The nightmares started a week later. Nothing too serious at first. Killian would wake up and rub his eyes and stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes, as though trying to decide what was real and what had been a dream. But each night, they seemed to get worse. Emma would hear sounds of distress coming from the other side of the bed and see Killian struggling, trapped inside his own mind.
That night he'd sat up in a panic and shot out of bed, wandering from one corner of his room to the next, not knowing where he was or how to get out. Emma's voice had brought him back; her touch had calmed him, convinced him it was safe to breathe again. But he hadn't wanted to go back to sleep.
They sat at the table now, not speaking. Not drinking the tea Emma had made for them. Chamomile always worked wonders in the movies.
Killian didn't buy into Alistair's theory about being rewired. In all honesty, Emma didn't either. This felt like something else. Felt like interference. She didn't have the same familiarity with magic that they did, but she'd learned a long time ago to trust her gut. And her gut was telling her that something larger, more malicious—something intentional—was at play.
It also told her that Alistair wasn't being entirely forthcoming. The man was entitled to his secrets, same as anyone, but if those secrets pertained to Emma and Killian and whatever weirdness had befallen them this time, they deserved to know.
Emma took a sip of her tea, if for no other reason than to get a break from her thoughts. The heat soothed some of the tension in her shoulders. She smiled at Killian like nothing was wrong. He smiled back—halfheartedly, but still a stark departure from when he'd first woken up.
His fingers traced patterns on his mug as his eyes drifted to her neck and chest. "What happened to your scars?"
"What scars?"
"The ones from the window…"
"Killian," Emma said softly, even as concern swelled in her chest, "what window?"
Seeming to realize he'd said the wrong thing, Killian clenched his jaw. He looked down at his left hand and flexed it a couple times, making a fist and setting it flat again. "Another dream, I suppose."
Emma reached for his hand and placed a reassuring kiss on the back of it, like he'd done for her so many times, and asked him to tell her more about things that'd never happened.
—
"You're certain?"
Emma paced, hands on hips. "I think I'd remember being thrown through a window." The corner of Alistair's mouth turned up, but Emma cut off whatever sarcastic comment he was about to make. "Could you please take this seriously?"
Alistair slouched further into the couch. "All I was going to say was: with the numerous and varied disasters you and Jones have encountered of late, I wouldn't be surprised if a few slipped your mind."
"This one's different." Emma chewed her bottom lip, shook her head. Racked her brain for an explanation that didn't send her already mounting anxiety into overdrive. "He sounded so sure. Like it was real to him, not just a vivid dream."
She'd listened patiently as Killian had detailed accounts from what seemed another life. One in which Emma had nearly died in pursuit of a man whose description came uncannily close to an August Booth who hadn't managed to elude the natural progression of time. A life where she'd nearly been made into roadkill by a car they stopped producing in the seventies. A life where Killian still possessed the magic Alistair had relieved him of. Where Alistair had lied and schemed and delivered them both into the hands of the council.
Alistair shifted his gaze to his lap when Emma recounted these tales to him. "Bloody hell," he'd said under his breath, his hands twisting around themselves as he spoke. "I hadn't wanted to say anything until I had more proof."
"Proof of what?"
"You aren't going to like what I have to say."
Emma stopped in her tracks. Alistair rubbed his palms against his thighs, and she added this new information to the mental dossier she'd opened under her new guide's name. She hadn't pegged him for a nervous sweater.
"My initial diagnosis may have been a tad off the mark."
Fuck. What now?
"Okay…?"
"Do you remember what I told you about alternate realities?"
"No, I've completely forgotten. Please tell me again."
"But I'm the one who can't take things seriously?"
"Fine." Emma plopped down on the couch beside him and crossed her arms. "I'm serious."
"As you may have gleaned, the stories I told you were merely two examples on an infinite list. Parallel universes are as plentiful and diverse as the beings that inhabit them. It's my opinion that Jones may be experiencing echoes from a reality in which these events did occur."
"Echoes?"
"Reflections of the other side that, if strong enough, can feel like one's own memories. Aside from these dreams, has Jones displayed any other uncharacteristic qualities?"
"Like what?"
