Chapter Text
Wednesday was experiencing a waking nightmare, and not one she could ever enjoy.
Sitting on the cold floor of a crypt, she witnessed a scene that was both very familiar and alien. She watched, as she had a thousand times before, as a tall figure extended and arm, offering a hand - tipped with long, tapered nails - to a second figure. The second figure, kneeling in ecstatic supplication to the first, reached up to grasp the offered hand with trembling fingers.
She had witnessed this revolting display time and time again, ad nauseam (literally, as she had actually vomited in disgust more than a few times in the past), as her parents failed to restrain their baser impulses.
A habitual sneer of repugnance overtook her face as she was once more forced to watch a kneeling figure’s lips making reverential contact with the standing figure’s hand. All that was missing was the adoring cry of “Cara mia!”
There were some important differences this time, however. The kneeling figure was not that of her rotund father, but the far slimmer form of Marylin-Thornhill-cum-Laurel-Gates. The hand with the tapered nails did not belong to her stately mother, but to the newly resurrected Joseph Crackstone.
Still, so exact were the similarities and so ingrained were the years of constant and consistent exposure, that Wednesday was still bracing for the inevitable “Cara mia!”.
Any moment now.
Any moment.
Why must the universe torment her so?
“My vengeance will be swift and true,” Crackstone declared, breaking Wednesday from her trauma-induced fugue.
A much needed wake up call, given her current peril.
Dismissing her foolish idleness, Wednesday quickly shucked off her shackles and stood. Time to take control of this situation.
“As will mine,” Wednesday countered. With her mobility restored, Wednesday was confident in her ability to handle an amateur witch and a resurrected normie zealot. She highly doubted either could match her in unarmed combat ability, and the only credible threat - Tyler in hyde form - was currently absent,
Tragically, her confidence was rather short-lived. Crackstone, it turned out, was actually a sorcerer. Huh. Rather ironic, given his hatred of outcasts… a category that most assuredly included sorcerers.
Whatever sorcery Crackstone employed, the result was a Wednesday that was unable to move, or even think clearly. So much for taking control, Wednesday thought, as she contemplated her serious miscalculation. Perhaps she should have just beaten them both to death with the shackles while they were otherwise absorbed with each other.
Yes, that idea would have been valuable twenty seconds ago. Such is the nature of hindsight. Or perhaps the blow to the head she had received earlier was making her stupid. Either way, she had lost the initiative and was at a severe disadvantage.
“Goody Addams, you haunt me still,” Crackstone snarled as he retrieved a dagger from his robes. Gates had already retrieved her own weapon, apparently, though Wednesday could not turn her gaze to determine more.
This was escalating rather quickly, Wednesday’s muddled brain informed her. Hopefully Crackstone was one for monologues. That could give her time to find a way out of her predicament.
“You will suffer the same fate you bequeathed me,” Crackstone followed with a dagger to her gut. “Now burn in the eternal fires of hell.” A savage twist of the dagger. “Where you belong.”
And with that triumph, Crackstone walked to the exit of his crypt without a backward glance.
If Wednesday’s entire world had not been reduced to the flaring pain in her gut, she would have spared a thought for Crackstone’s practical efficiency. Quite commendable. Alas, her thoughts were dominated by her struggle to stay upright. She was well versed in human biology, murder, and torture. She knew that her only hope of survival was getting medical aid quickly. She also suspected that if she fell now, she would not be getting back up.
Preoccupied with her failing balance, Wednesday did not notice as Gates sauntered over with her weapon held out in front of her. No, not a weapon. A phone? What?
“Oh, this will be my most treasured memory,” Gates was downright giddy.
Wednesday ignored her, and tottered up against a pillar.
“A truly fitting end,” the woman chuckled.
Wednesday ignored her, and tried not to slide down said pillar. She failed.
“Enjoy your death,” the very satisfied woman tapped her phone once, returned it to her pocket, and gave Wednesday a taunting wave on her way out of the crypt.
Wednesday ignored her, now draped along the ground and against the pillar. She was too busy contemplating her imminent and rather unsatisfying death.
_____
Wednesday eyed the growing pool of blood surrounding her. Such a sight would usually have fascinated her. A tragic death as a result of a centuries-long blood feud would have, just ten minutes ago, charged her imagination.
Actual experience, however, did not meet her lofty expectations.
There was no glory, romance, or noble meaning in her involuntary bloodletting. There was no solace or comfort in the convoluted schemes that had led to her fall. There would be no legacy left behind. None of her many dreams or ambitions would ever be realized.
