Deal with the Trancy - Chapter 1: Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

"Get back here!" the male villager roars in anger. I laugh while dashing away from his cottage. What is securely tucked under my arm is a prized possession—a majestic vase made of china. Tugging down on my mask to correct its loose position, I nimbly duck under a crevice of an old, abandoned building; my favorite escape route.

While in there, I move an obtruding table from the wall which, in turn, reveals a secret passageway that is relatively a tunnel. Slipping into the tunnel, I begin crawling into the dark area, careful not to damage the precious vase. I elbow my way forward, advancing inch by inch, while keeping my head low. Gradually, the ferocious cries of the man diminish in the distance, and a silence commences whereas the only thing that can be heard is the sound of my tight breathing.

After a while, an opening can be discerned from the other end. I clamber outside hastily, harboring a mild discomfort in small, restricted places, and stumble into my aunt's house. Grunting at the disgraceful entrance, I straighten and release a sigh of relief when I see that the vase is still in excellent condition, despite our rough venture.

Being in my aunt's house, a surge of warmth and comfort rejuvenates throughout my body, relaxing me from any previous tensions. The house is not big, I must admit, but it has a large enough capacity to fit in basic furniture and necessities such as a bed, a measly rug, a table, a couple of chairs, a dresser and a lamp. It is a shabby place with rotting wood and a thatched roof, along with a strange, damp scent in the air that lingers around for a few days after a rain shower. Nonetheless, it feels like home.

"Stole 'nother valuable somethin'?" My aunt blooms into view, having just returned from using the privy, I suspect, by the way she is adjusting her disheveled skirts. I peer into the familiar face that belongs to someone I love very much. She has untidy blonde hair cut negligently around her neck, one uneven tooth that juts out when she grins, and sparkly brown eyes that insinuate mischief.

I smile with pride swelling in my chest as I hold up the vase for display. "Ma'am, I present to you one of the most wondrous creations of mankind! Pay heed to the detailed imagery engraved onto this ceramic material-"

"Ok, cut to the chase," my aunt interrupts with an amused grin and taps her temple with her knuckles lightly. "The last thing I need is to confuse the ol' noggin' up here."

Smirking, I settle into a chair while casually holding the vase against the lamp. I study the pretty, artistic features of flowers and vines chased onto the hard surface of the vase. "I've been keeping my eyes on that man for a while now, lemme tell ya. I had thought—no, I just knew that there's no way a villager as poor as him can stalk his way home with a big ol' goofy grin on his face. He was hiding something, my instincts could tell me that much. And what did it take?"

My aunt merely smiles and waits, knowing all too well that I was asking a rhetorical question that was spoken simply to apply a dramatic effect.

Two of my fingers thrust into the air in a flamboyant manner. "Two nights of patrol and I got that sucker nailed. He was hiding this sweetass thing that he smuggled from China." I delicately lay the vase onto the table so that we both can view and wallow in its captivating beauty.

My aunt extends her lips in a whistle whose tone indicates that she is wholesomely impressed. "Got to give it to ya, this is quite some big of a catch you got here. It's gotta be worthfortunes."

I snap my fingers for attention. "Way ahead of you, Aunt Peggy. I got a plan. Gonna meet up with some people and sell this vase for twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds? Whoo-ee, that's a load of money you're headin' for."

I shrug. "You and I gotta make a living, right?"

For once, my aunt seems to quiet down in a rather subdued manner. She appears pensive for a moment and retires in another chair, awkwardly scooting it closer to mine with a crook of her hand under the seat, edging it forward.

"We should talk—and get rid of that shady mask, for crying out loud, I'm trying to speak to my dear niece 'ere," my aunt mutters in her typical gruff and coarse voice. She snatches the mask from my face and offhandedly tosses it aside.

"Oi, careful with that!" I admonish, retrieving my cherished mask and placing it securely on my lap after it was cruelly thrown on the tabletop. "It's practically my signature. Everybody knows 'bout the 'Cat' that roams the streets at night to raid houses. You have to keep this mask in top condition."

Aunt Peggy sighs, "Yeah, yeah, it's real cool and all, but I really need to talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

She sighs again, frustrated this time, as if what she was implying is supposed to be obvious. Her large hand drags a loose bang from her face, and she continues, "'Bout you being so... you."

"Makes sense," I remark with a hint of sarcasm in my tone. "Still don't see what the problem is."

"You should know by now what I mean. You cannot just go about stealing things from other people—"

"You were fine with that before," I point out.

Aunt Peggy's eyes sparkle with a certain amusement that I can't quite define. "Well, of course, it's Peggy ya talkin' 'bout 'ere; she doesn't give two shut-ins 'bout morals 'cuz society is a damn waste anyway. Every man for himself is what I like to say."

"To justify your dirty acts," I finish, smiling at her odd, vernacular speech that I have adapted to over the years with her. "I'm sure Scotland Yard finds that oh, so very reasonable."

