#if we even get those since no signs of those popping up for cosmic fury

[thetimelordbatgirl]

How it feels knowing people actually pre-ordered that cheap looking megazord that Hasbro is charging 73 dollars for:

[societybabylon]

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Lifelong enemies Allie and Harry are devastated when they learn they are soulmates, so they form a pact to never act on their bond. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for them.

[read on ao3 here]

“Do you want to know your fate?”

Allie watched the old man place a crystal ball on the table in front of him. The bauble was unassuming and slightly dirty. Honestly, Allie wouldn’t have been surprised if it were made of plastic. It, like everything else in the cluttered store, looked cheap and fake. But then again, what did she know about the world of psychics? That’s why she was here, after all: she wanted answers about her future.

It was the day before Allie’s thirteenth birthday, and she was at a fortuneteller’s shop. Her friend Becca had insisted they come here to celebrate her impending soulmate reveal. Perhaps, Becca said, they could get a little insight into who she would be paired with.  

Allie’s world revolved around soulmates. When two people were ideally matched, an unbreakable soul bond tied the pair together. And two rules applied to all soulmates:

First, the bond was manifested in a tattoo. Everybody had their partner’s name written on their body somewhere. These tattoos didn’t require needles or ink; they showed up on their own, as if by magic.

Second, the tattooed names didn’t appear until the thirteenth birthday of the younger person in each couple. On that day, both soulmates would wake up to find themselves marked with their other half’s name.  

Assuming Allie’s soulmate was older than she was, there was only one day left until she learned who she was bonded to.  

Allie gazed at the crystal ball. Behind the fortuneteller, a pink neon sign buzzed an electric tune. The lights cast a dim glow throughout the small store.  

The psychic seemed over-the-top to her, not that she would ever tell Becca that. The man sitting across from her seemed more like a crackpot than a sage. His greasy hair hung in his face, so long that it nearly obscured his eyes. He reeked of licorice and burnt lavender. But they had already paid the man his fee, so they might as well hear what predictions he could conjure up for them.

“Do you want to know your fate?” he repeated. “Once you learn it, you can’t go back.”

“Yes,” Allie said. “I’m ready.”

The fortuneteller muttered a few unintelligible words and stared deeply into the crystal ball. “Hmm...it’s foggy, but some images are starting to come into focus. Ah, yes. I can see it now.”

To Allie, the crystal ball looked exactly as it did before.  

“I see money stained with blood. Tears and white bedsheets. Two bodies, submerged in water. A cellphone is ringing, but no one is picking up.”

“Okay,” Allie tried to figure out how to respond to this prophecy. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she certainly hadn’t thought he would list such unpleasant images. “But what does that mean?”

“These images foretell rejection and denial. You will learn who your soulmate is tomorrow, but you will be unhappy when you learn who you have been paired with. This bond will confuse you and bring you unhappiness. Yes, I definitely sense rejection and denial.”

Allie was stunned. “Do you see anything else? Like, happiness and love, maybe?”

“I cannot see specifics,” he responded with contempt. “That is not how my gift works.”

Of course the fraud fortuneteller wouldn’t be able to see specifics. She had shelled out good money for him to ruin her day. She protested, “But—”

The man cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Do not disrespect my craft. Just because you demand answers of me doesn’t mean that I’ll give them to you. I only see what the universe shows me.”

Allie glanced back at the crystal ball, which was still maddeningly clear. There were no bloodied dollar bills, no ringing cellphones. The fortuneteller could have invented any story he wanted. He could have reported that he had seen her in a happy relationship and with a successful career. And yet he deliberately chose to give her a bad fortune.  

“You must see something good in the crystal ball, right?” Becca murmured. She had been quietly listening in on the conversation between Allie and the psychic for the last fifteen minutes, mostly content to observe. “I mean, it can’t all be bad.”

“Actually, it can,” the man snapped. “I do not control your future. I merely pass on the messages that the universe sends me.”

“So you’re saying that rejection is my fate, and there’s nothing I can do to change that?” Allie said.

The man nodded eagerly, as if glad that she was finally catching on. “Precisely.”

“And why should I believe that?” Allie usually wasn’t so confrontational, especially with adults, but this fortuneteller was an exception. What did he know about her soulmate? Nothing.

The man scrutinized her frowning face. His lips went thin with irritation. “I think we are done here. I’ve told you what I saw. It’s not my problem if you don’t like the truth.”

Allie nearly scoffed. He read tea leaves and tarot cards for a living. He probably got pleasure out of ruining his customers’ days. Staring into a crystal ball and mumbling about dark visions wasn’t the truth, it was a cruel joke.

At least, she hoped it was a joke. There was a part of her (a part she tried to ignore) that worried that his predictions might come to pass. She pictured the images the man had mentioned—blood, tears, bodies in water—and she saw death. She shivered at the thought.

“Thanks for the crystal ball reading,” Becca cut in before Allie could offend the fortuneteller even more. “Well, we should probably go. My mom’s waiting for us outside.”

The fortuneteller wasn’t even listening. His attention had strayed to a stained, crumpled box of cigarettes that sat by his side. He picked one cigarette from the pack and sparked it with a pink lighter from his pocket.

Allie felt anger on her tongue, ready to be sharpened into spiteful words, but she could see that Becca was anxious to leave. She smothered her fury for her friend’s sake. “Yeah, thanks for the fortune.”

She stood up and walked out of the store with Becca. As the wooden door swung shut behind her, she turned around to give the fortuneteller one last glance. Thick smoke swirled around his head. His eyes were closed as if he had already forgotten that they were there.  

What did a man like that know about her fate?

+

The next day, Allie woke up at five in the morning. She was too giddy to go back to sleep. Despite how horribly the visit to the fortuneteller had gone, she was still excited by the potential of finding out who she was bonded to. She’d been waiting her entire life to see her soulmate’s name tattooed on her.  

She checked her wrists, a common spot for soulmate marks. They were blank. Her arms and legs, too, were bare. In fact, every visible inch of skin was unmarked.

Don’t worry, she reminded herself. It’s probably just hidden under some clothing.

She lifted the edge of her pajama shirt and walked to her mirror to get a closer look at herself. As she scanned over the planes of her stomach and saw more blank skin, she felt growing disappointment. It seemed that she hadn’t gotten her tattoo after all. Her soulmate was probably younger than she was, which meant she would have to wait until his thirteenth birthday to find out who he was.

But then she spotted a scribble of black near her waist. The writing was scrawled across her left hipbone in messy, boyish letters. She bent down to get a closer look at the words.  

Harry Bingham.

She gasped.  

Harry Bingham? No, it wasn’t possible. Harry had been her sister’s sworn enemy since preschool, which meant that by default, she and Harry were also enemies. Almost every time they had a conversation (a misfortune she did her best to avoid), he was arrogant and entitled and cruel.  

“No, no, no,” Allie said to herself. “This can’t be real.”

She paced her room, trying to rationalize why she was paired with Harry. She and Harry were nothing alike. It should have been impossible for them to be soulmates.  

Maybe this was some sort of cosmic joke, or the universe’s revenge for the times she’d been a bad person. Or maybe, while she had been sleeping, her sister decided to write Harry’s name on her as a prank. All those explanations were more logical than the thought that she might actually soulmates with Harry Bingham.

