Title: "In this Kingdom by the Sea"
Rating: T
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Mystery
Pairing(s): none
Summary: The girl laughed dryly. "You really have no idea, do you?" she asked. Then, she stepped closer to the light. The more he beheld her face, the more he rendered it familiar. "We come to pay back what your father deserved." AU, very dark Victorious.
Notes: Y'all may need a flashlight for this one. :P Features a different main character, which is pretty necessary for this AU world. I may write a sequel, which would definitely be darker, but I might put it off until I finished the handful if WIPs I have. Story centers on Edgar Allan Poe's poem, Annabel Lee. Enjoy.
The unbearable chill that slithered underneath his skin pried his eyes open into slits. The gloomy light that filtered through the small opening in the den struck his nerves into hyperactivity, and soon his brain was throbbing mercilessly under his skull. He turned his face to the floor to shield himself momentarily, his warm breath clearing the dirt off the cement. Then, slowly, he tried to get up again.
His movement brought upon the sound of heavy chains, which awakened him to the fact that he was bound to it. He touched the thick object he felt around his neck. A rusty metal collar.
He sat up. He gazed round about him. Dark cement walls, with no way of telling what had—or maybe who had—been in there with the unidentifiable stains on the surfaces. The putrid smell was slightly dissolved by the salty odor that breezed in from outside. The only constant sound was like that of sandpaper brushing against a rock.
Where was he? How did he get there?
Or, more importantly, what happened? He remembered getting inside his car, upset after seeing his father and his new stepmother, Trina Vega, lost in a deep kiss on the couch. He was fuming as he stared at the steering wheel. Trina was only two years older than he was! How could his father do that to him? But, he guessed, being one of the most famous, not to mention richest, producer-directors in Hollywood afforded one Henri Shapiro a pass for unreasonable decisions.
If only he had been allowed to stay with Mamaw at the retirement home. He wouldn't have minded. At least she liked him being there.
He was thinking about his mother then, too, who, in her deathbed, hated him for looking like his father. He wondered if things would have been different if he looked like Ruth, his older step sister from his mother.
But before he could start the car, an arm locked around his throat and a soaked rag was held against his face.
After that, everything went dark.
By the taste that the chemical left in his mouth, he knew it was chloroform. He knew. He had unfortunately come across it once in one of Rex's desk drawers. He never did know why his father's assistant had it with him, and he was smart enough to refrain from asking. The "friend" his father enforced on him had a mind that worked in dark ways.
He guessed Rex was just a typical man with a tortured artist's mind.
Come to think about it, this may all just be a sick joke being played on him. People in his life did love to poke fun at him because of his oddities.
Henri would not be bothered with a thing like this. His son's peculiar life was nothing of his concern. Rex might be. The older Shapiro had been working the man like a dog for his new project. Maybe it was a form of revenge on him, to derail him from being too dominant.
But his girlfriend, Libby, a Northridge girl who had both heart and sense, had been keeping Rex's insanity down to a minimum. She would not have approved on him lashing out on his boss's son like this.
Jade West was capable of pulling this stunt. If she found it amusing, she would gag him and chain him in a dank room in a heartbeat. He considered searching the corners of the den for a camera. If he was right, Jade may have even been graceful enough to showcase his demise in front of the crowd for entertainment at the cast party.
Perhaps that was why he was invited there last night. Or nights ago.
But Beck, he would have dissuaded his girlfriend from such a plan. Admittedly, they were not that close, but Beck looked after him from time to time like a good sibling.
Him and André.
Cat would have said something, too. Unless Jade yelled at her. Unless her boyfriend André fight for her, and it all turned out into a big argument.
So no one he knew could have done it, he concluded. Even he was aware he was not worth the bother.
The sharp squeak from the iron doors on the far corner surprised him. When he saw it open, he braced himself for who would walk in.
A dog sluggishly walked in first, its fur thinning and unclean and its head curiously tilted on the side. His fear was allayed and morphed into pity and a hint of fondness for the dog. He shifted on his space slightly, wondering if he should pet it, when another figure emerged from the darkness. She was garbed in clothes that were two sizes too big for her. The icy expression on her face was intimidating, and the uncanny way the dark strands of her hair framed her jaws added cruelty.
He let his eyes fall on her arms. Flashes of memory sped in front of his eyes. Hers were the arms that he saw before succumbing to unconsciousness.
She was the one.
For a while, they were silent. He gazed at her, feigning courage as he waited for any words, while she only stared at him with a smirk tugging at the end of her lips.