Aunt Peggy attempts—and fails—to suppress a bark of laughter. "Scotland Yard's a joke. I can be dancin' with my polka dots undies in front of 'em in public, and they won't move no muscle."

"Maybe 'cuz your butt is something worthy to admire over," I suggest.

"Well, it is quite firm and—"

I raise a hand to cut her off. "Too much information. Now you were saying 'bout...?"

"Oh, right! Aye, I was sayin' how although it's much too old for me to change my bad ways, maybe it's 'bout time you stop stealin'."

"What?" I blurt in disbelief, standing up so impulsively that my knee bangs against the table, but I refuse to be fazed by the minor ache that has blossomed. "Peggy! This ain't like you at all! Are you ill today or something? Want medicine? I can jack some from the pharmacist next door."

Aunt Peggy exhales soundly, allowing for the discharge of breath to flap her lips. She rises to her feet in order to commensurate to my level, despite the fact that, as stout as she is, she still remains a whole head shorter than me.

"No, do I look like I caught a nasty cold? I'm perfectly fine. I'm probably reachin' that prime of life where your wisdom and reason just jump up a smidge, enough to think 'bout stuff when you're alone."

"What kind of... stuff?" I question slowly.

"Stuff like how..." She hesitates briefly while she ponders how to piece together her words efficiently. "Stuff like how in the past years, I might—just might have not been a whole lot of good influence on ya."

A scoff issues from my lips. "You gotta be kiddin' me, Aunt Peggy. Not a good influence? Who taught me how to pick locks, how to crouch and sneak so stealthily, how to press for information from others? Who is the mastermind, I ask you, who has taught me how to escape in the most clandestine ways that it'd be a miracle before the dogs of the Queen can be so close as to halt me from taking one step further and lay a sword by my neck? Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it was none other than you, Mrs. Margaret, that has imparted me with such unprecedented knowledge!"

My aunt sighs, "As flattered as I am on half of the things that I actually understood of what you're saying, please—and I say this with love—shut up. Really, when you start goin' theatrical on me I get a huge headache."

My shoulders perform its usual response to things, where they raise and drop curtly in a lackluster mimic of a shrug. "Whatever. My point is you're the best role model anyone can ever wish for."

"Hardly," my aunt comments harshly. "Let's be realistic, it's been fun and all, but really, things have gotten too far. As first, you were a cute seven years old that ran around pickpocketin' stuff like coins or toys. Nowadays, you're the real deal, earnin' the name of 'Thieving Cat' or 'Cat with Claws' or whatever, and you rob nearly every one of my neighbors of the most expensive things that they own so that you can sell it off in some shady auction!"

My lips purse as I pretend to contemplate hard about it, and I tap my forefinger against my chin. "Point taken. I can see the difference."

Aunt Peggy groans, "You are not taking this seriously at all!"

I hold up both of my hands in defense. "Look, I just don't see what's the big deal to be sweating over, that's all. I mean, in all honesty, I only steal what is enough to provide what's vital like three meals a day, some change of clothes, and so on and so forth. The rest of the profit, of course, goes into something more beneficial... for instance, thievery equipment."

Her face flushes into a darker shade, and her eyes glint with solemnity. "You're delvin' deeper into the worse side of society. And trust me, that ain't gonna be pretty. You already got yer reputation so that means all sorts of people are tryin' to sniff you out. All it takes now is for ya to slip up a little bit, and the police will be skinnin' ya alive."

I can't help but snort at her pathetic scare tactic. "I'm not afraid of cops. You entrusted me with your skills as a thief. I'm pretty sure I can evade them."

"You ain't perfect, you're gonna slip up eventually if you continue these... these..."

"Wild and dangerous yet equally exciting excursions for fortune?" I suggest.

"I'm feelin' the urge to slap."

"Sorry," I say. "Habit from the... um, yeah..." I try to keep my wince to a minimum after stupidly implying to that other life I have. The last thing that I would want to do is to remind Aunt Peggy of that.

She, however, catches on to it, and her rigid expression thaws. "Oh, right," Aunt Peggy murmurs thoughtfully, "I've nearly forgotten. Now I really am a bad influence on you. Look, I've retired from being a petty thief a long ways ago. It's about time you do that to so that it won't... have, er, a negative effect on your other life 'cuz you know..."

I emit a loud groan and falter into my seat, covering my ears although it is an ineffectual act to drown out her clamorous voice. "I don't wanna hear it. Don't you dare say it."

"'Cuz you are a—"

"No, be quiet, be quiet!"

"A noble."

"Ugh, why did you have to go and say it!" My face exaggeratedly forms the expression of an afflicted person in utmost pain. "Why did you have to go and do this to me?" My fingers enclose around the front of my shirt, and I squeeze my eyes shut in what should appear to be grief.

My aunt twiddles with the ripped edges of her skirt. "Gosh, no wonder no one can ever tell you're a noble. You got the cute face and all, but you talk and act like tough ol' peasant who has a weird knack for the theatre. I personally don't see what's so bad 'bout living in luxury and havin' power over these damn wastelands."