"Unprovoked anger? Aggression? An insatiable thirst for vengeance?"
"No…," Emma answered cautiously. "Why?"
Alistair sighed as he got to his feet and followed the path Emma had abandoned. "Those were not the only divergent paths I came across. The worlds in which you and Jones have met are…," he let out a long breath, "…innumerable. But there is an exception to every rule. For every dozen timelines in which the two of you met and fell in love, there is a timeline in which you ran opposite courses—like sides of a magnet, propelled apart. These versions of Jones seemed almost predisposed to darkness. Ready and willing to forsake the man in favor of the pirate. These were the realities in which Killian Jones was lost in the shadow of Captain Hook."
Emma stared at Alistair a moment, slack-jawed and at a loss. When he didn't answer what must've been a giant WTF across her face, she said, "Back up. What does a cartoon character have to do with anything?"
Alistair stopped in his tracks. "My apologies, Darling—I'd only assumed. Has Jones not told you of his past as a lawless swashbuckler?"
"Yeah…?" Alistair stared at Emma in a way that made her laugh. "Are you trying to tell me my boyfriend is Captain Hook?"
She thought of the many iterations of the fictitious antagonist—most notably the animated pirate captain lamenting the moniker given him by the boy who would never grow up. I'm a codfish!
Something flashed in Emma 's periphery as Ian held up another object for her inspection. It's curved edges glinted in the low light of the lantern, reflected a distant moon peeking through the clouds.
"Used this to do it."
"No." This single word from Alistair was like salve to Emma's frayed nerves. Until he continued. "The man across the hall never got the chance. But versions of him were forced down paths of malevolence on his quest for revenge. In making his wish, the Killian Jones we both know and love chose another course. One that led him to you."
Emma thought she'd gotten used to Alistair's outlandish theories, but this—
This was nonsense.
Killian wasn't a villain. For all his self-loathing, Emma had never seen the same darkness in him that he saw in himself. He was a good man.
Not to mention, waxed mustaches and perms weren't really his style.
"And the others?"
"I don't understand the question."
"You said that these other versions of Killian were forced down dark paths—if that's true, what was the catalyst? Losing Liam?"
"Not solely." Alistair's eyes flitted to Emma's then away. "There was a woman."
"And?"
Emma waited, but Alistair seemed content to let the conversation end there. Like she was too fragile to hear the whole truth.
"What happened?"
"You know how it goes, Darling. Pirate falls in love. Love's husband is revealed to be dark wizard, rips out wife's heart and crushes it in front of pirate. Pirate swears revenge upon dark wizard if it's the last thing he'll ever do."
Something clenched inside Emma's chest, but it wasn't the jealousy Alistair had expected. "What was her name?"
"Something with an 'M,' I think." Alistair clicked his tongue. "Mia…Malia…?"
"Milah."
"That's the one!" Alistair snapped his fingers, his relief at remembering a detail that'd eluded him temporarily taking precedence over other concerns. It all came crashing back as he looked to Emma and asked, "How did you know that?"
"It's not important. These…echoes that Killian is experiencing—how long before they…I mean, is there a chance he'll forget who he is?"
"If, as you claim, Jones' condition is worsening by the day, there is the slight possibility that one of his alternate pasts may take over. Override his present personality, in a sense. Our best chance may be to break the curse on Storybrooke as quickly as possible, before the last shred of Jones disappears."
"Can you take your mind off that damned curse for five minutes?" Emma could sit still no longer. She went to the window but found no reprieve for what ailed her in the noonday cityscape that met her there. "You just told me the man I love is turning into the darkest version of himself and all you can think about is yourself."
"You misunderstand me, Emma. I only meant that breaking the curse on Storybrooke might have a healing effect on Jones, as well. Undo whatever's taken hold. True Love's Kiss is the most powerful magic in any reality. But it must be with a version of Jones that feels the same way as you."
Emma swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. She knew that deep down, under all the memory-swapping mess, Killian did love her. But what if they were too late? What if the part of him that loved her got buried so deep he was more Hook than Killian by the time they got to Storybrooke?
"Isn't there anything you can do?"
