A/N: So, I've been experimenting with styles and formats lately, and thought I'd do a little project.
Warnings: Supernatural Powers-AU; Lots of crude language ahead (especially in this chapter); Shipping Ahoy! (though not in this chapter)
Reviews mean as much to the author as unlimited money means to the penniless.
Introduction to the Art of Map-Reading
"Stars are like a map," she told him as they lay on the cold ground one night; her idea, not his. Sometimes he wondered if it was ever his idea. "A very detailed, very hard to interpret map," she continued. "Only an incredibly bright mind can do it."
Back then, he thought it was a load of bullshit. Even now he still did. But somewhere, somehow, this load of bullshit gained more importance as his own life seemed to lose any flicker of sense it had. Sometimes he wanted to hurt her, to shake her, to wake her up and yell at her—tell her he was not brave, he was not fantastic, he was not a hero.
But he knew what she'd reply: "You're flawed. And in the scheme of things, that's perfect."
He'd stopped pushing it away, denying it and going against it. He'd stopped screaming so much. But internally, he couldn't help but protest. He never asked for the stars or for the flaws—he never wanted his life to become the mess it was right now. He never wished to be special, or perfect, or flawed, or fantastic. He wanted to be and was Scott. Just Scott.
So, Scott just Scott would normally turn his head and scoff at her because that was such a load of poetic crap. But somewhere along the ride, Scott just Scott seemed to forget he was angry.
He asked: "Like yours?"
"What?"
"A bright mind—like yours."
To his surprise, she looked back at him, features relaxed but serious and shook her head. "It takes much brighter than that."
He leaned on his elbow to look at her. "How much?"
Her only reply was to look at the sky above, now completely dotted with tiny, bright freckles.
-96 Days until the Blackout-
History of Witchcraft 101
The library was silent, small and dark, supposedly like every library in every small public high school in the middle of nowhere. Students whispered to each other between the aisles, at the study tables, and by the door; the librarian barely cared for silence, as long as the noise was bearable and able to talk over. Today, like always, there weren't many students in the library. Barely a quarter of the small number of places at study tables was occupied, and in one of these sat Scott Barnett.
Redheaded, spiky-haired and with a grimace that could rival every disgruntled cartoon character's in existence, he stuck out in the library like a sore thumb. Perhaps it wasn't his looks that led to this as much as his attitude did; the other students sent vary looks his way, and once or twice the librarian looked like she was about to rush over to his table, lest he burn or rip a book or a student. Yet, he stood the quietest, stillest and read.
He needed a passing grade. That much was clear to him. To get a passing grade, he needed to study. That much was clear to him, too. But studying was hard, especially when it came to History. It took him over twenty minutes to realize he had taken the wrong book to study out of, and he still had too much pride to admit to that and pick the right one. He kept reading and not understanding, and reading, and not understanding. He grew frustrated, but this was one of the only situations where throwing a tantrum and getting physical wouldn't help.
And then, someone sat down in the chair opposite his. He wasn't bothered by it at first—and then he remembered how many empty chairs there were left in the study area. He looked up, only to come face to face with a rather pixie-looking blonde. She was smiling eerily at him.
"Figures," he grumbled under his breath. "Whaddya want?"
"Just to talk."
His scoff was loud enough to earn him a 'shh'. "You never want just to talk with anyone, Mercer. You always swoop in next to some unsuspecting victim, tell them something fucking creepy about them and ruin their life."
She looked a bit taken aback, if not a little offended, but she recovered with a lazy smile. "Completely untrue. I really just want to talk, Scott."
"Do you seriously think I was born yesterday?" he glared at her, and slammed the history book closed for emphasis. ("Shh!") "Fuck off," he hissed in her direction.
"I just want to talk."
"Can't you just 'read my aura' or whatever witch crap you do and get it over with? Or actually, don't bother, because that's exactly what my aura says: Fuck. Off."
He pushed himself out of his chair and stood up suddenly, grabbing his bag and heading towards the door with hurried steps. He didn't bother gracing the librarian with a glance. Even with his head start and considerably longer legs, however, Dawn Mercer materialized next to him in no time at all. It was creepy how she did that—how she did everything, in fact. From the way she walked almost like she was floating, from the way she smiled in that all-knowing way of hers. If there was anyone the student body feared more than Scott, it was her.
And if there was anyone Scott feared, even if only slightly, it was her.
"I," she started, the tone of her voice sounding rather amused. In no more than three moves, she twirled on her feet and stepped left then forward, cutting him off, "just want to talk," she tilted her head to the side, as if she was considering him.
He imitated her voice, raising it a couple of octaves, mockingly. "And I," he pushed past her, "don't."
"It's not true, you know," she called after him, and he heard her soft footsteps approaching. He sped up his pace. "What they say about me. I'm not the ones making people disappear."