Wednesday’s family would be left devastated. Her very few friends would mourn her for a time. Her enemies would reminisce upon her with mockery… and all else would quickly forget her. She was doomed to be naught but a minor footnote in her family’s history, and but a momentary blip in the lives of a minuscule number of friends and foes.
Unacceptable.
But at this point, unavoidable.
With those morose thoughts in mind, Wednesday felt a glimmer of hope as she heard footsteps approaching the crypt. Her gaze locked upon the entrance as her ears tracked the arrival of potential salvation. Desperate anticipation warred with her usual practical pessimism, as she pondered the possibility of a timely stay of execution.
The small burn of hope Wednesday had allowed to take root within her chest quickly dissipated into oblivion. Laurel Gates stepped in from the night, a peevish cast about her face.
The woman, visibly annoyed, caught sight of Wednesday’s prone form. She looked on for a few moments, and a victorious grin replaced her previous irritation. She approached Wednesday with a saunter. Her eyes wandered between Wednesday’s paling face, the knife sheathed in her abdomen, and the pool of blood surrounding her in a macabre halo. Finally, Gates’ gaze settled back upon Wednesday’s face.
Once again the woman pulled out her phone, holding it out towards Wednesday as one would hold a cross to keep a vampire at bay - or so it would seem to the technophobic Wednesday. It was rare that Wednesday regretted her disdain for technology, but this was one of those few occasions. She had little time to puzzle over the woman’s behaviour before she broke the silence.
“Hello, Wednesday. I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” she said with a smirk. Wednesday did not bother to dignify that weak attempt at wit with a response.
“Nothing to say?” Gates’ eyes twinkled with amusement. “That’s fine. This video isn’t for you freaks anyway.”
Wednesday’s eyes widened as realization finally set in. She may not have sullied herself with the use of mobile devices, but she was at least vaguely aware of their basic functions.
“By the time I post this, Nevermore will already be a flaming crater, and I will be celebrating this victory for humanity far from here,” she gloated. Gates was now addressing her future audience, with Wednesday reduced to a mere prop for her demented production.
Wednesday sighed, her annoyance at being subjected to this juvenile nonsense on clear display. Gates’ blithering bigotry, boring and banal as it was, didn’t deserve a direct response. But if it was Wednesday’s fate to have her death immortalized on the internet, the least she could do was to take advantage of this brief window of agency. Perhaps she could manipulate Gates into self-incrimination, or better yet, into making a fool of herself in her own video. If fortune favoured her - a laughable thought given the events of the evening so far - she could even ruin the arrogant woman’s satisfaction and mar her victory in some small way.
“I was enjoying my untimely exit from this bigoted cesspool of a planet. Must you spoil it with your obnoxious prattle?” the wounded girl sniped.
“Such biting words, Wednesday!” Gates mock-gasped. “Would it kill you to be civil for once?”
“If a civil tongue would grant me peace and spare me from your inane babbling, I would allow you the courtesy. Alas, it will not, and you are not worthy of such consideration,” Wednesday spoke in her usual monotone. Maintaining her typical tone through the ever-present pain was proving to be a challenge..
“Ah, Wednesday. Stubborn to the end, I see.” Gates shook her head in faux-disappointment.
“I think of it as staying true to who I am,” Wednesday responded, probing one potential weakness. “You should consider such consistency for yourself.”
“Oh?” Gates appeared to be genuinely surprised. “Really, Wednesday. I think I’ve been rather consistent. Exceedingly so, even. After all, I’ve been walking the path of justice for my family for almost two decades. I’ve been striving for this for longer than you’ve been alive. I think that deserves a little credit.”
Wednesday internally boggled at the obtuse response. She had thought her reference to her murder-by-sorcery by outcast-hating normies to be rather blatant. Apparently she had greatly overestimated her adversary.
She blinked, once. Fatigue was starting to set in. Bleeding out in a cold crypt was tiring work, it seemed.
“How drole,” she carried on regardless. She could work with the tangent Gates had introduced. “I am aware of the grievance you hold over the death of your brother. I remain unimpressed. Nevertheless, pursuing vengeance over such a lengthy duration is not the hallmark of consistency, it is an indication of bumbling incompetence.” Wednesday pinned Gates with a stern stare. “When my own brother was victimized by his peers, I brought about righteous retribution in a matter of days. Efficient, effective, and expeditious. As it should be.”
A pained cough interrupted her flow before she continued. “Furthermore, your claim of seeking justice is ludicrously disingenuous. Your brother was an aspiring mass-murderer, and found death by means of the same poison he intended to use against hundreds of innocent outcasts. He was a villain.”
