Chapter Text
The creak of shackles opening beckoned Wednesday out of the dark depths of unconsciousness. For a moment, she was at home, being treated to a nice stretching on the rack. Then her eyes snapped open, and instead of the beaming smiles of her insufferable parents tormenting her most lovingly, she was met with the stunned countenances of her barista minion and her botany teacher.
The shackles snapped shut.
———
How ironic was it, she mused, that her escape from the dratted school landed her in an even less welcoming prison. At least this one didn’t have people trying to connect with her. She shuddered at the memory of Xavier trying to force such a connection based solely on a happenstance of youth, before centering herself back in the present.
Unfortunately, the conversation she was eavesdropping on (no one ever expected her to have such keen hearing) was incredibly dull. Just a back and forth back and forth buck passing, Tyler claiming that it was Thornhill’s sedative that failed while Thornhill claimed Tyler hadn’t concussed Wednesday hard enough. They were both right, of course, but Wednesday would rather listen to them fight with each other. If luck smiled upon her, she might even get to hear physical violence, the smack of flesh and the splatter of blood. Ahhhh, how dreadfully wonderful that would be.
Luck was being fickle that night, unfortunately, as Thornhill took control of the argument. “Now Tyler, you’re being a very bad boy right now,” Thornhill said with the exaggerated sternness of a kindergarten teacher. Wednesday choked back bile at the condescension in that tone, and it wasn’t even directed at her. “You remember what happens to bad boys who refuse to listen to me, don’t you?”
Wednesday heard Tyler shudder, the common noise accompanied by an uncommon bone creaking sound, as though his skeleton was expanding slightly. “I remember,” he said, so quietly it was almost lost under the noises of his body.
“Good,” Thornhill said primly, “Now if you don’t want to go back there then be a good boy and go deal with…her.”
Like a petulant child, Tyler stomped his way to the closed door of Wednesday’s current jail cell. He slammed the door open, chest heaving with deep breaths in a likely attempt to control his anger. Wednesday stared him right in the eyes, face as blank as a mannequin.
“Your weird little pet hand ran off,” Tyler said, spitting the words out, “Tell me where it’d be.”
“I already informed you that Thing is not a pet,” Wednesday replied, “And I see no reason to enlighten you of his likely whereabouts. If you worry he will bring law enforcement, rest assured that he would not dare to ruin my fun. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten to experience a semi-competent kidnapping.” Testing her bonds a little, Wednesday added, “Semi-competent might be a bit generous, actually.”
Tyler glared at Wednesday. She gave it a four out of ten: his eyes were too watery for proper menace. “Don’t push me, freak, or you’ll regret it.”
Wednesday broke her stare from his eyes to conspicuously look at her bound arms. She met his gaze again and said, as unaffectedly as ever, “I find it quite difficult to push people without the use of my arms, but I suppose the fears of weaklings are hardly rational.”
With a snarl that reverberated through her skeleton, Tyler’s form twisted and grew, up up up until his head brushed the ceiling; impressive, considering his back was hunched like uncle Fester after a few weeks curled up in the magician’s trick box. Wednesday’s eyes grew incrementally wider at the sight and she inhaled deeply. Her pulse increased to a galloping 40 bpm. Tyler flashed his dagger teeth in a cruel grin, clearly delighting in her reaction.
“Fascinating,” Wednesday breathed, her voice infused with the barest hint of passionate curiosity. Tyler’s face lost its grin, and his brow twisted downwards over his bulging eyes. Wednesday leaned forward and stood, chair still attached, to stalk closer towards the now-backpedaling creature. “Is it anger that sparks your transformation, or can you change at will? Does your field of vision and general eyesight change with the bulging of your eyes, or do they see as always? Have you measured your bite strength yet? Although given the size and sharpness of your teeth, your jaw might be weaker to compensate for the unwieldiness.” She had Tyler backed up against the door, looking remarkably like the children at summer camp when she brought out the lit torches. It seemed as though you could bring the monster out of the normie, but you couldn’t quite take the normie out of the monster. Disappointing.
He hunched over even further, trying to back out of the door. Given his size, of course, it was a futile effort, and Wednesday relished the sudden fear in his eyes at the realization. He made a low keening noise, like a wounded infant animal calling for assistance.