“This can’t be real,” she repeated.

But the ink was underneath her skin. As much as she wished that she could blink and watch the tattoo vanish before her eyes, she knew the mark was permanent. It would stay on her body forever, reminding her of the boy she’d been chained to.

When she took her shower later that morning, Allie tried, in a half-crazed stupor, to wash the name from her body. She scrubbed with her loofa until her skin was raw and red. But Harry’s name was still printed on her hipbone.  

After the shower, Allie dressed hastily, as if covering the mark would mean that it no longer existed. She even considered stealing a bottle of concealer from her sister’s room and smearing the makeup over her hip, but she feared that Cassandra would catch her in the act. Her mind was racing for solutions, and yet she was paralyzed by inaction.  

She curled up on her covers, her hair still damp. She was too stunned to cry. Instead, she just stared at the walls, trying to decode the mess she had landed in.  

By ten, Allie knew she could not hide in her room any longer. She crept downstairs to the kitchen, where her dad was flipping pancakes and humming along to a pop song. Cassandra and her mom were setting the table for breakfast. They had even put out a vase filled with her favorite peonies.  

“Morning, birthday girl,” her mom said.  

“Morning,” Allie replied, faking a grin. Her lower lip trembled from her anxiety.  

“I’m surprised you woke up late,” her dad said. “I remember waking up at the crack of dawn on my thirteenth birthday. I was so anxious I almost got sick. And then it turned out that there wasn’t even a tattoo on me!”  

“Sorry, dad, but even my birthday isn’t enough to get me to wake up early.” Lie. 

“You ready for breakfast?”

“Of course.” Another lie. Truthfully, she was terrified. She knew her family would use breakfast as an opportunity to spring the dreaded question: do you know who your soulmate is?

Her dad plated the golden pancakes and coated them with pats of butter and gooey, sugary syrup. He brought the food to the table, and they all sat down to eat.  

Allie shoved pieces of pancake into her mouth as if she were Joey Chestnut on steroids. She hoped that if her cheeks were stuffed with food, her family would let her eat her breakfast in peace instead of poking her for information.  

Across from Allie, Cassandra was only on her second bite of breakfast. She had cut her pancakes into delicate, precise slices and had taken care to ensure the syrup was evenly distributed. Even when taking sips from her orange juice, she was polished.

Perfect Cassandra, Allie thought. She would never be bound to someone as awful as Harry.  

“I remember my thirteenth birthday,” Allie’s mom said in between bites of pancake, seemingly clueless to the turmoil tearing her daughter apart. “I woke up and saw your dad’s name on the inside of my arm. But I had no clue who he was! Your generation is lucky to have the internet. You can Google your soulmate’s name and immediately find out who they are. We were in the dark about our soulmates until we met them in person.”

“Unless you knew your soulmate before you turned thirteen,” Cassandra pointed out. “Like, if you were paired up with someone that went to elementary school with you. Then you wouldn’t need the internet to help find them.”

Allie almost choked on her juice. That comment was uncomfortably close to her reality.

“I suppose that’s true,” her mom said. “That’s very rare, though. Your dad and I met when we were twenty-two, and we met earlier than most.”

“Well, I think it’s better not to use the internet to find your soulmate,” Cassandra declared. She said this frequently, especially when she was asked why she didn’t have social media. “I think you should meet your soulmate naturally, as you were supposed to.”

“So, Allie,” her mom turned to look at her. “Do you have any news for us yet?”

Allie went red. This conversation felt intensely wrong. Worse than the “sex talk” her parents had given her when she was eight. Although she had never considered it before, she wondered why her family felt like they were entitled to this information about her body and her future. Their society had bought into the idea that everyone should wear their soulmate tattoos like a badge of honor—but shouldn’t people be allowed to keep this information private?  

Allie was ashamed of her mark. She didn’t want to admit that she had been paired with West Ham’s most obnoxious idiot.  

“I don’t have a tattoo yet,” Allie lied, desperately hoping that her family would buy her act. “Guess he must be younger than me.”  

“Oh,” her mom said, clearly a little surprised. Her mom and her dad shared a look. “Well, that’s okay, honey. I’m sure you’ll find out who he is soon enough. Your thirteenth birthday doesn’t have to be all about finding your soulmate. You’re so young! You can worry about that later. Today’s still going to be a great day. ”

Allie almost laughed. Her parents thought she would be upset because she hadn’t gotten her tattoo. If they knew the truth...

“Yeah,” Allie said, grateful that her family didn’t prod further. And then she told her greatest lie of the morning. “I don’t really care about soulmates, anyway.”  

+

After breakfast, while her parents washed the dishes, Allie went back to hiding in her bedroom. She buried her head in the covers of her bed and let her emotions swallow her.

Harry Bingham, she thought again. How on Earth could I have been paired with Harry Bingham? We’re nothing alike.

She startled at the sound of her door swinging open. It was her sister. Cassandra wore a small, close-lipped smile that set Allie’s nerves on fire. Allie realized immediately that despite escaping the breakfast interrogation, she hadn’t escaped her sister.  

Cassandra sat down on the bed.

“You know you can knock, right?” Allie asked sharply.

“Sorry,” Cassandra said, entirely unapologetic. “So, who is it?”  

It was unlike Cassandra to be so upfront. Usually, she was the more reserved one, always telling Allie to calm down or be more patient.  

“It’s nobody. I told you, I didn’t find a tattoo on my body.”

“I know you’re lying,” Cassandra said. “I can hear it in your voice. You can fool mom and dad, but you can’t fool me.”

Anxiety shot through Allie. She thought that her performance at breakfast was Oscar-worthy, but as always, Cassandra saw through her lies. “I don’t want to tell you, okay? It’s none of your business.”

“I told you the second I found out who mine was.” Cassandra emphasized her point by sticking her wrist, which was encircled with blank ink, in Allie’s face.  

Allie could feel her panic growing. Her sister had a point, but Allie couldn’t possibly tell her the truth. How could she?

Allie imagined speaking Harry’s name aloud. She pictured her sister’s reaction, her mouth gaping wide and her eyebrows raised in shock. Cassandra would stutter out a kind response. She would try to make her congratulations sound convincing. Yet no matter what was said, they would both know the truth: Cassandra hated Harry, truly hated him. And that would never change.  

No, Allie could not tell the truth.  

“Just tell me.” Cassandra pushed. “I’m your sister. You can trust me.”

Allie’s eyes filled with stinging tears. “I do trust you, I promise. But I can’t tell you. Please, Cassandra, please just take my word for it. Please.”

Her sister looked bewildered. Allie knew Cassandra had never seen her beg like this before.  

“Fine.” Allie could hear the hurt in her sister’s voice. “You have to tell me one day, though. A soulmate’s not the kind of secret you can hide forever.”

Maybe not, Allie thought. But I can try.

+

When Allie arrived at school the next day, she was determined to corner Harry and confront him about the tattoo.  

As it turned out, she didn’t need to search for him. While she was walking down the hallway, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the lockers into a tight nook. It was Harry. Anger blazed in his eyes. He held up a cautious finger to his lips, shushing her. “Don’t say a word.”

Allie nodded. He stared at her suspiciously, as if he was worried that she would start screaming.  