He swallowed. "Let me go," he said.
She tilted her head a little, seemingly impressed. "You're not even going to ask why you're here? Who am I? Where you are?" she asked in a mock sweet tone.
"No," he said. "I just want to go home."
"I thought you didn't want to be home? I thought that's why you stormed out of the house?"
He looked up, his brows knitted. "How did you know?" he asked.
"I know my opportunities. Especially when I can use them," she said. She stepped closer. The light shed more clarity to her face, and soon he realized how familiar it was. "Trina took the right time to…distract your father."
He grew indignant. "She's in on this?" he asked.
"Oh, no," she answered. "She's as much of a tool as your father is. They were both clueless. Well, until an hour ago."
"What do you want?" he asked lividly. "Is this some kind of a sick joke to make me look like a fool?"
Her eyes scanned him from head, down, and up. She sneered. "You don't need help to look like a fool, Curly," she remarked. "And not everything's about you." She scoffed. "You're as conceited as that geezer Shapiro."
"Okay, what do you have against my father?"
"Why would you think I have anything against him?"
"You're not exactly stingy in dousing your words with hatred."
She crossed her arms, and then sauntered a few steps to the right. "You're right about that," she agreed.
He looked at her, frustrated. "What is it that you want?" he asked again. "Money. Is that what you want? Huh? My dad has a lot. You can ask him to pay ransom but you'd just be wasting your time. I have some, and I'll buy myself out if you let me go."
She laughed derisively. "It's not as easy as that," she said. "Plus, that's not the plan. It's not what he would do, so don't sell yourself short."
He swallowed, numbing the sting that came from a possibility he realized. "If you are to double cross him and kill me after you get the money, I'd suggest you do it now," he said, gathering enough courage to stare at her in the eye steadily. The smirk that widened on her lips he ignored. "It'll save both of us time."
The girl laughed dryly. "You really have no idea, do you?" she asked. Then, she stepped closer to the light. The more he beheld her face, the more he rendered it familiar. "We come to pay back what your father deserved."
He creased his eyebrows. "We?" he repeated.
"Papa thought it was time," she said, crossing her arms. "I'm just here to help." She paced around, while in a clear spot the dog that came with her settled down to watch its master. The silence had her glance at him. She saw confusion reflect on his eyes. "You don't happen to remember that man years ago—tall, balding, has some gray hair, sometimes confuses Spanish words with English?"
He tried to recall anyone he had encountered before who fitted perfectly in that description. If he wanted to know why he was there, he had to know who it was that planned it.
"It shouldn't be too hard," she said with indifference. "He's one of the few people who actually liked you. Unless, of course, you also took after Shapiro's ungratefulness. He's one to forget a man who worked for him for twenty years then fire him for pulling up a feet too far from the red carpet."
When her words registered and memory finally gave way, his eyes widened. He turned his gaze from the ground to her. He shook his head slowly. "No," he said incredulously. "No. Tristan would not have let this happen. He's—he's a good man! He loved working for my dad! He wouldn'a have…he wouldn't do this to him. He wouldn't do this to me."
"People change, Curly," she said confidently. "Papa's not as weak as you think he is. He's not stupid either. Papa knew some things about your family that I'm pretty sure you don't even know about. 'Cause see, when Shapiro gets too much booze in his system, he either gets very loose lips or gives in too easy to cheap come-ons by anyone under legal drinking age by marrying them."
Taking offense in that, he stood up. "You take that back," he demanded. He attempted to advance towards her, but the metal leash pulled him back, causing him to fall on the floor and cough violently.
She did not laugh. "It's no use," she said. "You'll be down here as long as you need to be kept. In fact, you might be here a good year or longer. Might not be bad to get used to your chain and be a good boy."
He sat up, glaring at her. "You—"
"Uh uh," she shook her head. "I don't appreciate rudeness here."
He locked his jaws in anger. Though he could not see the rest of the room because of the darkness, he knew he'd find a way to get out. He did not want to stay there, where the probability of death lingered. The girl's intentions were foreboding, and he did not want to be there when the final part of all of this were revealed.
He had to get out—fast.
"If you follow what I say, nothing bad will ever happen. At least for now."
He scoffed. "I thought your dad thought of this. Why should I follow you?" he asked. A shadow of surprise then irritation passed by her eyes so quickly that he doubted it even existed at all. "How do I know you're not lying? Why should I trust you?"