Alistair took pity on what must've been a miserable expression—one she'd failed to keep to herself—and said he'd try. Of course he would. But he also asked her to keep in mind that Storybrooke might be their best, their only hope.
—
They slept the night at Emma's place. She thought a change of venue might help Killian sleep. After two hours, it'd appeared she was right—she was the one staring into the dark, unable to quiet her mind.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Killian dressed in a long red coat, his hair rolling off his shoulders in waves from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A hook for a hand and an exaggerated mustache completed the look. There was something sinister about his grin and something a little mad about his eyes.
The steady tick-tock of the wall clock had invaded Emma's dream. Turned a scene that'd started out simply weird into something unsettling.
Killian began to twitch as a snarl twisted his lips. He turned rapid circles on the deck as though an unseen enemy might smite him at any moment.
"Smee!" He bellowed.
A stout man in a red cap poked his head from behind the helm. "Cap'n?"
One look from Killian had Smee forsaking his hiding place. He stood before Killian—a safe enough distance away that he could outrun a strike—head bowed. He removed his cap and ran its brim through his fingers.
"Do you hear that?" Killian's voice fell to a growl.
"Yes, Cap'n."
"And here I thought you a man of honor, Sailor." Killian tapped his hook under Smee's chin, forcing eye contact. "Was it not you who stood on this very deck, not two hours ago, and swore to me that every last ticking timepiece had met a proper end?"
"It was, Cap'n. And they did—I don't know where that sound is coming from. Search the men, Cap'n. Every last nook and cranny of the Jolly Roger has been scoured, just as you ordered."
"And yet…" Killian stood tall, backing away from Smee. He turned his gaze to the watery horizon, a look of horror leeching the color from his face.
"Cap'n, you don't think…?"
Killian stood still, listening. Calculating. He turned toward Emma, who until this point had been a mere spectator, watching from the sidelines as the scene unfolded before her.
"Empty your pockets." Killian advanced, the planks echoing the authority of his steps.
Emma did as instructed, holding out her hands to show him the contents of her sailor 's coat. A few coins, a compass, and a key. Killian grinned a terrifying grin and pulled her forward by the lapels. The items in her hands scattered across the deck as he raised one sleeve and then the next, finding both her wrists bare. When he shoved her back, Emma stumbled straight into Smee.
"You know what to do with crocodiles," was the last thing Killian said before he turned away.
"Aye, aye, Cap'n."
Pirates crowded them from every corner, each with a length of rope pulled taut between their hands. Emma screamed—
She didn't realize she'd fallen asleep—fallen back into the same dream—until she jolted awake.
Labored breathing from the other side of the bed told her it wasn't her own terror that'd delivered her.
Killian was seated upright against the headboard, cold sweat beading his brow.
"Hey." She sat up next to him, ran her hand through his hair. "You're okay. It was just a dream," she said, simultaneously trying to soothe herself.
"That woman. Milah." Killian panted, grasping Emma's hand, halting her movements. "I think I killed her."
—
"I thought sleeping curses were bad."
"They are. I wasn't talking about a curse, I was talking about a spell."
"What's the difference?"
"Well," Alistair scratched at his temple, "to put it in layman's terms, one is comparable to an afternoon nap, the other to a lifelong coma. One can be broken with a counter spell, the other only with True Love's Kiss. And since you'll both be unconscious, and I seem to have fallen out of favor with at least half the involved parties—"
"I get it."
When Alistair knocked on her door that morning and told her he had a plan, and that Emma wouldn't like it, she hadn't known how true his words would turn out to be.
His idea of a Plan B was to put both Emma and Killian under a sleeping spell so that they could meet up in something called a Netherworld and Emma could lead Killian's true identity back to the forefront.
The fact that this idea made any kind of twisted sense to her was a testament to just how much meeting Killian had turned her world view on its head.
"I would remind you that it is not my impatience that prompted this alternative," said Alistair. "I am perfectly content taking my chances with breaking the Dark Curse."
"I'm not sure Killian has that long." Emma turned her gaze to her bedroom door, open a fraction of an inch. Once he'd gotten back to sleep, it'd seemed a shame to wake him.
"I suppose we have been dragging our feet."
