The transatlantic ship The Wailing Whirlwind was neither ridiculously large nor small — perhaps 500 by 500 feet with no more than 200 passengers and 250 crewmen on board at all times. The magnificent vessel was built to withstand the open ocean and long, tedious journeys; therefore, whatever space that wasn't being used to carry people and packages, were dedicated towards completing their passage as safely and efficiently as possible.
The engine room, adjacent to the sweltering hot boiler, was filled with soot-covered men in grease-stained overalls and scuffed leather boots worn for so many years that not even the best shoe shiners could bring back its luster. A damaged piece of ship railing, somehow escaping pre-departure inspections, had been brought down by one of these hard workers and discarded in the far corner while a replacement was being searched for.
The service deck was located above. The workmen's cabins were absurdly compact however, the nearby laundry room was huge and the medical quarters matched it in size. There was even a little morgue situated beside it in case some tragic workplace accident occurred or, more likely, one of their elderly passengers passed away in the middle of the night.
Taking up the other half of the ship was the cargo hold, containing hundreds — if not thousands — of shipping containers. They contained a little bit of everything: from processed wheat and preserved corn to scrap metal and typewriter ribbons.
The upper levels contained the passenger cabins which connected to the top deck through six separate stairwells.
The topmost deck was absolutely magnificent. Grander than any simple ferry or private yacht departing New York's famed ports. There was a bustling gourmet kitchen swarmed with foreign chefs and waitresses that served a moderate range of cuisines. Adjacent to it was a dining area connected to an open ballroom where the on-board singers and bands played day and night.
There were little stores too that dotted the area. Some sold toiletries that may have been carelessly forgotten by passengers prior to departure. Others advertised fine jewelry — diamond necklaces and sapphire earrings — that well-off husbands were pressured into buying by eager salesmen for their landside beaus.
Fine examples of capitalism and consumerist culture aside, a small library and other places of entertainment to keep the passengers from going stir-crazy were also located nearby.
Credence wished he could have weaved through the refined crowds above.
To have been caught laughing over a bottle of bubbling champagne. To have dined upon freshly steamed seafood, fine imported cheeses, and decadent mille-feuilles. To have been conflicted over whether to select a golden ring or a silver one for his patiently waiting paramour. To have charmed foreigners and listened to their fantastic tales. To have thumbed through the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Mary Shelley and conducted intense discussions afterwards amongst his peers.
Credence wished to have danced and laughed and to have lived any type of life except the one he had.
No, instead he found himself within the laundry room, huddled within a cabinet.
His knobby knees pulled against his chest and his scarred hands covering his mouth. Something painfully digging into his back. His broad shoulders aching. His feet slowly going numb. Tears burning his eyes.
The paper butterfly vacated his lapel and fluttered around his face.
Credence had only just summoned the courage to vacate his sleeping quarters that morning. It was nothing more than a cramped storage closet full of bottled chemicals and spare uniforms that made him sleep more upright than not, but it suited his purposes just fine. He wasn't picky. However, when he had just finished untangling his legs from the business end of a mop, one of the laundresses burst in unexpectedly with a large bundle of stained sheets.
Credence's entire life passed before his eyes.
And it looked strangely like an entourage of middle-aged women.
They swarmed the laundry room with carts and arms full of fabric and linen needing to be washed, granting Credence enough time and chaos to stuff himself into the nearest cabinet and remain unnoticed.
An hour had already passed and the pandemonium was only just beginning to simmer down.
The sound of footsteps neared.
Wood creaked as someone leaned up dangerously close against his sanctuary, switching on the faucet above. Water whooshed through the pipes, managing to drown out the sound of Credence's heart beating rapidly behind his eardrums. A treacherous whimper nestled deep within his throat, waiting patiently like a coiled snake for the right moment to strike.
Credence pressed his trembling hands tighter against his mouth. Ice-cold fear pierced through his fingers and evaporated into even colder darkness.
