Chapter Text
A swarm of bees buzzes out of synchronization. Wednesday pushes past them, waving her arms casually to continue forward. They sting her in return and their venom burns her pale skin. They don’t break her stride. Her supernatural resilience prevents her from succumbing to the swelling, but the pain is an annoyance.
Her eyes are focused on her target–who lays limp, face down against the marble floor across from her. Broken glass scatters around them. Some small enough that they glitter and others where they are enough to cut. She steps over them cautiously.
Her target’s lips press together and mumble something, and the buzzing continues louder. Frantic. Disorganized. Sloppy.
She uses her boot to turn her target’s body to face her. She was sent here for their termination. That’s usually the job: clean up someone else’s mistake. In this case, for an OCA agent, who not only failed their mission, but is causing a ruckus for anyone onsite to stop and gawk at the aftermath.
The bees in particular make the latter impossible to avoid. Hence, their termination is marked as an urgent one. Tanaka did her part well to isolate the scene so it is only herself and the target. The bank’s clientele and staff members are temporarily out of the way. It should only be a moment longer before they return, and the rest of the evidence is swiped clean. That is her job to see through and she’s done more than enough of these to call them routine.
Wednesday waves the persistent swarm drawing closer, surrounding the target. She eventually sits on her boots’ heels and pulls her black gloves from her suit’s side pockets. She puts them on and moves her target’s face to identify them.
Her frown softens minutely as she takes off his broken eyeglasses. He stirs and the bees buzz louder. She doesn’t think of it when she instinctively brushes his hair back with a touch of gentleness.
Just a boy. Probably around Pugsley’s age now.
She blinks once and she feels a drop in her stomach. The boy puts a hand on her knee and leans closer. His voice rasps weakly into a whisper that her ears can pick up even with all the bees around.
“Please, help me.”
She thinks she sees her brother Pugsley stare back in his place, say those words, and she loses her balance. The knife she has ready shakes in her grip. Her eyes narrow as she tries to shake the memories away.
“I’m afraid that is not something I can do for you.” She steels her voice and hovers over him. Her left arm locks him against the ground; her right hand draws closer with the knife.
“I… I don’t want to die.” He cries.
Wednesday pushes her target back and his head recoils from the force. “Stop it.”
He winces and shuts his eyes in fear. She presses the knife to his throat–close where it cuts a thin line at contact. Not enough to damage yet. Although, that shocks him further and he inhales a sharp breath. She tries not to falter when he musters the dumb courage to stare directly at her with a pleading look.
She's not meant to feel anything. It doesn’t. It usually doesn’t. All her targets are the same: they act the same and they end the same. They all see their end and wish they have more time, but that’s not something for her to give, but to take.
Her hold tightens and she feels him struggle. He kicks his legs and his hands try to push her off. Usually the moments before the last strike are exhilarating, but her eyes betray her and she sees him as a boy and his youth.
He’s just a kid . A voice she hadn’t heard in so long says. Look the other way.
Her eyes widen. She hears her knife drop with a dull clang next to his body. The moment she feels the lightness in her hand without it, she drops him too.
The bees around her fall silent as the boy’s body thumps to the ground.
She couldn’t kill him in the end.
“Rowan Laslow, one of our OCA operatives, went MIA about 6 months ago. He disappeared completely: missed his check-ins and went radio silent. Until last month. We found activity that his account accessed our database from a computer in Whittleton Creek.
Further intel shows images of Rowan spotted in the neighborhood. In addition, records of call logs between him and unknown contact–which grow exceedingly frequent in the past several weeks.
We’ve been unable to intercept any of the communication. Whoever this contact is, they don’t want us spying on them.
Despite the lack of information and that we’re coming in blind, OCA has determined Rowan defective. Our mission is to uncover how far Rowan breached his contract and for you to take care of his termination.
Good luck, Wednesday. I will leave you to prepare.”
Enid signs off, and the debrief presentation goes blank from Wednesday’s laptop. She unplugs her earphones and wraps the wires. She folds her hands over them, crumpling the bundle in her clasp as she shuts her laptop’s lid.
She looks out through her side of the front passenger window. The radio plays so faintly that she can’t tell if they’re listening to music or a broadcaster ranting, but it’s enough to add to the quiet ambience of the drive. Yoko, who sits in the driver’s seat next to her, was silent most of the way and remains to be.
She coolly keeps her left elbow propped against her window’s ledge. Her hand lazily rests in her hair to keep her focused–while her right hand is on the steering wheel. She yawns to herself.
Their car stops slowly, about two blocks from the grand welcome entrance sign and a local bus stop. Yoko turns the keys to shut the engine and nods to Wednesday as an acknowledgement they’re where they’re supposed to be.
She takes the laptop from her and chucks it lightly to the back seats. Wednesday passes the earphones as well, and Yoko just shrugs and pushes it against one of the vacant cup holders. Wednesday fixes it to be neater and Yoko smirks at her annoyance.
“You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb there.” Yoko comments on Wednesday’s Raven Suit and then shrugs, “But you always do.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes and glares at her with her arms crossed.
