Warning: Mild Violence

First rule of the job – always wear long sleeves.

Even though the presence of the Yakuza in the Blackhole was a given, people were highly uncomfortable interacting with the Nightmares themselves. So, as to avoid scaring away customers unnecessarily, Flynn kept his tattoos covered at the shop.

It wasn't his shop, of course. He was just one of the stylists there. He didn't really have anything of his own, not even the clothes on his back. His apartment was shared by three of his rowdy 'brothers', who were uncouth in every sense of the word, and the place itself was rented anyway.

The barber shop, which also catered to hair styling of every kind, was a cramped space, hidden behind the frosted glass doors that were probably as old as the street itself. There were only three chairs and three mirrors, which was fine, really, since business was usually a slow trickle. Because of that, only one worker was needed per shift and that happened to be Flynn for today.

"Have you seen the papers, boy?" the elder fellow called out, his face still buried in the papers. "Ten of the injured have passed away since that San Fransokyo bombing. That's forty casualties now." He clucked his tongue as he moved on the next page. "Shocking."

"Absolutely, Mr. Howard," the brunette murmured as he continued snipping the side hairs. Flynn didn't know the customer all that well, but he did know the old man had been coming to the same barbershop for the last ten years. He always took the same cut each time and by this time, Flynn was pretty sure he could cut it blindfolded.

"I hope they track him down soon," the man went on. "That 13 fellow is nothing but trouble."

"Certainly. Try not move, sir." Flynn's expression was blank, but inwardly he heaped curses on the old man. Mr. Howard himself was a man of considerably influence, being the owner of a few shopping malls around Burgeshima. Yes, Flynn envied anyone with wealth, but those he disliked the most were the haughty, self-entitled fools who lived in the illusion of their own righteousness. What right did this doddery old miser have to criticize a hero? A hero who made mistakes, true, but at least he was trying to make a difference.

Unlike many of the youngsters that our story speaks of, Flynn himself had been a witness to the Golden Age. He had been very young and was quite unaware of the complications and controversy that surrounded the masked characters, but he remembered the glowing news reports, the brilliant pictures, the action figures and most of all, the legends themselves. Their disappearance had been keenly felt by him, for the implementation of Anti-Hero Act had coincided too neatly with the loss of his parents. He was a child thrown into a world of turmoil, watching the cozy town that he had adored descend into a hellish gutter. He was a child in need of a hero himself.

He had been placed in a boy's home for a while, but the company had been rough and he found that streets had granted him more space to craft imaginary kingdoms. Alas, imagination could only fuel the mind and not the body. So he had turned to stealing for his daily bread. He had no master to teach him, so he had learnt it on his own. He started out with the basic pickpocketing, but moved on purse-snatching and burglary after acquiring a certain level of proficiency. The first time he had procured a gun from the home of his hundred and eighteenth victim, he had been awfully proud of himself - until he realized he had no idea how to use it. When he had attempted to mug a person, the girl had to tell him to remove the safety before even trying to pull the trigger. Of course, said girl's bodyguards then had come running in on the last minute and Flynn had been shot in the ribs, and the arm bearing the gun had been snapped backwards –

But that's another story.

Moving along with our current thread, Flynn had set the down scissors on the trolley, asking, "Do you mind if I turn up the music?"

"By all means, boy." His customer, whose hair had been significantly shortened, now moved on to the sports section, adjusting the round-glass spectacles on his nose as he did. "Don't quite care for the new-fangled noise they call music, though. The old stuff's the best."

"Quite right, sir," Flynn answered stiffly, as he went over to the sound system. His phone had been plugged in, so he simply jabbed the volume button, giving Sinead O'Connor free reign over the stereo for the next 5.15 minutes. He takes the moment to also scroll through his message feed, glancing at the name printed on the text, then glancing at the old man, who was still hunched over in his chair.

"Just to check, Mr. Howard," he raised his voice to beat the volume, "is your first name Robert?"

"It is." The question did puzzle the customer, causing him to peer at the youth. "Why?"

"Oh, the boss just mentioned to give you a free cut today," was Flynn's nonchalant answer, placing the phone back near the stereo.

"Why, that's excellent!" The customer was pleased. Well, who didn't love free stuff? The minute the old man returned to reading his paper, however, a grim expression appeared on the barber's face.

The next few moments in the shop were quiet, save for the blaring hits of the eighties and the buzzing of the electric clipper. Mr. Howard would occasionally throw in a comment or two about something he was reading and Flynn would answer with a reply he didn't really mean.

It wasn't as if the latter was paying much attention actually. Flynn had always been very fond of escaping into his own fantasies, designing fantastic worlds where bleakness was banished and only the spirit of adventure reigned. Had he stayed longer in school, he might have ended up as a fine writer. As it was, he had only returned to high school when he was fifteen and left that same year when he couldn't fit in. I'm not implying that Flynn was illiterate – oh, no. He was a vivacious reader; adored the classic writers, in a matter of fact, especially any of those with good swashbuckling action and daring escapades. The problem was that he never acquired the discipline to complete any grand project of his own, including his own education. The world had pity for orphans, yes, but to orphans who left school by their own choice? Not really.

He wasn't a fool. School would have been very good for him, but how much of his fate would really have been altered if he did finish it? The minute he pointed a gun at the Nightmare King's daughter, his life only had two options: accept mercy and become a puppet, or accept death.

He was a young man longing for the adventure that this drab, sodden city couldn't provide. He couldn't die. Yet living itself came at a great cost.

"I think I'll need to do a little more trimming on the top, Mr. Howard," he told his customer as he set down clipper. It was The Police's turn to boom their top hits, and Sting took the floor with his deadpan enthusiasm, "Every breath you take;-"

The elder man grunted, removing his glasses and setting it on the counter in front him. His eyes remained fixed on the next bit of the paper.

"Every move you make;-"

Flynn had to still his nerves, taking a deep breath as the thumping beats of the song rang in his ears. It was a good thing that Mr. Howard was half-deaf, if not he would have realized how ridiculously loud the music was.