He was going to be discovered. This was it. This was the end. Any moment now, they were going to throw open the door and drag him in front of a wave of cheering spectators, whipping him half to death with his own belt before throwing him overboard.
He wasn't ready to die again.
The butterfly perched itself upon his knuckles, rubbing its paper legs soothingly against his skin.
Credence closed his eyes and wished that Modesty was here instead to hold his hand.
But she was never going to do that again, was she? Modesty was gone. From the moment he'd watched New York disappear with the sunset, he knew then that she'd be forever beyond his reach.
No, that wasn't true.
It was from the moment he'd watched her shrink away from him, screaming in fear. He was no longer Credence, Modesty's big brother. He was Credence, the monster who had murdered their mother.
The footsteps passed.
Credence didn't breathe. He still wasn't in the clear yet.
To imagine that three days had already come and gone since Credence first found himself aboard The Wailing Whirlwind.
Since he obviously hadn't purchased a ticket (although he checked his pockets, just in case), he didn't possess a cabin of his own. Thus, not even an hour into his journey, Credence had begun his adventure figuring out how to become an efficient stowaway.
Thankfully, Modesty had been a street rat.
Her blood family couldn't keep track of how many kids they had and, at times, Modesty would be locked out of her own home after everyone had went to bed or collapsed into a booze-induced coma. It was part of the reason that led up to her being given away for adoption. A couple of good Samaritans had spotted her sleeping underneath a dirty metro bench and had escorted her to the police station.
Credence remembered being brought there with Ma to meet his new sister, handcuffed to a desk and scowling after her latest escape attempt.
When they became close, she talked more and more about her life before the Barebones.
And Credence remembered her three steps on how to survive on your own.
Step 1. Find a safe place to hide.
There were always workers sweating in the engine room so, he couldn't exactly hide down there. While peaceful and quiet in the evening, the upper deck was usually filled with chattering travelers during the daylight hours which didn't exactly bode well for someone wishing to go about their day unnoticed. The cabins were also out of the question. They were already filled.
The cargo hold had seemed tempting enough; but, as it turned out, the area was surprisingly well-guarded with armed men stationed at every viable entrance. Perhaps the heightened security was to prevent stowaways?
Ha!
So, Credence had ended up exploring the service quarters. He had tried the janitorial closets and miscellaneous storage areas at first, but they were used all too frequently. He had recently moved into the laundry room, but clearly that situation wasn't working out. Stepping foot into the overworked medical bay would only spell out disaster which meant—
The Morgue.
The last of the exhausted laundresses exited through the door.
Credence waited a few extra minutes in case someone had forgotten something behind. Then, with bated breath, he cautiously opened the cabinet.
The paper butterfly returned to his lapel.
Looking around the clean sheets, towels, and table linens, Credence determined that he was completely and utterly alone. He pulled himself out of the cramped cabinet, rubbed his sore back, and stretched his aching muscles.
Then bolted towards the door.
He flew down the halls, surprisingly light and silent on his feet for a man of his considerable height, and dashed into the empty Morgue.
Barely anyone used this room. It was too unsettling, too creepy. The faintest chill hung in the air and the foul stench of death permeated the floor; but it was close enough to the stairway leading up to the passenger cabins. It was close enough to escape.
Credence slid down the wall adjacent to the closed door and stared at the human-sized filing cabinets. A shiver ran down his back at the mere thought of what, or who, could be contained in there.
Had Ma been put into one of those things? Stuffed away and forgotten to the darkness with nothing but cold steel and stagnant air for company?
Credence turned away his gaze.
In the farthest corner he could spot the faintest outline of a spiderweb filled with hollow cocoons of victims already sucked dry.
All of a sudden, a tiny green lizard wandered blindly into its path.
Credence watched with disgusted fascination as the pale, spindly arachnid descended upon the creature, trapped before it could know what was going on. The lizard fought and struggled for its life, but only managed to entangle itself further and further until it too was trapped in a silvery cocoon.