“Do you have everything that you need?”
Wednesday nods and huffs. She uncovers her suit’s hidden pockets to show the gadgets and poison she usually takes with her. “Enid checked my inventory before we left.”
“Of course she did. She loves to worry, especially for you.” Yoko winks.
Wednesday groans as she readjusts her jacket, then pulls her door open and turns to glare at her as her final say. “I’m leaving, Tanaka. I’ll meet you at our rendezvous after. Try to keep yourself occupied.”
She’s about to push her door closed –when Yoko leans forward to stay in her view and tuts. Her expression changes to one genuinely serious that stops her from leaving.
“We might be the most dangerous people in the room, but we’re not invincible. I’m near if anything goes wrong, okay?” Her eyes glint with her sunglasses slightly tilted down her nose.
She holds her gaze threateningly and raises her eyebrow until Wednesday hums affirmatively back with a slow nod. She smirks and pushes her sunglasses back in place. “Good luck out there, Addams.”
Wednesday pushes the door and heads toward the welcome entrance sign. She feels the car whoosh behind her.
Across the sign is a park with two ranger officers. One stands by a garden shed; his hands on his hips while he stares forward, bored. The other is by a mayor campaign tent; by contrast, he is engaged. He smiles by the candidate’s side. Maybe he is intoxicated by the obnoxious colors of the red, blue, and white combinations–coated all over the space they occupy. From the flyers, to the tent, and then to the campaign boy, who looks rather like a fanboy enthusiast than an assistant for a politician.
Perhaps, she stared for too long. The campaign boy flags his flyer at her and beams; he extends his hand to give it to her.
“Can I tell you about our running mayor, Mr. Charles Blake the-”
“No.” She crumples the flyer and then marches away.
A static tap buzzes from her earpiece, followed by an audible giggle. Wednesday holds back her smile at the sound-even if her face can’t be seen from the other end.
“Welcome to Whittleton Creek, Vermont, Wednesday. Home of the friendliest neighbors–or so they say on their brochure.” Enid speaks through their shared telecom channel.
Wednesday continues her walk. She is surrounded by maple trees and houses on both her sides.
“On the outside, this is a quiet neighborhood–uneventful for the most part. Most residents here are long-timers, white collars, and some government officials. Hence security-”
Wednesday is sure Enid is nodding towards the body guards outside a particular house: 425. They wear black shades, ball caps, protective vests, and earpieces with coils connecting to a radio in their pocket. One guard is by the front door. Another patrols around the sidewalk-from the staircase at the front, the garage, and the entrance to the backyard protected by a wooden fence.
“...stands in so-called ‘restricted areas’ for the mundane of places like a pond or someone’s home. There are other security officers just like him, standing watch. Avoid them if you can or find a way around.”
They appear casual in attire, but some have guns latched to their sides. Neighbors and regulars appear not to pay too much mind to them. A jogger waves to the guards who nod subtly and continue their watch.
Wednesday’s shoulder brushes against someone passing her. She steadies her balance as she enters a flash of a vision.
“Mrs. Wilson is a lovely person, but she’d make me stay at her party. Yesterday, she talked my ear off about that microfilm she bought for Cynthia’s kid. She went on and on about the youth and their technologies–as much as I could agree, it takes so much of my time to get through all the mail.”
A small elderly mailman sighed as he put in a package in one of the mailboxes. He tilted his head to press his ear on his cellphone and his shoulder raised to keep it in place.
“I know, I know–I won’t miss it. Could you move the reservation to later? I can make it if it’s later.”
He went silent for a moment and then picked the phone. “Alright, love you, bye-bye.”
“Oh Miss, I am so sorry. I was rushing and shouldn’t have. My mistake.”
“That’s fine. I see your Saturday is busier than it should be.” Wednesday says the last part slowly, unsure how genuine she should project. “Do you need help?”
“Yes! I could indeed use some help.” His pleasantries turned to something excited. “Such a friendly neighborhood. You look like just the trustworthy person for this, friend! Can you deliver this to Laura Wilson? Her house number is 431. You can’t miss it. It’s the house with the big party today.”
She takes the small–but light package–from him and places it in her suit’s pocket.
“Their family always throws these events. While I do appreciate the meals, Mrs. Wilson can be such a chatterbox.” The old man shakes his head. He places another package inside a mailbox. “She’ll greet you as you step in. She does know how to welcome her guests. Thank you again! You just saved me from upsetting the Misses.”
He wobbles to his truck, turns on the engine, and drives off. As he starts to pick up speed, he waves a hand from the open window–long forgetting the other packages and letters he should have been dropping off.
She waves a hand back at him weakly.
“I didn’t know charity is one of your virtues.” Enid snickers while Wednesday awkwardly holds her gaze with the mailman’s side mirror before she’s out of his view.
“A necessary action only.” She mutters. She flips the box for the address sticker.
Enid’s keyboard clacks on the other line, and then she supplies. “House 431–the Wilson’s. Should be on the other side. A couple houses down the entrance you came from.”
