Thank you for the reviews - they seriously help with drive and momentum. And please, don`t be afraid to let me know of any criticisms or inconsistencies. I`m sure there are some but hopefully you won`t notice. And if anything seems a little jumbled, feel free to let me know and I`ll attempt to adjust or address it in later chapters. All I have is my head to go on and sometimes it`s hard to know if I've gotten enough across when I`m purposely keeping things for later. Anyway, here is a long one. Enjoy!
There's a very peculiar feeling tugging at Marceline that makes her a little uneasy about the fact that she regaled the night of her death to Finn.
Before today, it had never been spoken of out loud – barely even to Bonnibel. Certainly not in nearly as much detail. It was in Bonnie's nature not to pry if circumstance didn't demand it. She had a very vague synopsis of the events, much like a movie tagline, but that was it.
Finn hadn't specifically pried either, but he's been confined to that bed…and she had already started on what was no doubt, now, an endless spiral of one informative instance blending into another. Marceline had the right and the good sense to say, 'no.' To deny Finn and leave well enough alone. He'd probably blush, stutter, and eventually ask something else. But, he did ask. And truthfully; underneath all the uncertainty, the embarrassment, and the raw, nerve-wracking actualization of it all, was a sense of relief. There is some part of Marceline, who now knows full well, that she needed all of this out. Decades are too long. Centuries are too long. A thousand years is far too long to keep so much junk inside. Though, reassuring herself doesn't stop the nervous thrumming in her skin.
She's heading back into the infirmary now with Finn's lunch. A fierce sense of trepidation engulfs her as she breaches the threshold. When she had finished telling her story, there wasn't much conversation after that. Marceline hadn't allowed any. She had mumbled something hastily about Finn needing something to eat about five whole seconds after, and fled the room.
Finn though, that boy, he had a way with things – with people.
He's all cheery grins when she comes back. Totes nothing but natural.
"Stir fry. Yuss!"
"Put some hot sauce on it for ya too there, brotha."
She hands the steaming pile of veggies, noodles and meat to Finn, who is likely to burn his tongue off on the first bite with his impatience.
"Thanks Marce," he says gratefully, spinning his fork to catch the noodles. He's not looking at her now.
"…And, thanks for the story," he says, quietly. "For, uh, letting me in on all that, you know?" He turns a cheek, glances over to give her a nervous grin.
Marceline knows that he knows she can be set off at the drop of a hat. But, the acknowledgement is good. It's casual. It's better than an awkward silence without any address what so ever.
A nonchalant shrug is the only thing Marceline can bring herself to give in return.
"It's cool. I mean, someone oughta entertain the Champion while he's stuck in here. And Grod knows you don't wanna hear nothing about Chocoberry and her jibber-jabbery nonsense about the time she got locked in the pantry for twenty two hours and had an epiphany about the statistical probability of a pizza hurricane systematically using its crust density to soak up three quarters of the lakes and rivers on the eastern half of Ooo."
He barks out a laugh. "How even?!"
"I maybe, might have locked her in there a few days ago for her own good. Finally let her out. She wouldn't shut up about Colonel Candycorn's untimely demise at the hands of the humans. Kept saying some bullgunk about him relaying his otherworldly requests through her energy channel. With all that was happening, it was driving Bonnie crazy. So I dealt with it. I mean, probably not in the best way, but it was recent post massacre and honestly, I just didn't care."
Finn drives a heaping fork full of food into his mouth. "Word."
The stir fry is good. Better than good. Finn takes it upon himself to finish his meal while Marceline lounges next to him, floating aimlessly higher as the minutes drag on. It's not uncomfortable – they're more than past that with each other. If Marceline had somewhere to go, she'd be gone. She's there either for a reason, or because she has nothing else to do at the moment. Finn doesn't really care which, he's appreciating the company.
Though, as he slurps down the last bite of his meal, it's hard to be preoccupied with food when there's none left on his plate. He's grateful for all the missing bits of information Marceline has graced him with about her life in the past few days, but, all it does it open up more questions.
Finn, by nature, usually leaves business that isn't his alone, unless something occurs in a particular incident. Even then, he is reluctant to think on it any more than he has to after the event has occurred. It's not that he doesn't find it important, or unworthy of reflection. It's just… he forgets about things if he isn't reminded of them. Which, is one thing that is making this damn hospital bed so hard; he's got nothing but time and his own thoughts. He can't preoccupy himself with doing…things. Grod, what did folks do when they didn't have stuff to do?!