Credence closed his eyes tight and pulled his legs back up against his chest. Revulsion crawled up his throat. Whenever there was time later, he'd have to find a broom or something from one of the supply closets and knock that nasty thing down.
The paper butterfly fluttered across his knuckles.
Credence slowly flipped over his hand and watched as the butterfly delicately crawled back and forth across his scarred skin. It rubbed its tiny feet over the harsh ridges, soft and soothing. Curious little thing it was trying to comfort him.
"Stay close to me," he whispered, stroking a gentle finger down its back.
He cast a cautious glance towards the spiderweb.
"I don't want you getting caught up there, okay?"
The creature rubbed its face with its tiny paper legs in response.
Credence almost smiled.
But he hadn't done that in years; perhaps, he had forgotten how.
So, he merely stroked down the paper butterfly's back again and murmured, "Cute."
That was until his stomach clenched.
Step 2. Find Food
Credence hadn't eaten properly in days.
Scavenging food from kitchen scraps was proving far more difficult than he'd initially expected. The area always seemed to be in constant use and, most of the time, he was only able to find crumbs anyways. Perhaps a slice of vegetable or bruised pear here and there, but never anything of substance. Nothing that could satiate the growing pains inside his stomach.
Sometime soon he would have to venture upstairs and scrounge the bins for a meal.
Maybe this time he'd be lucky and find a sandwich crust.
Ultimately though, it didn't matter whether Credence found anything or not. His comfort wasn't a priority, only his survival. He had about four or five days left until he really started feeling the effects from starvation.
He knew so from experience.
To think that only a week ago, Modesty was sneaking up into his room with an apple stuffed underneath her skirts after Credence had been sent to bed without dinner. She'd kept lookout while he quickly ate. When they realized that they still had to deal with the core after, they'd plotted together to dispose of it during morning chores when everyone was still asleep and keep the evidence hidden within Credence's shoe until then.
Credence flexed his foot. A heavy weight pressed against his chest, tears stinging his eyes.
He missed her so much.
The paper butterfly, as if sensing the direction his thoughts were traveling, flew off his fingers and balanced itself on his nose.
It worried about him.
As ridiculous of a notion it was, it worried about him.
Could a creature breathed into life from magic instead of God's will even feel such emotion?
The answer didn't matter. Whether it did or did not, what Credence knew for certain was that the butterfly kept him from falling into an ocean of despair.
It was his companion: a source of light and pleasantness that kept the shadows from creeping in. It followed him wherever he went. Whenever he walked, it would settle upon his lapel into a makeshift, and rather peculiar, bowtie. Whenever he rested, it would crawl around happily across his marred hands.
The butterfly would flutter around his face whenever he was distressed. It would even brush its wings against his nose from time to time to wake him from a nightmare. In return, Credence protected it from getting squashed underneath wayward feet or drenched from ocean spray.
The paper butterfly was a godsend.
However…
Who and where was the witch or wizard that had sent it?
It frustrated and confounded Credence to no end. They must have wanted to meet him, otherwise why send over the paper butterfly at all? He would have fallen to his knees in gratitude if they only took the time to reach out to him. Surely, they must have possessed the ability to locate him within the orderly havoc of the ship.
Back in New York, Credence had quickly learned that Mr. Graves always had a method of seeking him out and catching him conveniently unawares. Credence had been frightened to the point of near-constant anxiety because of it. To be walking down the sidewalk, pamphlets in hand, only to be grabbed by the collar of his shirt and dragged into an alleyway.
Perhaps it was Mr. Graves who had sent the butterfly?
Nonsense.
His mentor had abandoned him. Cast him aside like a useless broken plaything he had gotten bored of. That was, until he discovered what Credence was.
Cold, malicious delight shuddered through him at the memory. He remembered that shocked look in Mr. Graves' eyes as he realized his error and quickly rescinded all his cruel words in a last-ditch attempt to win back his favor.
For once in his life, Credence realized he had control.