"You said I needed to be in control of my powers."
"I think we can both agree circumstances have changed."
"What about you? Won't your magic be enough?"
"There's only so much bottled magic can do."
"So use the un-bottled kind."
Alistair thought over his response. Emma watched a battle being waged behind his eyes, and she wondered what was holding him back. If he was so eager to get to Storybrooke, to be reunited with his daughter at long last, what made him hesitate?
"You're right," he finally said, the fog of indecision lifted.
"So the plan is…what, exactly?"
Emma's bedroom door creaked open and Killian walked out, smiling when he saw her.
"Hey." Emma stood to greet him. "Sorry, we tried to keep it down."
It was then that Killian observed they weren't alone. He saw Alistair seated at the far end of Emma's couch and bounded upon him, hauling his former mentor up by the collar.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Killian snarled.
There was something in his eyes that Emma had never seen, and Alistair's words from the previous day came screaming back to her. Unprovoked anger. Aggression.
"I think you should go," she told Alistair.
"Too right, Darling." Alistair reached in his pocket and withdrew a glass bottle, popped the stopper, and poured a pinch of sparkly dust into his hand. Before Killian could stop him, Alistair tossed the dust over his own head and disappeared, leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake.
"Remember what we talked about?" Emma asked in as gentle a tone as she could manage. "At the cemetery? About Alistair being on our side?"
Killian clenched his jaw, blinking after the place Alistair had just been. "Yes, of course," he cleared his throat and tried for a smile. "Must've slipped my mind, is all. I think the lack of sleep is starting to catch up with me."
Emma wrapped Killian in an embrace and held him tight. "It's okay," she told him as she gave that morning's proposal a second thought. "You're gonna be okay."
—
Emma walked with her head down, hood covering her hair, weaving her way through foot traffic that passed in the opposite direction. Eyes never leaving her mark. The only other person going against the flow, pushing past, uttering the errant, "Sorry," or, "Excuse me," as his elbows, shoulders, feet made unwanted contact with offended members of the crowd.
She'd followed him for four blocks before he'd spotted her and began to pick up speed. Once the way was clear, he'd make a break for it—Emma had seen it too many times. She needed to catch up to him before such a route presented itself, or he'd be lost to a part of the city she wasn't familiar with, where the buildings were knit tightly together, dotted with a dozen hidden holes to slip through.
He turned the corner at an Italian bistro and took off in a sprint. Emma followed suit but was no match for his speed. She thought she remembered reading something in his file about running high school track, and she cursed her legs for failing to keep up. Her muscles screamed in protest, but Emma Swan had never been one to balk at a challenge. She always got her man. Always. She wasn't about to let something as minor as physical fatigue stand in her way.
When he ducked down a dark alley, Emma knew she had him cornered. Quick to call him an idiot, she didn't stop to question how, if she weren't so tired, it might've all seemed a little too easy.
As it was, she found herself staring down a concrete wall, feeling like a shadow in a dense, gray fog, her mark a distant memory. Or a dream—she hadn't decided. Only, now she took the time to consider things properly, she couldn't quite recall how she'd gotten here. She didn't remember getting dressed that morning or leaving her apartment. Had she said goodbye to Killian before heading out? Was she still asleep?
"Good questions, all."
Emma turned on her heel to face the man who'd lured her into the dark. The ground rushed out from under her. The world passed by in a blur. The alley disappeared, and so did the man's hood. He had blond hair and blue eyes, and Emma was certain she'd never seen him before in her life—except…
Something about his voice…
The firm timbre of it echoed in her memory like a long-lost guardian. Protector—
Find us—
Emma's head spun. She felt unsteady on her feet. The man gestured to a bench at the top of a grassy hill that overlooked a valley painted pale pink by the flowers that grew there. Some strange cross between a tulip and a rose.
The sky was too blue to be real, and the tree that lent the bench its shade swayed despite the air being still.
There were no ambient sounds. No traffic, no woodland creatures, no wind. Nothing.
Emma looked to the man and knew she must've been caught in another dream. Any minute she'd wake up in her bed beside a softly snoring Killian, and the world would make sense again—as much as her world ever did.