“I think you probably know why I wanted to talk. I’m guessing it was your thirteenth birthday yesterday, Pressman. I don’t know what else could explain the tattoo I woke up with. And to think that I thought I would have a soulmate I liked.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “You probably prayed every night that you would end up with someone like me, huh?”

He was infuriating. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to think that she would ever be interested in him.

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Allie said. “Harry, you’re pretty much the last person I’d want to be bonded to.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. You think I want to be part of your shitty family?”  

That was one step too far. She was half considering throwing a punch at him. She could do it if she wanted; in this nook, they were hidden from the eyes of their teachers and classmates.

“You’re an asshole,” she spat.

“Bitch.”

Allie wished she could vaporize him on the spot. How could she have been chained to such a callous jerk?  

She thought of clever retorts she could say to him, insults that would permanently puncture his inflated pride. Though Cassandra was usually in the spotlight for her intelligence, no one could beat Allie’s wit. She could trade barbs with the best.

Allie considered those rumors that she had overheard about his parents’ loveless marriage. Yes, that would be a fertile site for insults.  

She opened her mouth, prepared to escalate the argument. But she stopped herself before she could say anything.  

What good would fighting with Harry do? At the end of the day, she would still have his name written on her hip.  

Looking at him, she found that he, too, appeared to be at a loss for words. Though he still wore an angry sneer, his eyes were sad. It seemed that they both came to the same realization: they could hurl nasty words at each other for hours, but it wouldn’t fix their situation. If they wanted to overcome their bond, they’d have to work together.

“We’re stuck with each other until we die, aren’t we?” Harry let out a deep sigh. His furious mask cracked, and Allie glimpsed genuine misery and anxiety on his face.  

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  

Then, a brilliant thought struck Allie. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. “We don’t have to be stuck with each other. There are plenty of soulmates who reject the bond.”  

“I guess.” Harry scrutinized her. She could tell he was considering her suggestion. “But how would we make sure that we’ve rejected it permanently? I wouldn’t want you falling in love with me five years from now, Pressman.”

Allie rolled her eyes. “Harry, it’s us. There’s literally no way we’re ever going to be friends, much less…well, you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. So what are you thinking?”

In her mind, a plan started to fall into place. A simple, perfect plan. “We both have to promise that we’ll never speak of this…this bond to anyone else. Ever. We have to keep it a secret until the day we die.”

“Like a pact?” Harry asked.  

“Yes, a pact. Except a pact isn’t enough. We have to do more than that. Before we turn twenty, we both have to agree to get our marks covered up.”

Harry seemed much less certain about this suggestion. Covering up soulmate tattoos was technically illegal. Most tattoo artists outright refused to do it, and those who were caught in the act could face up to a year in jail time. Eventually, however, he conceded, “Okay, fine. I can agree to that. But you need to swear on your life that you’re going to get yours covered up, too. This is a two-way street, Pressman. If I’m going to jail, so are you.”

“I swear on my life I’ll...,” Allie paused, considering her words. “You know, I feel like we should have some official pledge or something. For example, I, Allie Pressman, swear on my life that I will never mention that my soulmate is Harry Bingham. I will do everything in my power to keep my tattoo hidden.”  

Harry snorted. “Who do you think you are? The queen? Let’s just shake on it and call it a day.”

Allie glared at him. “Just say the damn words, will you?”

“Fine. I, Harry Bingham, swear on my life that I will never mention my soulmate is Allie Pressman. I will do everything I can to keep my tattoo hidden. Yada yada yada, you get the gist. Can I go now?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were the one who pulled me behind these lockers in the first place.”

“Touché.”

Just like that, it was settled. Their soulmate marks were a secret that they alone would keep. And they would never, ever act on their bond.  

+

For two years after that, neither Harry nor Allie spoke about the curse they shared. They didn’t interact in the hallway or the classroom. They both pretended that the other didn’t exist, and they were both happy with this arrangement.  

While her classmates celebrated their budding relationships or dreamed of the day they met their other half, Allie fantasized about getting a new, large tattoo to cover up the one on her hip. She was fifteen now; there were only a few more years until she could write Harry off as a memory.

Sometimes, she heard murmurs about him in the hallway. Sometimes, it seemed all of West Ham High School wanted to know his soulmate’s identity. Between his looks and his wealth, Harry was considered an ideal match. But no one was ever able to discover whose name was on his body.

Harry was hardly a factor in her life, much less her soulmate. He was a problem that she had solved, and she was content to let him stay that way.  

+

Mid-October during her sophomore year of high school, Allie planned a trip to Manhattan. Her aunt, who lived in Virginia, was having a weekend getaway to the city, and she had invited both Allie and Cassandra to join for the last day of her vacation.  

A week before the trip, Allie reminded Cassandra (who was swamped with homework as always) about their aunt’s visit. “Do you want to come?”

“What day are you going?” her sister replied.

“This Sunday.”

Cassandra frowned. “I can’t. I have to study for a math test that day. My grade is on the edge right now, and if I do poorly on the exam, I’ll get a B+ in the class. I can’t risk it. Trust me, I would go if I could.”

Allie understood. She knew her sister wanted to go to Yale, and she had seen the statistics. The admissions rate was around six percent. Even for the best of students, Yale was a reach. Allie was a bit sad—the city was always more fun with Cassandra by her side—but she wasn’t a child anymore, and she didn’t need her sister to accompany her everywhere.

“It’s no problem,” Allie reassured. “Just let me know if there’s anything that you want me to buy for you while I’m down there.”

+

Allie went to the city alone, bringing only her black purse and her cell phone with her. She arrived at Penn Station in the early morning. Aunt Carly, decked out in her characteristic prints and bold colors, was waiting for her.  

“Allie!” her aunt hollered. Her obnoxiously bright orange-red lip gloss matched the color of her handbag perfectly. “It’s been so long since I last saw you. You look taller—have you grown?”

Allie gave her aunt a tight hug and laughed. “Since August? No, I don’t think so. Same height as always.”

“Any boys?” Her aunt asked with a wink.

Allie’s chest tightened. She hated that question, truly hated it. “Nope, no one yet. But I’m happy being single.”

Luckily, Aunt Carly dropped the subject, and moved on to talking about a list of all the clothes and books and trinkets the two of them would be splurging on throughout the day. There was no budget, it seemed; Aunt Carly acted as though her pockets were bottomless.

They spent the first part of the day shopping on Fifth Avenue and hopping into trendy boutiques. Aunt Carly bought dozens of clothes with dizzyingly high prices. By the time they went to eat lunch, her aunt had seven large shopping bags in her arms. Allie was more frugal; she had bought one bag’s worth of clothes.

After lunch, they spent their time exploring Manhattan. They meandered through the streets, grabbing snacks in between people watching. Allie loved the vibrancy and anonymity of urban life.  Here, she shed the labels that followed her in West Ham.  

After ending the day with burgers and fries at the Shake Shack in Grand Central Station, her aunt prepared to board her train back to Virginia. Her tiny frame was dwarfed by the assortment of large bags and suitcases she carried with her.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay walking back to Penn Station?” Aunt Carly asked. “I wish we had arranged a train for you from here. The walk is so far.”

“I’ll be fine,” Allie promised. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Actually, you know what?” Aunt Carly pulled her green wallet out of her purse and grabbed a couple of twenty-dollar bills from its folds. “I just don’t feel comfortable with you walking all that way. Take this money and take a cab. Please, do it for my peace of mind. I would feel much safer if you did.”