Wednesday holds her breath, hoping Enid would still be distracted before she mentions-
“And you can thank me with some muffins! Those look dee-lish.”
She groans. Enid giggles just as colorful as the bright neon pink trunk and sample stand for Helen’s Muffins. Two uniformed workers wear aprons with the matching color and white clothes behind them with their chef hats.
“Can’t a ‘thank you’ suffice?”
“Nope!” She pops the letter p teasingly.
“I’ll think about it.”
She faces the small park again and she turns to face the other houses she hasn’t passed yet. Most appear vacant in residence, and in their place were construction workers, animal control, or bug control–their entrances litter with signs that read “Keep out” or neon construction barricades.
Despite the busy appearance, they remain quiet and contained to their house.
But one house in particular catches her attention and she frowns. This is where all the residents must be: for the Wilson's BBQ Party. People gather around in their circles to talk with a soda or a glass drink in hand, and or a plate full of food. The outside is decorated with “Welcome!” signs and the Wilson’s name spells out in colors. Music and chatter exit from the inside and outside of their home. From the backyard, smoke appears from a grill.
“That looks fun. I forgot how much fun house parties can be.”
“This is more appealing from a distance and not up close.” Wednesday shakes her head. “Be glad you are seeing it from its good side: remote.”
She goes through the backyard entrance and sees the crowd of people lined up to get burgers and sodas. Enid hums in satisfaction at the sight; Wednesday scoffs in acknowledgement.
She turns to the left and meets a woman who has to be Mrs. Wilson. Her voice can be heard throughout the entire house. Her bubbliness almost matches Enid’s, but if Wednesday can be honest, she favors Enid more–even if that comparison is not necessary.
“Mrs. Wilson, hello.” Wednesday channels a faux Enid impression. It is enough to get the woman to stop talking to the person who obviously wants to leave already. They mouth an exaggerated ‘thank you’ to Wednesday as they slowly back away–toward the entrance to the kitchen, and then the front door.
Wednesday makes a note of the area before correcting her smile towards the lady in front of her.
“Hii! I don’t think we’ve met, but it is so great to have you here!” Mrs. Wilson shouts as her greeting. The music isn't loud and they’re next to each other. “Have you tried a piece of the patties Jonathan is grilling? Do you want a drink? Oh, and are you from out of town or have you moved into Whittleton Creek-”
“I just came by to drop off a package for you.” Wednesday presses the box to Mrs. Wilson’s hand. Forget impressions. She is already drained from her. Her smile aches and not the kind she enjoys.
The latter lets out an animated gasp and her eyes widen in glee. “I have been waiting ages for this! This is for Cynthia’s son, Ronald. No, Richard? Robert?”
Wednesday perks up. “Rowan?” She tests.
“Rowan! Yes, he has a microfilm collection. According to Cynthia though,” she flaps her wrist and leans closer to Wednesday for gossip, “He has a liking for the vintage. Remember those computers back in the 90s and 2000s? Apparently he still uses those too. I guess that’s progress for the youth–anything to get them out of their phones and social media.” She chuckles to herself.
“Is he here? Rowan?” Wednesday takes a look around. Everyone blends into a blur.
“No, no. He stays with Cynthia, but I haven’t seen either of them today. They must be at home.”
“Laura! We need to replace the propane canister. We’re running out of fuel for the grill!” Jonathan–Wednesday presumes–calls out.
“Oh dear, well I have to go.” She directs a pout to Wednesday that comes off exaggerated–too genuine for a stranger she just met. Wednesday leans into it to be convincing.
“How about I drop this off at their place for you?”
“That would be amazing! Yes, she lives in house 423.” She flaps her hand again. “Thank you so much but please, enjoy yourself, sweetheart. We’ll have more food and drinks along the way after I help out Jonathan. And thank you for stopping by!” She takes off in her heels to assist, leaving Wednesday to debrief with Enid.
“The vintage is a good way to remain undetected when browsing things that should remain classified.” Wednesday comments as she strolls inside the Wilson’s home. She enters the living room area and passes a couch with some of the party attendants watching the news.
“One of the reasons my family kept us away from modern technologies.” Wednesday says distractedly as she looks at the Wilson’s family photos on their fridge. The kitchen area is absurdly yellow and bright. Wednesday almost feels a headache coming along, but the pictures tug her somehow. “That and the mind numbing after effects.”
“You’re right on that. That is suspicious for Rowan’s case.” Enid replies. “Maybe that could be how he’s been keeping himself offline for the most part.”
Wednesday stays silent as her finger traces an edge to a polaroid.
“It is a nice looking house. Nice family, even.” Enid notes off handedly. “This could be us in a different life.”
“Just not this color scheme and less parties.” Wednesday huffs and Enid chuckles.
“Sure,” Enid murmurs and then asks softly. “Do you miss your family, Wends?” She clearly heard her comment from earlier. Wednesday admires her attention, so she answers her truthfully.
“All the time.” She readjusts a crooked photo and the magnet holding it in place. “Sentimentality isn’t one I would admit to in my past life, but there are many emotions I’ve experienced after…” She trails and stops herself after she’s realized she rearranged the photos. They do look neater but she’s overstepped. She clears her throat and pivots the conversation. Her fingers hover away from them. “Yours?”