"Because as long as you're alive, we'd get money," she said.
"So you are holding me hostage. I told you, my dad wouldn't have had—"
"We don't need your father," she cut him off. "Your daddy dearest is as broke as squat. He's out of money."
He frowned, taken aback. "No, he's not," he said, though the conviction in the girl across him made him doubt. "Dad's not broke. He's got savings in all of his accounts. He's got money coming in—We're not broke!"
She smiled triumphantly. "You buy the lies your father tells you?" she asked derisively. "Well, that's the truth, what I've told you. You and I both know that your father had been financing movies that flop. He's getting too old and too reckless with his money that talking millions out of him is easy. You're not blind, and you're not as ignorant as he is. You know I'm right."
He averted his eyes, ashamed from admitting that her observations were very precise.
"You, although," she added, "you've got more money than you could ever imagine."
He shot a look at her. "What…what do you mean?"
"You didn't think your father kept you in the house because he wanted to reconcile with you, did you?" she asked. "No. He kept you because of what your grandparents left you in their will."
"Their will?"
"From their businesses, they actually earned five hundred million dollars more or less," she explained. "They knew how irresponsible your father is, and they don't trust your older sister. But you, they think you can handle the money. So, they left it to you. When you turn twenty next year, all that and all the properties will be released to you. Shapiro found out about it. He wanted to make sure that you'd share, if you don't give up all, so he kept you."
He took time to process that. "What good am I to you?" he challenged. "I won't release all of those to you. They belong to my family."
She held her chin up, grinning mischievously. "Like I said," she stated, "people change. It includes you. Papa and I can persuade you into changing your mind." She turned around, leaving a narrow-eyed hostage glaring at her. She snapped at the dog that came with her. "Come, Junie," she called to her pet that stood up immediately and sluggishly trotted outside. "We should leave Curly alone." She glanced back before pulling the door closed. "I think he and your deceased mate should get to know each other."
His eyes fell on the obscurity ahead of him after the girl and her dog left. Deceased. That was why it smelled foul in there. "I have to get out," he said in a whisper. Staying in a room with a carcass would get him sick. If not, the coldness would. He did not know where he was, but he could tell that they were situated where winters were merciless.
If he stayed there long enough, he would die in agony.
"Let me out." He shouted, "Let me out! Tristan! Tristan, let me out of here!"
_
Tristan Vega's youngest daughter ascended up to the top of the lighthouse where two chairs were set. Her prisoner's muffled screams kept the satisfied smile on her face. "Do you hear that, Papa?" she asked while she occupied the chair on the right. "He's begging. I know you would have preferred the old man, but it's close."
She received no answer from the form sitting some distance beside her.
She leaned back, content. It all worked out well, after all. She had some doubts, but with the right timing she pulled it off. She guessed she had to thank her older sister, Trina, for being too absorbed with her Hollywood dreams. She married that soulless man because she thought he would be her ticket to stardom and wealth beyond her wildest wishes. How stupid. But, at least her betrayal of her family didn't exactly go to waste. Because of her, now she had the youngest—and the richest—member of the legendary producer's dysfunctional family.
The leverage and power she knew she would have on Henri Shapiro made her giddy with excitement.
She glanced at her father, and then she took a sip of the drink she had resting on the table between them. She knew he wouldn't have liked it that she took the boy, much more so threaten to harm him. She remembered how much he loved the kid; he told her himself. He was one of the reasons why he was so distraught on leaving the Shapiro's. Sadly, there were countless times when it seemed that he loved the boy more than her or her sister.
She hated it. She hated that boy.
Perhaps that was why she chose him.
But, even if that was the situation, she never did hate her father. If anything, she loved him more. Her concern was greater, especially when he started to get depressed and become ill ten years ago. Oh, how she despised seeing him lying on the bed like a vegetable, refusing any food she offered because of what happened. She knew the producer was only too happy to be right; Tristan Vega is an ignorant, weak man.
Her plan, though—it would change that.
"As long as people think you thought of this, they'd change their mind," she said. "Henri, that curly-haired boy, Trina—Especially Trina. I'd love to see the look on her face when she finds out her family did this." She sighed happily, and then she gazed at the preserved skeleton of Tristan Vega propped up on the chair beside her. She chuckled. "This is your revenge, Papa."
Why are you doing this, baby girl? she could almost hear her father ask.
"It's all for you," she said sincerely. "It's all for you."
Constructive comments are very much appreciated! ^_^