At this, my eyelids flap open instantly, and I shoot forward from my seat in unrestrained joy that is derived from a spark of hope. "Not bad enough that you'll come back?" I ask, twisting my lips into a pleading smile.

Aunt Peggy rolls her eyes, not bothering to beat around the bush about it. "You know I'm not ever gonna come back. I left for a reason, I tell you I cannot stand that woman that your father decided to marry—"

"After my mum died, yeah," I say dully.

"Mm-hmm, and that hag of a woman thinks she can take the place of sister!"

"Is that the reason you left?" I inquire.

"No, not entirely," Aunt Peggy admits. "It's your dad. He gets on my nerves with the way he immediately drools over another pretty face after your mum died. Sickens me, that unfaithful fool—no offense to the daughter of the unfaithful fool."

"None taken," I answer smoothly. "'Cuz in all due fairness, I agree with ya. That's why I rarely ever speak with him. Which is another reason why you should come back. Do you realize how lonely I am in that palace? I always have to be that stupid girl that's so obedient, innocent and polite. You're practically the only one left who understands me."

"I get it, dear," she comforts. "If it makes you feel better, if you don't talk or make faces, you can pass as a true princess: girls who are vain and fragile."

"Strangely, I do not feel better."

Aunt Peggy chuckles. "Well, at least you got you some fine looks. Yer stepmum is flat-chested by the way, but you're pretty endowed, just like me." As if to demonstrate, she reaches out her hand to my chest, but I slap it away.

"Try to grope me again and"—I pat the table—"well, actually, I'm quite fond of this table. So if you try to grope me again, you'll find yourself one short of a table by tomorrow morning."

She lets out a hearty laugh. "For a thief to steal from her mentor. Ironic."

"Mm, and you know that I'm flat anyway." I jut out my lower lip in a pout to showcase my dissatisfaction. "Don't have to lie to make me feel better."

"Hey, so you still have some of that cuteness left in ya," she says with a grin.

My eyes wander back to the vase, while I punch her lightly in the arm for calling me cute. "Auntie... I don't think I want to give up being a thief just yet. There's just somethingextraordinary being out there. The thrill and exhilaration when you know that you're on the brink of being caught but yet you can be renowned as one of the best if you're not. It's challenging... It keeps you alert and excited, particularly on that breathtaking moment when you lay your hands on what you desired for. Adrenaline rushes throughout you, and it leaves you feeling a tingle that is so intoxicating, you can't help but feel numb."

I pause for her to absorb all of that in. "And most of all, I feel free out there, Peggy. Free from hosting balls, from learning about arts and crafts, from squeezing myself in high-heels and plastering a fake smile on my lips. Out there, while I'm out there hunting for treasure... I feel invincible and in charge of my own life where others won't write it out for me." I gently cradle my cat mask in my hands. "That's why I can only be free at night. I don't want this last part of me to disappear as well."

A silence falls between us. It isn't a heavy, uncomfortable one though. It is one where we are both wistful, reflecting on the significant matters of life. I was not simply whining about wanting to keep being a thief, but rather, I was fighting to grasp onto the final part of me that has not disintegrated along with my childhood. That is the one thing that I am absolutely sure of.

A warm hand claps on my shoulder. "I understand. You do what you have to do."

The tensed muscles along my shoulders relax considerably. "Thank God, Aunt Peggy. I don't know what I would do—"

"But mind you, I'm not finished," Aunt Peggy intervenes, and a crooked smile aligns on her lips. Her chocolate eyes once again twinkle in playful delight, and she winks. "Just wait until you find someone you love. I can almost guarantee you that your thoughts now will change."

Reflexively, I gasp in a sudden mouthful of air and choke, "Did you just say—"

"Cat," Ciel Phantomhive, an adolescent boy, murmurs. He has bluish-black hair and startling eyes the color of the magnificent ocean, with the exception that one of them is sadly covered by an eyepatch. He dons on brand clothing, which justifies his prodigious occupation as an earl and also as Queen Victoria's Watchdog. As her Watchdog, his primary job is to ensure that the matters underground, which entail any crimes or atrocities, are not involved nor are they allowed to affect the regular society.

While relaxing in his leather chair, Ciel extends an arm over his desk to show a vague photo that was obviously taken in a rush. However, in the picture, one can still discern a suspicious figure who wears a mask that greatly resembles the features of a cat's face.

Sebastian Michaelis, Ciel's earnest butler—who is, by all means, not a typical one, but rather a demon—peers into the picture inquisitively, with one hand cupping his chin. "And may I ask for the significance of this photo?"

"Surely you should have heard of the 'Thieving—"

An impatient rap on his door effectively captures their attentions. "Cieeeeeeeeel!" a cheery voice rings out.

Ciel grumbles, apparently displeased by the expected company, "Come in."

And in bursts a youthful boy who possesses lustrous blond hair, with his bangs aligned to the side, and piercing sky-blue eyes. As always, his face manifests into a mischievous grin, and he is smartly dressed in a plum frock coat, accompanied by a pair of black shoes.

