AN: This story is a crossover with the musical Wonderland: A New Alice.Though the story follows, with slight divergences, the basic outlines of Splintered's plot, it's set in the universe of the musical (and will intersect with the plot of the same). Knowledge of the musical is not a requirement to read/understand what's going on—the story will explain itself.
For the first few chapters, expect it read as a more or less straightforward point-of-divergence AU of Splintered in which Alison, rather than consigning herself to Soul's Asylum, elects to divorce her husband and move far away from her family instead. Once we get to Wonderland, however, things will change dramatically.
Reviews are greatly appreciated.
ONE. THE DREAM COMES LIKE A KNIFE.
Alyssa Gardner soars.
Knees tucked, the board leveling out under her feet as she maneuvers for landing—and then her foot slips and the concrete bowl of the skatepark rushes up—
"FUCK!"
She rolls to a stop a second later, sucking in air as pain hammers into her knee. Another skateboarder curves to a halt a few feet away while Alyssa groans, reflexively curling around her injured knee. "Jesus fuck—"
"You okay, Gardner?" the other skater says, stepping off his board—Hitch. She'd recognize that languid drawl anywhere, even with involuntary tears blurring her vision. He scoops up his board and then hers, coming to squat in front of her face. "That looked pretty nasty."
"You think?" Alyssa manages a shaky laugh as she gets her breath back and pushes off the concrete. Her skid down the bowl must've severed her kneepad's band, because it's nowhere to be seen and her leggings are shredded around the bloody mess of her knee; it feels like someone jammed a crowbar under her kneecap and yanked. "God. Should've bailed, shouldn't I?"
"Maybe," Hitch says amiably. "But, hey—your pop was pretty great. You want a hand?"
"Make it a shoulder."
With a grin, he tucks both of their boards under one arm and leans down to brace his other shoulder under hers. "Ready? One—two—aaaaand up you go."
Putting the slightest weight on her left foot sends shooting pain through her knee, but with Hitch's support and a lot of awkward hopping she's able to hobble out of the bowl. He stinks like weed and stale pizza, a smell as much a fixture of Underland as the blacklights and and tinny classic rock pumping out of the speakers; Hitch has worked here since the day it opened two years ago, as an attendant and occasional skateboarding instructor, and he haunts the place even on his days off—like today.
Three on-duty attendants are already blading towards them, headlamps bobbling with their movements and their neon-orange employee vests blazing under the blacklights. "Blowout at twelve o'clock, gents," Hitch says, as they plow to a stop one by one and he helps Alyssa onto one of the benches scattered around the skatepark. "And where in hell were you? Maybe snooze on the clock, next time."
"We'll take it from here, man."
Alyssa rolls her eyes as Jebidiah Holt blades up in a yellow manager's vest. His voice is a deep, familiar rumble heavy with anger; he's never gotten along with Hitch, whose rough-edged reputation triggers his protective-older-brother mode something fierce. It's only gotten worse since Hitch took over teaching her skateboarding class a few months ago. They're up to four I'll kick his ass if he messes with yous now, by Alyssa's tally.
"Sure," Hitch says, unconcerned. He taps a knuckle against Alyssa's shoulder as he sets her board down at her feet; she can hear Jeb grinding his teeth. "Don't try slamming it down next time. Just let it land."
"Right."
"Later, Gardner." He drops his own board and pushes off with it all in a single, smooth motion—he's more at ease on a board than Alyssa is walking, sometimes.
Jeb scowls after him while the other attendants break out the first aid kit for her knee. "I've told you not to—"
"Yeah, yeah," Alyssa mutters, unclipping her helmet so she can rifle her fingers through her hair. The last thing she wants right now is another pointless lecture on how she shouldn't get mixed up with nineteen-year-old weed-smoking deadbeats like Mitchell Hirsch. As if she doesn't already know better—and it isn't like Hitch has any interest in her, either.
For a second, she can tell Jeb's weighing whether to push the issue or not; then he deflates with an exasperated sigh and takes a seat beside her. "So, you talking to me again?"
"No."
That answer seems to surprise him. He's quiet for a while, while the attendants finish bandaging up her knee. Alyssa isn't sure why he's so taken aback; it's only been a few days since her dad took Jeb to dinner so Jeb could convince him to greenlight Alyssa's plan to study abroad in London for senior year—she'd thought, anyway. What had really happened was the two of them deciding it wasn't gonna happen. Too dangerous, not the right time, just want what's best for you, Al…
Bullshit.