"You mean die gruesomely," he cut her off.
She made a sound of contemplation. "Not exactly."
Unable to contain himself, he whirled around. Dawn had already stopped, as if she'd predicted this. God. "The hell you mean 'not exactly'? What, like the news reportages are fake?"
A longer pause followed. Then, in the same tone: "Not exactly."
He smiled humorlessly at her. "Listen, tree-hugging freak," now he'd gotten the slightest bit of reaction from her—something shifted in her eyes, "I'm not wasting my time to listen to your creepy shit, alright? Just cut the chase and tell me when I'm going to die, so I won't bother doing homework or something."
This time, she seemed a bit more agitated. "You're not going to die. Not if you listen to me."
His anger was starting to peak again. "I'm listening but all I hear is vague bullshit," he crunched up his nose. "You even made me use the word vague to describe it."
The corners of her lips twitched as if she was going to smile. He swore to God he might've just lost it if she had. Instead, she told him: "You should really swear less, you know. Swear words have a negative influence on the mood and atmosphere of a room."
Childishly and as if to prove a point, he replied: "Thanks for acting like I give a fuck. Now do you have anything else to say or can you just go off on your merry way and rescue animals and shove tofu down people's throats?"
She blinked up at him. "That's not what I do."
"Don't know what the heck you do, don't care. Do you actually have something worthwhile to say?"
"Yes," Dawn Mercer replied sounding as calm as he sounded frustrated. Her voice was whispery, but too high pitched to be entirely quiet—just enough to grate him on his nerves.
She looked around, following one or two students walking down the hall with her eyes. Scott was about to let out another retort when she effectively interrupted him: "I don't think this is a good place, though. Follow me."
And with that, she brushed past him in a whirl of tiny limbs and a lot of blond hair and confidently started going up the staircase to the second floor. He could've huffed, rolled his eyes, and taken off in the completely different direction, all while hoping his post-Mercer death wouldn't be too gruesome or painful. But he didn't. Instead, he threw his backpack on one shoulder and followed her up the stairs—he kept the distance just enough to still be able to follow her path, but also enough so nobody would notice he was walking after her, and not let her know she'd convinced him. But the smug wench she was under that peaceful, life-is-sacred exterior, she probably already knew that.
He scowled. Indeed, if there was anyone Scott Barnett feared, even if only slightly, it was her. And he thought it was about time for that to change.
"Jesus Christ."
That was the first thing that tumbled out of his mouth, despite the fact he wasn't and had never been religious. Shortly after followed a string of well-chosen curses that made Dawn Mercer turn around to look at him with a mixture of calm, no surprise there, and subtle, but genuine confusion.
Feeling considerably less manly, but also less caring, Scott wrapped his hands around his arms, rubbing up and down; he'd left his jacket in his locker. Rotten luck. "You brought us on the freaking rooftop in middle of November."
She turned her head one more time to glance at the horizon before looking back at him, "Rather picturesque, don't you think?"
"Rather fucking cold, don't you think?" he shot back, feeling his teeth clatter. "Is this how I'm going to die? As a human popsicle?"
Unfazed, "You are not going to die," she shook her head, and tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. "And you know, being the middle of November and all, it might've been wiser if you didn't leave your jacket in your locker."
"How do you know where I've put my jacket?" Images of her having followed him around all day filled his brain, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
As if she could read his thoughts, Dawn shook her head. "It isn't that hard to guess. Besides," she paused, her face completely devoid of emotion; with her hair blowing in the wind and her wide eyes, she looked almost threatening despite her doll-like appearance, "you can warm up without using a jacket, can't you?"
He felt his insides freeze, and it was not because of the weather outside. He could—of course he could. But ever since the incident, he swore to himself he wouldn't. And yet, and yet… And how did she know? How the hell did she know?
He tried to talk sense into himself—she didn't know, she was just baiting him. But how would she know what to bait him with? How did she know?
No. She couldn't know. The sentence was innocent enough if he deconstructed it—she could be talking about the central heating inside the school. He didn't have to lose his temper and clue her in on the fact there could be more to that statement.
"What are you talking about?" he sounded apathetic, almost bored, to his own surprise.
"Your," a pause for contemplation, "special abilities with fire." She knew. "You shouldn't hide them, or try to push them away, you know. They can feel it anyway—you might as well try to gain control over them."
How did she know, how did she know, how did she know?
Her gaze softened, quite suddenly.
"Scott, listen. I don't mean to scare you—"
"Scare me?" his voice came out loud, disbelieving. His vision had darkened and zeroed on her, and inside, he could feel the on-going battle between the ice cold fear and the hot, pulsating anger he felt towards her. Contrasting, strange emotions—downright disturbingly so. Just like Dawn Mercer.