"Every bond you break;-"

He took up one of the other electrical shaver that they kept on the trolleys. As it was an old-fashioned shop, the equipment was also old-fashioned and much of the shavers were the corded kind that needed to be plugged in before use, as opposed to the battery-operated sort. Checking that the old man was still occupied, Flynn wove the wiring through his left fingers first, then through his right ones. He left a gap between both hands, allowing a length of loose wire to dangle in front of him.

"Every step you take;-"

His hands were actually shaking. They said that once you've done it enough times, it got easier. You might even come to like it.

Not for him.

"I'll be watching you."

He still realized that he was forcing a person over the ledge into the great unknown in the most unnatural fashion, and he recognized that he didn't have the right to do such. For all his flaws, Flynn was aware that Mr. Howard had only recently become a grandfather to a pair of twins, which made the sin all the greater.

"Every single day;-"

At the same time, Flynn knew that he didn't actually have a choice in the matter.

"Do you mind looking up, sir?"

On the request, the old man did lift his head, staring straight into the mirror as he did. By that time, it was too late. The wire had already been looped over his head and was abruptly tightened. The newspaper was stashed on the ground, joining the hair shavings as the old man's fine boots stamped against the footrests. His wrinkled hands fumbled towards his neck, but in the tangle of the towels and wires, it came to no avail. Flynn merely held his fists close together, turning his head away from the sight to stare determinedly at the frosted glass door. The strength of an old fellow was no match for that of a young one, so the wire remained taut and firm.

"Every word you say;-"

The contemplative rhythm and the moody bass continued to drown out the sounds of struggle, which lasted only fifteen seconds. Flynn still gripped tightly on the wire, yanking them together for a little while longer. Then, he let go. The limp body sitting in the barber chair didn't move, which confirmed his success before a facial examination and a pulse check did.

"Every game you play;-"

He bundled the shaver and the wire together, using a spray and cloth to wipe off any finger prints. He then dropped it into his late customer's lap before proceeding to the glass door. Usually, he'd be more cautious and lock the door before taking action, but since that would have alerted the late Mr. Howard, he could only do so now. Turning to the key, he returned back to his seat, typing a message and sending it, before lowering the music volume. There was no need to burst his eardrums any longer.

"Every night you stay;-"

He returned to the body, deliberately not looking at the face. He picked up the shaver and returned it to the trolley, then proceeded to unclip the towel from the bruised purple neck. With the brush, he dusted off the remaining bits of hair, carefully staying as impassive as he could. By the time he was done, it would have seemed that Mr. Howard had indeed finished his cut.

"I'll be watching you."

With that done, he placed aside the equipment. Seeing that his contacts have yet to arrive, he decided he might as well get something out of this ugly business. After slapping on some gloves, it wasn't difficult to find and remove his late customer's wallet, since the old man was obviously no longer in any shape or state to prevent him from doing so. Flynn flipped open the leather case, rummaging through the contents. There were a lot of credits cards, which provided possible but bothersome methods to extract cash. He instead took the two hundred dollars' worth of notes and pocketed them, before returning the wallet to where he found it.

"Oh can't you see-"

There was a weird twisting in his gut, the feeling that always came about when he did something despicable – which was unsurprisingly frequent. He tried to stifle it, the way he always did, but it somehow manage to drag him down and seat him on an empty barber chair, next to that of the corpse.

"-you belong to me?"

"It's really your own fault, sir," he told the body, despite knowing how ridiculous this all was. It didn't hurt to be sympathetic to something that couldn't wreck vengeance on you. "No one crosses the Nightmare Yakuza." Flynn gazed down at his own arms, hatefully remembering the curved black lines behind the sleeves. "Not even me."

"How my poor heart aches-"

It was about fifteen minutes before he heard a knock on the backdoor. He answered it, and led his 'brothers' into the shop. He didn't actually know these Nightmares by name, but he did know their faces and that in turn was assurance enough that they wouldn't reveal his secret. In turn, he wouldn't reveal their involvement in it. As far as the public was concerned, Mr. Howard took his usual haircut before leaving the shop.

"-with every step you take."

The body was hauled into the laundry van parked at the back alley, which was empty this time in the morning. Obligatory farewells were said and Flynn shut the backdoor, locking it up. If asked, he hadn't opened that door all this morning.

When he returned to the shop, he heard a repetitive tapping on the glass door. He sighed, removing his gloves and hollering, "Hold on!"

"Every move you make;-"

The tapping didn't stop, which made the already moody young man even more irritated. Swearing under his breath, he marched over to the entrance, undid the lock and swung the door open. "What?"

The boy who stood there was clearly no older than eighteen. One fist was still frozen in the air, since the object it was knocking on had been removed. He wore a green pull-over hoodie, which a little too large for his wiry structure, so it was too recognizable that he had borrowed it. Finally noticing how dumb he looked like while holding his arm in the air like that, the boy dropped it.

"Every vow you break;-"

"You shouldn't say that you're open if you're actually closed, you know." He thumbed the sign hanging out on the front of the barbershop.

Flynn didn't miss a beat. "I needed to use the bathroom."

The boy in the hoodie considered the response, then shrugged. "O-kay." He cleared his throat, and straightened himself up, smiling. "So, er, Tooth told me to come."

"Every smile you fake;-"

Flynn made a quizzical look. "Who?"

It was the kid's turn to appear annoyed. "Well, you know the lady who lives below you with the two kids. And me." The last bit was added as an afterthought.

He gazed critically at him. "You mean Thia?"

"Yeah," the boy made a dismissive wave. "Thia."

"Every claim you stake;-"

Then it dawned on Flynn who he was. Squinting more closely at the boy, he noted the tuft of white hair hidden under the hoodie. "You're that kid I saw yesterday. The one with the bleach-head."

The boy looked offended. "Hey!"