“Ah not really, no.” Enid replies casually. She doesn’t sound uncomfortable as she continues. “My dad–sometimes. Some of my brothers other times. But-”
Enid sounds like she’s doodling at the other end. She can hear the sounds of her scribbles from perhaps her feather glitter pen. She must be leaning over her drawing, where her face is close to the notepad. Her headset mic close to pick up all the sounds. She must be concentrated too with her tongue sticking out.
Wednesday tries not to grin at the stupidity of her imagination. But she only knows that’s true when she hears her pen click and Enid sets it aside on her notepad.
“They’re the reason I left my old life anyway. Well, one of the reasons.” The last part sounds like a revelation. Something vulnerable. Wednesday makes a mental note and doesn’t push further. There would be more time to chat after the mission on that.
“I’m sorry your family failed to be a home you can look fondly back to.” She offers instead. “Perhaps the separation was a necessity for your case. A peace of mind. A new start. Something I wish you received on better terms.”
“Thanks Wends. I wish that too.” Enid says the next with an audible smile. “Besides, I got you and Yoko, and our silly photos whenever I want to look back.”
They fall into a comfortable silence.
“It’s fair to say not everyone is cut out for this…lifestyle.” Enid says. “Everyone has their breaking point. How far they break, however, is another story.”
Wednesday leaves through the Wilson’s front door, exploring the other side. She passes a house with a for sale sign. She sees a preserved area for the creek with benches nearby. She passes a large statue of a man in a pilgrim hat–a memorial dedicated to him juxtaposed to the pedestrians who pay no mind and ranger officers who nap or play on their phones.
She eventually finds Cynthia’s house. She vaults the fence to enter the backyard. Animal control crews stand around, so she drops herself to the staircase leading to cellar doors.
She picks the lock easily and moves quietly inside. Plastic curtains hit her face and she blinks at the smell. There are potions everywhere. Bottles spilled. Mixers, pills. Candles drawn to light the dimly lit room.
“This is straight from a horror film!” Enid screams. Wednesday pulls off her earpiece; the cord about an inch of a distance. She wrinkles her nose and waits. She plugs her earpiece back, once she knows Enid calmed herself. The latter exhales an embarrassed apology.
Wednesday runs a hand against one of the tables. She snaps the powered dust from her fingers and tastes it. “Hmm, she must have been trying to heal him.”
Rowan laid sickly across the table and his mother paced nervously. She bumped into bottles that spilled liquid or powder. It made a mess at her every turn. Then she came back with an uncertain expression across her face.
“Your friend said to use this. I-I’m not sure what to do, honey. But we have to try.” She unscrewed the cork and tipped it to his lips.
There was heavy breathing and a scream. The next thing she knew, she saw Rowan holding his mother tightly. He sat on the table–his trembling gone. He took off his glasses and smiled with tears. He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder and spoke steadily, “There’s something I need to tell you, Mom.”
And then, nothing else. Wednesday can’t search any further.
“His mother’s remedies couldn’t cure him, as expected. But he was healed through a potion a friend sent him. His mother didn’t say who this friend was.”
“Healed…like completely? That’s not–that shouldn’t be possible, right?”
“No, the state of this room appears worse than in my vision. And these ingredients were recently mixed. He was cured temporarily and he’s trying to recreate the effect.”
She finds the staircases and carefully maneuvers herself around the house. Some of the animal control workers mill about inside the kitchen. The layout appears the same as the Wilson’s house. She recalls a staircase should be nearby if this is so.
She waits for one of the workers to turn his back, and she swiftly walks backward to keep an eye on him as she pivots around to the banister. Her footsteps are unnaturally silent–not a problem for her to climb the stairs faster. She slows just a bit and listens if anyone is upstairs.
After three breaths, she knows she is alone and tries the doors. All the doors open with ease–mostly mundane bedrooms, bathroom, or for laundry. There is one door that doesn’t budge.
She takes out her lockpick and quietly closes the door after her. She finds something: a robe.
A silk robe in dark blue, with black flower decor. And a white tuxedo inside with a white bowtie. The outfit stands proudly on a clothing display.
Wednesday slips her hand on the pocket and her head snaps up. This vision is particularly strong–more than when Rowan was practically dying in front of his mother.
“You don’t owe them anything, Rowan. Don’t you think it’s odd? Everything they’ve asked you to do and for what? To live as a ghost?” Rowan was on the phone with someone. He stared at a mirror where the robe would have been. “You’re a Nightshade brother for life and I need you.”
He bit his nail, wiped his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and repeated these actions several times.
He looks ill. His eyes are red and he’s paler, thinner.
“Okay, there’s an assignment in New York.” He paced and bit his nails. “I made a copy of the debrief before it got reassigned. I know how we can get their attention without the OCA pointing it back to me.”
“Good, I’ll get you there.”
Wednesday stares at a flash drive she pulls from his pocket. Her jaw tenses and she almost crushes the usb…so this was why this vision felt visceral.