All he can think about is the first time he met Hunson. Glob, knowing now what he didn't know back then? He had just opened the portal per Marcy's instructions, thinking he was being good and just. He was twelve and a half. Finn is now in awe that she hadn't torn his head off, literally. That had been the first time Marceline had seen Hunson since she fled the Nightosphere. She told him so.
Nearly a millennia.
He feels sick; sick that he did that. Opened up a fissure in a relationship that was none of his damn business.
Marceline hadn't blamed him though. Hadn't held it against him, or brought it up whenever she needed to razz him.
The only time she ever expressed her discomfort was when it had happened.
'Finn, what the heck did you do?!'
And that had been it. She accepted what was happening and dealt with it.
Finn glances up toward his companion, who has drifted halfway to the ceiling now. Marceline appears to be pure lax; arms dropped, legs crossed, head lolling back and eyes closed. He's always been in a state of supernatural awe toward Marceline. She`s all punch packed into a tiny, little package – and even then, her ability to shift and transform was definitely something to behold. She's always managed to teeter on a decent balance of fierce and chill. But, today, that admiration touches something else; something much deeper.
Again, Finn is suddenly awash with the fact that unless he is confronted with something – he does not usually think about it. But now, he`s chastising himself for being so callous. He has plenty of friends or acquaintances who act strange or out of sorts. Heck, even he himself has many things that leave him questioning his choices, his existence, his…well, everything. Some seriously weird shizz has gone down in his life that has either messed him up fierce, or changed who he was. And he's only eighteen. He`s never stopped to think that maybe just because people don`t confess, doesn`t mean they don`t have something to say.
Marceline is old. Older than old. She`s got Cougar VIP status. And maybe, no one stopped to ask her what was up. Finn attempts to fathom what it must be like to carry not eighteen, but a thousand years worth of experiences under his belt. He's simply can't.
"Marcy."
Her eyes snap open and she peers down. Finn's tone hadn't spoken of askance. He merely said her name. It's a curious thing for him to do.
"Hmm?"
"How'd you meet Bubblegum?"
This question isn't shy, or timid, like the last ones have been, she notices. A fanged grin creeps up upon her face.
"How I met our dear Bubs, Finn?"
"Yeah, what went down with Peebles?"
"Hmmm well, good ol' Bonni-butt had a lousy set up somewhere in the woods," she croons, drifting down in rhythmic arcs to settle in the air at Finn's level.
"And when I left the Nightosphere…I almost ate her."
"Dude, you almost what?"
"Ate her. Clearly didn't. Nothing to get your panties in a twist about."
"Don't wear panties."
"Pfft, I've hid inside your house on a Wednesday night more than once."
Finn's face explodes with red. Marceline has to wipe from her thoughts how yummy that looks, and how good the sudden blush on his cheeks smells. She hasn't had cravings like these in a long time, but oh, the blood that night the humans came. The taste is hard to forget.
"Stop doing that. Now you owe me."
She relents. "Fine."
It's enough. She's had enough. Marceline can't be here anymore. The Nightosphere – it's suffocating. The martial arts Hunson has been making her learn; those are good. Those keep her preoccupied. She's good at them. She listens, she learns. Her little demon teacher isn't her Dad, so that works. It keeps her centered on her body, despite not knowing if it is indeed real or not. It also serves to keep her out of her head. This, Marceline likes.
When she isn't learning to fight, Hunson tries to get her to read. And she does. Marceline likes reading. She just doesn't want to read what her father wants her to read. The Nightosphere may be chaotic, but it has its rules. Marceline does not care for them.
Hunson has a library – tomes upon tomes of long worn anthologies. Most are pure human exaggerations and extrapolations of demonic encounters. They tell Marceline of what she is and what she is expected to be. There's always a heavy, nauseating feeling circling in her gut whenever she reads those ones. It's a scary, frightening and above all, familiar clench that leaves her confused and ashamed. The books tell of harsh, violent beings; sucking souls and blood and energy. Wraith-like creatures whose only reason for existing is to devour. Demons possess, distort and destroy. They're ugly, gruesome, heartless beings.