Without asking for permission, the boy lunges into a chair directly across from Ciel. He obtrusively sets his elbows onto the immaculate surface of the desk—Sebastian winces, as he has just cleaned that—and rests his face into his palms in mock interest. "So what's up? Ciel rarely ever calls me over, so this day must be very special!"

Ciel frowns, finding the other boy's nonchalance inappropriate at a time like this. "This is strictly business, Alois Trancy, and I advise that you treat it as such... Where is your butler?"

"Oh, Claude?" the boy addressed as Alois chimes. "I told him to wait outside in the carriage. All he ever does is mutely stare at something anyway, so what's the point of him being here?" He smiles sweetly at Ciel. "His only purpose is protection, really, but I don't think that's necessary right now 'cuz Ciel will never do anything to hurt me, right?"

"I'm feeling the urge to do so, so be quiet and let us commence."

Alois does not seem exactly pleased with the content of the sentence. "Why do you always speak like you're in your forties?"

The other boy's face contorts into a sullen scowl, indicative that he is ill-humored.

"Fine, fine, in your late thirties!" Alois corrects himself, throwing his hands up to show that he surrenders.

Ciel appears to have disposed of Alois' impertinent comment from his mind, and he silently holds up the blurry photo of the 'Cat'.

Alois plucks it from his hand in a negligent manner, while keeping his left elbow rooted onto the desk so that his respective palm can support the weight of his cheek. His sky-blue eyes scan the picture, and the gleam in them gradually diminishes as he fails to find something of interest. "What the hell is this?"

"The Cat," Ciel responds tersely.

"Looks more like a person to me," Alois observes.

Ciel shakes his head wearily. "I did not mean it literally. Yes, it is a person, and whoever this person is, he is commonly known as the 'Cat', because he is sly and only wanders at night. What he does is he steal—but not inconsequentially so, or I would leave this to the incompetent Yard to handle. No, he is a professional, and for countless of times he has managed to steal valuables from an entire village and some areas of London itself. Irrefutably, he makes a huge fortune out of them."

Alois hums thoughtfully and stares at the sole thing that is prominent: the wearer's mask. It is completely white, in exception to the breaches engraved on it to form two eyes, a button nose and a mouth. Whiskers are drawn along its cheeks, and there is even a pair of cute, little cat ears that extends from the top. "How are we so sure that it's a guy?"

"Does that matter?" Ciel retorts curtly, his patience thinning by the minute, which naturally occurs whenever he is in the company of Alois. "The gender is not important; what's important is catching the thief. The Queen worries for the safety of society if this thief is allowed to continue. We must put an end to his bad conducts before it gets worse."

"Maybe the Queenie is just scared that the Cat will steal some of her pearls," Alois suggests in a carefree manner, and when Ciel scowls, he adds, "Kidding, Ciel. No need to get your panties in a twist. The Queenie is a good guy who only does things for the welfare of all, blah blah, and we're to help her, blah blah blah. I can recite this a thousand times if you like, if only it wasn't already recited a billion times before me. I hear the same shit everyday."

The other boy, as usual, ignores Alois' remarks which tie in greatly with his insouciant nature, and informs, "Well, the Queen requires the assistance of both the Watchdog and the Spider."

Alois smirks, but with none of his typical humor. The smirk is more accurately likened to a sneer. "Aw, can't the doggy just sniff out the kitty by itself?"

Ciel mirrors his smirk, but he intensifies the scorn behind it several degrees higher. "I was hoping you would say that. I take it that due to the context of what you said, you do not wish to assist me. Very well, I am very content with not having to drag along so heavy of a burden, such as the Spider. You will only slow down the investigation, Trancy."

Sebastian, who has safely stayed distant from the somewhat-of-a-quarrel discussion, is able to sense the oppressive tingle in the atmosphere; he can tell that a challenge is indirectly instilled, and tension has risen as a result.

Alois opts to maintain his facade of merriness and indifference for a while longer. He leans back on his seat, and a full-fledged smile forms on his lips, giving him a devilish look rather than a friendly one. Honestly, Ciel has not expected him to be so casual since his pride is being threatened here; if Ciel was in his shoes, he certainly would not have been able to abstain from regaining it.

"That's wonderful, Ciel," Alois comments with a wide grin. "We don't have to work together then. I'd rather die before I'd have to collaborate with an irksome guy like you who doesn't know how to have fun at all. Instead of working together, what do you say about a competition?" He has piqued Ciel's interest there, he knows, judging by the way that the latter's single visible eye lights up at the sound of that word—Ciel is exceedingly competitive, and he pines to uphold his dignity by acquiring victory at practically everything.

Sadly, your ego will take a blow this time, because I plan to win. Alois offhandedly flickers the photo back onto Ciel's table, and taps the figure on it. "Why don't we compete to see who will catch this thief and present him to the Queen first?"

The younger boy's sinister smile appears, and Alois is aware that he is favoring what he hears. "And if one of us wins...?" Ciel asks.