“What is it?”
A bee symbol was drawn at the center. She looks up and blinks. “This is Eugene’s…” She says slowly and quietly.
It takes about a minute before Enid responds back. “From New York,” Enid says in a hush. She phrases it into a statement, rather than a question.
“Rowan had access to the debrief files and planned to be there. That had to include the locational points of interest. They crossed paths somehow, otherwise how could he have gotten this in his possession?”
“That could also mean that Eugene’s fall from the clock tower…it wasn’t Eugene’s fault but that he was intercepted.”
“Yes.” Wednesday frowns. She finds another note in the other pocket. She unfolds it and sees scribbled handwriting: You should look the part. See you on November 13 - X.T .
“So a date and this expensive looking robe? Has to be for some kind of ceremonial event.” Enid comments.
Wednesday leaves the room and checks the others she already passed. Her eyebrows furrow. “These are guest rooms. No indication someone stayed in them.” She presses the bedsheet and shakes her head. “And no indication of Rowan’s presence.”
“Right, they are squeaky clean. Except for that horror-movie-of-a basement.” Enid types quickly and then writes something on her notepad. “Yoko-”
“That’s me,” Yoko chimes in the shared channel.
“The canvas you ran the other day?”
“Uh-huh, what about?”
“Rowan doesn’t appear to be living with his mom. He must be staying somewhere else, but in the neighborhood, right?”
“Huh,” Yoko clicks her tongue in thought. “Send me your notes, Enid?”
“Already did.” Enid smiles at the other line.
“Okay, caught up now. Try the house 425. There’s this nurse that got hired recently–some of the neighbors think he’s kooky, but I’d say this is a good place to check. If Rowan’s state is getting worse, it would make sense they would hire one to visit him regularly.”
She stares out one of the windows. There’s a room at the house across from them that she could enter.
“The timing might suggest correlation. Good thinking, Tanaka.”
“My pleasure.” Yoko drops off.
Wednesday climbs out from said window. She scales the ledge and looks behind. She finds a pipe and then commits to sliding down, where she drops next to the staircase leading to the cellar door of the creepy basement. She wipes her hands and then vaults the fence.
She spots three figures at house 425–all dressed in uniform. They’ve changed rotation on the agents standing by, but there are two areas they’ve kept the same. One stands at the front door, the other mills around the closed garage, and the other–she has to lean closer–is inside the backyard entrance.
She finds an opening at the vacant house between them. The garage door is slightly open, so she can use that as passage for now. She waits for the guard at the 425 house to turn his back. Once he does, she does a double take to ensure no one sees her trespassing, and then slips and quietly pulls the garage door shut to be sure.
She finds a door leading inside. She presses her ear, hears nothing, and twists the knob, slowly pushing it to prevent the door from creaking loudly. She silences the door with her foot as it closes behind her. There are voices coming in from the living room.
“What’s with our neighbor anyway? Never outside but he got a mob visiting him all the time.”
“Mob, seriously?”
She adjusts herself to get a better view. There are two people staring outside their window facing the house she needs to enter.
“Don’t you think it’s weird they all wear those uniforms?”
She pads closer to them, being conscious they can turn to look behind at any moment.
“Maybe they’re triplets and that’s their thing?”
She turns so she can reach their patio.
“Triplets? Now who’s the crazy one with their theories?”
She vaults through an open window, right as she hears the last bit of their bickering: “Don’t invalidate my theories. I’m not judging yours…”
She shakes her head and looks for an opening on one of the fences. Across would be the backyard. Two guards: one posts to watch the entrance of the backyard, and another examines a map on a table.
She spots a bush she can use to cushion her drop. So she times it just enough to vault through the fence and stay crouched. There is a ladder that could take her to the topmost window: the attic. That was what she saw from Rowan’s mom’s house. Leftover equipment suggests construction happened recently that she could use.
The guard at the table will see her if she tries to reach the ladder, so she knocks him out and drags his body hidden to a bush. She climbs the ladder and slips inside the window.
There is a computer and a microfilm viewer. This is definitely Rowan’s and this is the correct house. She tries the computer first. The monitor is bulky and the keyboard is chipped with a mouse that looks broken in. She plugs Eugene's flash drive and watches the windows slowly load.
“This is good, he wasn’t able to decrypt it. So that means he couldn’t access the files.” Enid sounds hopeful. “The microfilms…try the one Mrs. Wilson had.”
Wednesday places the microfilm into the viewer and cranks the wheel.
“Nothing important. These are just plants.” She scrolls all the way to the bottom and doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary.
“No matches on my end either. What about the ones at his desk?”
Wednesday looks at the desk and finds a few other films.
They are articles about the Nightshades. Wednesday remembers from her vision that Rowan was referred to as a “Nightshade Brother.” These articles mentioned their anthropology and involvement in funding various events for normies and outcasts–dating all the way back to the 50s. Rowan was doing research on them–as the articles in the microfilm had different names for the organization until more recently, they settled with "Nightshade" as the official name.