"What the hell is this? Who are you? What did you do to me?"
The man smiled, but the expression was empty. "How thoughtless of me," the man said with a voice that was a mixture of comfort and disquiet. "It was your mother you met on your little trip to Storybrooke." In the blink of an eye, the man changed. Blond hair was traded for black, blue eyes for green, though they retained the subtle specks of gold. "There," came the kind voice of Mary Margaret Blanchard, followed by a warm smile Emma might've believed had she not known it was counterfeit. A mask. A facade. "Does this put you more at ease?"
When Emma didn't answer, Mary Margaret's double said, "Why the stupefied face, Emma? I was of the impression Alistair had told you about me—and I'm almost never wrong about these things. Well, anything, really."
"It takes many forms…"
The Director.
"Never did like playing by the rules, that one. Alas." The Director patted the bench by their side. "Don't be shy now, dear. I don't bite."
Emma didn't move.
"No?" The director sighed. Mary Margaret's shoulders moved up and down with the action. "I was so sure this face would trigger the appropriate nostalgia—have you feeling right at home. But of course, there wouldn't be much of a bond, would there? Tossed away as you were. Discarded, like so much garbage. And just hours old." The Director clicked their tongue before waving a hand in the air, and Mary Margaret's face was replaced with another.
Hair a muted shade of blue. Violet eyes. Several tattoos snaking their way up her neck, stopping just shy of her jawline. One ear boasting twice as many piercings as its opposite.
This mask wore a strange grin. One with a secret Emma didn't know. "Hm…I suppose we aren't there yet, are we? All in good time, my dear Emma." Another wave of the Director's hand and Charlotte was gone. "Surely this one will succeed where all others have failed," came a torturously familiar accent. A crooked grin. Killian's blue eyes narrowed suggestively at her. "I can already sense a change in you. Your heartrate has slowed, your breathing steadied. I daresay the lady is in love."
"Why are you doing this?"
Killian—the Director—raised an arm to rest along the back of the park bench. "Have a seat and I'd be all too happy to tell you."
Emma hesitated, but not for long. Her steps were measured, her senses heightened—on high alert for anything that might betray a trap.
Once she was seated as far from the Director as possible, just shy of sliding off the edge, the Director said, "I'd like to make a deal with you, Emma."
"What kind of deal?"
The Director smiled darkly, as only her dreams of Captain Hook had ever done. "So cynical, you mortals. So untrusting. And yet it is your…species…that is most deceitful of all. Take our Mr. Smith, for example."
"What about him?"
"Where best to start?" The Director tilted their head back, rolled their shoulders. "Where all stories must, I suppose." And with a snap of their fingers, the scenery around that park bench changed. Day became night, the park became a forest, the valley an empty highway outside a lobster house. Wind ripped through the landscape like a harbinger of doom. All that remained was the bench and the Director and Emma.
A cry pierced the air and Emma turned toward it on trembling legs. Out of the forest walked a dark figure carrying a small white bundle in his arms. Two tiny hands shot up as the baby's feet kicked against the knitted blanket holding them captive.
"Is that…?"
The figure shushed the child as he rocked his arms back and forth. "You're okay, Darling. You're okay." She couldn't see the man's face, but the voice was unmistakably Alistair's. "You won't be alone for long."
"I don't understand," said Emma to the Director, now at her side.
"Keep watching."
Alistair pulled something off his littlest finger and tucked it inside baby Emma's blanket. Adult Emma reached instinctively for the ring kept on a chain around her neck. "This will bring you luck in the years to come. I'm afraid you're going to need every bit you can get."
A crack sounded in the distance and light shot outward from the forest, nearly knocking Alistair to the ground as he clutched the child to his chest. "That's my cue," he told baby Emma before setting her on the roadside. "May we never meet again."
Emma didn't have time to question what she'd just witnessed before the scene changed.
Two men stood arguing under the dim light of a dying streetlamp. She could only make out Alistair's face, but she didn't need to see the second man to know his voice. His silhouette. The unkempt cut of his hair.