"Then the loser will have to compensate, of course," Alois simplistically replies. "If I win, you"—he points a finger directly at Ciel for the sake of prominence—"will become my lovely slave for a whole month. And if I lose, well then, it's vice versa."

Ciel does not hesitate to offer his hand. "Deal."

Alois inwardly scoffs at Ciel's arrogance; he has brushed off Alois' punishment easily, strung up on the thought that he will win anyway, hence Alois' threats are irrelevant. That only serves to provoke Alois further—he has to start teaching this boy a lesson about humiliation. Just thinking about the various ways and methods he can use to subject Ciel to pain is enough to get him excited.

With a beam, Alois takes Ciel's hand to shake it.

The bet is established.

"M-marriage?" I cough through my mouthful of food.

My stepmother smiles tightly, in an attempt to be benign, and hands me a napkin to wipe my mouth. "Yes, dear. You are turning the age of fifteen quite soon. Perhaps you should begin to consider some likely candidates...?"

Hell no! is what I wanted to say, but I suppress the level of disdain to a minimum and force the muscles around my mouth to twitch into a polite smile. "No, ah... M... Mother..." I start carefully, hoping that she has not caught my blunder while I tried to refer to her as my mother.

While I contemplate my next words, my 'mother' remains quiet and courteous. She is a beautiful woman, admittedly, who is the most refined in manners, compared to the other brutes I have encountered on the dilapidated, rural village my aunt lives in, located on the outskirts of London. My 'mother' has long, orange hair that curls along her shoulders and cascades down to her back. She possesses vibrant, green eyes that depict vanity—she absolutely adores her own appearance, and I can tell that much by how she pours herself over the mirror.

Nonetheless, she seldom attempts to start a conversation with me, which I am thankful for since the last thing I want to do is to grow close to her. Because of her lack of effort toward communication, I must say, never will she be the replacement of my own mother, but she suffices as mediocre.

"I believe that... this is not the time yet," I continue. "I am still naive; I have much to learn. Maybe we should... delay this..." By ten years? "By a few years, give or take a few." Give, definitely.

"Don't be ridiculous!" a loud, booming voice echos in the dining hall, and it is soon accompanied by thundering footsteps as the owner of the voice approaches us. It requires no participation of my sight; I can discern who is coming by the sound of his strongly audible voice.

And surely enough, a chubby man in his late forties stampedes here. He has cropped brown hair sprouting from his skull, and two orbs the color of brown as his eyes. Laugh lines are carved on the man's face, but do not be fooled—this man is quite patronizing and demanding, a highfalutin as my aunt words it, and is stubborn in making his point and expecting others to follow it.

This very man is my father.

My dad makes his way around the table to peck his wife's cheek softly, before he turns to me with a stern look on his face. "Lady Annabeth Fidelia Windsor!"

"Yes, sir?" I sigh, not bothering to input any effort to conceal the tedium doused in my tone.

"You cannot seriously be thinking that you are not going to get married soon! You have to! This is the duty of a woman—and it's about time that you grow up to be one!" my father scolds. As usual, his words come in one of my ears and out the other. I merely dawdle to respond, my fork nudging the corn in my plate along in a dilatory manner.

He does not take my silence very well. "Look at me in the eyes and speak when I'm addressing to you! Annabeth, are you developing the rebellious stage? I have heard about thesestages!"

I hide my smirk by allowing my bangs to fall. If he is stressing out because he thinks I am being rebellious now simply by being quiet, then there is no doubt that his heart is in a world of trouble if he finds out about my true self at night.

"No, Father," I finally answer after jabbing the prongs of my silver fork into the defenseless corn. "I am simply inclined to the thought that I am too young—"

"Too young!" my dad shouts, bewildered. "You are reaching the prime of your life; there is no time to delay! In fact, I have already set up a date for you and this fine young prince."

I cannot contain the groan that escaped my lips. "No, please don't, Father."

"Do not worry, he is extremely handsome," my stepmother offers mirthfully and pats my hand in means to encourage. I pretend that I am reaching for my cup of drink so that I can snake out of her hold, which never fails to make me feel a certain discomfort.

"He is also extremely beneficial!" my father adds with palpable delight. "With his family's donations, which I'm sure is very generous, to the marriage, we'll be living like the Queen herself!"

My stepmother shoots him a warning glance, and he hastily says to correct his blunder, "Well, it's not about me—us, per se. It's about you, Annabeth, and it's about high time that you marry that prince."

My father's approval of some guy that I have never seen a shadow of before does little to relieve the indignation that courses in my veins. I detach myself from the conversation while trying to eschew from yelling. Regrettably, since I'm a noble, I am to remain elegant and gracious at all times or I'll never hear the end of their complaints. Notwithstanding, I absolutely refuse to get married. This is sudden, this is rushed, and although I am not one for romance, I prefer that I marry someone that I am truly in love with, and not some guy that my dadshould marry instead if he thinks the expected groom is so great and all.