“Huh, wait. Did you hear that?” Enid breaks Wednesday’s focus on the screen. “The computer next to you. Did it chime or something?”
Wednesday pulls back from the viewer. She scoots her chair to the right and returns to the computer.
She checks the screen as directed. A calendar event notification appears.
1 hour overdue: House Tour - Schmitt’s
When she clicked the event for details, it opened his calendar account. Surprisingly, the display is intuitive enough to navigate. No other details appeared, other than a realtor's point of contact.
“That for sale sign next to the Wilson’s? Could that be what he’s looking at? Such a small world and whatever money he has to be looking at other houses.” Enid whistles.
Wednesday notes that and curiously clicks the next few months. She stops in November and to her delight, there is an event for the 13th.
November 13: Paris Fashion Show
“He’s what? Going to be modeling?” Enid asks quizzically.
Wednesday hums as she browses his calendar. Lots of them mention about a frequent visit with his nurse. He wouldn’t be in a state to travel far, but something important would require his physical presence.
Wednesday closes the computer. She takes the microfilms and pockets them.
She vaults out of the window and scales until she finds a window to another room. She pries it but it doesn’t budge. She takes out her knife and scrapes an opening. She puts more force into the handle and bends the blade down until she hears a click.
This is his bedroom. As she expected, he has those potion bottles scattered around. Empty or spilling. She wrinkles her nose and looks at his desk, his book shelf, and then underneath his bed.
There is a journal taped underneath. She moves closer and cuts it free.
As soon as she makes contact, she feels herself collapse.
Rowan leaned over his desk, while another person around his same age stood next to him. He had an explosive anger that Rowan cowered as he spoke.
“We’re running out of time! They need something big.” The stranger threw his hands up. His voice was familiar. It was the same as her other vision when Rowan was speaking with someone on the phone about the New York assignment. Rowan flinched as the hand almost hit him. “Tell them about the OCA. Once they know about them, they’ll forget all about you. And our debt is paid–more than what they asked for.”
“Is it that simple?” Rowan pushed his glasses and rubbed his hands. His nose was runny and he sniffled weakly. “They will find me. That’s what they do, find and eliminate the people who talk too much.”
He whispered the last part. And his voice could barely be heard what he said next: “I made a mistake.” He pushed himself back and shook. “I-I messed up and should have listened to them.”
“It’s too late now! You’re running out of these.” He gestured to the potion bottles. They were considerably less than the amount of bottles he had in his room now.
Rowan pressed his hands against the desk and stared at the empty journal. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Shakily, he opened to a blank page with one hand, he took an inhaler and breathed. The redness in his eyes faded slightly and he reached for a pen. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead and he looks as though he has a fever.
At the top, he wrote: the Outcast Contract Agency (OCA)
And began to write frantically….
The stranger grinned and his eyes darkened. “See, it wasn’t that hard.”
The vision ends just as abruptly as it began.
Wednesday stands up from where she fell and wipes her sweated brows.
“I saw the man Rowan was discussing the New York assignment to and the friend I believe had gotten a temporary cure for him. He fell into debt and couldn’t pay the price. Rowan needed a refill, so he baited Rowan to give information about the OCA.” She opens the journal and reads the entries. “And in turn, Rowan gave the keys.”
Enid gasps once she’s caught up to what she saw.
“We have what we need. Do what you need to do, Wednesday.”
“Free muffins! Come stop by for some sweet samples!” A cook wears a pink apron to match the bright pink-themed muffin stand.
Despicable.
“Can you bring some home with you pretty please?” Enid begs. Wednesday doesn’t need to be in the same room with her to know Enid is practically jumping for them.
“I’m still thinking about it.” Wednesday grumbles.
Her eyes narrow at a man dressed in a pristine shirt and slacks. He is overdressed as Wednesday for this weather. The realtor.
He stands at the front of the line–wild arm gestures as he appears to yap about something. He whacks the table and it wobbles back.
“Hey hermano, these are really good. So good, I think I might be missing an appointment with Mr. Laslow. Do you know him? I’m supposed to show him one of the old houses that went for sale–the Schmitt’s?”
“Well, thank you, sir, but I have no idea who any of these people are. I’m just sharing these cupcakes.”
“Can I get some more? They’re free after all!”
“Um”, the cook starts but exhales in relief when the man moves out of line to get a phone call.
“Care to do some improv, Wends?” Enid jumps in. “Maybe you can do a better job in selling the house?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Wednesday smirks.
She spots a radio next to the stand. She ducks to cover herself in the bushes, and she quietly inches closer to it. She presses play and backs up, through the bushes, and then to the now empty line.
“What?” The cook makes their way to the expected spot. He fumbles with the buttons to try to turn the music off.
In one swift motion, Wednesday grabs the closest muffin and pours emetic rat poison over it. She swoops the muffin and places it gently over the plate on the side. Next to the sign that says “Extra Super-Duper Special Muffin!”
Once the cook sighs in relief after shutting off the radio, he stands back to where he was earlier to resume his work. The realtor on the phone call, immediately shushes who they were speaking with to gasp at the special muffin waiting for him.