“Okay, I will,” Allie said, knowing full well that she was lying. “Have a safe trip home!”

Allie watched as her aunt took her bags and boarded the train. As soon as Carly was out of sight, she pocketed the money for herself. That money could be useful for another day. And, she thought, there was something kind of peaceful about a solitary night walk.

She left Grand Central and pulled up the directions to Penn Station on her phone. It was dark outside, but the way was straightforward enough, so she put away the phone and let herself fully absorb the city. She was mesmerized by the myriad of people who surrounded her. It was truly electric.

Allie peered into clubs where the night was only beginning, and where men and women knocked back liquor like it was water. She walked by a row of cramped food trucks, where the heavy scent of spices soaked in through her lungs and warmed her to the core. Compared to West Ham, New York City might as well have been another planet—a wondrous, delightful alien world.  

She must have taken a wrong turn, because she realized she had walked halfway down an alleyway she didn’t recognize. The near-omnipresent city crowd had disappeared. The only sounds were the quiet hum of cars on busy streets and the plinking sound of water dripping from a drainpipe onto the street.  

Allie suddenly felt very, very small.

She couldn’t have gone too far from a main street. So she told herself that she shouldn’t be worrying, really. All she had to do was walk through to the other end of the alley. Once she was back on a major road, she could pull out her phone again and check for directions.

Allie walked down the narrow street, thinking, for the first time, that maybe she should have taken that cab after all. In polluted Manhattan, there were no stars to light her way. The drainpipe’s dripping water drummed an eerie rhythm—plink, plink, plink.

Behind her, slow footsteps made squishing sounds on the wet pavement. She glanced over her shoulder quickly. It was a man, tall and blonde, strolling nonchalantly toward her. He seemed to have emerged fully formed from shadow. His eyes traced over her with feigned disinterest, only to light up when he set his sights on her purse and shopping bag.  

She picked up her pace. The footsteps behind her sped up to match her strides.  

That couldn’t be a coincidence. A host of horrible nightmares burst into her head. Assault, murder, robbery...

She needed to walk faster.

Allie started scurrying down the street.  

So did he.  

When Allie glanced over her shoulder again, she could see the man closing in on her. Terrified, she broke into a sprint. But just as before, he mirrored her actions, and from the sound of it, he was a faster runner than she.  

A cold hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back mid-run. Allie tripped and went tumbling to the ground. The palm of her left hand scraped across gritty gravel, tearing her skin open. Blood oozed out from the cut and dribbled onto the street.

Allie stared up at the man with wide, stunned eyes. He whipped out a black glock from the pocket of his oversized jacket. His hands shook as if he had never pointed a killing weapon at another person before. Up close, he looked young, perhaps only one or two years older than her.  

Adrenaline jolted through her body, waking her up from her dreamy wandering. The pain of her injury receded as she focused on the weapon in front of her. This could be life or death, she realized. She had taken one wrong turn and ended up against the barrel of a gun.

“Give me your bags,” the man demanded.  

“What?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” And indeed, though his hands shook, his voice was calm.

The man jerked his gun in the direction of her purse and shopping bag as if his threat hadn’t been clear enough.  

“Okay, okay,” Allie said in rushed breaths.  

She took off her bags with her wounded hand and held them out to him. She stifled a cry as her purse’s handle bit into her skin. Her blood smeared over the metal, streaking it with red.

In a swift move, he snatched her belongings from her fingers. It amazed her how deftly he could move while still managing to point his gun at her.  

He quickly pulled her wallet out of her purse and rifled through paper bills quickly, including the money that her aunt had given her for a taxi. In the dim light of the alley, she could see her blood glistening on his fingertips, marking up every paper bill he touched.

He shut the wallet with a snap. His eyes darted nervously to each side of the alleyway, presumably checking to ensure no one had seen him rob her.  

“Now, close your eyes and count to thirty,” he ordered. For added intimidation, he waved his gun at her again. “And count slowly.”

Allie nearly whimpered with fear, but did as he said. She let her vision go dark. Without her sight, she couldn’t help but imagine his finger on the trigger, ready to kill her. She wasn’t putting up a fight. It would be an easy crime.  

“One. Two. Three…” she counted.  

But the shot never came. She heard the muffled thunk of fabric meeting heavy plastic, and then the squish of his feet as he sprinted down the alleyway. In seconds, she could no longer hear him at all. The city had swallowed him up. She was alone again.  

Allie opened her eyes and slowly rose from the ground. She winced as she plucked jagged pieces of gravel from her hands. She could still feel cold fear curling in her chest, although that emotion was quickly being replaced by the panicked realization that she had just lost her money and her ticket back home.

She was lucky about one thing: he hadn’t asked her to empty her pockets. Her phone was still tucked snuggly in the back pocket of her jeans.

+

Allie dialed Cassandra’s number. It was past midnight, so there was a high likelihood that her sister would already be asleep, especially since she had a test the next day. Her parents, notorious for going to bed early, would certainly already have dozed off.  

The line rang and rang, but Cassandra didn’t pick up. Then: Hi, you’ve reached Cassandra Pressman. Leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.

Since her sister’s phone had gone straight to voicemail, she would have to rely on someone else. She went through her contact list one by one, praying that at least one of her friends would pick up. Will, Becca, Gordie, Bean: none of them answered her calls.

The blood on her left hand had started to clot. Her cell was rapidly running out of battery. She needed someone to pick up.  

She scrolled through her contacts again, calling people she barely knew. She even called Elle Tomkins, who she had spoken maybe a total of three words to. Over and over, she was met with disappointment when no one picked up.

Allie was quickly running out of options when she came across a person she had tried to push to the corners of her mind. Her finger hovered over his name in her contact list. 

Harry Bingham.  

It seemed wrong to call him. Wrong, when he was constantly at Cassandra’s throat. Wrong, when they had done everything possible to ignore each other since she turned thirteen.  

You know what? Allie thought to herself. Fuck it.  

Before she could stop herself, she called him.  

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Hey. It’s Allie.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the twenty-first century. I have caller I.D. What do you want?”

Ugh. Though his rudeness was no surprise, it still irked her. But at this point, it seemed like he was her only hope, so she tried to suppress her irritation. “Can I ask you a favor? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have no one else to turn to and I’m scared and I don’t know what else to do.”

“Shit, Allie. Just spit it out.”

“I’m stuck in New York City. A man mugged me and took all my money and my ticket back home. I wouldn’t have called you, except I’ve already tried my family and all my friends. Can you come get me?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. In her head, she pictured him lying in bed, half-asleep and sneering at her. She imagined that he was hovering his finger over the red button on his phone, ready to end the call at any moment. Knowing Harry, he would probably hang up on her and go right back to sleep, and in the morning he’d forget that she’d ever called him.  

“Hello?” she said, breaking the silence. “Harry? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” He sighed. “You’re going to owe me for this, Pressman.”

Relief rushed over her. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I will. Might be a couple of hours before I can get to you, though. I’m going to have to take an Amtrak or something, because my dad will get pissed if I start racking up miles on my car.” The trains from West Ham to Penn Station took an hour and a half minimum, and since fewer trains ran at night, the next train to the city probably wouldn’t be for a while. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay until then?”