“You poor, naive child.”, Gates countered with apparent pity. “He was a martyr. Of course you wouldn’t understand that.”
Wednesday’s eyes widened upon hearing that hollow rebuttal. Did Gates truly believe that her counter held any weight or validity? Was her intended audience simply extremely select? Or was she truly that far out of touch with current societal norms?
“Then help me understand. It is the least you can do after engineering my murder.” Already struggling to maintain her neutral expression through her agony, Wednesday almost let her overwhelming incredulity show. “You maintain that dying while attempting to poison the punchbowl at a teen dance is worthy or martyrdom? How?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Gates disdained, “your very existence is a sin. You outcasts are a taint that must be cleansed. A disease that must be cured. The purging of Nevermore is an event to be commended, not condemned.”
“You’re insane.” Wednesday couldn’t help but emote her mounting shock.
“On the contrary, Wednesday,” she smirked. “My family has simply been steadfast in our recognition of the truth. Once all of the tainted have been eradicated, their manipulations will end, and their lies will be exposed.”
By this point, Wednesday’s inner musings were a paradox of triumph and disappointment. Her goal of leading Gates into incriminating herself - as well as her cause - was achieved. But it was accomplished with such a lack of challenge as to leave her feeling empty. In short, it was the shortest and most dissatisfying chess match in the history of chess.
Nonetheless, it was time for Wednesday to bring the conversation to the (preferably sharp) point. “Very well. I’ll give your family credit for their steadfast fanaticism. Their ability to preserve obsolete hatreds over the centuries is certainly noteworthy. In this regard, you and yours are indeed consistent. But where you lack consistency, Ms. Gates, is in your methodology.” The effort to speak clearly, loudly, and with strength was taking its toll on the already exhausted girl. “You were in possession of a vial of nightshade. You were in a position of trust and authority within the school. You had ample opportunity to poison the entirety of the school in much the manner your brother failed to do two decades ago.”
Wednesday took a steadying breath and addressed the older woman. “Instead, you chose to dabble in witchcraft, an art belonging to outcasts that you so passionately despise. The ancestor you resurrected to carry out this evening’s massacre has revealed himself to be a sorcerer. Something he should have absolutely reviled. You both have sought to become what you hate in order to kill that which you hate. Your misguided hatred has blinded you both to the enormity of your hypocrisy.”
Wednesday could see that she had hit a nerve. Gates’ smug countenance had been replaced by a sneer, and her voice carried her disdain as she spoke. “We are not outcasts. We are nothing like you. Using your tainted tools does not make us outcasts.” She paused as she considered, “It did, however, create the opportunity for poetic justice.” Her self-satisfied mien recovered with that last statement.
Wednesday’s scoff was suffused with suffocating scorn. “Of course you are not outcasts, you imbecile. There is no room for genocidal murderers in our community. Your application for membership is summarily rejected.”
Of course, Wednesday was no naif. She fully understood that all demographics had their bad actors. No doubt there were some truly evil individuals among the various outcast communities. Yet, her aim was to drive a metaphorical knife into her murderers, and to twist said knife. She may not be able to strike them down physically, but she wasn’t averse to inflicting mental damage upon her two unworthy foes. Judging by Gates’ expression, Wednesday had succeeded spectacularly.
“Very clever, Wednesday. Very clever. Nicely done.” Gates menaced as she moved closer to Wednesday. “Do enjoy your little moment. You will not enjoy what comes next.”
The deranged woman took a step closer to Wednesday, adjusting the angle of her phone. Her red boots secured her traction upon the blood-soaked stone floor.
“I’m sure you are ever so eager to die already. Let me help you along with that.” Gates cooed with an unhinged smile. She very slowly raised one red boot, blood dripping from its heel. Said boot slowly moved to hover above the dagger implanted into Wednesday’s abdomen. The older woman paused a moment to savour the naked trepidation within Wednesday’s widening eyes. Then the boot-clad foot came down upon the dagger, jarring it and driving it deeper into Wednesday while widening the gash towards the wounded girl’s ribs.
Wednesday had had less than a second to realize Gates’ intent and brace herself for the blow. She was ill-prepared for the boot and the pain. The grim set to her face and the tightness of her jaw bore testimony to her silent agony.
Her silence was a minor victory for Wednesday, though a brief one. She had very little time to savour it before the red boot rose once more. It descended again, the wound grew, pain flared, and Wednesday released a restrained grunt where even the toughest among her peers would be shrieking in agony. Only the many years of honing her stoic demeanour allowed for her dampened response.