"Get in, Snow White." Flynn jerked his head toward the interior of the shop, not waiting for the boy to work up a better comeback.

"I'll be watching you."


"Then, you pick the type of picture you wan'na search for."

The brunette girl did as he had asked. Hiccup didn't actually know anything about her, not even her name. It just happened that they had been sitting side by side in hostel café, him waiting for Fishleg's call and her, well, talking to her pet chameleon. Of course, he didn't judge the whole 'talking-to-non-talking-organism' thing. He and Toothless were on speaking terms, after all. So, he discovered that she was struggling to use a photo-search application on her phone and having used many of them himself, recommended another app and showed her how to use it.

"Alright, now you have to take a picture of the thing," he told her just as his cellphone started ringing. "Give me a moment, won't you?"

"I think I got it. Thanks." The brunette girl in the pink jacket flashed him as a grateful smile, before rummaging her bag. Hiccup wondered to himself what it could be that she was searching for as he whipped out the device, hitting the green phone icon on the screen and sticking it to his ear. "Yep?"

The voice transmitted was hushed, as if trying to be mysterious, "There's no time to explain, but you need to get online now."

Hiccup rolled his eyes, placing a hand on his hip. "You don't need to be so dramatic, Fish. I can recognize your voice."

"Look, can't I just pretend that doing geek stuff is actually cool?" Now that it was back to the normal squeakiness, Hiccup could hear the irritation in the tone. "Just get online."

So Hiccup hung up on the call, hopping back to his table. Toothless had decided to occupy himself by fiddling the pens that his owner had scattered over the notebooks, rolling each under his black paws one at a time. The boy didn't have time to call him off, for he was far too absorbed in getting the matter at hand completed first. He whipped open the laptop, jabbing the space-bar to snap it out of 'sleep' mode. While waiting for the computer to load, he noted that the brunette girl had removed a sketchpad from her bag. Having some interest in art himself, he leaned closer for a peep.

She flipped through a few pages, stopping at one that was a portrait of a man. If he had seen the graphite stains on the sides, Hiccup would have assumed that it was a photograph, for the sketch was impressively realistic. He could almost see the depth in the creases of the man's eyes, and even the hair flying from the side of his face seemed to have been frozen in the moment, just for the girl to draft it out.

After exchanging whispered conversation with her reptilian friend, the brunette girl pulled out an eraser and a pencil. The nose of the man was rubbed off, replaced by another less pointed one. After some shading and dotting, she blew off the remnants of the dust. She set the picture flat down on the table, then poised her phone over it, adjusting her angle before taking the picture. He could only guess who that man was. Some teen heart-throb of a celebrity? Or maybe just a friend, or boyfriend, that she was looking for?

When the 'start' screen of laptop finally decided to greet him, Hiccup slapped on his wireless headphones, connecting them to the computer. After entering some diverted softwares and punching in some codes, he heard a familiar buzz in the headphones. "Hello?"

"I'm in," Hiccup said, fliting a glance at the brunette girl. She was absorbed in her own searches and was paying no mind to his actions.

"Noted. ID coming your way."

A pop-up icon appeared on the screen and Hiccup clicked on it. The document that appeared rolled out a full electronic profile, with location history, medical history, family lines, school records and possessions. And by looking at the type of possessions alone (she was an heir to companies – note that plural!), he knew that the Will-O-Wisp was filthy rich.

"This is the highest possible match I found and it's 97.4% accurate," Fishleg spoke through the line. "Actually, if you look at her history files, her motives make a lot of sense. Do you know how the Demon Bear was such a big thing in Dunbuoka? Well, what if I told you that-"

"Fishlegs, I don't have a lot of time." Hiccup didn't mean to interrupt, but it was vital that they started work immediately. "What do I need to do?"

He could almost hear the boy's expression sour at the brusque response. "If you look at the last page, you'll find the details of the hotel room she's staying at. If we're lucky, the files might be there. But if they're not, well, you know what you have to do."

"Got it." Hiccup scrolled down to the final page, as instructed, quickly taking all the details to memory. He did know what needed to be done should the files not be there, but he didn't like it much. "What else?"

"You'll have a card waiting for you at the reception under the name 'Riku Kaneda'," the other boy went on. "You can only use it on her hotel room from 1:30-1:40pm, otherwise alarms would go off. She shouldn't be there at the time though. She's got a lunch meeting from 12 to 2 pm."

"And you know that, how?" He was really teasing though, but he couldn't help it. Fishlegs did get embarrassed whenever he brought it up.

"Erm, I hacked her phone?" He could completely imagine the chubby boy awkwardly tapping his index fingers against one another, as he often did in nervousness. "And before you suggest it, I'm not a creep!" He did sound terribly indignant.

Hiccup chuckled. "I don't judge, Fish. See you if I make it out alive."

The connection was disabled at that very moment and Hiccup switched off the laptop, folding it back down again. He grabbed his back pack and stuffed the computer in, followed by his books and pencil case. He left the headphones dangling around his neck.

"C'mon, Toothless," he addressed the cat, nodding towards his bag. The cat mewled out his displeasure, before jumping reluctantly onto the books and boxes. Hiccup then zipped it up, but left a gap for Toothless to stick his head out. Swinging the backpack over his shoulder, he rose to his feet and headed for the doorway that led back to the dorm rooms.

"Bye." He waved to the brunette girl and she smiled in return. With that, he disappeared down the corridor.

With that boy gone, the brunette continued to plow through her findings, placing the phone down on the table so that her reptilian companion could see the screen as well.

You have to understand her struggle when it came to electronic devices. Mother had been very strict any interactions she had with the outside world, including online interactions. Computers were strictly used for education and correspondence purposes, and the correspondence part was only ever between herself and Rapunzel. As it was, our heroine with the pixie cut knew that social networks existed, but she had no clue how to use them; which was a pity, because many of the sites that the search engine had produced were all social networking sites.