"You're not scaring me, you freak," his insult was weak, he'd have to admit, but his voice was strong, angry. This was why people were scared by Dawn Mercer, he assumed. This was the thing that left them terrified for days before they'd turn up in a news reportage—dead. "I'm actually embarrassed for you if you thought that's scaring me. That's nonsense bullshit. I don't have any 'special abilities' with fire, and I have no idea what you're talking about."
Her voice was still soft and whispery as she spoke, and suddenly Scott was glad the wind gave him another pretext for his shivering. "You do, though. I can sense—"
"You can sense nothing!" he snapped at her, suddenly forgetting about the cold, about the fire, and about the fact he was on a freaking rooftop in the freaking middle of freaking November with freaking Dawn Mercer. "You're crazy. You're delusional, that's what you are," he told her, but to his embarrassment, his voice shook ever so slightly. "They should lock you up."
"But you don't mean that," she replied, without missing a breath. "You're just scared. I can un—"
"Scared? What do I have to be scared of?" he knew that at this point he was the one who sounded insane, but didn't care. The only thought running through his mind was: 'How does she know? How does she know?' "Are you even looking at yourself? All it would take is one hit, one push, and you'd be flying off this roof. I could kill you, and you know what? I'd probably get a medal for it."
She didn't even blink. He said things that would make the average student who bumped into him in the hall break down and cry, but Dawn Mercer didn't even bat an eyelash as she regarded him with something resembling pity. And in that moment, Scott didn't know whether he wanted to grab her neck and snap it, or run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
Then just as calmly as before, "You wouldn't, though."
"Why not? What's stopping me?" he shot back at her, and he was suddenly glad they were up on the freaking roof, where the student body wasn't present to give their pointless opinion and run the rumor mill.
"The fact that you're not a bad person, Scott. You're just acting like one."
That did it for him.
"Stop," he said, and he was pleasantly surprised by how calm, yet resolute his voice sounded. She was unaffected, as usual. "Stop acting like you know me, because I swear to fucking God, Mercer, you don't. You can't understand people with your hippy witchcraft, okay?" he spat at her, turning on his heel, ready to walk off, but kept his eyes firmly locked on hers. "Stop acting like you can."
To his surprise and disbelief, she smiled. It was small and tentative, but it was there. And if Scott wasn't messed up, and angry, and scared, and confused, if he was just a normal teenager who'd never heard of the post-Mercer curse, he would've likely found it really nice to look at. But he was all that, and he was pretty sure he would experience the curse first-hand.
"There are only so many reasons you can be bitter for, Scott," she talked to him as if he was a small child; the smile faded. "I'll be waiting, though. You know where to find me when you'll need me."
"Won't happen," he snapped, just before turning fully to walk off, lest he say or hear something more regrettable.
"Dude! Barnett!"
He'd almost gotten to his last period when he heard that; he knew he eventually would, so he just sighed and started walking faster. Of course it didn't work, because someone dark-skinned, clad in blue and very solid was at his side before he had time to get to his locker. Was everyone in this darn school faster than him?
"Man, I heard the witch cornered you today. True or not true?" Despite the fact Lightning had probably had to run more than half a hallway to catch up with him, he wasn't even panting. Scott glared at him from his peripheral vision—jock stamina.
He shrugged in response, however. "What does it matter?"
Lightning looked at him, aghast. "Man! Of course it matters. The last person to talk to the witch is, y'know," he made a chocking noise and a slicing motion to his neck. "Sha-dead."
The redhead rolled his eyes. Typical Lightning, down to the freaking stupid prefix he added to everything thinking it made him cool. If it was up to Scott, he would've never picked Lightning as a friend; he was pretty sure Lightning wouldn't have picked him, either. The basis on which their friendship worked on was really simple, though—nobody liked Scott, nobody liked Lightning. Scott was a douchebag with no determination to do absolutely anything unless it hurt people and benefited him, Lightning was a pretty alright, if not conceited, guy who had a will of steel and a competitive nature that was equally hated and feared throughout the school. It made enough sense to them for the past three or four years.
But it would've been easier, a lot easier, to be Lightning's friend if he was at least half as bright as his name suggested.
"Gees, what a shame," he drawled, slamming the door of his locker open once they reached the spot in front of it. The first thing he grabbed was the leather jacket he'd haphazardly thrown in around second or third period. He proceeded to put it on. "I guess I won't get to take the make-up test for History this Thursday."
"This ain't a joke, Barnett," Lightning chastised him almost instantly, leaning his arm against the opened locker door. "I mean, you're a cool guy. I wouldn't want to see you turn up with half your limbs missing on national TV."
"…Thanks, that means a lot to me." Would this guy just shut up already?
"What I'm saying is," he continued, rather loudly, "that, maybe, if you avoid going out like, for the rest of your life—"
"And the fuck should I do about school, eh, dimwit?" Scott interrupted almost instantly. Lightning frowned at him.