“Um, I was just planning on waiting around at the train station.”

“Jesus Christ.” He cursed under his breath. “You so owe me for this. Alright, walk to the Waterwhite Hotel. It’s only two blocks from the station. Tell the person at the front desk that you’re a friend of the Bingham family. They’ll let you wait in the lobby until I show up.”

A cool rush of relief flooded her. “Harry? Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it. Like, seriously. Don’t mention this to anyone.”  

+

Harry arrived at the Waterwhite a little over two hours later. His shirt was rumpled and he looked like he desperately needed two shots of espresso. Allie had never seen him look so disheveled. He must have come immediately after she called him.  

Allie was waiting for him on a modern, dark blue couch in the hotel lobby. She watched as he walked over to the tall brunette working the reception desk. He smiled and said something to the woman. Her previously bored expression turned happy, and she pointed to where Allie was sitting. Allie could see him thanking her with one of his classic Bingham smiles before walking over to where she was waiting. Even bedraggled, he still somehow managed to charm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. If he noticed her state of distress—her grimy shoes, her still-bloody hand, her tired red eyes—he did not comment on it.  

She nodded. “Thank you, again, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”  

He didn’t respond. They walked to the train station in near silence. The clacking of her shoes on the pavement was the only sound either of them made on the way there.

When they reached Penn Station, Harry paid for her Amtrak ticket back to West Ham in cash. This, too, was a near-wordless exchange. She thanked him. He merely grunted in response.

After waiting for thirty minutes, their train arrived. Unlike most trains out of the city, this one was near empty, occupied only by sleep-deprived workers commuting to their morning shift and a few odd stragglers.

Allie slid into a seat near the front of a car. Rather than sliding into the seat next to her, Harry spread himself out on the row of seats across from her. He rested his back against the window, stretched his legs across the seats, and let his feet dangle into the aisle.

Allie pulled out her phone to check the time. 3:23 a.m. was etched in glowing lights.  

The train rolled to a start. Harry closed his eyes and slouched in his seat as if he hoped to resume the sleep he had been enjoying before she had called. When he stretched his arms behind his head, his shirt rose to expose a sliver of skin by his hip.  

She could see the start of her name, inked on him in her penmanship. Allie Pressman. She had never seen it before. It pained her to look at it, although there was an almost beautiful quality to the tattoo. Unlike tattoos done by hand, a soulmate mark would never fade or need touch-ups.

He dropped his arms. The tattoo vanished under a cascade of black fabric.  

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He was looking at her with half-shut eyes. So, he’d caught her staring after all.

Maybe it was sheer curiosity, or maybe her tiredness had made her weak, but she wanted to see those words on his skin.  

Without responding, Allie lifted the edge of her top and nudged down one side of her jeans so that his name was fully revealed. The tattoo was the same as always, stark black ink against pale skin. It felt strange to have her mark exposed to the world. No one had ever seen it but her.  

Harry followed her lead. He lifted the edge of his shirt, showing his tattoo to her once more. This time, she could see the entirety of her signature, like a claiming brand on a boy who despised her.  

They sat in silence, examining each other’s inked skin with fascination.  

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing your name on someone else’s body,” she said.

“Yeah, very weird.” Harry tore his eyes away from her skin. Then, with a wry smirk, he said, “Almost as weird as having to cross state lines at three in the morning to pick up your enemy’s little sister.”

“Why did you help me?” she asked, genuinely curious.  

He looked surprised at her question. “Allie, I know what you and your sister think of me, but I’m not a bad person. I wasn’t going to leave you stranded in New York.”

Allie didn’t quite know what to say to that. Harry was right—she and Cassandra thought he was all West Ham’s worst traits distilled into one human being. Could it really be that after years of hating him, he was worth redeeming?

The train swayed hypnotically on the tracks. The cabin was quiet except for a man snoring three rows away from them. She and Harry stared at each other silently, truly seeing each other for the first time.  

He seemed different in this setting, she noticed. Away from his callous friends and his detached parents, he seemed lost and sad and beautiful and kind.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she finally said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? And what exactly do you think of me? I know you don’t like me, so don’t even try to deny it.”

Allie rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know, Harry. I think you’re richer than I’ll ever be. I think you’re smart but overconfident. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think about you much at all.”

Harry smiled at her. Had she ever gotten a genuine smile from him before? She didn’t think so. She was used to his cold glares and bitter frowns, so this unfamiliar expression sent a shock of warmth through her.  

“Don’t think about me at all, huh?” he said. “I’m hurt. Here I was, thinking I’d been in your dreams since thirteen.”

“Haunting my nightmares, maybe,” she retorted.  

“Ouch.” He turned away from her to look out the window.  

Guilt flared up in Allie, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “As if you care what I think of you.”

He turned back to face her. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Why would you think I don’t care?” He sounded surprisingly genuine, completely dropping the teasing tone he’d previously used with her.  

Allie suddenly felt anxious. She was trapped on a train with Harry Bingham, and he kept subverting her expectations. Without the judgment of West Ham hanging over her head, she didn’t know how to behave around him.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I think that because of a conversation from many years ago, when we both agreed to pretend that there was nothing between us.”

The train’s fluorescent lights flickered out above them. For a moment, they were plunged into the dark. The only light was the blue glow of the city outside, which bounced brilliantly off Allie’s white sneakers.  

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Allie could feel her whole body tense up with renewed stress. She was grateful that the lights had gone out—hopefully, he couldn’t see her blushing.  

Why was he divulging this to her?

Harry laughed. The sound was sharp. When he spoke again, his voice was newly guarded. “I never wanted to be bonded with you. I still don’t. But when I look at the ink on my skin, I think of you. Always. So yes, Pressman, I do care what you think of me.”

The train’s lights startled back on. In the full light, Harry studied her for one more moment. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was burning her. She searched for the words to respond to him, but they kept getting stuck on the way to her tongue.  

Before she could come up with anything, he pulled a pair of earbuds from his pocket and shoved them in his ears. He closed his eyes, too, blocking out the sight of her. And just like that, he was back to ignoring her.

+

They arrived at the West Ham train station at five in the morning. The sun had not yet risen, and the dark sky was speckled with tiny stars. Just a short train ride had separated her from the everlasting citylight of New York. Her shopping spree and mugging almost felt as if they were figments of her imagination, although her scraped hands and the missing weight of her purse were painful reminders that the past twenty-four hours had been real.  

“Need a ride home?” Harry asked.  

“If you don’t mind.” She felt guilty for asking so much of him. She hadn’t even expected him to answer her call, and he had ended up coming all the way to New York to get her.  

“It’s whatever,” he said. He rubbed his tired eyes and took out the keys to his Maserati.  

Harry had parked next to the station. They got into the car like phantoms, sucked of all their energy.

Five minutes later, they turned onto Allie’s street. Harry made sure to pull over three houses before hers. That way, her family wouldn’t hear the purr of his engine or see her coming from his car.

“This is just between you and me, right?” Allie asked. “Just like before?”

Harry jerked his chin in response—a drowsy, clumsy attempt at a nod, she assumed. After a beat, he said, “Right. Just like before.”

There was nothing left for her to say to him. So she just said thanks, and then she exited the car.  