Pascal made a chittering noise, using his tail to point at one or another option as a suggestion. Rapunzel pressed her lips together, before shutting her eyes and just jabbed a finger on the screen.

When she opened her eyes once again, she found that she hadn't actually tapped on anything at all, so she shut her eyes and did it again. This time it still didn't work, but Pascal decided to take matters in his paws and dragged one of her fingers over one of the options. The words lit up in blue and a new page was opened.

When Rapunzel dared to face her phone screen once again, she was greeted by a social media site with a deep blue templating. There were some options on the sides, called 'Announcements' and 'Notes' while the main column contained 'Feed'. But Rapunzel's eyes were focused on the blurry picture framed in the little white box. The young man with the pointed nose and a wide, smug grin was definitely one she recognized.

Pascal made a disgusted hiss.

Rapunzel took in whatever details the site profile provided her, scribbling down the important ones on a blank page on her drawing pad. She knew the information could be false, but it's all she could work with for now. Hopefully, the fellow would be far too arrogant to lie online. Mother did say that people put far too much of their private lives online nowadays.

Scrolling through the 'feed' column, she found other pictures of the thief. She tried to click on them for a zoom-in look, but each time she tried, the application would inform her that the picture was no longer available. Even the blurry one on the profile seemed to be unavailable. In her gut, she felt that it was strange. Surely someone that full of himself would go all out to publicize his delusions of awesomeness online, not deleting off photos of himself.

Maybe it was some kind of Yakuza rule. The policeman had mentioned that the thief was from the Nightmare Yakuza, after all. Yet, it seemed odd that a Yakuza would allow publish their own magazines – and give them out free too! She had one in her bag, after all - and then not permit their members to display their own photos online. It wasn't as if the social network page made a mention of the thief being from the Yakuza itself anyway. Perhaps she was overthinking it and that it was nothing more than a personal eccentricity.

Anyhow, though the page was like a desert of information, it did provide an address. It might not be accurate, since its last update had been five years ago, but she didn't have anything else to work with.

"Let's go, Pascal."

The chameleon crawled up her sleeve, returning to his surveillance from her shoulder. All her belongings were returned to her satchel and Rapunzel got to her feet. She grabbed the empty drink carton and food wrapping, throwing it into a bin near the exit. She might have heard one of the students in the café wolf-whistling at her, but she dismissed it to attend to more important matters.

Matters such as finding a certain 'Flynn Rider'.


"If you don't have a permit, you can't do any reporting here."

There it was again. That thrice-accursed word. Every shop, every restaurant, every bar, it somehow followed her like a stray puppy for a crust of bread.

"Look, you look like a well-meaning kid,-" the bartender was trying to be kind, but it didn't change the fact that he had no intention of helping her at all, "-and I can tell you haven't been in Burgeshima for a long time-"

"It's okay. I get it. I really do it." Anna threw up her hands in frustration. "If you want live your silent misery forever, go ahead." She pushed herself off the table, fully intending to stomp off and slam door, but repented at the last moment. She gave a little bow to the bartender, saying, "Thanks for your time and sorry for wasting it."

Feeling both rotten about herself and frustrated about the circumstances, she darted to towards the glass door, pushed it open and disappeared down the street.

It was the same everywhere she went. Nobody wanted to talk to a reporter without a permit, especially one that had an unfamiliar accent. It was a good thing she didn't tell them she was just an intern too.

Her choice of interviewees weren't at random. She ploughed through the old Burgeshima newspapers, trying to locate the last sightings of 13. She spoke to various strangers and tracked down the people he had saved previously, but those people didn't want to talk. Not the sisters whose shop had been trashed during a brawl between 13 and some gangsters. Not this bartender, her last interviewee, who had three of his customers axed by 13 four months ago, during the lunch rush hour. She had learnt absolutely nothing new about him – 'N-U-T'! Nothing! The snippets of things she had heard were all things people had reported of before; his use of violence, his mysteriousness, his freaky costume. The fog of uncertainty that surrounded Burgeshima's vigilante had never been so thick and so irritating.

Kristoff had pretty much given up on the whole endeavor, demanding that they head back to Arenashi to report their failure, but she bargained with him to give her one more day. She had till midnight to get a story. And at this point, she was desperate to take any story.

It had been four hours she had started her story hunt and the dismissals were starting to make her dismal. It was 'permit this, permit that' everywhere. It seemed so ironic that city with one of the highest crime rates in the world was so adamant to abide by corporate laws.

She had been so busy fuming that she hadn't really been focusing on where she walked. That resulted in her ending up somewhere in the business district, caught in the crowds of bankers, brokers and managers as they all scuttled about from alley to boulevard. But she didn't really pay attention while bumping shoulders with the white-collar crowd, nor did she notice the glares that were shot in her direction. There was no way she was going to avoid the cab door that just suddenly appeared in front of her.

She crashed straight into it, reeling back almost immediately after impact. Her nose was smarting like crazy, so she held a hand over the soon-to-be bruise. It was probably her own fault for not noticing that she had been strolling rather close to the road, where the taxi had just drawn up to, but after so many rejections, Anna wasn't really in the mood for rationality. Or any manner of social decorum, really.

"Hey! Watch where you're-" she lifted her head and her eyes suddenly went huge.

Have you ever entered that weird state of mind you had suddenly gained a huge urge to consume giant marshmallows at vicarious rate even though you're not hungry?

Neither had Anna. Until now.

Except that she wouldn't eat marshmallows. Chocolates was more her thing.

"I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"

She was in a daze, as if a hurricane had abruptly picked her up from Kansas and dumped her into a world of bright colors and catchy musical numbers. Her mouth might have fallen open in shock.

"Miss?" The voice sounded very concerned. "Are you hurt?"

Her focal lens decided to readjust themselves at that moment and the blur dissipated. Except that feasting her eyes on this masterpiece was probably going to send her in coma any second - with a smile.

"Sorry, what?" she croaked out, still feeling dizzy.