Thornhill’s voice echoed through the building. “What’s wrong now,” she asked. Wednesday recognized that tone of voice. It was the same tone that her therapists had shortly before she finally managed to break them. The sound of temper and sanity barely balanced on the razor’s edge…ah, how she missed it.
She heard the rhythmic clomping of Thornhill’s boots on the wooden floor before the door opened behind Tyler. Thornhill let out a loud groan of disappointed irritation. Tyler hunched further, curling up on himself like a scolded child. “Transform back! You’re going to break something like that,” she said, swatting at Tyler’s legs.
With a shudder, the sublime monstrous form shrank back to the dull human one. Wednesday’s mouth pursed a millimeter in disappointment. Tyler hunched his body again, his face slowly turning red.
“Can I get some clothes?” he asked Thornhill, his voice quiet in subservience. A complete disappointment, Wednesday thought, to have such power at his fingertips and yet act like a domesticated beast of burden towards a woman who wore paisley.
Thornhill sighed deeply. Tyler hunched his shoulders even more. “Go get one of your go-packs of clothes,” she said, flicking her hand at him in dismissal.
Tyler shifted his weight nervously. “My nearest bag is a mile away,” he said, a tinge of whine in his voice, “can’t I just get clothes from the house?”
The air in the room changed. Like the moment before lightning struck, so was the atmosphere surrounding them. Even Wednesday felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. How thrilling.
Pinning Tyler with an intense, unblinking gaze, Thornhill spoke. “Are you asking to wear my brother’s clothes?” she asked, voice as cold and hushed as the grave.
Tyler’s body shook like a man dying from hypothermia. His head shook as well, side to side rapidly in an attempt to stave off whatever threat Thornhill’s tone had promised. “I’ll go grab my pack,” he said, avoiding eye contact with either of the women in the room.
“That’s what I thought,” Thornhill said, her voice returning to its usual tone. She whirled to face Wednesday and stalked forward. “As for you-“ she said viciously, jabbing a finger into Wednesday’s chest.
The rest of her sentence would be forever unknown, however, as the moment Thornhill’s finger made contact with Wednesday, her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her head snapped back with an almost supernatural strength. The last thing Wednesday noticed before her psychic vision took her completely, was the ceiling tilting into the wall behind her as her body went backwards.
———
Fragments. Snippets. A zoetrope of disconnected memories flashing before her eyes.
A man sneering at teenagers in pinstriped uniforms, a boy staring at a picture of a girl with long black hair, a shrine hidden behind a wall, a painting of a solemn pilgrim, the man in a rage as he paces the room, the boy in a casket, the man slumped on a table with bottles scattered all over, a woman hanging from a tree, three tombstones all inscribed with the same surname, a study in disarray, a paper with names and outcast species, a black book under glass, body parts encircling a stone casket, a decrepit face twisted in vicious glee raising a dagger high and plunging it down-
Wednesday snapped back to herself, disoriented for but a moment. She was again sitting upright in the chair—bound by rope and confined by shackles—as though she hadn’t moved at all. The only evidence of her backwards flight was her pulse throbbing in a hematoma on the back of her head. A dreadfully lovely awakening, all things considered.
This time she woke up alone in the windowless room. The darkness of the room was deep, no light spilling from underneath the door. Wednesday focused on her hearing to get a better sense of her surroundings. Aside from the creaking of the building settling, there was no noise to indicate people moving within. She could faintly hear the whinnying hoot of a screech owl and the calls of whippoorwills outside. She could hear the fluttering heartbeats of the rodents in the walls, and the measured breathing of a feline on the roof. But she could not hear the sounds of humans nearby. Perfect.
It really was an oversight for them to leave her legs unbound, she mused, as she again stood up. In fairness, she had made that mistake as well. When she was eight. There was really no excuse for an adult to be so incompetent. Their loss, her gain, though.
She tested her new center of balance, taking a few exploratory steps forward. Her back hunched from the chair forcing her into perpendicularity, but that was hardly an impediment. Time for “The Pugsley Special”.