"Are you listening, Annabeth?" my father barks harshly, retrieving me from my daze, and I look up at him. "Good, good, you are. Anyway, I needed to inform you that your date of yours is scheduled for tomorrow night. He is coming to our doorsteps himself, since he wishes to properly introduce himself. What a gentleman!"

"Wait, what?" I blurt, appalled. "You set me up in a blind date without my consent?"

"Why, of course," my father replies breezily. "That's the whole purpose of it being called a blind date, is it not?"

Anger boils in my belly, gradually intensifying to a severe degree. Again, my life is being controlled by these two 'parental' figures. There is no freedom in this place, no way to express myself and who I am. Who am I if I'm merely going to manipulated like a puppet for these two's satisfactions? Worse of all, now my life is being restricted even further; I am forced to wed a stranger, no less, so that they can gain the benefits. I will once again spiral into an abyss of confinement.

If my aunt was able to read my thoughts she would, most definitely, scold me right now for saying things in such a poetic manner.

The thought of my aunt pricks a feeling of need in my heart. I want to get away from this place, I want to be enveloped by the night's darkness, to venture my way to my aunt's warmth. There is nothing here that I would care for. Despite my manor being filled with luxuries, it seems like a cold, desolate and barren prison.

My hands clench the frilly, tight dress that I was forced to sport on. I attempt to ignore the blisters along my feet, which are caused by the aggravating high-heels I have to wear.

Everything is forced. Nothing is me. I have to a victim to these two—I have to obey their orders and wishes as if my own are nonexistent. And that's just... sickening.

As if to express my frustration further, my stomach churns with nausea, and my head aches while I listen—but not exactly heed—to their authoritative voices in the background. They seem to drawl on and on, and it is difficult to make much sense out of it. Out of the corner of my eyes, the walls themselves appear as though they closing in to trap me.

"The prince is gorgeous, you'll love him—"

"You must marry him—"

Their voices merge as they blabber and overlap one another, and I am unable to distinguish them from one another. Not that it matters though—it is still utterly repulsive to hear them, and how they impose their own desires on me and make them seem as if they were for my sake.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy living with him—"

"We receive profits out of this! You have to marry him—don't be selfish and do otherwise!"

"So, Annabeth, accept, dear—"

"Prepare, your wedding will be arranged sometime this month—"

"What?" I yell at my father. "This month? So soon? How could you decide so without my permission? This is my life we're talking about!"

His eyes fill with rage at my defiance, and he strikes me across the face with his fat palm. "Don't you dare act that way to me, you impertinent child!"

My stepmother calmly speaks, having not flinched or moved from her spot at all, "Now just listen to your father to avoid another beating. You know how I don't want you hurt."

Then, bitch, why don't you do something about it? I glower at her before returning my glare to my father.

"Is my daughter always like this?" he bellows. "Since when did she get so defiant? So rebellious? Have the world taken a dip for the worse? There is something about this day that is accursed, I forewarn you!"

Huh, perhaps I inherited my melodrama from him.

An innumerable amount of snide remarks, derisive comments and insults are stored in the back of my head, but I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself. I had promised my mother a time before she passed away that I will be obedient. But that also means crawling back into their hideous, iron fists.

"F... Fine..." I relent in a half-whisper. "I'll do what you say..."

"Good!" my father approves with a sigh of relief.

My stepmother smiles. "Now that's my little Annie."

That does it.

My feet violently push against my floor so that the force would propel me to stand. I direct all my bitterness at target number one: my stepmother. I am not aware—nor do I care—about what expression must be written on my face right now, but it must have been scary, at the very least, since both of my so-called parents gasp.

I jab a shaky finger right at her face, feeling the anger within me accentuate to the point that I tremble. "You bitch! You have no right to call me Annie! Only my mother can! Only myreal mum can, do you understand?" I point at my father's face as well. "Neither can you," I growl heatedly. "Especially not you!"

I do not bother to wait until they absorb the astonishment they must be experiencing by my 'sudden' pugnacious behavior. I storm out of the manor's double doors and circle around the back. Sticking my hand into a bush, I take hold of an object and retrieve it, uncovering it as my cat mask.

This is all I need.

Sounds of guards pursuing me ignite in the air. From within the building, my father hysterically shouts about how horrible I am as a daughter, and blah, blah, blah.

I don't give two shits right now.

Soon, my mask is rightfully placed upon my face. My legs mount the windows, which project from the wall, in order to climb. Once higher up, I latch onto the eaves of the roof and haul myself up and over. After successfully landing on the roof, I advance forward, jumping onto the other houses' rooftops.

The cool night breeze flutters my dress and ripples my skin with goosebumps, but I accept it graciously, breathing in what I like to call 'freedom'. I continue to run, watching as the luminous moon hover in the beautiful night sky.

The following morning arrives, and the moment that I awaken, my aunt passes me a change of clothes. "'ere," she says gruffly.