Was she blushing? She was blushing.

She wanted to die.

She was ruining everything.

She wanted to stamp on the ground and demand for it to swallow her up.

Right now would be good.

Ground, are you listening?

Like. Now.

"I asked if you were hurt."

His eyes were the color of the first leaves of spring. No! They were like the emeralds, fine-cut and sparkling. No! They were like – like – like barium-based fireworks!

Her brain might have short-circuited, because her analogies were getting a teensy weird…

"I-ya, no. No." Her neural signals manage to work sufficiently for her to give a chuckling shrug, though they also made her wince when she accidentally twitched her nose. "I'm okay."

She faintly registered him ducking his head back into the cab, probably to pay the cab driver, and she could only realize that because the wash of disappointment had swept over her after those wonderful, dreamy eyes left her vision. But once he stood back upright and shut the door, the pleasantly fluttery sensations somewhere in her stomach returned in full force, dumping out all the misery pie she swallowed this morning and replacing it for cookies and candy floss.

And chocolate. Like waterfalls of chocolate.

"Are you sure?"

His voice was like music - no, no, not like hiphop or EDM. It was like – like a chorus of hallelujahs melded into a perfect combo of gentleness, simplicity and charm.

"Yeah. I just wasn't looking where I was going." She might be a little breathless at the moment – oh, that explained the fuzzy vision. Huh. "But I'm okay."

He was so, so handsome. Not like Hollywood handsome, or particularly sexy, but he just looked so wonderful and pleasant and…

One of her hands went to straightening out one of her braids, a wistful simper stretching on her countenance. "I'm great, actually."

Was he smiling back? He was smiling back. Someone get her a stretcher, because she might faint. She took back every insult she had ever said about girls who went raving mad about their pop idols, because she was starting to get what the whole debacle was about.

"Thank goodness." He was standing right in front of her, which was really fantastic, because she could study every single inch of his face – and it was gorgeous!

His expression of relief turned to one of surprise.

….she said her last thought out loud, didn't she?

"Um, yes." He was chuckling at her - oh, but even that was divine! "You did."

He had no idea how close she was to flinging herself on the road right then.

"Anyway,-" he opted to break the awkward staring session, "-I'd I like to formally apologize for hitting you while opening the cab door, Ms.-"

"Anna!" She couldn't wait to get it out. He needed to know her name! And her number! And every single one of her social media acc- okay, maybe later. She coughed, composing herself before she spoke again, "Anna Arendelle."

"Anna." The way he said her name made her insides melt. She didn't know when he had taken her hand, but he had, and he now planted a kiss lightly on the knuckle. Her heart was racing at the speed of light. "Hans Westergaard."

At any other time, Anna might have thought the name odd, for it was certainly old-fashioned. But for now, he could have told her that his name was 'Captain Butter Pecan Ice Cream' and she would have thought it splendid.

"Well, I would like to apologize formally for hitting you with a cab door," Hans said, letting her hand go, much to her disappointment. But the next sentence cheered her up almost immediately. "Let me make it up to you. Perhaps-" he glanced at his watch, "-could I get you drink or something? Coffee?"

YES! YES! YES! "Oh, I'd love-"she had jerked herself back, not wanting to seem too eager "-I mean, that'd be that nice."

"Great, um-" he flushed slightly himself, which made her feel better about her own display "-I can't meet you right now. I have work until four, but maybe-" he pulled out a card from his pocket, scrutinizing it himself before handing it to her "-you could call me later and we'll arrange something."

She folded the card in her hand gingerly, fearful that it might vanish into thin air if she wasn't careful enough. "Yeah. Okay. Absolutely."

"Great." That amazing smile was back. "I'll see you then."

He picked up his attaché, nodding at her before taking his leave. Even as he strolled down the path and mixed himself into the throng, Anna still stood frozen to the ground, barely able to believe the miracle that had just occurred. If that wasn't chemistry, then sodium chloride wasn't table salt - which it was, by the way.

She had the urge to skip down the street and burst into song, but thankfully, not all social propriety had been abandoned. Still, that didn't keep her steps from being so light, nor did it keep the love-struck beam creeping onto her face.

Love? Was she in love?

She peered down at the business card in her hand and the fluttery feels swarmed her once more, letting her burst out into a peal of giggles. People around her stared at her as if she was crazy, but maybe she was and guess what? She didn't care. She had a date with a drop-dead gorgeous lawyer! A date! And to imagine that she once thought that lawyers were all snotty old men.

We'll leave Anna in her stupor of ecstasy to join the haggard lawyer instead. After the brief yet delightful encounter with the university girl – probably first or second year, he surmised - he had received a distressing call upon entering the high-rise corporate building owned by Westergaard & Sons.

"-but he said that he left earlier on. Basically, we have no idea where my father is," the worried voice rang through his phone as he crossed the entrance. As with most private corporate buildings, there were electronic gates situated outside the lift lobby area – a security feature to ensure that all visitors could be accounted for. However, as a worker there, Hans had the access card required for entering and he tapped it on the reader.

"Try calling again. He might have been busy with something else earlier," Hans suggested to the client while giving a wave to the security guard, who returned the greeting. He headed straight for the lifts. As it happened, a lift had arrived at that very moment and he stepped in, tapping the card needed to activate the higher floors – extra security for the office levels, so that the wandering visitor didn't accidentally stumble into where he shouldn't be. He hit the button for the twenty-third floor and the doors closed. The thrumming sound and the wobbling of the platform below his feet told him that lift had begun its ascent.

The responding tone was dubious. "He's usually very prompt at answering the phone, but I'll try again. I guess…"

"Do it soon," he said as the doors slid open, revealing the cozy waiting room. He hustled through that, passing the receptionist who informed him of something he didn't quite catch. He halted his steps, pulling the phone from his ear. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he turned to the lady behind the desk, asking, "Sorry, what?"

