#how he came to the lwm and doesn't remember his past when it was only known for a fact that the girls went through will be explained

[diddykongfan]

(my heart is a kaleidoscope)

The “Emma and Graham are Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask” AU that literally no one asked for, but you’re all getting anyway. Previous writings in the verse can be found here, here, and here; but, as I have always intended, I have gone back to the beginnings of the verse to tell the story.

This part starts out heavily  OUAT 1x01 Pilot (with some alterations to backstory & curse elements in order to make the Sailor Moon thing even sort of work), before taking an abrupt turn into a place where almost everything is different (because of the Sailor Moon thing, obviously, the turn we took led us over to the first chapter/episode of that instead). I’m trying not to do the entire present day section of the OUAT pilot, though, so there is some skipping about.

I have loosely (very loosely) planned out following four story arcs which combine ideas from both source canons. Of course, that may be my head being more ambitious than my time & muse, but we shall see.

Not a whole heck of a lot of Graham in this part (and only in his Tuxedo Mask persona), but, you know. it’s already more than 3500 words and, like i said, i’m kind of skipping around both pilots and trying not to completely rehash either one. That means making decisions about where and when and if to include certain aspects. And this chapter feels right to me as it currently is.

arc one, dark kingdom/dark curse, chapter 1/?

Emma Swan has no memories before waking in the woods at age 14, with four other girls who had the same problem – they all five knew their names, but nothing else.

She hasn't seen any of those girls since they were all put in foster care and split up.

And she hasn't let anyone close since she was 16 and she thought that– well. It doesn't matter what she'd thought. She had been wrong. Painfully so. But it's been a lonely 12 years, in the meantime, and as she blows out the candle on the cheap cupcake she bought herself, she lets the inkling of a wish expel with her breath.

And then there's a knock on the door, her head snapping towards the sound.

If she believed, in anything, she might think that some force up there was somehow granting the wish she may have sort of just made (please not another birthday alone). But she doesn’t believe, so – she’s not sure what to think. Someone at the wrong apartment, probably (it’ll be another birthday alone, won’t it?).

And she opens the door to see a kid.

(Clean. Not malnourished. Nice quality clothes. Kid comes from money. Although, as far as anyone could tell when they were found, the same could be said for her and the other girls. Still, no one ever did figure out who they actually were.)

“Um… Can I help you?” she asks. It has to be a wrong door. There’s no other explanation. Other than that, she’s still trying to figure out how she should proceed. There’s a kid, at her door, and that is not something that generally happens.

And if the appearance of a child at her doorstep wasn’t strange enough – “Are you Emma Swan?” – looking for her. No parents in sight. Just the kid, and the bag on his back.

“Yeah. Who are you?” There’s no sense denying, no matter how confused she may be. And giving an answer is probably the only way she’ll get answers in return, so-

“My name’s Henry. I’m your son,” he announces. Like it’s obvious.

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, too stunned to react. The kid seems to take her hesitation as an invitation, brushing past her into the room. So not what she was hoping would happen – not that she quite knows what she was hoping would happen. Maybe that she’d blink and this whole thing would be a figment of her imagination?

Finally, her brain catches up to her situation, and she attempts to take control of whatever this is that’s going on here – “Whoa! Hey, kid? Kid? Kid?” As she follows him into the room, she lets the door close – she isn’t about to let any prying neighbors in on this business, if she can’t help it. “I don’t have a son.” Or anyone else, for that matter, no parents, no friends, no one. She doesn’t have anyone. And as far as she’s aware, that’s how it’s always been. “Where are your parents?”

“Ten years ago, did you give a baby up for adoption?” The exactness of his tone makes her pause. He came here knowing what he was doing, that’s for sure. Still, she’s not a mother. She gave that up. Tried to make sure that there was no way that the baby could find her. Hoped that he would never want to, that the family that adopted him would be enough. “That was me.” Ten years and a handful of months. He’ll be going on 11, won’t he? But she needs – she can’t confront this, not yet.

“Give me a minute,” she requests, and then, though she’s not proud of it, she shuts herself in the bathroom.

(This can’t be happening. She couldn’t be a mother – not back then. And now? No, she doesn’t have that right any more. Signed it away.)

(This is happening. He found her, somehow. Despite every precaution she took with the closed adoption.)

(This can’t be happening. Why would it be? He was supposed to get a good life, a loving family. He was supposed to never wonder or care about her.)

“Hey, do you have any juice?”

(This is happening. There is a kid on her doorstep that says he’s…)

“Never mind. Found some.”