If she was going to die, let it be on her terms. If her death was to be a spectacle for the masses, let her write her own script. Wednesday had but one final goal before she met her end… to deny Gates the satisfaction of her screams. To die in silence before she could vocalize her agony. To let the heavy breathing and soft grunts of her murderer be the only sound of her passing.
The older woman paused once more to admire her work, her phone still held steady. Then the red boot came down a third time, hitting the knife and playing havoc with Wednesday’s fragile insides. A muffled gasp was all that Wednesday allowed, though even her iron will could not stem the tears flowing across her face.
Wednesday tried to withhold those tears with little success. Her reserves of energy were already largely depleted, her usual resilience already frayed. Her tight emotional control loosened as the natural human fear of death warred with her desire to die NOW before she lost control.
Another pause, accentuated by Wednesday’s laboured-but-shallow breathing. Wednesday’s wary eyes tracked the slow, taunting ascent of that red boot. Down it came a fourth time.
Gates’ torturous work was finally rewarded by a soft, shuddering sob.
Wednesday ground her teeth and closed her eyes in shame, sending a fresh batch of tears trailing along her face. She had lost the unspoken battle of wills. She opened her eyes once more, her blurred vision greeted by Gates’ smug grin.
She tried to think of a barbed comment or insult to salve her wounded pride. Blood loss, agony, and fatigue made this difficult, however. Impossible. Just moving her head or keeping her breathing steady proved a Herculean task. She was fading fast, and she lacked the clarity of thought to even recognize the fact.
The dreadful boot rose a fifth time, and descended. A muffled keen escaped her beleaguered body. A partial success, given her ability to at least keep her mouth closed. Wednesday tears were a waterfall by this point, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care. She closed her eyes but for a moment, rewarding herself with a temporary respite.
She opened her eyes again, and shifted her tunnelling gaze from the boot to her murderer’s face, and once more to the now-very-much-hated red boot. She saw the red boot slowly rise. She did not see it fall.
_____
Laurel Gates raised her foot for a sixth time, and brought it down upon the limp form below her. The form remained inert and motionless. Vacant eyes stared unseeing, and breath stilled.
“Huh. Guess you finally died.” With that happy exclamation, Gates ended her recording, put her phone away, and sauntered out of the crypt to make her escape.
_____
Much later that evening, Wednesday contemplated her day as she sat in bed. It had been the most eventful day of her life by a significant margin. Not to mention dangerous and traumatic.
Fortunately for her, Addams not only survive trauma, they thrive from it.
Regardless, she was rapidly reaching the end of her borrowed strength. Goody Addams had specified that her spiritual rejuvenation would include a temporary store of energy, much of which had been siphoned towards healing the arrow wound she had received some time after the initial revitalization.
The light snores of her roommate - and saviour - drew her attention to Enid’s sleeping form. Hopefully her werewolf friend would similarly grow and strengthen from the day’s events.
Wednesday lips rose in a minuscule impression of a smile.
“Goodnight, Enid,” Wednesday fell asleep before her head even hit her pillow.
_____
The cafeteria at Nevermore Academy was typically a noisy place at meal times. Several hundred teenagers crammed into a large room guaranteed a clamour. This particular morning was no exception. As students started to fill up the seats, the sounds of eating and excited gossip started to gain volume. The hot topic of discussion was, of course, the events of the previous evening.
Questions were asked, and opinions were exchanged, all with an undertone of excitement and relief.
“Jesus FUCKING Christ!” A horrified cry suddenly cut through the din of the busy cafeteria.
All conversations ceased and curious eyes found their way to the source of the outburst. A senior student, a werewolf, was staring at his phone. He seemed unaware that he was the centre of attention as he continued his loud exclamations, “What the fuck? She was stabbed?!”. He tilted his phone towards his startled friends as they gathered near to catch glimpse of whatever had startled him so.
“Dude, who are you talking about?” a less vociferous shout queried from a nearby table.
“Wednesday! That fucker, Crackstone, stabbed her in the crypt. Fucking Thornhill posted videos,” the werwolf replied.
The confused murmurs of hundreds of students started to raise the volume once more before a softer, female voice called out. “Don’t watch the second video. Just… don’t.” The source, a younger gorgon who had tears pouring down her face, continued in a softer warble. “It’s worse than the first one.”
Of course, the various teenagers in attendance responded to the serious warning in the way of teenagers. There was a mad scramble as hundreds of students reached for their phones. Within minutes, a majority of Nevermore’s student body found the two videos in question. The first one, with a shorter duration, captioned ‘The start of a good time at the crypt’, and the second one captioned ‘I love happy endings’.