"Dude, screw school. You don't even like school!" he spread his arms wide for emphasis, gesturing around. "Nobody in their right mind likes school."
Ah yes, he knew there was a reason he could still stand Lightning. "True. Doesn't change the fact that my only options are school or begging on the streets, though," he replied, dryly.
Lightning cringed sympathetically. "Shit, man. Forgot about that." Of course he did. Lightning usually forgot anything that didn't directly have to do with him. "I was just about to suggest we skip last period and have some smokes, too. I mean, I thought you'd need that after Mercer, y'know?"
Wrong, Scott thought to himself. Lightning just wanted to whine about Coach Hatchet being a major dick, or brag about whatever girl managed to see past his ego and screw him. But he didn't say that, like he'd usually do because, truth was, he did need that after Mercer. He needed Lightning—stupid, dense Lightning, who didn't drag him to the rooftop in the middle of November to blurt creepy facts about his life that he hadn't told anyone. Hell, he'd ever sit through a monologue about how Rosetti wanted him so bad and was just acting hard to get if it took his mind off of Dawn Mercer.
He had English next period, too. He was decent at English, and Mrs. Montgomery was probably one of the only teachers who didn't have anything against him.
"Nah," he slammed the door of his locker shut, since he wouldn't bother taking out his textbook anymore. "Let's go for it. I have English with Mrs. M, anyway. She won't give me too much shit about it."
Lightning grinned fully, almost literally from ear-to-ear, "Sha-awesome! Oh, and I gotta tell you something. Man, you would not believe it."
'Here we go'. They started walking down the corridor, Lightning with his hands at the back of his neck, Scott with his lodged firmly into the pockets of his jacket.
"Does this have to do with Rosetti?"
"Oh, yes. Definitely yes."
"Please don't tell me you tried to show her the 'hula hoops'."
"Man! Don't diss the hula hoops."
"Feh."
For the average Trenton Delaney student, the sight of Dawn Mercer was frightening enough to make them whirl around and go in the opposite direction. The sight of her doing something as unnaturally normal as leaning against a banister from an apartment building's emergency exit and texting, would be enough to make them seek medical care. In fact, it seemed to be unnatural even for Dawn herself, as she fumbled with her thin fingers over the keys to write the message:
Found him. He's resisting, but I sense he'll come around soon. Progress?
Send.
She craned her head to look at her surroundings. No one in sight, as usual. The only thing that stuck out from the mass of gray the buildings were made of was a red blanket that Mrs. Jenkins had likely hung up to dry before she went to work. A dog barked from afar, but the sound of cars whizzing by drowned the noise, just as usual. Easily the most unfriendly, abandoned neighborhood, one would say. But for her, it was almost perfect, if not a little too gray.
"Child," they spoke into her mind. Whispery, whispery. "Child, they are coming. Close, so close."
"They're coming for the boy."
"Help me, help me."
"So close, so close."
Shut up.
And they did. It took years for her to do it—to silence the Spirits in her mind at will, so they wouldn't bother her when it wasn't necessary. The Spirits were selfish and loud. They gave many answers, but gave a number twice as big of questions of their own. How much they begged her to answer them, to help them, help them…
A silent buzz in her right hand and Dawn was snapped out of it and back to her senses. The phone. Of course. Her finger slid over the key, to open the message.
You sure? We lost too many already. Got SM convinced. Working on CP.
Dawn pursed her lips, doing a headcount. There were thirteen subjects total—excluding herself and B. Two of them were already as good as convinced; three, if she included the illustrious Scott Barnett. He'd been easy to read—stubborn, but not stubborn enough, very prone to anger, having an aura with the ugliest shades she'd seen in at least three years, but a redeemable, though bitter, soul.
So she typed: 100%. Give me two days. Good job.
Then, with an afterthought, added: We need to meet. You know I hate using these things.
Send.
B was the only reason she'd gotten a phone in the first place. Technology was his domain and the only way of communication he could guarantee to make safe and completely undetectable with a bit of work. That, and the fact that he didn't speak, made texting likely one of his favorite ways of communicating. Dawn didn't need texting, provided she could exchange looks with him.
Which, at a distance, was impossible to do, so the environment would, again, have to suffer for the sake of human lives.
The reply came almost instantly: Good. We'll meet later. I need you to try and ghoc ; they're two miles away, probably after AR.
She pocketed her phone and sat down, cross-legged. GHOC. Get hunters off course.
With a deep breath and one of her best stances, she closed her eyes and concentrated on letting go and opening the door that sealed her mind from the Spirits. She needed something strong , or at least strong enough to momentarily draw attention to herself.
She let them scream.
"Help us, help us, help us, HELP US!"