"Someone dropped a package for you," the receptionist repeated. Her handbag was on her table and she was stuffing her belongings in it. It was then that he was reminded that it was lunch hour. Of course, he always ended up working in that time. "I'll put it on your table."

Bewilderment found itself twisted onto his face. "I'm not expecting any deliveries."

"Oh, he said you'll know what it is once you saw it." The receptionist did seem in a hurry to leave, so Hans didn't question her any further. He headed into the offices, where most of the cubicles had been emptied for the recess, save the straggling interns who chose to lunch by their tables. He slapped the phone back on his ear. "Hello?"

"Still here. What the new time for the hearing?"

He checked his watch as he pushed open his office door. All lawyers had individual rooms, which he appreciated greatly, considering the racket that many of them loved to make. "Two-thirty exactly. If we miss this one, next chance will be in a months' time. I only managed the reschedule this time because the judge owes me a favor."

"I'll try to find him. Thank you, Mr. Westergaard."

"Goodbye, Ms. Howard," he replied politely before the phone went dead. He dropped it on one end of the table before dumping the attaché on the other side. Mountains of case files sat in front of the desktop, thanks to his secretary's meddling. Some of the drawers were half-closed, far too full of tagged documents. His chair, which was in serious need of replacement, was starting to tilt dangerously back. Of course, Hans gave the mess little thought as his eyes settled on the crinkled yellow postal bag resting in the certain of the office.

Sitting himself down on his tattered rolling chair, he picked it up, his curiosity intensified when he noted that it seemed to contain a weighed object. He tore the seal, carefully pouring out the contents into his hand.

The first thing to come tumbling out was a pair of glasses. It wasn't his, and he knew that his secretary didn't wear any herself. He examined them more carefully, deciding by the style of the frame and the curvature of the lens that it was probably a reading glass. This item however was light, which meant that there was more in the bag.

He lifted up the bag again and tipped it to the side. He should have been more cautious, because the slight tilt of the bag now resulted in some black and grainy spilling onto the table - sand.

Black sand.

That alone was enough to trigger some alarm bells in his head.

He peered down into the bag and sure enough, the bottom quarter of it was packed full of black sand. There also appeared to be a sheet of rice paper tucked inside the black heap. Not quite trusting it be all that harmless, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket – he was old-fashioned enough to actually carry one around – and used that to remove the paper without coming in direct contact with it. He kept the paper at a distance, lifting himself from the seat just in case he needed to run out of the room.

Still using the handkerchief, he unfolded the sheet. On it was two words inked in the traditional kanji characters – "冥罰".

Meibatsu. Divine punishment.

Hans knew that he might as well cancel the hearing. His client wasn't going to turn up any time soon. Or any time ever, actually.


As much as she derided luxury, Merida did appreciate the comfort of hotel beds. The fluffiness of the pillows and the cooling smoothness of sheets were truly welcome for her weary bones.

It was afternoon, but she immediately plopped herself face down onto the bed, letting out a huge exhale. She was an excellent athlete of remarkable stamina, but after that many presentations and that many meetings, she was tuckered out. According to her schedule, she still had to take tea with one board members and dinner with another, which meant two more sessions of awkward, shallow tittering about the weather with people three times her age. Who knew that sitting upright and nodding politely while suppressing yawns could be so exhausting?

She felt her phone vibrating through the mattress, so without looking up, she stretched a hand to her tiny purse. It didn't take her long to unzip it and pull out the maddening device, and it was only then she craned her neck up, squinting at the screen. It was just a message from her redheaded lawyer of a babysitter informing her that he couldn't attend the dinner tonight and promising to be with her at the luncheon tomorrow. That meant that she had to face all the old fuddies and their wives on her own, instead of dumping them on Hans while she snuck off elsewhere.

To be fair, he wasn't awful – actually, he was terribly nice. He was like the classic cut-out copy of a gentleman, except that he strove to be interesting and humorous, which she could give credit for. He liked sports too - real sports like rugby and boxing, not dumb things like golf - so that put him in her good books. The problem was that his presence was a constant reminder of her mother's expectations.

The clock on the side of her phone screen told her that she had at least an hour before her aides returned to press and powder her into a modern-age princess. She could use the time to take a nap, she supposed, but she had other work to do.

Merida pushed herself off the bed, groaning as she rolled back her shoulders and stretched her arms out. Sitting on a chair all morning had made her active muscles tense and her bones stiff. She gritted her teeth as she moved the sore limbs towards the wardrobe. Yanking the door open, her eyes fell on the heavy black box sitting within it. She didn't trust hotel safes most of the time, having broken into several herself as the Wisp, but she reckoned that if people didn't know what was inside, they wouldn't be inclined to rob it any more than they would other safes. This was a hotel full of all kinds of rich people, after all.

Using the keypad on the safe, she typed out the required code and the door popped open. She pulled it back, reaching in for the file she had kept there. Usually, she would drop any objects of importance at the summerhouse for safekeeping, but yesterday night, she had fully intended to begin reading the '13' file and hence had taken it back to her hotel room. Of course, the combined stresses of that morning and the excitement that night had led to her falling asleep after she had gotten the first page open. When she had woken up bleary-eyed, her aide had already been in the room and only by pure luck had she been to shove the file in the safe before anyone asked what it was.

And it was also by pure luck that the file had vanished during her absence.

She searched the safe, still simmering with disbelief, yet the yellow file was clearly gone. The weird part was that her platinum watch and silver earrings that she had left in the safe – obligatory gifts from her ex-'boyfriends' – were all still there.

Scraping along the bottom of the safe, her hopes were lifted when she felt something smooth. But when she removed the sheet of paper, the false relief was immediately transformed to wariness. And when she read it, the wariness turned into fury.

The words were all printed to avoid recognition in handwriting and the paper was undoubtedly handled with gloves to leave no fingerprints.

'BRING THE 'NIGHTMARE' FILE TO THE FOOTBALL STADIUM AT 9PM AND WE'LL TALK."