(This is actually happening. Even though it can’t. Even though she has to put an end to it, as soon as possible. Biology aside, she doesn’t have a son.)

When she’s pulled herself together enough to try and face this, she exits the bathroom to find the kid – Henry – drinking her orange juice straight out of the bottle. She’s adopted her best stern-and-stoic expression, no-nonsense. But before she can say anything, try, once more, to take control of the situation, the kid smiles at her.

“We should probably get going.”

“Going where?”

“I want you to come home with me,” he requests, and, no. She’s not – she’s not doing this. She doesn’t need to be forced to intrude on a life that’s got to be better than anything she could have given the kid. She was nobody, back then, a lonely teenager who had nothing, who was in jail. Couldn’t have been a mother then, had no life to give the baby. She isn’t a mother now, not just because the kid walked into her apartment saying he was her son, like that makes it all cut-and-dry. No, now, she’s still nobody, still gets the feeling every day that she’s… Nothing. That her entire sense of identity – tenuous as it is, sometimes, with the missing years – is worthless.

“Okay, kid. I’m calling the cops.” In a few strides, she’s across the room, phone already in her hand.

“Then I’ll tell them that you kidnapped me,” the boy states, no hesitation.

And at that, she pauses. “And they’ll believe you, because I’m your birth mother.”

“Yep.” He seems awfully pleased with himself, like he knows for a fact he’s won whatever game it is he thinks he’s playing, barging into her life like this – but she’s not exactly as fooled as he seems to think she is.

“You’re not gonna do that,” she declares, confident. Of course, he meets her with confidence of his own –

“Try me.”

She lets herself smile, for a moment. Because here, she finally has him. Finally has the upper hand.

“You’re pretty good. But here’s the thing, there’s not a lot that I’m great at in life. But I have one skill. Let’s call it a super power. I can tell when anyone is lying. And you, kid? Are.”

She starts to dial, but then, in a tone much more deflated than before- “Wait. Please don’t call the cops. Please. Come home with me.”

And somehow, all at once, she can feel her resolve crumble.

“Where’s home?”

“Storybrooke, Maine.”

…

The kid has a book, it turns out.

Well, the backpack probably should have given that away, but give her a break for a second? She was a little busy freaking out about the kid finding her to consider what was in his bag.

It’s a book of fairy tales, from the looks of it, and he’s reading it pretty intently while they’re on the road.

Maybe it’s a bad idea, because she’s trying to remain detached, so that she can get this over with and go back to her life, the reason that she’s calling him kid instead of Henry, trying to think in the same terms, but – she tries to engage him about the book anyway, asking “What’s that?”

(It’s going to be a long couple hours either way, but she’d maybe rather it wasn’t a long uncomfortable silence.)

“I’m not sure you’re ready.”

Well, that’s not cryptic or anything.

“Not ready for some fairy tales?”

“They’re not fairy tales. They’re true. Every story in this book actually happened.”

“Of course they did.” Her sarcasm is half-muttered, under her breath, but the kid calls her out on it.

“Use your super power. See if I’m lying.”

It doesn’t feel like the kid is lying, but it wouldn’t. If he’s really convinced of something like that, then to him… It is true.

But that doesn’t make it true. There’s a difference. There’s always been a difference. She’s gotten pretty good at understanding that much.

“Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true.”

“That’s exactly what makes it true. You should know more than anyone.”

What? No, that’s not how it works. Not at all. People believe things that aren’t true all the time. She had believed that the nice woman from the state would be able to find out where she had come from, how she had gotten to the woods with no memories – that was what the woman had said, when they’d talked. It’d never happened. She had believed that Neal was a good person, who loved her, who wouldn’t abandon her. Clearly, that hadn’t been true.

If there’s something she knows more than anyone, it’s that believing something doesn’t make it true. That you can believe and be so very wrong.

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re in this book.” He says it so confidently she almost believes him, for a moment. After all, there was that chunk of time that she can’t remember, everything before that day in the woods. Still… Whatever happened back then, whoever she was, she has a hard time believing that it would be in a book of fairy tales.

“Oh, kid. You’ve got problems.”

“Yep. And you’re gonna fix ‘em.”

She pauses. Her? Fix the kid’s problems? No.

“And how is that?” she asks, though she’s not sure she wants to know the answer.

He digs around in his bag again, and after a few moments he pulls out a round, golden… What is that, a brooch? A compact? Whatever it is, it’s engraved with a crescent moon shape and inlaid with four small jewels in different colors around the edges, and fits in the palm of his hand.

