Walking briskly through the corridors of Nevermore, Woe couldn't help but feel a certain amount of lingering envy for her older counterpart.
The gothic, history-laden architecture of the Academy was certainly a marked improvement over the insipid, conformist educational institutions in which she had been forced to socialize with the irritating youthful horde of her classmates. Old stone, shadows and dark corners. Yes, that was a place where perhaps she could have found a minimum of interest beyond the desire to traumatize the masses of young people obsessed with imposing their social conventions and their cliques on her.
Of course, from what little she had been able to glimpse not even Nevermore seemed immune to such flaws. Even among outcasts and non-humans, it seemed that teenagers are teenagers, with all the annoyance that entails. A sad truth.
Her steps and thoughts moved her almost in an autopilot mode as she catalogued everything around her with her eyes.
At one point, a student approached her. A freshman, judging by his age, not much older than her. Impossible to determine his species but his intentions were clearly some inane attempt at flirting. Woe was not even fully aware about the response she gave him, but the result was the young man running away with his tail between his legs, tears in his eyes and traumatized for life at the slightest mention of the word "fingernails".
You don't want to know the details.
Flirting. Woe couldn't help but wrinkle her nose as if she had just smelled something putrid. Of all the ways to express attraction it was certainly the most basic, ineffective, and easy to misinterpret. Her parents were excessive in their public displays of affection but were always clear and direct in their intentions towards each other. In that sense they were a good example to follow.
Romance wasn't a concept she turned to very often, but the last day was proving to be a constant exercise in comparative self-evaluation thanks to the involuntary dimensional leap. The presence of her native counterpart to this dimension was coming as a shock of even greater cataclysmic proportion than Friday's pink clothes.
A version of herself, perhaps the closest to Woe of all those present at the time (Needler swayed between her usual mannerisms but contained a manic energy and a superior capacity for social interaction, and Friday was... Friday), the local Wednesday exhibited a trait that had intrigued the first interdimensional Addams ever since she observed the intermingling of the elements in the dorm room. A blond, lycanthropic trait.
As she had explained in her previous conversation with her elder counterpart, Woe was no stranger to romance, but in retrospect she knew that her past pre-teen interest in Joel Glicker had stemmed more from her infatuation with mortality than anything else. Joel was a walking impossibility, a living sack of allergies who could die if he used the wrong shampoo. Woe had eventually developed a genuine affection for him beyond that initial fascination, which allowed their friendship to endure even after they had parted ways. Joel craved a kind of commitment on a romantic level for which Woe felt no rush, no interest.
Until the hitherto ignored possibility that someone like Enid Sinclair might exist somewhere.
Woe could not recall ever feeling anything resembling attraction concerning other girls her age. Her admiration and the closest thing to something that could be defined as crushes was reserved for great women of history and the arts. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was as much a figure to compete against and admire as someone she wished she had known in person more fully. Only the years had allowed her to understand that her obsession with the late author could have other interpretations.
In Woe's defense, no girl of her own generation had succeeded in arousing her interest. Bland, harmless creatures obsessed with fitting into a specific social pattern at best. Occasionally, some who might be more tolerable than average but could never cope with the reality of an Addams. And at worst, hypocritical little harpies like Amanda Buckman, masters of superficiality and fashion as tools for their snobbery and prejudiced condescension.
What made Enid Sinclair different? Well, lycanthropy was a factor. But turning into a mass of hair and muscle a couple of nights a month was not a personality quirk. On a superficial level, Enid had not made a good first impression. She was colorful, lively, and clearly a follower of fads, prefabricated popular music groups, and seemed to possess many of the traits Woe had learned to associate with those girls who always looked at her as a walking pest, an oddity, a freak.
From what she had been able to glean from her talk with her older variant, the initial impression should not have been much different here either, at first. But something had changed over time, as those mentions of monsters, murders and other occurrences indicated. Or perhaps from the beginning there was more to the she-wolf than could be perceived at first glance. And the truth was that the more she looked at her, the more Woe could see.
