Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Oh, hello naughty list."

Linda shudders at the voice, blood running cold as her hand squeezes around her phone. Slowly, she lowers her hand and turns to face the sound. She's fought tooth and nail to get through that crowd, and now she's willing to do anything to get her hands on one of those fucking dolls. Even if it takes more than biting and scratching.

There, in the darkness, lurks a figure. It's a woman, Linda can tell from the weird melodic nature to her voice. A part of her is unnerved, and yet a part of her allured to. There's a softness to the voice, and Linda finds that unnerving most of all.

The only part of her visible is her hand—pale skin near perfect and soft, except for a scar running from wrist to the curve of her index finger. Light dances of the glint of her teeth, more like fangs in the way they twist in a wicked smile. 

"Who are you?" Linda gets out, detesting how her voice shakes as she shoves her phone into her pocket. In a panic she searches for her pepper spray, it's never let her down before. "Stay back, whoever you are. I have pepper spray and I use it more than you could ever imagine."

A dark laugh comes from the woman now, and her boots thunder as she takes a step forward. It's almost like a chuckle, but something rich and mischievous hides underneath that light amusement. There, in her other hand sits a crisp red apple. As red as her hair, slicked back and shining under the sharp mall lights–only half of them are on now—and it trails down her shoulder in a sleek ponytail. Most of all, her eyes stick out—near pitch black, a way so unnatural it's oddly beautiful.

Just above her wrist, her jacket is cuffed. Denim, on denim, on denim. No one should be able to pull that off, on anyone else Linda would call it a fashion disaster. And yet, this mystery woman pulls it off. The denim is almost like a second skin, the way it suits her so well. A flash of color hides beneath—memories of childhood, of times passed, flicker in Linda’s mind as she catches a glimpse of the bright shirt. She shudders, something unknowable ticking down her neck.

Crunch.

The juice of the apple drips from her lips, down her chin and onto her shirt, where the wetness disappears into darkness. It's nearly disgusting how perfect of a bite is left behind, tearing through the red skin and supple flesh of the fruit still clutched loose between her lithe fingers. Linda doesn't find it disgusting, though.

"Now, now. I heard you were a feisty one, but somehow you're still finding ways to surprise me, Miss Monroe." Her voice is more disarming than it should be, but still Linda manages to keep her guard up.

Linda squeezes her cape tighter, her hand still buried searching the pockets underneath for her one source of protection. If she looks as terrified, and yet intrigued, as she feels, the woman doesn't show it. The grin, cunning and hungry, remains unchanged on her face.

"How do you know who I am?"

"I know a lot about you," the woman says softly, and she moves fully out the darkness now, rounding the small bench dividing them in the empty section of the mall. "And about this town. Hatchetfield… So special, just. Like. You."

"What—?"

"And you mentioned pepper spray, right?" she continues, tilting her head. Now her grin does change, more a smirk. Linda nods, unsure if the woman is even waiting for an answer. It seems she was, though, because her eyes glimmer with excitement as she reaches into her own pocket, pulling out--

"That's mine," Linda says, pushing herself to her feet, stepping forward just to get a better look. It's unmistakable. The brand her father first bought her as a teenager, the one she remained loyal to. "Give it back."

Unexpectedly, the woman tosses it to Linda. She catches it, just barely, holding it at the ready. The woman doesn't advance though.

Not yet, at least.

"I was a colonel once," the woman says, and Linda thinks those words might mean more than she can understand. "Dedicated, respected."

"Once?" Linda asks, a soft scoff echoing in the dryness of her throat.

The woman's eyes jump to look at her again, sharp, a threat dancing in those irises. 

"Now I serve a different purpose, and you're going to help me," she says, and when she steps forward now, Linda forgets about the pepper spray in her grip entirely. The woman reaches out, fingers spreading out and brushing back Linda's hair from where it rests on her shoulder. Beneath sits her Hatchetfield Boating Society pin, and the woman taps the enamel design with her nail. "You're a leader, a mother. Just the person I've been looking for. It's weird, isn't it? How things fall into place sometimes..."

"It's an honor to be a mother," Linda says, thinking back to her boys, mostly to River. That was why she was here today, right? So why does that... That motivation feel so distant now? "I don't see why that's of any interest to you."

There's a twitch in the corner of the woman's lips, and she rolls her eyes, turning away now to jump atop the bench behind her. Her red hair swishes with the movement, now falling down her back as she walks along the wooden bench, tucking the apple into the pocket of her jacket.

"You're going to do what I say, Miss Monroe," she says, hands folded behind her back. Her voice is commanding, that sweetness and softness gone in an instant. "I have a itsty, bitsy friend of mine counting on you."

"And why am I going to do that?" Linda shoots back, taken aback by the oddly childish language. 

A moment later that seems normal. Don't they all have itsy, bisty friends? Before the woman has even replied, Linda is stepping forward.

"You're going to do what you do best, my dear," the woman continues, hands reaching out to welcome Linda in some odd embrace. Her hands, so soft... Yet worn with scars... They cup Linda's face, thumbs brushing a soft touch along her cheeks. "Close your eyes, and believe. Do you see him?"

"I see..." Linda's voice trails off, almost lost in a trance as her eyes flutter closed.

"Do you see him?" she repeats, twirling Linda around and bringing her back, body held against the woman's own. Her arms wrap around, fingers dancing along the curve of Linda's hips. The woman brings her lips to Linda's ear. "Do you see him?"

"I..."

"Do you see him? Do you—?"

"Yes, I fucking see him!"