Disclaimer: I do not own MBS.

Author's note: Hey everyone! I plan for this to be a BOOK soley dedicated to Constance. I will be posting new chapters soon, so keep on the lookout. Thank you!


It was a blustery day in Stonetown.

All was well, or so it seemed. In Stonetown square, cars sped past the tree-lined sidewalks, pedestrians gabbled on cell phones, and street vendors called to passers-by. Beside a spreading poplar tree, sat a single park bench, its bottle green paint peeling with age. And it was on this park bench, that a girl sat alone, immersed in a newspaper so recent one could smell the damp ink. To anyone observing her, she seemed rather unassuming, with a black pea coat, and red skirt peeking from beneath her newspaper. As for her face, it was buried behind an advertisement ( Woolworth's Back to School Sale!) so it was impossible to make out her features. In fact, the girl would have remained absorbed in her paper, if a taxi hadn't come screeching to a halt before her, rudely splattering her legs with mud. Angrily setting her paper aside, the girl glowered darkly at the taxi driver. He gave her an apologetic smile, then sped off again.

"Idiot," she muttered spiritedly.

She gave the newspaper a disgusted look, then discarded of it in a nearby trashcan. It was a complete waste of space to fill all those pages with advertisements, pitiful feature stories, and appalling headlines. She was convinced that the Stonetown Times was losing its touch. Not that it had been very good to begin with. The wind tugging at her pale blond hair, she set off down the street, dodging countless people (all of whom were taller than herself).

It was difficult for Constance. She had grown a great deal in the time since she and her three friends had first met, a good ten years ago, but she remained quite small for her age of fourteen years. Her skin was pale and milky, her cheeks and nose were bright pops of cherry red on her face, and her eyes were sparkling blue, set deep. Besides all that, she was only five feet tall, no more, no less. And it was because of this, that Constance Contraire often went unnoticed altogether. She was nothing short of extraordinary, however. She had two great gifts. One, was being psychic. The other, was an uncanny ability to spot patterns and puzzles, not to mention solving them quickly. Constance had a third gift, too, but it wasn't as significant as the other two. She was a skilled poet. Her desk drawers were filled with piles of notebooks, loose paper and chocolate wrappers, all printed with poetry. Mr. Benedict, Constance's adopted father, felt that Constance would make a brilliant poet.

This thought made Constance smile and, feeling expansive, she waved at a street vendor, not caring how she looked. Continuing down the congested sidewalk, she glanced to her left, and saw Stonetown Bay, looking for all the world like a miniature city of its own. Quite suddenly, Constance was crossing the street, heading for the beach. The intoxicating smell of salt spray and dry grass drew her there. She strode along a great dock, crusted with barnacles, and wandered down to the beach, a mere fingernail of gray pebbles. She stood there, quite alone, until a gull—soaring above her—gave a raucous cry, and she gave a start and looked around. It was not lost on her that the wind was picking up, growing louder and more insistent. Then there was the water, becoming choppier, each wave swallowing the last one with a ferocious gulp. Constance gazed out at the gray clouds, so close to the horizon. A storm is brewing, she thought, and grinned. There was nothing Constance loved more than a good rainstorm. In fact, she loved all kinds of weather, as long as it was extreme and exciting. Having long since grown out of her trademark red raincoat, Number Two had made her another, but it was a disturbing flesh color, as Number Two staunchly believed that one's clothing should match one's skin. Constance didn't agree. Only her love for Number Two kept Constance from breaking into rude poetry when presented with a new article of clothing.

Even as she recalled this amusing memory, fat raindrops began to dance on Constance's cheeks and forehead, tickling her mercilessly. The boat anchored in the harbor rocked and swayed, making Constance feel a bit nauseous at the sight of them. Soon, she knew, the beach would be pounded with waves, and her small footprints would be erased. Picking up a stick and flinging into the whispering water, she swung round and trudged up the beach.