Vampires, Marceline learns, are much the same, though their more manipulative nature sets them apart. As if the physical and spiritual assault of a demon wasn't enough, the vampires could sometimes alter the way a person feels, and acts; their desires changed, turning them into slaves to the demon. Creating a vacuum of an individual where even their mind was not their own anymore. Marceline hates this. She imagines being violated in such a way, where if her father stared into her eyes and made her feel things she never wanted to feel – to have the need to bow down to his every demand and whim. That it is engrained in her being to do so to others nearly puts her over the edge some days.
Then of course, there are the books containing the rules and laws of Hunson's position, spanning countless volumes that really, she can't bring herself to touch for fear of falling into eternal slumber. There are certain books she enjoys – ones plastered with paintings and photos of humans detailing some of their history. The literal content doesn't sit very long with Marceline's brain but she loves running her fingers over the photos. It's been so long since she's seen what someone else like her looks like. Wondering what sort of lives they lived or if they were kind, had friends, would they have liked her? Eventually, even these whimsical hopes and daydreams turn sour and bittersweet. Marceline was not meant for these things. It isn't long before she tosses the books aside in favour of exploring the Night.
Everything seems to be built around thwarting any step or process that proposes productivity. The opposite of everything everyone has known. Like, ever. The entire experience of existing in the Night is utterly maddening. She fears she is going to lose herself. And so, it is one day, after nearly sixty years of living in an even more agonizing limbo than the wastelands ever were, and during a particularly heated argument with her father, that Marceline leaves him hanging with the best 'fuck you' she can ever imagine granting him.
They're in Hunson's throne room and she has just lost her temper after her dad has complained again, that Marceline is still not yet living up to his expectations or her potential. She should be more than happy to be put on torture duty. Everyone loves torture duty! Because you're not the one getting tortured!
She is ungrateful.
She is disobedient.
She is immature, irresponsible and insolent.
The Abadeer axe hanging above the throne is the first pointy object she sees. Marceline doesn't intend on striking Hunson, though some days she wishes she could. Nor does she want to slice open any of the demons just because they happen to be in her way. But, she does need to feel something. She needs to feel force. Vibrations in her bones and hard resistance. The stone wall shakes with the strength of the swing. A decent amount of rocks fall from a wide gash when Marceline tears the axe back out.
She's tense and panting.
Hunson gives her a small pout.
"You finished, or would you like a few more to calm you down?"
The axe still in her grip gives her something to squeeze so she doesn't slice her palm open with her nails, but there's still something that's about to give.
"I can't take this anymore…" she mutters, staring at her feet, not sure if it is more an address to her father or herself.
Hunson's thundering laugh bounces around the chamber. A repeating echo in Marceline's ears.
"Sorry kid, but in case I hadn't made it clear a long time ago, you're stuck here."
She refuses to look at him.
"…Can't stay here."
"Hmm? What was that?"
And then, something strange happens that Marceline has never quite been able to explain. Twice in her life so far she has come so close to breaking beyond being broken. So much so, that her entire being is either going to simply disappear, or snap so hard that reality closes up around her and shifts to manifest into something completely different; something she can work with. Marceline has no idea how to make this happen on a whim.
The first time, she feels what eternity is like. This is it. She's felt the rest of her life already; an endless, mindless cycle. If she remains in the Nightosphere, she won't make it. Her body just won't chug along anymore. Her spirit, if she even has one, is shattered – feels like beyond repair, and it certainly can't handle anymore. Her mind isn't in any better shape either. Some days she thinks it might already be gone.
Suddenly, it ceases to be a choice anymore. There is no choice of her staying tethered to this place. She simply cannot. How is it that she can be dead, but continue to be? And to be with feelings and emotions both physical and mental?
Maybe he wasn't thinking, but it has suddenly come to light that Hunson has told her, and she has also read that the demons in the Nightosphere choose this torture. They choose it and it is up to them to escape their own insanity. It might not have been in his best interest to tell her that; to give that little string of hope.
Marceline can't take the torture anymore. She knows Hunson cannot leave – he is bound by the laws of his being and his position. He is different. He claimed that she could be attuned to this world, but something in her is resisting. It's not her and she can't embrace it. She might be different in the sense that she was born demon, but she was not born in this world and she died just the same.