There was a... integrity of character in the werewolf. All those superficial traits were genuine, not a mask or an attempt to assimilate with the masses. Her bubbly affability was not a disguise for snobbery or condescension. She was honest, open to accepting and valuing differences in others. An Addams could value that. Wednesday had also defined her as loyal and courageous when called upon. In that sense the scars on her face told a whole story. Woe didn't know the specifics but she could deduce that they were the result of some confrontation between Enid and something that threatened Wednesday. There was a level of devotion between the two that, while controlled, she had only seen on very rare occasions: her parents, her Uncle Fester and Aunt Dementia, Margaret's adoration for Cousin Itt...
The uncomfortable feeling of envy surfaced again and Woe crushed it like the boot crushes the ant. But the basis of all her thoughts in the last few minutes as she wandered aimlessly around Nevermore never stopped revolving around the same idea.
The prospect of someday finding someone like Enid Sinclair in her future. The mere thought caused a tingling in her belly that made her think of intestinal parasites.
A sound caught her attention, finally bringing her out of her reverie.
The clashing of metal, typical of a sword duel. No, too light to be anything like her father and uncle's impromptu duels... whoever was fighting was using sabers, not two-handed swords.
Ah, fencing.
Woe turned the last corner of the hallway, heading towards Nevermore's fencing classroom, following the sound like the shark follows the blood.
§§§
Bianca Barclay was resisting the temptation to use her siren song on the human-shaped pig in front of her. An increasingly difficult task.
At first she had had no problems.
Her initial idea of practicing certain movements and forms of fencing in solitude was perhaps not the most appropriate method to improve her technique, but it was valid for maintaining muscle memory and the elasticity of her movements.
But nothing beat having a sparring partner, so she didn't balk at the request for a practice bout with Sterling Teague when he showed up a few minutes later than she did in the empty fencing classroom.
Teague was a newcomer to Nevermore, the son of a wealthy family of psychics, though he had never displayed anything beyond some extremely tenuous receptive telepathy. The official story is that after years at other private institutions of varying prestige, he had opted to spend his final year of pre-college training at Nevermore, the oldest outcast school on the continent to embellish his academic record.
Instead, the rumor mill spoke of a talentless boor who thought he was more than he was and about whom all sorts of stories were circulating, from the most absurd to others that proliferated in red flags.
Bianca was confident she could keep him in line if he did anything inappropriate. She was losing her confidence in her own ability not to skewer him with her sword at the drop of a hat.
Sterling couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut during the sparring session. Inappropriate comment after inappropriate comment passed off as pathetic attempts at compliments or seductive language. The most nauseating rancidity escaped his lips believing itself to be heart-conquering poetry.
Worst of all, he was not entirely useless with the saber. He was making her work hard to score points. And if that wasn't bad enough, the wretch had stated his claim to set up a wager with prizes in case of victory. Bianca had no interest in imagining what he might want from her if he won.
"Come on, my dear Bianca! Surely you too can think of some sweet reward. Perhaps even in your defeat you will receive it from me!" the lout exclaimed lasciviously as he delivered a furious thrust with his saber that Bianca managed to barely deflect, too busy resisting the nausea at the unsought familiarity and the constant annoyance.
"Excellent form, my dark nymph! Almost on a par with my portentous technique! Imagine what other kind of dance we could master together..."
That's it!, thought Bianca, I'll use the song, I'll have him smear himself in the honey of Eugene's combs to be devoured alive by the bees, I'll...
"Her form is excellent, but your technique is as stale and disgusting as your words," interrupted a new voice in the room.
The combatants ceased, turning their attention to the figure that had appeared as if from nowhere beside them. They had not heard the door open or the sound of footsteps, but suddenly a young teenage girl dressed in black, pale and with a pair of familiar pigtails was there.
Sterling Teague pulled the protective mask from his fencing uniform, revealing an unnaturally symmetrical angular face, and flashed a smile at the newcomer that in his head was surely the epitome of charisma but in reality seemed designed to churn stomachs.