Unfortunately, the wind chose this moment to sweep into a howling tempest; roaring in Constance's ears, sending leaves flying, and snatching umbrellas from stunned pedestrians. Constance lowered her head to the wind and plowed on, relieved when she made it to the main street. The raindrops were coming more quickly now, and people were shielding their heads with umbrellas, cast-off newspapers, and in one woman's case, a shopping bag. Constance threw herself into the crush of people, beginning to wish Rhonda hadn't let her take a walk all on her own. There was an unmistakable atmosphere of alarm, no doubt brought on by the sudden storm.

"Excuse me," she growled through gritted teeth, squeezing between two men, and giggling when the wind took the liberty of snatching one of the men's toupee of his head. Without allowing herself a second to laugh, Constance tore the crowd, blinking cold raindrops from her eyes and cursing her own stupidity.

"Why didn't I bring an umbrella?" she thought, seriously annoyed.

CRASH! Constance's head snapped around and she saw an elderly woman and a broad shouldered police officer, both clutching their heads and moaning.

"Watch it!" snarled a beefy crossing guard (Constance had nearly crashed into him). Constance stayed long enough to give the man a rude look, then was off, Blueback Road in sight. Fighting fatigue and a fiery burning in her lungs, Constance stopped briefly, hands on her knees. All around her, street lamps were flickering on, warding off the early nightfall. Glancing up, she saw that the sky was a mass of threatening storm clouds, emitting a faint glow from the setting sun. Taking a deep breath, she stood straight and had barely put one foot on the pavement, when the streetlights went out altogether. Instantly, the city was thrown into noisy darkness. People were yelling, bumping into her, crying out. Constance was determined to remain calm. Making use of the little daylight that was left, she crept along, squinting and searching for the house. As all of the neighborhood lights were out, it was incredibly difficult to distinguish them. But fortunately, Constance spotted the large, homey shape of Mr. Benedict's house, flashlights flickering from within.

Instead of making a dash for the house, Constance went utterly still. Someone was following her. That someone was stealthy; they had hardly made a sound, but she knew they were there. Fighting the urge to scream, Constance turned around very slowly, her skin prickling.

"Hello?"

No answer. But then something swift and blacker than the black all around, came charging at Constance. The person grabbed her roughly, and clasped a huge hand over her mouth. Constance bit her attacker, who merely gave her a well-placed punch in the stomach. Feeling as though she was about to vomit, Constance swung her legs wildly, desperate to kick whomever it was that had seized her.

"I advise you to keep still," said a voice somewhere above her right shoulder. It was an awful voice, deep and threateningly quiet. Constance's response was to kick even more wildly, at least until a hand shot out and twisted her arm so cruelly that she screamed.

"That's better." Constance was swung into some sort of vehicle; she could smell the gasoline, and a door slammed shut behind her. Scrunching her eyes shut, she opened her mouth and screamed shrilly. It was no good, already the vehicle was moving, its wheels rolling to life. In the suffocating darkness, she screamed again.

"Let me GO!"

Muffled laughter from the front of the car. Constance drew back her leg, and kicked the wall of the car. Clutching her toe, she heard more laughter.

"The little dear doesn't know when to stop."

Constance did stop, just then, recognizing a voice too awful to think of. McCracken, the most brutal Ten Man of all. Constance had no idea why she had been attacked and seized, nor how the Ten Men had escaped from jail.

"You're cruel!" she screamed, her own voice grating in her ears. "Where's your humanity? Where?"

The Ten Men laughed, but not loudly enough to mask a dolphin squeal peal of mirth.

It was Mr. Curtain.

Reeling, Constance sat down, hard. Little balls of light popped in her eyes like fireworks, and she felt dizzy. In the dark, she clutched her globe pendant, rolling it over and over in her trembling fingers. I will get through this, she told herself. I will survive just like I survived adversity all the other times. Breathe, Constance, breathe. She would not cry, it was simply out of the question. Her inborn sense of anger at the weakness of Mr. Curtain and his blind followers saved her. "I'm not the one who needs to be afraid," she muttered fiercely. "And I'm not going to be."


That, ladies and gentlemen, was the first installement in "The Adventures of Constance Contraire." I won't beg you to review, but it would be nice to know what you did and didn't like.

Thanks again,

-Spark Writer-