Marceline does not care where she ends up, but anywhere is better than this place.
She finally loses interest in her feet.
"I said I can't stay here."
"You don't really have a choice in the matter."
"I'm not staying here," she states, firmly. And it's funny because she believes it. Maybe she's finally going crazy but suddenly, there is no doubt.
Hunson looks at her then, his mask slips a little, stoicism cracking under what Marceline believes to be a bit of fear.
That's what does it.
To this day, Marceline does not know what she did.
There was a sudden blackness; different but familiar as when she died. This one feels a little more like relief. The blissful sensation returns for a glorious moment again – until suddenly she can feel once more. Feel her body, feel her emotions, her thoughts and her feelings. Her primal hunger and unsavory desires, the demonic and vampiric essence that makes up and sustains her physical being. Everything that covers and blankets what she is underneath comes rushing back.
When Marceline opens her eyes, she is in the woods. The axe is lying on the ground beside her and though he had been tucked safely in her room at the time of her departure, Hambo is somehow crushed in her embrace. Lifting her nose to the air, she takes a long inhalation. It smells of wood and wind and the crisp chill of night. It's beautiful. Though it's been well over a century, maybe even two, and the forest has no doubt grown, Marceline knows that this is the exact spot she died.
She was back. Wherever back was. She didn't even know anymore. She didn't really care.
Letting herself fall back to the ground, limbs outstretched, eyes on the stars, she starts laughing and sobbing at the same time. If she tried to think about it, she would have a hard time placing what she was feeling. It seemed to be everything at once. For the first time in a long time, Marceline simply lays there for hours, basking in her contented existence.
Her happiness is somewhat short lived, however.
It's been three weeks since Marceline left the Nightsosphere. She's wondering now if it was really the best choice, or if maybe she would have been better off calming down a little before making a decision. She could always go back; that was one option, but if Marceline was going to do that, she definitely didn't want her father having the satisfaction of her coming crawling back after less than a month. Not a chance. And no. Just no. What was she even thinking? Questioning if she made the right choice? She absolutely did. Just that, her rumbling stomach wasn't exactly agreeing with her right now.
It has been three days since she's eaten. Vampires feed on blood - humans preferably, and since there doesn't seem to be any of those lurking around anymore, animals it is. Problem is... there aren't much of those around either. Not many she's been able to stomach, anyway. A few strange lizard-like beings have come slithering about but they taste all kinds of nasty and their blood is a funky colour. Marceline thought she remembered frogs having red blood from when she was little but that was a long time ago. A few rodents have crossed her path - twice to be exact, and those were treats. Except for the one with the extra head. That one was full of green goop.
The Nightosphere had been consistently dark, but she also misses the sunlight. Knowing that it comes around every half a day and that she can't bask in the sun's warm rays feels like its own torture.
That's not what's really on her mind right now as Marceline risks taking off to find food while the sun is only just starting to set. The cover of the trees helps tremendously and she figures if she's going to find something to mow down on, it'll be hiding in here – hopefully scampering back to its shelter before the cover of night.
Something is not right though. It's getting hard to pay attention, to remember which nooks she's even checked. Marceline takes a look at her surroundings and feels nothing but disorientation. Hands; she holds her hands out. They are quivering. The skin is stretched out taught against her bones, any other substance she's made of draining away to keep her alive. And when did walking become difficult? Her legs feel numb. Swallowing is nearly impossible.
This'll be it then, she thinks. Again. It will be so embarrassing showing back up on her dad's doorstep after three weeks. And maybe no coming back next time. Marceline figures making it back to the material plane had something to do with the fact that the vampire bit her without knowing she was a demon. He never intended to turn her, but her demonic side was still alive within the realm of the Night. If vampires don't fully kill their prey, they turn them. Anyone who is dead cannot exist in a physical sense in the material plane. But vampires weren't dead, they were undead. And so, she made it back in her undead state.
Maybe if she died again she could still escape, but she wouldn't end up here. Did it matter? Probably not. Nothing really mattered at the moment, and the ground was looking pretty cozy. She should really be looking for food, but man, a nap seemed like the most amazing idea and –
'Holy Glob.'