He zoomed off the second her door shut behind her. As she watched the silhouette of his Maserati drive out of sight, she was struck once more by what a wild night it had been. She had been saved by her worst enemy. She had sat by him on an old train and in a luxury vehicle. She had shown her mark to him. How out of character—perhaps she had been seized by a bout of insanity after she was mugged.  

She was thankful for his help. She was also ready to go back to forgetting that Harry even existed. With any luck, their relationship would return to the exact state it had been in before: nonexistent.  

[recommendedlisten]

Summertime marks the halfway point of the year, and while other publications are already tabulating the best albums of 2019 so far, Recommended Listen always takes this moment to recognize the best slept-on and unheralded releases since its spring recap. As always, there’s way more music for a one-human site to applaud than just that written about within the proper review space. This season’s observations pick right up where the first quarter predicted in strange patterns and immaculate sounds continuing to rise to the foreground, with the best fresh heavy listens adding unavoidable vigor to the mix. Here’s a summer dozen of recommended listens to get far, far away with...

Abuse of Power - What On Earth Can We Do? [Triple B Records]

The unofficial season of hardcore kicks off with the debut from Atlanta’s Abuse of Power. The five-piece, who’ve amassed a cult following in DIY circles in recent years thanks to a string of lauded self-released singles, tapes, and ask-a-punk word of mouth recommendation join the growing ranks of Boston purist label Triple B Records for their debut full-length What On Earth Can We Do?, and make a heavy opening statement with it. Like another one of the year’s recommended hardcore efforts you’ll read about later down this list, Abuse of Power grind melodic aggression into unrestrained velocity, but with metallic pistons at bay. Te tempered heat of vocalist Kaleb Purdue, these pit anthems take on an even bigger life when framed around themes of identity, isolation, and the political nightmares we’re trying to survive. Their solution is to keep tearing down walls in search of resolution.

Ava Luna - Pigments EP [Self-released]

The eccentricities brandished outwardly by Ava Luna play a huge part in the Brooklyn avant-pop group creating something of remarkable singularity out there in the universe. There’s no other act out there who turn a chorus’ corner or find a groovy pocket in the places they do, and it’s that strive for new discovery within the energy’s that makes their music a cosmic allure. Not even a year removed from the space age smooth moves of their great listmaking third LP Moon 2, those eccentricities again shape-shift in perhaps the band’s most ornate offering yet in the short form format Pigment. The four-song EP is reflective of the season’s air through compositions of warm woven acoustic arpeggios, dub percussion in rippled water effect and keys warped beneath the sun. Felicia Douglass and Becca Kauffman are at their coolest wrapped within the humidity’s beat, and the conversational guests stepping in and out of the scene plays like a summer night without plans other than to authentically chill.

Baroness - Gold & Grey [Abraxan Hymns]

Gold & Gray marks the conclusive end of a long chapter in Baroness’ reimagination of metal as a lifeblood throughout the course of several hues on the color prism. In one sense, their fifth studio effort achieves everything they set out to do in changing the way listeners perceive what the genre can become, and another, the context is rife with even further questions as to what comes next through the existentialist ponderings of frontman John Baizley as he howls deep into the void about where the timeline ends. Those questions reverberate through another expansion in Baroness’ universe through psychedelic patterns, magnetic waves and hollowed out transmissions responding from unknown depths in the black hole. It’s the Philadelphia-by-way-of-Savannah’s heaviest onslaught yet, though not in the decibel sense that you’d expect. Every wrinkle in their latest timeline is transcendent. To where needs to be answered at all.

Control Top - Covert Contracts [Get Better Records]

Post-punk has become a bit of a reductive cliche lately lacking in spikes, but Philly trio Control Top are razor sharp and full of fire in their delivery with their debut full-length Covert Contracts. It’s an extreme case of the personal, political and technologically terrifying being brought to the forefront of the conversation as well as attacking our senses, with lead singer and bassist Ali Carter acting as the live wire mouthpiece with a maximalist current from drummer Alex Lichtenauer and guitarist Al Creedon downloading a surge of dark truths from the secret server. In the age of information, Control Top are here to tear down the consumerism and the algorithms set up to pocket millions off of it one piece of the hate machine at a time, and when it’s over, Covert Contracts has hopefully hacked your brain as well.

Elizabeth Colour Wheel - NOCEBO [The Flenser]

There really aren’t any concrete shapes or sounds in the heavy music world to describe what Elizabeth Colour Wheel create. Regardless of that, the Boston five-piece’s debut full-length NOCEBO pulls in a whirlwind onslaught of harsher elements from the post-hardcore, black metal, experimental noise, and shoegaze soundscapes and siphons them through the tour de force that is their frontperson Lane Shi. As the album title -- a nod to a medical term to describe a detrimental effect on health produced by psychological or psychosomatic factors -- might suggest, Shi and her bandmates master the art of devastation through cataclysmic eruptions and momentary elegies for what’s been lost in their wake. Nothing’s left without ruin in this listen, and that could very well be the key as to why Elizabeth Colour Wheel leave no corner of the heavy music world undiscovered in their path of destruction.

Emily Reo - Only You Can See It [Carpark Records]

It has been six years since Emily Reo released her last album Olive Juice, but that doesn’t mean the Brooklyn-based independent scene star hasn’t been busy in the meantime. The long stretch has seen her tirelessly hone her perfectionism and discipline in every way, as a multi-instrumentalist, live performer, producer and engineer not just in her own capacity, but in the work of her peers as well. On Only You Can See It, her contributions to the entire musical community shine through audibly on top of and beneath the surface of her idiosyncratic pop sound. It’s a multi-faceted collection of songs that Reo has mined over with meticulous dedication that amounts to each carrying their own degree of sparkle. Once they’ve your eye, Reo uses her pop medium to brandish think bubbles on gender equality, bad behavior and self-care that stick with you because the music does, too.

Fury - Failed Entertainment [Run for Cover Records]

Groove-ridden hardcore indebted to its ‘90s tidal waves has hit the scene hard this last coupling of years, and California’s Fury are part of the reason for that. Akin to their contemporaries in Baltimore’s Turnstile and Boston’s Fiddlehead, the five-piece came up through DIY circles and nothing but word of mouth recommendation before signing with Run for Cover Records for their sophomore effort Failed Entertainment. The album marks the next chapter in Fury’s evolution, however, as they’ve grabbed their relentless aggression with a firm grip, and have found new ways to tear into it using dense layers of melodic hardcore and sinewy, grungy alt-rock that leaves behind a charred impression just the same. Ethical existentialism framed lyrically at its center, lead screamer Jeremy Stith doesn’t falter at the chance at making Fury’s most visible statement to date a resounding one. These punks, in short, make every move count.

Greys - Age Hasn’t Spoiled You [Carpark Records]

Greys have come a long way since their beginnings as a noisy post-hardcore band, and their third full-length effort Age Hasn’t Spoiled You is the furthest indication that the Toronto band have discovered their own layer within the static, and while it’s devoid of much of the clamour and chaos of yesteryears, it’s even more thrilling in its design. Over a collection of 11 tracks, the four-piece disassemble their sonic limbs and reconstruct them through textures that are both strange yet awe-inducing, like what you might imagine if the cord between the astronaut and the space shuttle detached, and further alienated a body even further from their connection with Earth. It’s the channeling of a fraught energy for these times in feeling apart from this world, as if Greys’ sound now exists in its own vacuum where particles still collide, yet only they know the deafening sound it can create.