“Oh my, well, don’t mind if I do!” He marches like an animated cartoon character to the plate. The cook shakes his head–somehow forgetting he never put the muffin there–and slowly wipes his face in exhaustion with the realtor’s antics.
“I feel like you have some unresolved issues and you’re putting it on these muffins.” The cook mutters–his tone more casual than his customer-friendly facade.
The comment, thankfully, goes to deaf ears as the realtor’s jolly expression turns sour.
“I think I ate too much. I don’t feel so good.” The realtor groans and places a hand on his stomach. He bends forward slightly and walks.
“That’ll do ya, hermano. ” The cook turns to leave as well. Fed up with his shift, he moves to speak with his colleague at the pink-themed truck filled with more batches of muffins.
Wednesday follows closely to the preoccupied realtor slugging toward the nearest trash bin.
That was a lie: he missed many obvious places where he could relieve himself, but chose a shed near the mayor campaign tent. The ranger officer–from before–didn’t seem at all empathetic to the sluggish man.
The realtor turns to the trash can that is at the back of the shed. Wednesday does a quick glance around, and it is the perfect spot to knock him out. She reaches forward and pushes his forehead against the trash can–hard enough that his face falls forward and he stops moving. She touches the pulse point on his neck to ensure he is still alive… unfortunately, he is.
“Wednesday…” Enid reprimands.
“I did not intend to say that out loud.” Wednesday replies shyly.
She dumps his body through the shed’s window. She kneels next to him and places her hand on his back. She closes her eyes.
“Sounds good, brother.”
“I am not your brother.”
“Right, um any particular reason you’re interested in this house? Usually, it’s the other way that I find what you’re looking for.”
“I want to see its secrets. This house has something special. I want to find them.” His voice shifted to something ominous.
“Spooky, okay.”
The last part sounded muffled like he was stuffing himself with a muffin.
How long has he been in that stand? Wednesday shakes her head and tightens her eyelids. She needs to find something else to go from. Luckily, this man is an open book.
She then found herself by the stand.
The realtor was pacing back and forth. He had his ear pressed to his phone as he balanced it in place on his shoulder.
“That is spooky. Maybe he wants a look at the basement? That is a scary man.” Wednesday could not recognize the voice, but it sounded like an old woman.
The realtor shivered as he unwrapped the last bit of the muffin and stuffed it in his mouth.
“You’re right, Mommy. But he’s got to look at how nice the backyard is. Wonderful place for social gatherings and to bring the kids outside to play.”
“Tell him that. Not me.” His mother laughed at the other side of the phone.
Wednesday opens her eyes and rolls her shoulders. She’ll scout the basement to verify that would get Rowan’s attention. She moves the realtor inside the large equipment bin. He might get a little headache when he wakes up, but those muffins should keep him warm when he eats them again– if he isn’t traumatized from the Extra Super-Duper Special.
She feels generous today and clicks a button on her earpiece to switch channels. “Tanaka, I’m marking a location for cleanup. Body in the equipment bin of this marked shed. Unconscious only.” She taps the lid and watches a slight glow appear.
“Aye Aye, Captain. Received. Over and out.”
She vaults through the window she had dumped him in, finds a set of keys that left his pockets and examines it closely.
“That should be the master key to unlock the house. Number 433."
Wednesday walks straight to the neighborhood, recalling she had passed that building after visiting Mrs. Wilson’s. She confirms the key works when she unlocks the front door. She takes off her jacket and hangs it on the coat racket so that she can mirror the same uniform as the realtor’s.
She rolls up her sleeves and looks around the house. Her arms around her back, as she feigns the interior and her temporary persona. She opens a couple of doors: bathroom, kitchen.
Then, one that she thought would be a supply closet. She finds staircases and how there were practically no lights. She climbs down the stairs carefully and is met by a door and a key card lock. There is a red keycard lying on top of the box. She picks it up and swipes it on the corresponding compartment on the wall, next to a keypad.
The door slides and red lasers beam around another room to a vault at the end. This must be that grand secret Rowan is dying to see. Now to make that wish come true.
“Give him a minute. He’s wrapping up with the nurse and might be a little moody.” The guard at the front door crosses his arm and explains. A moment of waiting, and then the guard’s earpiece buzzes and he cups his ear to listen closely. “Alright.”
He opens the door and then steps back to his position earlier with his arms crossed.
Wednesday sees a staircase leading up, where Rowan is. A guard is behind him, careful not to touch him–as the boy appears agitated–but a hand out in case he loses his footing. He holds the railing tightly but when he reaches the few steps to the bottom of the staircase, he abruptly fixes his posture and then his suit.
He coughs roughly and then flexes his fingers when he reaches the opened door. He fixes his glasses and then a complete shift in his presence appears when he makes eye contact with Wednesday. He looks eerily healthier–he doesn’t look like he has a fever or that he’s unwell. He carries himself upright, poised. The redness in his face is gone. Although, his skin is still shockingly pale as a giveaway.
“There he is. Rowan Laslow himself.” Enid says quietly.
“Hello, Mr. Laslow.” Wednesday schools her monotone voice.