Marceline's legs are shocked back into action. Her eyes tear open, pupils dilated. What energy she has left disperses itself to her senses and muscles in overload. Like a lightning bolt has just ripped through her entire being.
'That smell.'
She doesn't know where she is going, or how she's navigating herself. Auto-pilot has kicked in and Marceline is just along for the ride. Whatever she senses is growing stronger with each passing second. It's thick and sweet; setting off urges and a pulsing sensation that she never knew was possible. She's running, running, running, until finally;
'Stop.'
Crouched into a low squat, Marceline sniffs the air. Ruby eyes peer through the foliage she's used for cover. She's found herself at the edge of a small clearing. There is a large tree in which a foundation of wood has been built against. Though small and unappealing to the eye, it appears solid and sturdy enough for one to live in. And that is indeed what it is; a house. Marceline is sure of this because a flash of energy – hungry and desirous, streamlines from her head to her stomach, down between her legs and finally out her hands and feet – a tight clench at the sight of what strolls out from behind the structure, scent billowing through the wind to ensnare Marceline on the spot.
It is a girl.
There are a brief few seconds that drag on for eternity, where Marceline can only stare in wonder at her. She knows she's seen and met, and even played with other kids before, but the memories don`t even feel real anymore. Almost like a dream.
The wonderment quickly shifts to a terrible sadness. Finally, finally, someone else is here, alive. This could be someone Marceline could talk to, listen to, share things with. Just be around. Not be alone anymore. And this girl isn't a rat or a stuffed animal, or Simon gone mad, and she certainly isn't Hunson. She is a living breathing girl – like Marceline. Like the few sparse memories of her mother she has. And she's never really known anyone so similar. Watching her walk about the front of the house is as surreal as returning back to the world itself was.
As the seconds drag on, the sadness turns into fear. The realization sinks in that Marceline is going to devour her. She is going to grasp her about the waist and mouth to muffle the screams; she hates those. Then she'll drive her teeth into her throat. The hunger is so strong that she likely won't be able to restrain herself to merely sucking the blood out of her. Marceline will tear her apart.
'No, no, no.'
She tries to fight her body – her legs, but it's not working. She finds herself half sprawled on the ground. One piece of her is succeeding at moving forward while the last bit of her sanity tries to hold her back.
Marceline almost finds herself laughing at the irony of it all. There`s someone here. Someone real, innocent, tangible. She`s been wanting this for as long as she can remember.
Now all she wants to do is eat her.
At least she makes a bit of a ruckus in her weak attempt to keep herself at bay. The girl`s head snaps to her as Marceline all but rolls gracelessly out of the shrubbery. Her posture immediately becomes defensive as she grabs for a large stick.
"Who's there?" she calls toward the edge of the clearing.
She inches closer.
'No, damnit!'
"Stay away!" Marceline gasps, but it barely comes out. Her throat is so dry.
The girl hears her muffled pleas and lowers the stick slightly, continuing to advance until she finally spots Marceline; pinned to the ground on all fours, shaking, coughing, and struggling.
"Hey," she calls quietly. Her voice is so soft. Marceline wants to feel it vibrate under her teeth. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I'll help." she reassures her, slowly stepping closer, reaching a hand out.
Marceline looks up to tell the other girl to run, but she finds herself dead frozen the instant she meets her.
The girl is only a fresh teenager, has to be. She's not as thin as a board, but there's no shape to her. And pink. Everything is pink. Her skin in its entirety along with her hair. A soft, round face is staring back at Marceline, near indistinguishable jawline and puffy cheeks – sun kissed freckles splattered across them. And big, blue eyes; wide with worry and deep with compassion.
There's nothing left in Marceline, yet tears manage to well up to the corners of her eyes. She can't do this. She will not do this.
The girls crouches down to meets her at her level. Grod, why isn't she running? Marceline has a vague idea of what her appearance depreciates to when she's starving. It certainly isn't a pretty sight. She's seen pictures of crazed vampires in her father's library. They are frightening. But this stupid kid only wants to help.
Hunson can think what he wants. Laugh all he wants. She won't kill this girl. Marceline refuses to. She'll die before she touches her. Again. It won't be worth living the eternity after knowing what she had done.
A small hand reaches out.
And it happens again.
Something inside of Marceline wakes up.
She lunges forward before the world goes black.