And he'd wanted Mr. Graves to pay for what he'd done.
The paper butterfly swatted his cheek with its wing.
After the momentary shock had passed of realizing his life had reached the rock-bottom point of getting slapped by butterflies, Credence guided the offending creature back onto his finger and chastised, "That wasn't very nice."
The butterfly fluttered its wings and curtly turned its back to him.
"The cold shoulder?" Credence gently poked its side, "Really?"
The butterfly sat down.
"Mr. Graves definitely didn't send you," he ultimately decided and rested his head back against the wall, "He would've— Would've sent a dragon or something fearsome. Not a stubborn, little…"
Was the witch someone who had heard of the Obscurial's exploits and admired his dastardly deeds from afar? Had they applauded the senseless death and destruction that he'd left behind?
Credence shivered. He hoped he hadn't attracted a dangerous witch like that to him.
Perhaps it was someone from the subway incident?
No, everyone there had tried to kill him. Everyone except Miss Goldstein and—
Credence's heart stopped.
"Him," his voice warbled, "It was him."
The man with the kind meadow green eyes.
The man who had spoken softly to him, who had asked if he could come over. The man who had looked upon him not with fear or reverence but concern. The man who had been a shining ray of hope that had momentarily pierced through the darkness. The man whose outstretched hand had almost helped pull Credence out of that ocean that was the Obscurus.
A sob ripped through him.
He quickly pressed his hand against his mouth, muffling his relieved weeping so as not to be discovered.
The paper butterfly crawled up onto his forehead, peeking its head over his brow and rubbing its tiny legs over the dark hairs.
"Him," Credence repeated, his choked voice echoing through the silence of the morgue, "It was him."
He looked up towards the butterfly, "Wasn't it?"
His rescuer.
His savior.
His bonafide hero.
Him.
It had to be him.
But if it was… then why hadn't the kind witch tried to talk to him? Why hadn't he reached out to help him now? Where was he when he needed him most?
Credence swallowed and slowly stood up, determination settling in his shoulders.
Step 3. Find help.
When night fell, and all the evening festivities wrapped up, Credence ventured above deck to stretch out his legs. Sleeping the days away while exploring at night seemed to work best with him. It lowered his chances of getting caught. Besides, the peace and relative silence of the sea around him was… nice.
The salty scent of the ocean tickled his nose and the wind tousled his cropped hair.
The paper butterfly, avoiding getting swept away in the breeze, fastened itself tightly onto Credence's lapel.
The only thing Credence hated was the inconvenient hour. The stars twinkled in the twilight sky and the ocean conducted a gentle melody of crashing waves. Sea-foam sprayed up the sides and slickened the floors. To anyone else, it would've been a picture-perfect portrait of serenity.
But to Credence, it was anything but.
It was too dark, too cold. It reminded him too much of the monster inside his heart.
Credence sighed and reached inside his coat, fetching a slightly bruised apple.
His mouth had watered to the point of nearly drooling when he'd spotted the shining scarlet skin nestled against the bottom of the waste-bin. He'd quickly snatched it up before any of the cleaning crew could spot him and bolted out of the kitchen.
He couldn't believe his luck. If this was to serve as his breakfast, lunch and dinner for the coming day, he needed to savor every minute of it.
So, Credence settled himself at one of the outside benches and was just about to take a long-anticipated bite of his stowaway's ambrosia when a sudden flash of blue caught his attention.
Credence dropped his apple.
"You," he couldn't believe his eyes and clutched his hands to his chest.
At the opposite end of the ship, the kind-eyed witch stretched his long, gangly limbs, much like a newborn giraffe awkwardly trying to stand for the first time after being born.
He hadn't seemed to notice Credence.
No, the witch simply placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the endless black depths of the ocean. He stepped up to the rails, curiously peering through the missing section of bars.
The paper butterfly at Credence's lapel fluttered its wings excitedly.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
Anxiety pierced Credence's heart.
