A/N: Heyyy guys! fun fact: this was supposed to be my Halloween fic, way back in October - not that it's scary or anything! it's just set around Halloween and whenever i work on it, it puts me in the mood for horror movies and shit like that - buuuut obviously THAT didn't work out. which is fine. but October came and went, and i actually wound up forgetting about it until just today. i found it on my computer and read it through and i was like heeyy this isn't as bad as i remember... i mean it isn't fantastic but it isn't terrible. so i thought why not just go ahead and post it? and let's all just PRETEND it's October b/c i miss the autumn already :( also things are kind of all over the place in this chapter? but it'll get explained in the next one. anyway i hope you guys like it tho! let me know what you think in the reviews!


One.

Jim Hawkins awoke, with a startled gasp, to thick darkness and stifling heat; pain sliced, sharp as jagged knives, along the skin of his right arm. For an instant, he gazed blearily round the warm, dim room, seeking the source of his sudden consciousness; then his eyes fell to his sleeve, drawn back slightly to expose his arm – he let out a sharp gasp at the sight. Burning and smoldering its agonizing way into the tender flesh was a single scarlet line, stretched horizontally along the suntanned wrist. It was happening…it was happening now? Happening already?

Two.

His stomach flipped in warning as the second mark appeared. Oh, God, no.

He tumbled from his hammock, rising clumsily before bolting unsteadily from the room; his vision was so blurred, he could barely see, and it seemed to him that his hearing was somehow off – his uncertain, thumping footsteps and harsh, heavy breathing sounded too distant and slow to his own ears.

He barely made it into the bathroom before the vomit rose, filling his throat and choking him before spilling out between his lips and pouring forth into the bowl in a vile, yellowish-white stream.

Three.

And to top it off, here came the third mark. He heaved a great sigh, sinking back upon the scrubbed wooden floor and resting his blazing cheek against the blessedly cool countertop; how many of these were left, anyway? He tried to count it up and couldn't; the closest estimate he could reach was something bigger than eight, but smaller than twelve. He released a shaky breath at the thought; just so long as it was below thirteen. Anything was better than thirteen.

Four.

The sudden pain jerked him out of his thoughts; fuck, this one must be deep. His next breath was little more than a hiss, drawn tentatively through tightly clenched teeth; his hands closed into fists, thin ropy blue veins bulging beneath the skin, short nails digging into his palm. Damn, this one hurt; come to think of it, it hurt more than it should. More than it had in previous years. Even as the new line steadily carved itself a place upon his wrist, he lifted a shaking hand, trembling forefinger skimming lightly over the jagged crimson bar – the mark flared, scorching suddenly white-hot. Fuck. He withdrew his hand with another quiet hiss. These strokes, he knew, would remain visible until the following night. The thought sent a burst of shame tearing through his insides and he rose suddenly from the floor, peering cautiously round the open door; the hall stretching before him was dark and narrow and decidedly empty. It would be an unpleasant, yet solitary, walk back to the hammocks, and he let out a relieved, tremulous exhale at the thought, and he settled himself slowly back against the wall. If anyone else had awoken…if anyone else had…if they knew…if they had seen…the very notion made him shudder, and he drew his knees up to his chest in a weak venture to comfort himself. Just imagining it set his insides to shaking; if anyone had heard him…if Silver had heard him…well, the kindly old galley cook wouldn't be so kindly if he knew. If he knew his cabin boy was receiving his marks before daybreak

He dropped his eyes once more to the marks on his arm, stomach churning; but after a moment, the nausea ceased, and he rose shakily to his feet, extending a trembling hand to pull the thin metal chain dangling beside the bowl. The water and sick swirled and sloshed until they had vanished from sight – and with that, the cabin boy journeyed quietly back to the crew's quarters, climbing gracelessly into his hammock, and letting his eyes fall closed in the razor-thin hope of further sleep. The worst of it was over, he thought drowsily, and nobody had seen. Nobody had seen him at his worst; nobody had seen the Judgment.


The remainder of the night proceeded exactly as Jim had expected; he received only brief snatches of broken sleep, the heat and pain in his forearm growing slowly to an insistent, scalding sort of throb as the marks increased in number. By sunrise, the Judgment had passed and there were twelve in all; he issued a small, relieved breath at the sight. Just under. Just under thirteen. He had scraped by for another year.