My head bobs once to show my gratefulness, and I hurry to change out of my stupid dress. After doing so, I dump that garbage aside and settle on a chair to admire the vase that I had stolen yesterday.

My fingers trace the embroidery on the vase. Surprising how so much can happen in one day, I think, remembering about the wedding arrangement. I had told Aunt Peggy all about the incident, and she had been spouting curses for hours, calling my father and my stepmother rotten.

When nighttime sets in, I prepare to depart again, dressed in my typical thief's attire, which consists of comfortable rags and the cat mask. The vase is concealed by a bag that I ensconce by tucking it securely under my arm. As I am leaving out the front door, my aunt insists that I should stop this criminal acts, but I ignore it so and bid her goodnight.

I wander the streets of the village and do not spare a breath to conceal myself; I'm practically inconspicuous with the night sky blanketing the area. Slipping into one of the alleyways, I maneuver and reach a stairway stationed behind a bundle of hay.

My hand stretches out to brush the hay from the entrance, and I descend the ramshackle staircase, arriving at a meek, shabby and nearly bare room that contains a table and two chairs in the center.

One of the chairs is occupied by a man who has his face hidden behind a top hat. The only notion that he is awake, or alive for that matter, is the fact that he has nodded slightly upon my arrival.

Smirking beneath my own mask, I sit down on the other chair across from him. I tend to proceed without tenacity, particularly since this is 'business', so to speak, and quickly unravel the vase from its bag. "This is what you wanted, correct?"

The man raises his head a notch to study the vase before tucking his chin back down to his chest. "Yes," comes his soft response.

"Now, man, are we strangers?" I ask. "I know we aren't exactly close, but we are business partners. Why're you hidin' your face so much?"

"Well, now, aren't you wearing a mask yourself?" the man retaliates, and I detect a smirk in his tone. "Perhaps we are conducting business, but if you are not gracious enough to reveal your identity to me and assert your trust, then I will do the same and be as ungraceful as possible, you see."

I smile. "Point taken. Anyhoo, onto business." My fingers sweep across midair, gesturing at the vase. "You like what you see here? You can have it for twenty pounds."

"Indeed."

The man sluggishly lifts his gloved hand and inserts it into the confines of his long black coat. On instinct, my hands twitch against my sides, and they begin to tap the surface of my seat, while I impatiently wait for the man to take hold of his money.

Hurry, man. I prefer to not be late for a late night supper with Aunt Peggy. Her stew is righteous, to say the least.

The man withdraws his hand from his coat, and I incline slightly, my eyes blazing for the expected gold in his palm.

But what he has pulled out is different:

The man reveals four pieces of silverware—all of them, knives.

Before my mind can process it, he retracts his hand, with the knives slipped between each of his fingers, and flings them toward my face.

"Shit!"

Pushing against my chair, I throw my neck back so that my face is directed at the ceiling. The knives sail past me in a blink of an eye—I had just narrowly avoided the impact. Still fazed by the unexpected attack, a bewildered look is all that I can manage.

The man stands up from his seat and takes off his hat to disclose a shock of black hair and a stunning pair of red eyes. "I am sorry," he speaks, although in his calm and emotionless tone, no means of apology can be detected, "but you will have to come with me."

My body stiffens for a cold second, as he takes a step around the table dividing us. Thinking fast, my hands clasp around my precious vase, and my right leg tips the table toward him. "Like hell I would!" I yell and dash madly for the stairs and back into the alleyway.

My ears distinguish the sound of footsteps, which flags of pursuit, and I risk peering over my shoulder to see that the man is right behind my heels. Apparently, the capsized table has little to no effect.

I dive into an awkward somersault, while trying to keep my vase from damage, and snatch an abandoned broom from the ground. Performing a violent turn, I swing the broom turbulently. The man blocks my attack with another one of his silver knives, and with one press of his blade, the broom snaps in half. My eyes widen at the unbelievable strength the man beholds.

But, it is not like I can stand there and admire all day.

I hastily devise a counterattack, stooping low and swiping my left leg at his feet with the intention of tripping him. He smoothly leaps from his position, without needing to remove his concentration from me in the slightest, and tosses another knife at a point-blank range.

"Aah!" an embarrassing squeal escapes from the heart of my throat (which I will later edit out if I ever have a chance to retell this story), and I clumsily lunge to the side, the knife managing to nick the side of my mask. Rolling onto my feet, I mentally curse to have to hold on to this burdensome vase. (Yes, when I'm sitting down by a candlelight, having tea, the vase is beautiful. But if I'm in the middle of a fight against a man with a hundred sharp knives and bizarre strength, the vase can be damned for all I friggin' care.)

The man springs toward me again, and I resort to a dirty trick: kicking up dirt.

With one strong kick, I propel a large clump of dirt at his face, temporarily blinding him. Not wasting any more time than necessary, I jump onto the top of one of the brick walls that border the alleyway. From there, my legs zip forward while I pay careful concentration so that I will not fall.

He follows me in a flash.

A gasp, followed by a deep sense of danger, ensue when I feel his presence extremely close to my heels. I leap, whirling my leg around a full circle, but it connects to nothing but thin air.