Jamila Woods - LEGACY! LEGACY! [Jagjaguwar Records]

Chicago’s contemporary R&B scene is shining brightly thanks to the creative wisdoms shared by Jamila Woods, and even more so with her sophomore effort LEGACY! LEGACY! The songwriter, poet and activist scribed a sense of empowerment as both a woman and a member of the black community with her listmaking debut album HEAVN, an album that made homage to her Chi-town roots and its potential as it also did to gifting her an identity, and with her latest listen, she pays it forward backward through songs inspired by the heroes who helped pushed boundaries in the right direction before she was given her own platform to so. Embellished by a sparkling production of an alive energy in its instrumental arrangements, Woods voice is the vessel for a higher power in gratitude and self-love. LEGACY! LEGACY! lifts her every being even further up with it.

Jenny Lewis - On the Line [Warner Bros. Records]

On the Line confirms what we’ve already know about Jenny Lewis, and that’s how she’s a masterful songwriter beyond just the Los Angeles indie rock diamonds in the rough which her crystal powers were originally unearthed. Four albums into her career as a solo musician following her years fronting Rilo Kiley, Lewis’ songwriting craft only continue to polish itself clearly in the Laurel Canyon breeze and the stoner-eyed, sun-blinding glares of her travel stories of poets, romantic vagabonds, boys named Bobby, girls named Caroline, and plenty of drugs. Each comes to life vividly as if they were her own to live (perhaps even they are...) and though backed by an ensemble of rock virtuosos such as Don Was, Benmont Trench, Beck, and Ringo Starr, Lewis holds the spotlight all her own.

PRIESTS - The Seduction of Kansas [Sister Polygon Records]

Like their peers in Control Top, PRIESTS’ 2017 debut album Nothing Feels Natural weaponized the use of punk ethos to make a bigger statement from the sociopolitical forefront. That agenda hasn’t changed on their sophomore follow-up The Seduction of Kansas, though it’s been refined to resonate much more deeper while reaching further into this country’s past fuck ups beyond just those of the last three years. They’ve also discovered how the use of movement can be used as a medium to make Katie Alice-Greer’s musings into bonafide sonic sculptures, as the angular fleshtones of Nothing Feels Natural have now given way to shattered shimmers under the dance punk mirror ball. Through the production of John Congleton, PRIESTS have been emboldened in a new found current of electricity.

Spencer Radcliffe & Everyone Else - Hot Spring [Run for Cover Records]

The best part about Spencer Radcliffe’s music is how he keeps his cards close to his chest, and with Hot Spring, his latest effort with his band & Everyone Else, the Chicago-based multi-instrumentalist invites us into his world where clocks and seasons are held up to question by his queries of the future, much like that he did on 2017′s listmaker Enjoy the Great Outdoors, but in a sense where the escape is less a destination and rather into the wild at large. The album buzzes with the sound of insects and birds chirping as Radcliffe’s hazy scenery is filled in with rich detail of the world’s beauties in both a natural and humanistic sense on the brink of a point of no return for the worse. Time is the enemy, yet Radcliffe is in no hurry to dig through its decay to appreciate life’s wonders on his own atc. At least, while we’re still here.

[ninasnon-sense]

Crossroads, Part 2

Nine years and ten months later.

Penny woke with her face in a pillow and a pounding in her head. With a groan, she tried to wriggle deeper into the bed, but found someone in the way. She frowned into the pillow before turning her head just enough to peer one eyed at the body beside her.

Fully clothed. That was good. That meant they had probably just drunkenly passed out together. She squinted, unimpressed with the meagre light that filtered through the curtains. A man. They definitely just passed out together. She tried to move her feet and found that they were pinned. Another shift and wiggle that was more effort that she truly felt she had to spend on such things and she saw why. One of the roadies (Molly was it?) was sprawled across her legs in a position that could not be comfortable. Now she remembered. The last night of her tour. Traditional beer and pizza night with the people that made sure she had a good show. The session band. The roadies. However many of them were up for it and would fit into her frankly obscene hotel room. Not all of them stayed the night, but enough of them did that it was always fun trying to pick her way through the passed out bodies when she was inevitably the first one to wake.

She would have liked to stay on the bed in the heart of the tangle, but her hangover was loud and demanding. Carefully, not wanting to wake anyone, she extracted herself and grabbed her handbag before stumbling her way to the bathroom as quietly as possible, stepping over two more people on her way and clicking the bathroom door shut behind her.

Weary and faintly nauseous, she dropped her handbag on the fancy marble counter that the basin was set into. A look into the mirror had her wincing. Yesterday’s stage makeup was smeared across her face, giving her panda eyes and mouth like a clown. That needed to be fixed. Going out in yesterdays eyeliner was one thing, but the makeup she wore for her concerts was made of stronger stuff and layered on bright and thick so people way back in the mosh pit could at least get the idea of what her face looked like. Fuck it. Baby wipes would get the worst of it off and she already had a packet of them stashed in here.

Three wipes later and she looked almost human. A hungover and possibly terminally ill human, but it was still an improvement. She shuddered to think of what her face had done to that poor pillow, but a place like this almost definitely had spares and if they didn’t they could afford a new one. There were still dark smudges around her bright green eyes, her dyed electric blue hair was still cloyed with smoke and hairspray, but now it sort of looked like it had been done on purpose. If the paparazzi caught her, her fans would just assume it had been another long night of partying. Well. They would if she put pants on when she left. Looking down to her bare legs, the memory or shucking off her leather trousers before ordering an ungodly amount of pizza was fuzzy at the edges, but undeniably there. Along with the memory of taking her bra off from under her red vest and throwing it at Joe just because she could.

The disaster of her face mostly taken care of, she rummaged through her bag for the aspirin she knew was in there, emerging in a feeble victory only to have to fight to get two of the pills out of the foil. Still groggy , she popped them into her mouth and turned the tap on to scoop up a hand full of water to swallow them down with. Her hand went into the stream, the flow of the cold water waking her up the tiniest bit.

Then it slowed down as her hand pulled out. The water stopping its flow mid air in a trail to her palm. At first she froze as well, not comprehending what she was seeing. Slowly, she tipped her hand, expecting the water to trickle out of her palm even as the aspirin began to dissolve in her mouth. Except it didn’t. It slid from her skin like a silk scarf and hung in the air above the basin.

No. No! She still had two months left! Staggering away from the sink, she nearly tripped over her own feet as she rushed for the door.

There. Lying on the bed where Penny had been, propped up on one elbow and running a finger down her sound guys back. The room was still and silent, time having stopped its flow, leaving only Penny and that creature free to act.

Not that she could do anything more than stare in horror at it. A smile touched the demons face, exposing those awful needle teeth she’d been having nightmares about for nearly ten years. Fuck, she still looked like one of her mums friends. That stupid fucking middle class couture shit. She’d had an agent that looked like that and had panic attacks every time she had to see them face to face.

“I have to say my dear,” the demon cooed. “I approve of your stage name. Penny Dreadful. How delightfully historic.”

“You’re early,” she ground out in response.