Rowan cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “Ah, who are you?” He tilts his head.
“I’m sorry for the wait. You spoke to my colleague on the phone earlier today. He was supposed to meet with you at 12, but he got into some…unforeseen circumstances.”
His surprised expression relaxes. He nods his head quickly. “Right, yes.”
“He’s asked me to fill in for him, but he’s passed me all the notes I need to continue your appointment.”
“Perfect, lead the way.”
Wednesday turns and does just that. She notices that from behind, Rowan doesn’t stumble when he goes down the next set of stairs. His balance appears to improve with the seconds that go by. He must have been administered another medication for the time being.
Although, she still picks up his nervous habits. He has his hands clasped in front of him as he walks. There’s a slight ticking noise when his thumb anxiously taps his left hand.
They eventually reach the house and Wednesday unlocks the door with the realtor’s set of keys–just for show.
“Come inside. This is the living room.” Wednesday faces him and his guard, as she backs herself inside further.
She extends her right arm to show the left and right side like a flight attendant. But she grows bored in this charade, so her tone almost gives away her impatience. “I know you want to ‘see the secrets’ of this house. Follow me down here.”
Rowan shifts again–almost similar to the stranger in the vision. His eyes darken and his voice did too, “Good.”
The sudden change made Wednesday’s eyebrows raise, but she made sure not to show her expression to him.
“I’m surprised his guard isn’t saying anything right now,” Enid whispers. She didn’t want to risk being overheard, especially in a tense location.
Wednesday eyes the guard through her peripheral. She can see him holding out his gun, but not to her. It was more of a stance in case something were to occur.
“This is a protected vault with its own security. Something I presume would catch your attention, Mr. Laslow.”
“Indeed it has. Boot it up.” Rowan walks closer to it. He raises a hand as the guard tries to follow him more closely.
Wednesday reenacts what she discovered. She takes out the red card she pocketed and swipes it on the key card holder. A soft click and beep beep. And then the door moves to reveal the lasers.
“Excellent.” Rowan fixes his glasses and starts to type on the keypad. “There is a high chance they’ve kept it with the default manufacturer code. Ah-ha! Indeed they have. ”
Pew. One laser beam goes down. Pew. Then another. Pew. And it continues on until the next room is no longer protected.
“Henry, leave me be for now. I’m going to take some time here. Try to look around what else could…catch our interest .”
“Understood, sir.” His guard holsters his gun and makes his way outside. He takes a door that leads up to the outside backyard.
“How much are you offering this? About four-point one?” He enters the hallway and walks toward the vault at the end.
Wednesday makes another mental eye brow raise with the money. He has guards, a home to himself, a nurse, and he wants to expand with another property. “Yes, that sounds right.” She plays along with the charade she started with and steps closer to the keypad.
“Okay, hmm we can make that happen.”
“We?” Wednesday hovers her left hand over the controls. “You and the Nightshades?”
“What?” Rowan turns to stare at her. It’s like she can hear his heartbeat racing with raise in octave of his voice. She masks her excitement. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh, we know a lot about you, Rowan.” She couldn’t help but grin. “We’ve been watching.”
His eyes widen and it all seems to click in place. He gasps and stretches a hand. He attempts to use his telekinesis powers and push her back, but it does nothing to her. Just a brief breeze hits her face and she tuts.
The weak hit does damage anyway to Rowan. He falls to his knees and coughs. He tries again–stretches a hand and it shakes violently as he coughs harder. He looks up, unable to move. Pathetic.
“You broke your contract. I am only here to enforce the consequences.” Wednesday sighs as she types a different manufacturer code she memorized as a child for fun. “Don’t scream. It does not suit you.”
She hits enter. Beep. Beep. The lasers boot up one by one. Yet, they’re faster than Rowan as he trips again to get up and run.
And then Wednesday smiles, her manic smile. The explosion lights her eyes and she sees his body fly up.
Just like the beautiful sound of a melody, she hears the screams of his security guard call for backup and his footsteps nearing where he was before. Oh, how she wishes to see his widened, stupid gaze on what little remained of Rowan Laslow.
More men run through the front door entrance that she exits from. She puts on her coat and fixes her braids.
No one pays attention or shows any indication that they knew she was there. They all run with their guns and nervous panics, screaming in confusion about what exactly happened. Panic, chaos, the icing on the cupcake.
Her manic smile does not leave her when she stops by the muffin stand for one last time. The cook returned, but huddles to shield himself from the commotion. He shakes in fear. His hands cover his ears as he mutters incoherent words to himself. He doesn’t take notice of all the boxes missing from his truck. And maybe an envelope with some cash waiting for him.
When Yoko picks up Wednesday from a connected bus stop somewhere else, she is surprised to hear a loud thump when the trunk door is closed.
Yoko floors the pedal once she has her seatbelt on. Her eyes drift to the rearview mirror and she sees stacks of boxes obstructing her view. She shifts to her passenger and chokes a laugh.
Wednesday has her signature frown, but her eyes have a clear happiness in them.
“I bought Enid and you muffins.”