It wrapped its fiendish claws around him and squeezed until every fresh breath of air contained within his lungs disappeared. His hands trembled at his sides. His vision blurred, threatening to spill over at a moment's notice and choke his throat with disgusting snot.
His savior was here.
But he wasn't ready for this.
Not to say that some large and hopeful part of him didn't yearn for this meeting. Despite all the pain it caused him and the knowledge he now possessed, Credence still wanted nothing more than to be accepted back into that wonderful world of magic and fantasy. He desired it. He wanted it more than anything else.
He wanted to cast spells and brew potions and fly on brooms and whatever else witches and wizards did. He wanted to see the world, not through the sorrow-filled gaze of an impoverished orphan, but through the wizened eyes of a skilled sorcerer. Credence wanted to live and to escape the wickedness of his heart and thoughts, desperately so.
But seeing the kind witch in person now, when the last time they had encountered each other was underneath that wretched metro station… Seeing him here when the last time they had met each other's gaze was when Credence had nearly died.
In that instant, Credence no longer found himself on The Wailing Whirlwind.
The heavy scent of mold and noxious gasoline permeated the air. Credence pressed his knees against his chest, rocking anxiously back and forth, listening to the zap and crackle of electricity passing through the active railways. The walls seemed to be closing in, the distant drip drip dripping of a leaky pipe reminding him of everything he had done and the horror of transforming into the Obscurus on purpose.
He had just been so angry.
All this time, Mr. Graves had just been using him. Empty promises and hollow embraces that meant the world to Credence. But when his guardian angel had slapped him during his darkest hour, when he'd been begging for help, he'd realized that they were all lies to find the toy that he desired. Mr. Graves had never cared about him. He'd never intended to save him, a useless squib.
Until he and Mr. Graves discovered that the elusive creature that they'd been searching for had been lurking inside him all this time. Mr. Graves had been ready then to accept Credence back with open arms.
However, Credence was not the type of man to forgive and forget.
Credence had wanted Graves to hurt. To lose all hope. To make him feel the betrayal in his heart and the fury in his bones. Credence hadn't wanted to be Credence anymore.
He had wanted to become a monster.
And a monster he had become.
Oh God Above, what had he done?
Credence wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He went to press his trembling hands over his face, however when he saw his Ma's blood dripping down his fingers, he found that he could only stare in horror instead. The darkness started washing over him again. Ice-cold hands pulling him down, down, down—
Just when Credence thought himself lost for good, the kind-eyed witch had appeared. He had come to his rescue.
Not for the Obscurus. Not for the power.
He had come for him.
Credence whimpered. The paper butterfly fluttered anxiously before his face and landed on his nose.
Within an instant, he found himself back on the ship.
But the kind-eyed witch was still there.
No no no no—
Credence ran his shaking hands over his face and buried his nails deep into his scalp. A searing pain pierced his skin, grounding him further in the moment. Something warm and thick and wet stickily dripped down the side of his face.
He needed to run.
He couldn't do this.
What if he was wrong? What if the witch was like all the others that wanted to hurt him? What if he was like Mr. Graves and wanted to use him? What if? What if? What if?!
It wasn't as if Credence possessed a good judgement of character.
He jumped to his feet.
He needed to return to the morgue — to his sanctuary — at once. To hide himself where he could be safe and where no one could hurt him.
What was he thinking? Fooling himself with wishful thoughts that he could find help and be accepted back into the magical community with open arms? That somehow this witch was different from the others (except for the wonderful Miss Goldstein) that had only wanted Credence for his power or to have him destroyed?
Stupid, Credence, stupid. That optimistic heart would only get him into trouble.
He couldn't trust anyone. Not anymore. He was better off alone, wasn't he?
He took one step forward to flee, when the kind-eyed witch suddenly stepped through the gap in the railing.
And fell overboard.
"Shh, Mummy's here. It's alright, sweet one. Everything totally, completely alright."