The sound of Silver's booming, cheerful voice broke him from his dark thoughts. "Dozin' already, Jimbo? Maybe our good friends Mop and Bucket will wake ye back up?"

The boy lifted his head, face relaxing into a smile at the sight of the cook – it felt alien upon his lips, and for a moment, he tried to resist it, not least because dead-end cabin boys weren't supposed to start liking stern, gruff old galley cooks, no matter if the cook in question happened to know nearly every constellation in the sky or how to steer a skiff or...

Jim swung himself out of the hammock before those thoughts could continue, letting his sleeves slip down to cover the scarlet lines blazing upon the fever-warmed skin. "Depends. Is another mountain of dishes waiting for me somewhere else?"

The cook gave a short, rumbling chuckle. "Ye get yerself down into the galley in the next ten minutes or that mountain'll be a planet 'fore ye can blink."

"Yeah, okay, I'll be right there." Jim grabbed his boots as he spoke, waiting until Silver had disappeared down the hall before ripping back his sleeve and examining the marks once more; after a moment of thought, he cast the black jacket half-buried in the rough canvas a thoughtful glance. His shirt was loose and slightly too large, and if the sleeves rode up at any point during the day…

Decision made, the boy seized the garment and swung it around his shoulders, drawing a strange sort of comfort from the weight of the dark fabric. He paused only a moment longer to smooth down a few unruly strands of dark hair before fleeing to the galley.

Breakfast was an entirely uneventful meal; the hands were boisterous and talkative, filling the air with empty, irritating chatter; when they had at last cleaned their plates and departed once more from the galley, Jim was not sad to see them go. He cleared their dirty dishes from the tables and set about scrubbing them rather absently, attention fixed mainly on the cook; the two kept up their own, never-ending stream of lighthearted banter. The cabin boy at last completed his task and rose from his makeshift seat – an upturned wooden crate – balancing the gleaming ceramic precariously in his arms; and a sharp, stinging pain raced suddenly along the inside of his wrist. An aggrieved swear left his lips, and he reflexively reached for the offending area – and the dishes he clutched crashed to the floor, tinkling and clattering into a thousand glistening shards.

"Shit." He drew back slightly as Silver rushed to his side; the cook's face was utterly impassive as he gazed down at the shattered pieces.

"S-sorry," he offered shakily. "Sorry, I just…I mean…" he stole a slightly nervous glance at the cyborg.

"What happened?" The other demanded roughly.

"I don't know, I…I guess my wrist just…shook, or…or spasmed, or something, I…sorry, I'll just clean this, I…"

"No." The cook put a hand on his arm to forestall him. "No, go get yerself the broom. Ye'll cut yerself to pieces if ye try and pick that up with yer bare hands."

"Right. Okay." Jim turned and headed obediently for the staircase, pushing up his jacket sleeve as he went. What had even happened back there? His skin had just suddenly…it was like a white-hot wire, it was like one of the kitchen knives had just…

A sharp, savage burgundy stroke glared furiously back at him, burning from deep within his skin. He stopped dead where he stood, breath coming in short, strained gasps. No, no, no, he was not seeing this – this was not happening. The Judgment must have made a mistake; the Judgment must have…it was only a fluke…it was only…

Lungs turning rapidly to ice in his chest, Jim grabbed frantically for the front of his jacket, rubbing it violently across his arm; the skin flared and reddened, displeased with the rough touch, but the mark remained.

No, no—there must be some mistake—or he was seeing things—maybe it was all a dream, a horrible, terrifying dream—maybe in a moment he would awaken and he would be back in his hammock, and—no, no, maybe he had cut it? Yes, yes, of course that was it, it was a cut, only a cut, perhaps from the butter knife, perhaps the sharp edge had pierced through his sleeve and…

Fear flickered in his mind as he examined the mark again; panic threatened to overtake him as he considered the improbability of this newest solution; it couldn't have been the knife, he had felt the pain just before he'd dropped the dishes…the pain was why he'd dropped the dishes…and the blade was dull and flimsy, scarcely capable of slicing bread, much less tearing through two layers of fabric in less than a second…and the line was too straight…too even…

Reality struck him; his breaths became little more than hoarse, croaky rasps; his hands took on a violent tremor. This was no dream. And the fresh scarlet streak on his wrist was no accident.

This was real. This was happening. The Judgment was never wrong. The Judgment had come, and the Judgment had gone.

And It had given him thirteen marks.