At the bottom was the only thing that wasn't printed, but stamped in a dark red ink that fortunately didn't smell of blood. It appeared to some symbol of a reptile-like creature with wings. The same symbol she had seen painted on Knight's silver shield the night before.

It was then that she noticed something else in her safe - a small black device sitting innocuously in the centre of the box. She took that out too, and immediately it flew from her hands, clinging to the fabric of her clothes. After carefully pulling that off her blouse and staring at the letter once more, everything started to fall into place.

Mad was too mild a word for what she felt at that moment.

She could imagine a cocky grin behind his leather mask, an arm resting on his hip while he gave himself a pat on the back. Worse of all, didn't just have half the Intel on his side now. The big threat was the implied one.

Let's just say that all he needed to do was to post five words onto social media and he would have successfully destroyed her entire world.

She couldn't let this go. There was too much at stake. The Dunbroch have always been a mighty clan, but Merida was not blind as to assume that any amount of money or influence could dig her out of such a scandal. In a matter of fact, the company would probably be driven into the ground. Dozens of people would lose their jobs and the market might even crash. Moreover, the Wisp was as good as a criminal in the eyes of many powerful people in Dunbuoka. She was seventeen now, so they'd send her to juvenile hall first, but it'd be less than a year before they transfer her to prison. To be locked in there, like a common thief.

She didn't even want to think about what her mother would do.

It was a pity that she didn't have mind powers, because if she did, she would seek out that cocky little slaightear and wipe his brain. Since killing currently wasn't an option, there was only one thing she could do. Aye, it'd be expensive, but these were desperate times.

Merida reached for the silver earrings in the safe, then grabbed the letter and the tracker. She took a deep breath and thought of her destination. She could feel her pendant burning against her neck before the world was washed into solid blue. Cool wind blew into her curls and the familiar tingling sensation along her skin could be felt.

Then, the bright light dissipated, letting her enter a dark smog. She coughed, trying to wave away the mist at the same time. Once it thinned out, she was able to note the circle of monoliths surrounding her, each piece like a looming sentinel over the sacred ground.

There was a time she had feared this place, but familiarity bred indifference, so she merely spoke aloud, "Alright. C'mon out. Show me my fate."

As if on cue, a bauble of blue light appeared before her, and then a whole line of them popped out of nowhere, forming a line into the murky forest. There were all manner of strange creatures that lurked in this place, but Merida knew that she merely needed to teleport away if she were in danger.

She followed the lights that she had named herself after, carefully crossing the fallen logs and weaving through the dank bushes. The forestry seemed to have thickened over time, with branches having twisted themselves together and the overgrowth flourishing without restraint. The sunlight barely touched the ground, giving the illusion of night fall and adding the sense of mysticism to the place.

She was only too glad to have finally arrived outside the little house hidden under the hill. She suspected that it had been here for centuries, for its brick wall had long been melded into the soil and its roof covered with wild grass. Only its little entrance remained uncovered, with a small pathway that led to it.

Crossing her fingers, Merida approached the door, pushing it open. The entrance was built for short people, so she had to duck her head down to fit through.

She was greeted by the smell of splintered wood, for every corner, every shelf and every table of the little cabin held a wooden craving of some kind: from the simple rattles and chew-toys to the elaborately decorated cabinets. What customers the owner had hoped to find so deep in the forest baffled Merida till today. But the isolation of the shop was not a hindrance for her. Rather, it was an advantage, for the old lady who ran the place hardly came in contact with anyone else. She knew nothing about the Wisp, nor Merida Dunbroch, nor the complications of the Anti-Hero Act, only of the strange redheaded lassie who dropped by her stall to buy arrows and the occasional spell.

Speaking of the old lady, she was currently occupied with sweeping the floor.

"Back so soon?" she commented in astonishment upon seeing who her customer was. "You said it'd be some time before you'd obtain the required items."

"I did," Merida admitted, clenching the letter and the tracker in one hand. She didn't fear that Knight could track her here – there was too much magic for digital devices in this area. "This is for someone else."

"Redheaded snippet!" That squawking voice was a familiar one too. Merida turned to gaze upon the dirty feathered crow perched on top of a bear statue. "Redheaded snippet looking for a tracking spell, ey?"

Her brows knitted themselves. "Hello, you filthy little bird. You grow uglier every day."

The crow continued his dance on the nose of the wooden bear, not registering the insult. "Redheaded snippet looking for the laddie with the number! Ay! Bad luck, I say! Bad luck!"

"Did you bring payment?" The elderly woman asked, letting her broom go. It continued to sweep on its own, a sight that had once surprised Merida but no longer did. "I did say it'd be very expensive. Your monthly deposit won't be able to cover it."

"I know." She held out the silver earrings in her other hand, but snatching them away before the Witch could take them. "I believe that should be enough for one spell and..." she examined the goods around the shop, but nothing really caught her eye "…another three hundred arrows I guess. Same draw weight as always. I can pick it another day."

"Are you sure you don't want a mahogany cheese bowl this time?" the Witch suggested, gesturing to the assorted dishes on one shelf. "Or perhaps a vanity box? I've many elegant ones."

Merida snorted. "What am I going to with something like that?"

The deal was made, with the crow picking up the earrings from her hand and dropping it into those of the carver. As usual, the Witch led her out of the cottage, shutting the door behind her as she did. The crow, as the intelligent creature he was, had hopped onto the Witch's shoulder so as not to be stuck in the woodcarving shop. After snapping of her fingers once and only once, the old lady waddled back toward the door and pushed it open. The carving shop was gone, replaced by a room entirely made of stone. The niches in the walls now held candles, pots and some books. Scattered about on the shelves were bottles and vials holding herbs and strange substances. In the center of the room stood a massive cauldron, glowing an unholy shade of green.

"Come, come, no time to waste." The Witch beckoned her customer back into the transformed cottage. Merida approached the cauldron with caution, still mesmerized by the smoke spilling out over its sides, as well as how the burbling liquid inside always seemed to change color.