“You’re Sailor Moon,” he declares. “And you’re gonna find the other Guardians, and the Princess, and you’re all gonna break the curse.”

Maybe he was right when he said she wasn’t ready for the answer. She isn’t sure whether she wants to simply scoff at the notion of her being some sort of… Curse-breaking Guardian? Or something? Or if she wants to laugh at the idea. It’s completely ridiculous, after all.

But, she isn’t heartless, doesn’t really want to hurt the kid’s feelings by dismissing him in this outright. So she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she tries to gain a little more insight into this… Theory, or whatever it would technically be called. Tries, once more, despite herself, to engage with the kid.

“And what’s that thing in your hand got to do with all of that?”

“It’s a transformation brooch. It’ll help you unlock your powers. I don’t know exactly what they are, but you’ll see.”

…

She’s almost to the town line when she spots that the kid left his book and the shining golden “transformation brooch” in her car. She would applaud his nerve, even lets herself grin at the sneaky move, because, hey, it is a little impressive. It’s bold, and she can appreciate that. Even if it is boldness being used against her.

And then there’s a wolf in the road, and she’s swerving to avoid it when things go black.

…

When she finds the kid at the playground by the shore, his “castle” as his teacher called it, she tries to reason with him. Tries to explain that – that there’s no way that she’s in some book of fairy tales. That she’s real.

She’s a little surprised when he shoves the brooch back at her, shouting a challenge.

“Prove it, then! Prove you aren’t Sailor Moon. Try and transform. Say the words. If nothing happens, fine! But try first!”

The metal is warm in her hand, the weight of the object almost familiar. She pushes that thought aside, raising the object above her head, before reciting the words the kid had shown her in his book. They’re pretty much random, the words that make the supposed phrase of power, but if shouting them out will prove there’s no such thing as magic and curses, simple as that, well, then, she’ll say them.

“Moon Prism Power, Make-Up!”

She’s not expecting the ribbons of warm light that envelop her the moment the last syllable has passed her lips, and yet, she experiences them anyway. The feeling doesn’t last long, but that something happens at all is enough to prove her wrong, isn’t it?

She’s… Sailor Moon. Whatever that actually means.

Looking down at the outfit she’s suddenly wearing doesn’t do much to inspire faith in herself, though. Short skirt, ribbons everywhere. Elbow length white gloves, every material on the outfit something light and, unless she’s mistaken, something that would be susceptible to damage in a fight – not that she knows for sure there will be fighting involved in this whole thing, but what else would a “Guardian” do, if not fight to protect someone or something? The boots feel sturdy enough, at least, and the heels would probably hurt someone if she kicked them.

Also, reaching up to her forehead she feels that she’s wearing a tiara.

Looking back at the kid only means seeing that he’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, unfortunately.

(Unfortunate because it means he sees the new outfit too and knows he was right – or at the very least onto something – obviously.)

“Okay,” she starts, cautious of being too encouraging, as of yet. Just because something happened doesn’t mean she’s ready to just accept it yet, ready to uproot herself from her life in Boston for this.

Not when she doesn’t really understand, yet, what this even is.

“I still don’t know what it is you expect me to do, with all of this,” she gestures to the outfit, “Shiny new clothes don’t do that much in the way of bestowing knowledge and powers.”

“The Evil Queen wanted to hurt Snow White,” Henry opens his book, turning it to face her so that she sees one of the illustrations that grace its pages. “So she allied with an ancient and spiteful being to create a curse, a curse that would take away everyone’s memories and happy endings, except for hers. There was a prophecy, though, that Snow White’s daughter, the princess, and her four Guardians would be able to fight back, to break the curse. So the five of them were trained, until they were fourteen. But then the Queen was finally ready to cast the curse, so the Blue Fairy used the very last magic bean in order to send the Princess and the Guardians through to the Land Without Magic before the curse could affect them too. But it must not have worked right, because you and the other four didn’t know about that, right? If you already knew you would’ve believed me without transforming.”

He turns the page, and the last illustration – that is her, and the others who were with her that day in the woods. Even if she didn’t recognize herself, recognize them, she would remember those outfits that they were found in, the dresses and cloaks that she had quickly realized were not exactly normal, everyday wear for most people. So–

“You can come and go from Storybrooke. So you can go and find the other Guardians and the Princess, and- And until we figure out where they are, you can stay here and fight the monsters.”

What.

“You didn’t say anything about monsters before, care to explain that part?”

“It’s the being that the Evil Queen was working with. Metalia. It sends out these creatures, ‘cause it needs them to collect human life energy so that it can sustain itself in this world. Only the Guardians, like you, have the power to stop them. The people in this town are getting hurt, every night, and they don’t even know it because the day just sort of repeats all the time.”