"Shit!" I exclaim and scan the area for any sign of that mysterious man.

Then, an enigmatic object causes the air to tighten behind me—something is coming at a really fast speed.

I spin around in the nick of time and manage to enclose my palms around the knife, but the strong force causes me to stumble a few steps back, nonetheless.

"Impressive reflexes," the man muses, appearing from the shadows. "You are quite nimble. You've successfully conveyed your reputation as a Cat, so it seems."

"You're not too shabby yourself," I comment, watching him warily just in case he plans to perform another hostile move. "Who are you really? Do you work for the Yard?"

"No, I work for my young master."

Before I can question this, he flings another knife at me (does he possess an innumerable supply of silverware?), and the weapon I confiscated raises to meet his in order to deflect it.

I then turn around and flee—as mortifying as it is to run away from a fight, I am no match for this guy. He is unparalleled, basically, in terms of strength and agility, and in order to survive, I must discover an escape route as quickly as possible.

Pulling myself along the edge, I perform a swift and unpredictable slip down from the wall with as much speed as I can muster, which results to some nasty cuts along the back of my legs—but no matter.

I continue to run, twisting and turning around the alleyways that appear to be a labyrinth, despite having walked in these very areas for most of my life. During desperate times, things seem to play against you.

Finally, the outskirts of the village draw near, and I advance to the wide, open field. This is not a good choice, but seeing that I have no other options at the moment, the choice can very well be perceived as my only chance.

My heartbeat thuds against my chest at an erratic pace. My lungs burn and urge me to relent the running and take a breather—but that is out of the question. As long as I keep running, for like a mile or so more, I will arrive at a relatively dense forest, and there, I can work on concealing myself from the man.

Speaking of which, I have not heard the man for quite a while now. Although fully aware that his sudden absence can very well be a deception, my fatigue kicks in with a crippling power, and I slow down until I am, more or less, in a jog.

However, victory does not come easy; before me, about several feet away, the man manifests into view, and I skid into a hasty stop. Instead of heading for the forest, I proceed to my right, heading directly for the cliff.

Now typically, a cliff is an omen for peril, but this time, I plan to make it work to my advantage. I abruptly stop before the cliff and spin around to face him, taunting him to come. Once he engages in a hand-to-hand combat with me, one misstep and down and under he'll go.

However, without sparing any hesitation at my queer movements as I have anticipated, the man tosses three more knives at me, and while I am working to block all of them, he lunges from his position like a bullet.

Calling him 'fast' does not do him justice in the slightest. He is phenomenal, he is beyond realistic terms. I can barely even react, and there he is, right in front of me.

"Dammit—"

The man twirls a knife around his fingers before bringing it across my face, drawing a gruesome slash along my mask. My heart freezes at the moment that my precious mask is cut.

He makes use of my opening and reaches to pull away my mask, to reveal my identity.

"No—" my scream is cut off short when I, while trying to evade him, jump back. My feet lose their balance as they slide against the edge of the cliff. Before either of us can react, I am hurled down the cliff.

The man lunges forward, offering his hand. It manages to clasp around my baggy trousers, but the force of the fall causes me to slip out of his grip, and I plummet downwards at a terrifying speed.

No words can escape my lips, with the intensity of the force stealing my breaths. My hands, outstretched, claw uselessly at the air, desperately trying to grab onto something, anything at all. The pressure from the increasing speed weighs heavily against my chest, and my eyes can only capture eccentric blurs.

Is this the end?

Then, darkness consumes me.

The evening is going as normally as Hannah Anafeloz expects it would. She has helped serve supper, suffered from abuse from her master, Alois Trancy, and retreated to her own hobby: gardening. Although in all due fairness, she does not care for gardening in particular, but rather, she exclusively plans to nurture the resplendent bluebells healthily blooming in the backyard.

And thus, the evening proceeds as follows: she waters and tends to the plants, pulls out obstructing weeds, and at last, she sits beside the bushes of bluebells to relax.

But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the evening takes a drastic turn.

A shadow looms over her and the bushes, growing closer at an exceedingly rapid speed. She extends her arms as swiftly as possible to protect the bushes from harm, and ends up carrying the weight of a human.

To be more precise, she has only managed to catch the upper part of the human, that is the head and neck. The rest of the human's body has landed on the bushes and crushed the bluebells.

Hannah emits an irritated sigh before sparing a good look at the human—who is apparently unconscious by the inexplicable fall. He or she has long brown hair and rags for clothing. In the crook of its arm, the human holds a vase which has crumbled to pieces at the impact of the fall.

But what piques her interest the most is the human's face. On it are remnants of a mask that look like...

A cat?

She concludes that sitting there, with her arms awkwardly extended for the human's head to rest on, will do little to quash all the questions that is circulating around her head. Hence, Hannah decides it will be best if she presents this strange human to her master.

She stands up slowly and drags the human's limp body along as she makes her way into the Trancy manor.