They'd had it all planned out, her and Jeb—the study abroad program would've coincided with his first year at the University of Arts London, and together they'd figured out a schedule to visit every single art museum in the city during the weekends. She'd been pumped. And then…
Smoldering rage flares in her chest all over again. She grabs her board and gets stiffly to her feet; her knee throbs when she puts weight on the leg, but she's pissed enough to not care much as she limps toward the exit.
"Hey…! Hey—Al!" Jeb catches up with her in an instant, gliding into her path and crouching lower than he needs to when he brakes, bringing his eyes level with hers. His face is dusky-purple under the blacklight, and the glow of his headlamp in her eyes obscures the details of his features. "Look, all I want is for you to be safe."
"Get out of my way," Alyssa snaps.
"Really—" He grabs her arms, firm but gentle, and a little jolt flips through her belly when his palms brush the bare skin of her biceps. "Listen, Al, I know how excited you were about London, but… the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea—I mean—"
"It wasn't your decision!"
"C'mon, Al," he says. "I don't think you've really thought through what it'd mean, living so far away from your dad for a whole year… alone. With no one to look after you."
"I thought plenty," Alyssa mutters. His hands feel nice against her arms, but she's in no mood to enjoy it; she shrugs, shaking him off. "You'd better get back to work. Wouldn't want another blowout going unnoticed on your watch, right?"
She makes to step past him, but he steps, too, mirroring her move. "I'll clock out," he says. "You need someone to drive you home."
"I'm fine to drive."
"Not with that knee."
"It's just a scrape, Jeb—I'll be fine."
Frustrated silence descends between them, neither willing to budge.
Her cell rings, a high trill muffled by the the band that secures it above her elbow. Alyssa turns away as she digs it out, grateful for the distraction. It's one of the ancient, indestructible variety, scuffed and scratched from years of use; she flips it open and jams her finger into her other ear to blot out the background noise. "'lo?"
"Hey, Butterfly…"
Dad's voice, more upset than she's heard in years. Alyssa stands a little straighter, alarmed. "Dad? What's up?"
A sharp breath frizzes through the line. "It's your mother," he says. "Something… something's happened."
And all the air in Underland's vast, retrofitted salt dome seems to freeze.
The last time Alyssa saw her mother, she'd been five years old and in the hospital with both hands swathed in bandages because Alison Gardner had slashed open her palms with a pair of garden shears—she has vague memories of Alison's pale blue, bloodshot eyes, of a whispered apology, of tears on her mother's cheeks. And then Alison had gone home, packed herself a suitcase, and walked out of their lives forever; the only connection they have now is the monthly alimony payments Alison sends from her new home in New York. And now—
"What something?" It comes out harsher than she intends. Dad tells her all the time that it's not really Alison's fault, what happened—that Alison lost it and went berserk on the daffodils in the garden, that the sight of blood gushing from Alyssa's hands had been what snapped Alison out of it, that her decision to leave them stemmed from her fear of hurting Alyssa again—but…
"Butterfly, she—she's in intensive care right now. She stepped in front of a bus."
Alyssa blinks. The words don't sound real, like Dad's just describing the plot twist in a television show and not—what, her mother's attempted suicide? a terrible accident? "H—how do you know?"
"The hospital called," he says. "Apparently I'm still the emergency contact in her medical records. I… they'd like us to go there, in case—just in case." Alyssa can hear him swallowing over the phone, knows how this must be killing him—even after eleven years, even after she left without a word, he's still in love with the woman he married. It's why there's still pictures of her in their living room, why he's never even tried to date someone new…
She shakes her head, struggling to make sense of it all. "I have school."
"Just over the weekend," he says, a little desperate now. "She—she might not…" His voice hitches. "Please, Butterfly."
"…Okay. Okay, I'll—I'm coming home now, okay, Dad?" Alyssa shoots a panicked glance over her shoulder at Jeb, who's already shrugging out of his manager's vest and bending to unlace his rollerblades. By the time she's finished saying goodbye, Jeb's standing in just his socks, watching her anxiously.
"What happened?"
"Alison's… in trouble," Alyssa says.
"Your mom?"
She leans on the arm he offers her as she hobbles toward the exit. "Yeah. Dad wants to to fly to New York, see her in the hospital. I gotta…"
The reality of it doesn't hit until they've reached the doors to Underland's parking lot—a gust of warm air rushes over her face as they emerge into the blazing Texas sunlight, and something clicks into place in her mind. We're going to New York because Alison might die. Alison. My mom.
Her mom, who left; her mom, whom she hasn't seen in eleven long years—but still. Her mom.
Her heart pounds.
One last chance to say goodbye.