Newt treaded the water, clutching the bleeding creature to his chest.
"Oh, you precious boy—" he paused and recounted the number of tentacles, "Girl. You precious girl. This ship is far too big for you to crush, darling. What are you doing all the way out here anyways, hmm?"
Kraken hatching season was upon them, certainly.
But hatchlings weren't supposed to venture out this deep into the ocean this soon. It was nowhere near time for migration to start and the waters were far too cold to sustain an infant. It was a puzzling mystery (although, poachers were the likely and, frankly, disheartening answer) and Newt intended to solve it.
Well, whenever he figured out just how to get back on board the ship first.
Typical scatter-brained Newt Scamander at your service.
What was he thinking?
Diving overboard without bringing some sort of rope to hoist himself back onto the deck was a death sentence especially at this relatively advanced hour. Although, Newt had had half a mind about him to discard his coat and scarf first before jumping into the freezing ocean. He thought he deserved a pat on the back for that one.
Now, if only he hadn't carelessly left his wand in his coat pocket…
Cradling the Kraken infant against his chest, Newt floated along the quiet waves beside the ship.
The ship that was slowly coasting along without him on it.
What a mess you've gotten yourself into this time, Scamander.
A mysteriously flickering light on deck pulled his attention. Proving enough of a distraction that he didn't notice how the gentle seas rapidly grew into a roiling tempest.
The ocean angrily foamed and the once-delicate breeze transformed into a howling squall. It crashed Newt against the metal underside of the ship, forcing seawater into his lungs in place of breath. He quickly pivoted his body and shielded the frightened creature between his arms. Blood gushed rapidly from his nose and, just as he thought he was about to be pulled under, the waves dragged him back out to the open sea.
That was, before repeating the entire process all over again.
Newt scrambled at every chance for air. His legs paddled furiously underneath him, struggling to keep himself upright and afloat. He may not have been the strongest of blokes, however he'd always had impeccable endurance; and right now, as he was tugged every which way, he was bloody thankful for that.
A large shadow hurriedly crossed the platform, running as if the Devil himself was nipping at their heels, and stopped right around the area where Newt had jumped off moments ago.
Wait.
Did that mean…?
"Ah, yes! Hello!" Newt called up to the dark figure above him, unable to make out their features due to the late hour, the height, and the fact that the roiling sea was currently trying its best to drown him, "Could you, by any chance, lend me a hand and pull me up?"
Silence came as his only answer.
The growing ocean waves thrashed violently and threw him up against the hull once more. Newt tasted copper in his mouth now.
Had the person not heard? Perhaps he hadn't shouted loud enough?
The Kraken wrapped its tentacles around his neck… and his waist… and around each of his legs. Oh, this poor creature was definitely no older than a week if it had already reached the size of an average human man.
"Quickly please! A rope or anything to pull me up if you could," he shouted desperately, "I need to get back to my cabin. Urgently. I have an injured creature that needs immediate attention!"
The figure disappeared.
Newt's heart sank.
But right when he started theorizing whether an infant Kraken's suckers were strong enough to climb up the side of a metal ship with a bumbling wizard in tow, a life preserver was thrown overboard.
Newt shuddered with relief. Or was that from the cold? He couldn't tell.
The churning waves rapidly died down when Newt latched onto the yellow ring and lifted it around himself. He tugged on the rope, showing that he was safe inside, when a sharp jerk suddenly started hoisting him up.
"It's alright, sweet one," Newt gently cooed to the young Kraken, "Just a moment in the cool air and then Mummy will get you somewhere safe, don't you worry. I'm here to help."
He just needed to reach inside his coat, laying carelessly abandoned above deck, and to his wand before erasing that poor, well-intentioned Muggle's memory first. Such a pity that a good deed had to be paired with such a fate.
They reached the edge of the deck.
A scarred hand stretched out. Newt quickly accepted it, the coarse bumps feeling sensational against his palms, and stared into the impossibly dark eyes of his savior.
"Credence."
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