild, best-selling author, and rival to the greatest detective in the world, not that the detective knows it yet, stares at the object he has just been handed.
And finds himself confused.
“What is this?”
Mark Twain grins at him. “It’s a pen!” he says and does jazz hands.
Poe sneers at the gesture.
“How does he not know what a pen is?” Tom Sawyer asks from behind Mark.
“He uses quills, it's quite possible he didn’t know these existed,” Huckleberry Finn replies, crossing his arms.
“I know what a pen is,” Poe says, glaring at the ability-created dolls.
The dolls aren't phased; they just smile at him from their spots floating above Mark's shoulders. Mark has the same expression on his face. A disarming smile with teeth white as a picket fence.
Poe inspects the pen he was handed. It’s bright pink with a large pom pom stuck to the end of it. The tip is covered in a plastic cap that Poe removes and inspects. It’s slightly reddish in color, leading the writer to believe the ink itself is also pink.
“Why would you give this to me?”
Mark laughs. “Well, Tom, Huck, and I were at this craft store and we noticed it and thought of you friend. You don’t carry around a pen, and quills take too long to set up. A real struggle really.”
Poe caps the pen and turns it over in his hand once more. “Why did you actually give me this?”
Mark's smile grows wider. “Consider it a bribe.”
Poe rolls his eyes under his mop of hair. “What for?”
Huckleberry and Tom start whispering in Mark's ears but Mark shoos them away, putting his hands in his pockets and smiling lazily at Poe. “Something we’ll think of later. Besides, I think the pen suits you.”
Poe doesn’t respond, instead, he pockets the pen deep within his coat. “I’ll consider it.”
Huckleberry and Tom cheer as Poe slinks away.
✐ᝰ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
He doesn’t think about the pen again until the middle of a guild meeting with its top members.
“Now our target is Tennessee Williams. His ability is a difficult one. Due to the nature of it, we can not get close to him or hold him for capture.”
Margret raises an eyebrow. “If I may, what is this dangerous ability?”
Fitzgerald leans forward. “It’s called A Streetcar Named Desire .”
Hawthorn shudders and Margaret covers her mouth with her fan. “When activated, anyone he touches experiences incredibly strong, uncontrollable emotions. It depends on the person of course. One person became so aggressive he had to be sedated. Another cried himself sick. Lastly, a woman fell into an intense love with one of the members of the recovery team. We’ve yet to find a way to reverse these incidents or capture the man at fault.”
Fitzgerald waves a hand to his employees. “So any plans?”
Steinback raises his hand and Fitzgerald nods to him to go ahead. “I say we throw everyone at this guy and see how they react,” Steinback says, looking around the room to smirk at his coworkers.
Margret scoffs.
“What?” Steinback throws his hands up. “I’m sure everyone here wants to see Hawthorn cry!”
Before the room can devolve into chaos Mark speaks up. “Why don’t we just use goth boy’s stuff to capture the guy and kill him quietly?”
Fitzgerald thinks this over and turns to Poe. “How fast can you write something?”
Poe sighs. “Sir I’m a writer if I am not inspired-”
“I’ll give you a raise.”
Instead of perking up Poe droops further. He begins to mutter under his breath in protest but steals a piece of paper from Mark.
He glances around the table for a pen, but seeing none he reaches into his coat. His fingers close around a familiar puffball. He frowns and moves past it. He grumbles again when he is unable to find another pen. Annoyed, he pulls the bright pink pen out of his jacket pocket and uncaps it.
Someone at the table laughs but Poe doesn’t look up to see who. He focuses on writing, inspiration being pulled from the desire to stab everyone sitting at the table.
“That’s an interesting pen,” Fitzgerald remarks.
“It was a gift,” Poe says, not pausing in his writing.
The pink glittery ink flows over the paper, a direct opposite to the horrifying words being written.
“And it came in handy, didn't it? I knew you would like it!” Mark cheers and kicks his feet onto the table.
Poe focuses on writing his frustrations onto the paper.
He gently places a period at the end of the gruesome poem. A finality he enjoys, if someone is to die their life must end with such a punctuation mark.
While he would love to stab through the paper to vent his frustrations he does not. It would do nothing. Maybe he could stab a person with the pen, however. That might be a better plan than going to find a knife and then returning to the room.
Poe hands the paper to Fitzgerald and places the pen back into his coat. Fitzgerald reads it, his face dropping more and more after every sentence he reads. “This is the most morbid thing I've seen from you,” Fitzgerald comments nervously.
Poe just huffs in response.
“It's the pen!” Mark laughs. “It’s magic!”
“A pen doesn’t make me write more morbidly.”
Mark shrugs. “Can you prove that?”
Poe narrows his eyes. Not that anyone can see.
“This should work, good job everyone, dismissed,” Fitzgerald says and places the poem far away from him.
Poe stands up and quickly exists. As he walks back to his office he rests a hand over where the pen is hidden in his coat pocket. He is well aware that it isn’t the pen that caused his horrific writing but rather the frustration of his colleagues.
Besides, it is the first gift he has received in years. Even though it possibly had an ulterior motive, someone still thought of him.
Poe smiles softly and pulls it out of his pocket. Above everything the pom pom felt nice to touch.