The shriek that sounds at that exact moment sounds as close as though it might be directly in her ear, and that does make her cringe – causing Henry to look at her strangely.

“Did you hear that scream?” she asks – the only explanation she has for him.

“No,” he shakes his head. “But I’m not the super hero, here. Maybe you should follow the sound, someone might be in trouble.”

Hard to follow a sound that, even when it repeats, feels like it’s practically on top of her.

But she supposes she has to try, doesn’t she? Has to see if there’s--- If this is---

If the kid is right, this, whatever this whole Sailor Moon thing is, the fighting monsters and finding princesses and all of it – somehow, it’s connected to her past. Connected to the mystery she’s never fully been able to set aside – who was Emma Swan, before that day, where did I come from?

So, is she positive she’s going to stay?

No.

But she’s already standing in this town, in the most impractical outfit she’s ever worn, and, well, it can’t do much harm to try, can it? To give this whole “Guardian” thing a test run before coming to a decision?

Probably can’t hurt. Too much, anyway.

So, when the shriek sounds a third time, she lets her instincts guide her, turning on her heels in a quick spin before running in that direction. Her stride is more powerful in her transformed state, she realizes; she’s covering far more ground, quickly, than she would normally consider herself capable of.

That is, obviously, nothing compared to the moment her instincts cause her to leap onto a rooftop and then across the town at that level, taking a shortcut she wouldn’t have dreamed possible. When she finally alights on the ground again, she’s in front of a jewelry store – signs proclaiming massive and frankly unrealistic discounts in the windows, though that’s not nearly alarming as the sight through said windows, the number of unconscious women on the floor.

And the young girl cowering in the corner as a taller figure advances on her. On first glance, it appears to be a saleswoman, but a little bit closer look would be enough to see talons instead of fingernails. Looming over the kid, poised to strike.

And she knows she can’t let that happen.

So, yes. She is in fact still running on power-driven instinct when she nearly knocks the door off its hinges, letting out an angry cry of stop right there!

It gets the attention of the woman with the claw-hands, at least, draws her away from the kid.

She doesn’t have a plan, though. And that is probably not a good thing.

“So the Sailor Guardians have finally arrived to fight the Queens,” the woman says, looking her up and down, assessing. “It will be Morga’s pleasure to deliver you to them in pieces!” In an instant, one clawed hand shoots forward, attempting to rake across her stomach and gut her. She’s fortunate for the increased agility and speed that the costume came with, allowing her to dodge backwards with ease.

Still no plan, as she continues to dodge Morga’s assault, ducking and weaving her way through the shop, attempting not to step on anyone, but at least the focus is on her, not the kid. The kid that she really hopes will run soon, instead of staying in the corner petrified.

It’s probably about five minutes of that before the people on the floor rise, jerking like puppets. Their eyes don’t open, they don’t make a sound, they just advance, boxing her in, as Morga smiles, revealing rows of sharp teeth.

Somehow, Morga is controlling her victims. And every Sailor-instinct that Emma is trying to follow pulls hard against the idea of fighting her way through the innocents.

And then Morga is reaching a claw out to strike her again, and she lets out a scream of pure frustration as a – is that a rose? It is, it’s a rose – as a rose streaks through the air, piercing the creature’s hand, causing it to withdraw from the strike it was about to make, as the unconscious victims to drop again.

“Now would be a good time to do something, I’d think” a voice says from the shadows, a glance in that direction revealing a man in a tuxedo, top hat, cape, and mask standing there, holding on to a rose very much like the one that just came out of nowhere.

She nods at him, despite still not knowing what she’s going to do. The instincts that came with the transformation haven’t led her wrong yet. Takes a deep breath, even though she doesn’t hardly have time –

And reaches up to the tiara, which jumps into her hand. Pours her intent into it, causing it to glow golden, and then, pulls back her arm like she’s about to throw a Frisbee, and calls out a new set of words, unsure where she got them but knowing they’re right –

“Moon Tiara Boomerang!”

The tiara is off like a shot, connecting with the monster in a flash of light, and when the light fades, the tiara is back on her forehead and there’s nothing but a pile of dust where Morga had stood.

The man is gone from his place in the shadows, and the women on the floor are groaning and starting to come to. The girl comes up to her quickly, though, tugging on her skirt, looking up at her in awe. “Who are you?” she asks.

And Emma says the only thing she can.

“I’m Sailor Moon, the Guardian of Love and Justice.”