“Oh, I’m not collecting yet,” the demon assured her with a sickly sweet smile as she carefully climbed out from the mess of passed out techies and roadies. “I just wanted to make sure you remembered. A surprising amount of you people flat out forget their deal. Or try and weasel their way out of it.”

“You mean like you weaselled your way into it,” Penny found herself snapping. It was a bad idea. It was an awful idea.

She didn’t give a shit. Even as the demon’s expression darkened, Penny found herself grabbing onto the righteous fury that had fuelled her since she had made that stupid fucking deal.

“And exactly what do you mean by that?” the demon said, their voice deceptively cordial even as she bared those horrifying teeth and glared right at her.

“That you’re a fucking con artist that took advantage of a kid!”

“Are you accusing me of striking an invalid bargain?”

“Damn fucking right I am!”

A hand like a vice clamped onto Penny’s arm and yanked her close to the snarling needle toothed face of the demon. A motherly face turned monstrous. A flash of flame and the stink and sting of smoke bit at her nostrils, choking her as the floor fell away from beneath her feet only to slam back and weaken her knees. The smoke cleared from her eyes and Penny coughed to clear her throat before looking around their new surroundings.

It was an office, or perhaps a library. One wall was covered with thick green curtains from the ceiling that had to be nearly fifty foot high. Dark walnut shelves lined the other three walls, every shelf crammed with books and files arranged in perfect order. Orbs of light hung above them like fire flies, gently illuminating the space. In each corned stood a statue, each facing the centre of the large room. Two opposite depicted classical angels in white marble, their wings tucked in tight and their faces beatifically turned upwards. The other two were skeletons in tarnished brass, their bony wings spread wide and their skull turned downwards in a gaping grimace with pointing spears to the rich green carpet.

The other feature of the room was an enormous and elegantly carved desk, walnut to match the shelves and embellishment on the legs. Two antique chairs sat before it and behind it there was a severe looking woman who might have been in her thirties. Vibrant orange hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her white lacy shirt was tied at the collar with a thin green chiffon scarf and a black jacket was draped over the back of her impressive chair. A pair of not quite flamboyant glasses sat on the bridge of her nose and she rested her head against on delicate hand as she read through a thick document fiddling with a pen in her left hand.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” she said, her voice as severe as her expression. “Take a seat.” Penny wasn’t given a chance to argue, or to do anything else. She was roughly shoved towards the desk and stumbled her way into one of the chairs. As her bare skin hit the leather she because uncomfortable aware of the fact that she was sat there in nothing but a red vest and a pair of boring black knickers white the other women in attendance were all booted and suited. And uncomfortable squirm had her thigh pealing from the leather with a loud cringe inducing creek.

After a few minutes of awkward silence and heated exchanges of varying levels of glares between Penny and the bitch that had conned her, the third woman put down her pen and leaned back in her chair to look at them. The effect of the crossroads demon was immediate. She sat up straighter, more prim, wiped the pissy expression off of her face and even waited to be addressed. For her part, the other woman didn’t really seem to care as she swept her near grey eyes across the pair of them, equally ambivalent towards them both.

“I’m assuming you’re here to settle a dispute in the terms of your deal,” she said eventually, her voice dancing over Penny’s skin like ice.

“She’s accusing me of stealing her soul,” her demon near growled out, only just managing to keep her composure.

“On what grounds?”

“I was a minor when she made the deal with me,” Penny cut in, not wanting the demon to twist what she had said. The glare she got in return made it even more worthwhile.

“Show me the contract,” the other woman drawled with a bored sigh. The demon to Penny’s side clicked her fingers and another file appeared on the desk in front of them.

“We have a contract?” Penny added, more than a little bemused. She sure as shit hadn’t signed anything, in blood or otherwise.

“A contract is generated containing the terms and conditions of each deal as it struck,” the woman behind the desk explained as she skimmed over the document. “It also contains everything that the demon did in order to live up to their end.” A pause and the light drumming of fingernails.

“It says here that you sold your soul for success, not talent,” she added with a slight frown.

“I already had the talent,” Penny replied, trying not to be too defensive. She had no idea what the hell was going on, but she was almost sure that this woman was some sort of cosmic arbitrator.

“Really? Then you won’t mind singing a couple of bars for me while I go through this.”

“Seriously?”

“Do I seem like someone with a sense of humour to you?” the woman behind the desk said, her tone flat as her eyes ticked up to Penny for the briefest of moments. Penny blinked in surprised but ended up letting out a sigh.

“Fine, whatever. But I’ve only been awake for about half an hour and I’m hungover as fuck, so don’t expect me to sound like a nightingale.” The demon that had stolen her soul gave a disgusted grunt and the woman behind the desk gave her a nonchalant shrug without even looking up. What to sing? It would have be something she could practically sleep through, an old fall back for when she really truly couldn’t muscle up the pipes or the fucks.

 “Please allow me to introduce myself

I’m a man of wealth and taste”

 The demon flinched away, baring needle teeth, but the woman behind the desk smiled. A small thing. Barely more than a twitch. But it was there and it made the smoke of the words taste as smooth as a good whisky.

 “I’ve been around for a long, long year

Stole many man’s soul to waste”

 “You weren’t lying,” she said, interrupting the song before Penny had even really gotten going, making her nearly choke on the lyrics. “It says here that you were seventeen when you made this deal.”

“Yeah, a minor, like I said.”

“In human law, that would matter. Unfortunately for you my dear, celestial law assumes competence at seven. Your complaint is invalid.”

“What the fuck! Seven?”

“I didn’t make the law, I just know it,” replied the woman behind the desk, her voice cold and detached before she turned back to the demon with no small amount of distain. “I couldn’t help but notice the additional clause about making her an icon. The twenty seven club? Really?”

“It was a good faith freebee, I wasn’t exactly going to put any effort into it,” the demon snapped, shifting in her seat.

“And you didn’t exactly put much effort into the rest of this endeavour either. The most impressive thing you did was let down some agents’ tires so they would walk past where she was busking.”

“Her soul being an easy grab doesn’t invalidate the contra-”

“Of course it doesn’t,” the woman said with a sigh and a role of her eyes. “I’m just pointing out that you haven’t exactly invested a great deal into this arrangement of yours.” She leaned back in her chair, eying the demon critically as Penny tried to stealthily peal one of her thighs from the chair.

“I’d like to propose a trade for her.”

“What?”

“Don’t I get a say in that?”

“A cow doesn’t get to decide which butcher get’s its carcass, why would a soul get to decide who reaps it?” the woman behind the desk replied as she carelessly tossed the file onto her desk.

“What are you offering for her?” the demon asked as Penny watched on in horror.

“A favour.”

“A favour,” the demon replied dumbly. “An entire human soul for a favour?” The woman’s face darkened and the shadows deepened as she curled her lip in a sneer of pure distaste.

“Watch your tongue Crossroads Demon. A favour from one of Lucifer’s choir is worth far more than what you have to barter for it. Or do you believe I’ll cheat you?”

So that was what a demon looked like when it was about shit itself.

“No! No, of course not. You are generous beyond measure. Have her! She’s yours. Don’t need her anyway and at this point I’m pretty sure she’d taste like stale beer and really bad kebab.”

“Good. Now get out.” A foul puff of smoke and the lights brightened once more, leaving Penny alone with her new owner.

< Part 1         Part 3>