The Witch went from shelf to corners to drawers, pulling out this weed or that tooth and dumping it into the boiling brew. The crow had made itself comfortable by sitting on the rim of the cauldron, cawing an occasional comment about fate, destiny and how Merida needed to watch her weight. If she didn't need the Witch's help so desperately, Merida would have wrung the creature's neck long ago.

"Do you have something that belongs to the person?" the Witch asked.

Merida showed her the black device. "He stuck this tracker on me while I was escaping."

The Witch made a shriek, shaking her head so fervently that the redhead took a jump back in shock

"Noooo! No! No! If he gave it to you willingly, then it's considered yours," she explained, wagging a finger at the redhead. "The object must belong to him."

"Borrowed or stolen!" The crow added in as he pecked at one of his wings. "Stolen is better."

"Oh." Merida wasn't too happy about this revelation. She didn't really have anything from Knight that wasn't given to her. Quickly, she unfolded the letter, displaying it before the witch. "Are you sure this one won't work?"

"The letter was given to you. There's no way that the ownership would be - wait!" The witch snatched the letter from her hand, her glassy eyes glossing over the words and focused on the dragon symbol at the bottom.

Merida peered in from the side. "What?"

The witch burst into a relieved chuckle. "Look here, lass," she said, pointing at the stamped symbol at the bottom. "That's a seal."

"It's actually a stamp," Merida corrected her, though considering how ancient the witch was, it mightn't have made a difference. She didn't have time to explain how the printing press came about, nor how modern ink stamps were made. "So?"

"A representative token like a seal would still belong to the one you're looking for, never mind where it's written. It's like a name, you see. It can be repeated by many others, but still belongs to its owner."

The witch tore the letter apart, handing back the top half to her. The other half was tossed into the cauldron, turning the brew dark purple. The witch grabbed the ladle of the shelf and began to stir the mixture, agitating the boiling liquid further. Merida took a step back to avoid the spillage.

"Danger!" The crow cried, as the cauldron's contents began to turn incandescent. "Danger!"

The Witch had slapped a metal mask on the bird, then did the same for herself. By this time, Merida knew better than to looking into the blinding light, so she shielded her own eyes. Once she heard a finalistic 'boom!', she knew the task had been completed. She removed the fingers covering her face, just in time to witness the Witch lifting a small cake from the purple smog with a pair of tongs.

Merida pulled a face of disgust. She had tasted some of the magical pastry from the cauldron before and none of them had been very appetizing.

"Here you are," the witch said, as she dropped the cake into the girl's hands. The crusts were warm and cream piled on its top would have seemed quite appealing if Merida hadn't known better. "An eight of it has the effective of fifteen minutes."

Appropriate farewells were exchanged, with the Witch still trying to get her to take a wooden goblet, before Merida could finally leave the house in the hill. She resumed her trek into the woods, not fearing of losing her way when the smoke surrounded her.

Sure enough, she found herself surrounded by the circle of stones once more. With a hasty breath, she willed herself back to the hotel room and a blink later, she was there. The first thing she did was crush the tracker. The next thing she did was change out of the tight formal clothes into some comfortable jeans, a pull-over jacket and track shoes. She grabbed a huge backpack – the kind that her mother told her precisely not to bring – and swung it over her shoulders. After a moment of pondering, she decided to bundle her curls into a ponytail and slapped a cap over it. Hopefully that would make her less recognizable. Before leaving, she ensured that her door was locked from the inside, so that her aide wouldn't come barging in again.

The next place she teleported to was the summerhouse. It didn't take her long to retrieve the bow from the piano and the arrows in the closet. She considered bringing the cloak aong, but eventually decided against it. There was still some daylight, so the fear factor wouldn't be that great. Besides, Knight knew without a doubt who she was. For now, disguises weren't as important as efficiency. The bow and the quiver were buried in the backpack, and she vanished once again.

Her last destination was an empty alley in downtown Burgeshima. She knew its location after driving past it from the airport the day before and it was fortunate that it was deserted upon her arrival. The cake, which she had packed in her bag, was now taken out, and carefully she took a bite into it. At first, she was pleasantly surprised by the blueberry flavoring, only for the entire chunk to abruptly change to something that tasted like plastic. Nonetheless, she swallowed it, only letting herself gag after.

She felt a queasy feeling in her stomach as her body tried to recognize the weird substance that had entered it, and for a moment, she feared that she would throw up. But the nausea passed, and the magic started to kick in. Blue lights much like those in the forest began appearing in her vision, leading her out of the alley to a cocky young fellow who threatened her identity.

The same cocky young fellow who might just get thrown into the Pacific Ocean.


S/N:

'Every Breath You Take' by The Police. I could never get over how the lyrics fit 'The Police' so well. And if anyone is confused, their lead singer is Sting (a singer. He's somewhat of a legend, so if you don't know him, shame on you.) Though crammed in the first bit, it pretty much reflects how Merida and Hiccup are working against one another.

Kanji characters are basically the written Japanese words in …characters. Like '冥罰'.The phonetical pronunciation of it is called romanji (literally 'roman letters'). Like 'Meibatsu'. Yep.

I really do hate using OCs, as explained the last chapter, but this one was necessary. I was actually going to name the murdered victim after the Tangled director, Byron Howard, but repented and changed it 'Robert' Howard instead. The director's makes decent films, so he doesn't deserve death.

Up Next: Someone extracts her revenge – sort of, someone finds unexpected help, someone acts like a kid and someone goes on a date. Someone might don their hero gear.

This is assuming I don't change my mind half way – it happens. Just look at what I wrote in the 'Up Next' for the previous one and compare it to this chappie. Serious.


A/N:

Hi. I'm sick. Like, with a virus attacking my cells.

And if you're wondering, I watched 'The Godfather'. An interesting movie, but not the type I'll watch again. Too depressing.

Bye.

Review. Critique. Ask Questions.