She charged headfirst, full throttle at the wall furthest from her. Just before impact, she swung her body around to smash the top of the chair’s backrest against the wall. There was a groaning creak as the wood bent, but it did not break. She sprinted to the other side of the room, flinging her body to hit the same part again. This time, the wood splintered and broke off, and Wednesday could slip out from the ropes. She made a mental note to pocket the broken piece of chair. Whittled stakes were all well and good, but there was something about the natural sharpness of splintered wood that sang to her.
Before anything else, though, she needed to free herself from the shackles. Tipping backwards to lie flat on the ground, she brought her leg up up up, until she could catch the knot of her bootlace in her mouth. She hummed to herself as she undid the knot with her tongue. It might have been a decade since her father taught her the mnemonic song for this process, but it was a hardy little earworm that dug its way deep into her brain.
Once her laces were loose, she slammed her boot on the ground to both work it off her foot and open the secret compartment in the heel. With her toe-socked foot free of the boot, she picked up the lockpicking tools that had scattered on the ground. Making sure her grip on them was secure, she rolled herself over onto her stomach, face flat on the ground. She bent her leg backwards and fiddled with the lock of the shackles, just like Uncle Fester had showed her. If anything, she was faster than him at one footed lockpicking, since her sixth toe gave her an extra stabilizer.
With a satisfying click, the lock opened on one of the shackles. Now aware of the particulars of the lock, she could open the second shackle in a fourth of her original time. The shackles thudded to the ground. Wednesday was unfettered at last.
———————————————————————————
Bonus scene:
“Oh shit!” Laurel yelled, grabbing at the falling form of Wednesday. She missed, and the Addams girl hit the ground with a dull, wet thud. Laurel and Tyler both froze, horror streaking through their veins.
“Holy shit is she dying?!” Tyler yelped, taking a half-step forward instinctively as if to check on the seizing girl jerking against the ropes binding her. His hands lifted from covering himself to hover in the air as he hesitated over checking on Wednesday or not.
Laurel’s lips curled in a snarl even as they trembled in apprehension. “The little bitch better not be,” she said, “we still need her for the ritual.” Her face paled dramatically, though, as Wednesday’s body suddenly stilled.
“Shit!” “Fuck!” Laurel and Tyler both swore at the same time, and both likewise rushed the prone body on the floor. Tyler wrung his hands and whispered more expletives before whining at Laurel, “what are we gonna do now?”
“This is all your fault,” Laurel said, venomous derision falling from her lips. “You must have made her brain bleed from hitting her on the head.”
Tyler’s mouth gaped open at her accusation. He placed a hand on his bare chest as he gasped out, “Me?! What about you?! You’re the one who shot her up with some kind of plant drug, maybe she had an fucking allergic reaction!”
Laurel glared at him and he shrunk back, his expletives turning into indistinct mumbles. She checked Wednesday’s pulse, her lips twisting in a sneer at having to touch the disgusting, but necessary, creature.
For a long moment, she felt no thrumming beneath her fingers, and her blood ran cold. But then she felt a lazy thump from Wednesday’s neck, and time seemed to flow normally once more.
She let out an involuntary sigh of relief, before standing and again glaring at Tyler, as if daring him to comment on her lapse in composure. “The freaky little thing just passed out again, sit her back up.” Tyler begrudgingly grabbed the chair and hauled it back up to a sitting position. Their prisoner’s neck was lolled back at a frankly uncomfortable-looking angle, but neither Laurel nor Tyler cared enough to do anything about it.
Laurel checked her watch and let out a frustrated sigh. “We need to go,” she said, “I need to go corral the rest of the freaks and bring them back from the festival." She glanced at Tyler before adding, "You'll have to hurry to get dressed and home before your curfew."
Reminded of his current lack of clothing,Tyler flushed brightly and covered himself again. He glanced back at the unconscious body tied to the chair. “So, we just leave her here?”
Laurel schooled her face into a mask of motherly fondness, based on her hazy recollections of her own mother. “Of course we leave her here, you’ll be a good boy and come back in the morning before your classes to make sure she eats and drinks something. I’ll deal with her in the evening.”
“No, but like, should we block the door or something? What if she wakes up?” Tyler shuffled away from their captive, eyeing her warily.
“What a smart boy, thinking of things like that,” she cooed, stroking his hair. “But there’s no need to make things more difficult for ourselves.” With a firm hand on his back, she steered Tyler out the door. “After all, what could she possibly do?”