"What did you say?" he asked hiding his irritated tone with false curiosity, "My dear, such harsh words, and without even introducing yourself..."
"I said that your technique is a disgrace to fencing, with no finesse whatsoever, on a par with the slime that constantly escapes your lips. And I have not introduced myself to you because you are not worthy of the minimal manners required for it," replied the young woman, "A wretch who thinks he is using seductive language when in fact he is just spouting a collection of crude, objectifying, misogynistic double entendres. True, some individuals may take an interest in it, and I don't intend to criticize other people's fetishes, but they tend to make it clear beforehand for the sake of consent, and something tells me that's not the case here.”
Her appearance, her look, her words and the tone in which they were pronounced. The facial features were not exact, nor was the voice identical, and neither was the height. But the coincidences were too many, and even if that girl was not Wednesday, Bianca was very sure that she must be an...
"Addams?", the siren mused, while also leaving her face uncovered.
The young girl fixed her gaze on Bianca, with a hint of admiration, "Ah, someone with good sense. I'm Woe Addams."
"Relative of Wednesday?" asked Bianca, genuinely interested.
"Cousin," Woe replied. Bianca noticed for a second a pause before the answer, something very faint. As if the girl had to think about the word before answering.
"Enough!" interrupted Teague. His voice had taken on an exasperated tone, like that of a spoiled child unable to stand the lack of attention. He pointed his saber at Woe, "You come in here without permission, child, insult me and try to interrupt my quality time with Miss Barclay..."
"Oh, for the love of..."
"Rest assured I will not let such transgressions go unanswered!"
"I have merely described pure facts born of direct observation," replied Woe, "To which I must add a patetism clearly derived from pathological narcissism."
"Why you...!" spluttered Teague, "Do you wish to face my sword?"
"Please," Woe said with clear boredom, "In your hands it is no more dangerous than a napkin. A napkin in my hands, on the other hand, can end you in at least ten different ways."
Teague made an attempt to move toward the Addams and Bianca recognized the expression that took over the girl's face. She had seen it on Wednesday more than once and it did not bode well for the person responsible for invoking it.
"Teague! Don't you dare take another step!"
Teague turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Bianca with a pompous expression, "Bianca, my dear Bianca, are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you, asshole. That girl is an Addams."
"And that has anything to do with it? What can that little gnat do to me, kill me?"
"No."
Woe's reply was a single word that silenced the entire room. An aura of murderous intent… a weight seemed to fall on those present. Bianca felt the same sensation as the night with the Crackstone incident when the quad burst into flames.
Ah, panic...
Teague for his part seemed to be about to pee himself, paralyzed under the gaze of Woe, who was now the one advancing towards him with methodical slowness as she continued to speak.
"You are not worthy of death. I love Death and she doesn't deserve to have to deal with garbage like you," said Woe, "So no, I won't kill you. But you'll wish I had. Because I'll make sure you'll live a long time as a pathetic, immobile sack of flesh when I'm done with you. A deformed, mutilated creature, unable to move. Fed paste and forced to depend on others to cleanse your waste. Each and every one of your nerves a terminal of pain that you will be able to feel in the back of your mind like a razor as you try to scream using vocal cords broken long ago. And every year I will visit you, to cut a small slice of flesh. A treat, for my menagerie of pets."
Silence.
When an animal knows it is cornered, with no way out, it is when it can be most dangerous. Panic can make the most intelligent individual stupid. Abject terror can turn an imbecile into someone with no sense of self-preservation.
Teague let out a strangled gasp and raised his sword and lunged at Woe.
Bianca shouted something as she brought her hand to her medallion, hoping she could stop what was about to happen.
Woe smiled, tensing her muscles in anticipation of dealing with her prey.
But in the end none of them did anything.
Because a blonde missile in human form, dressed in bright pastel colors and with multicolored claws slammed into Teague, knocking him to the ground with an animalistic snarl.
No comments:
Post a Comment