He wore ripped jeans and an old jacket and had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Neal shook his head but Alistair persisted. Emma couldn't hear what they were saying, so she stepped closer. By the time she reached them, Alistair was handing Neal an open flip phone with three numbers already dialed. All he had to do was hit SEND.
Emma tried to hold on to what Alistair had told her. That the council was built on lies. That the Director preyed on fear.
But when Neal took too long to accept his offer, Alistair made the call himself.
This time, when the scene changed, Emma was ready.
The quiet street in Portland became a busy hospital corridor down which the same dark figure stalked. He passed nurses and orderlies, gurneys and crash carts. A garbled page over the PA was lost amidst the bustle. Alistair took advantage of the chaos and made his way to the directory, following the sign that pointed to the pediatric wing.
He stopped outside a large window that allowed new parents to view their babies. Half the cribs were vacant, including the one Alistair had his eye on. The one belonging to Baby Boy Swan.
The hospital became a cold, gray room. Alistair had someone pinned to the floor, his hands around their throat. Emma gasped when seeing Killian's face turn red as he clawed at Alistair's grip. "Make your peace, Jones!" He spat before a horrible hacking sound erupted out of him, madness brightening his eyes. "Gods know you don't deserve it."
The cold, gray room became a shadow. Darkness enveloped them, broken only by a single, bobbing light growing nearer. Alistair turned his torch toward one wall of a long hallway, then the other, and back again a hundred times. Emma caught fleeting glimpses of what looked like an alphanumeric code monogrammed into different points along each wall. Alistair stopped in front of one labeled LWM1983-S and pulled something from his pants pocket. He checked his perimeter before pressing the object to the wall and twisting his hand at the wrist. A drawer opened in the wall and Alistair rifled through its contents, shining his torch across each name. Until he came to Emma's.
The shadowy hallway became a congested city street. Killian lay on the asphalt, groaning and covered in scrapes. Against the warning of a fellow onlooker, Alistair approached. He checked Killian's pockets and came away swearing. Then he knelt down and touched two fingers to the side of Killian's temple and sneered.
"Look on the bright side, Jones. I'm told a little suffering is good for the soul—"
"I've seen enough," said Emma.
But the city street became a crowded facility, the same cold gray as the room where Alistair had strangled Killian nearly to death. Bodies cleared a path, hugging the walls of another long hallway, to make room for a woman with dark hair and a superior bearing that Emma wouldn't have recognized were it not for her trip to Storybrooke. Those same dark eyes held the audience in thrall.
"Alistair Smith has been found guilty of the crime of murder, and has no further affiliation with myself or the council. He is a fugitive from justice, and if I receive word that any of you has helped him escape these grounds, the punishment will be most severe."
Regina Mills' cold stare locked on one member of the stunned-silent crowd. Charlotte didn't dare blink back, appearing as terrified as Emma felt watching on.
"I don't understand," Emma said again, knowing how futile the statement was. When had understanding ever helped anything? Seemed to make things worse, in her experience.
The facility became the park once again. Blue sky and swaying tree and valley filled with flowers.
The Director plopped on the park bench as though thoroughly exhausted. "Well, I'm spent—why is it that trips down Memory Lane are always the most taxing?" They turned to Emma with Killian's trademark nonchalance. "So. Feeling enlightened? If I squinted hard enough, wager I'd see the outline of a lightbulb suspended above your head."
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"Do you see me laughing?"
"You're obviously amused by this whole thing." Emma cleared her throat that it might shake the wobble from her voice. Showing fear to one's enemy was never conducive to victory, especially when one had no fucking clue what game they were playing.
"Color me entertained, Miss Swan. The sheer hubris of Alistair's—well I'd hardly call it a plan, sloppy as it turned out to be. Unrefined. Forethought has never been his strongest suit." The Director looked to Emma, awaiting a response. None came. "Everything I've shown you is the truth, Emma. Whether or not you believe it is up to you. Alistair thinks he's pulled one over on the council and myself, when what he's actually done is made a mockery of the very institution that took him in. Molded him into a finer version of himself. Gave him his second chance at Happily Ever After—more like his fifth, if I'm honest, but who's really keeping score at this point? And now he's dragged you into his little scheme. Do allow me to apologize, Emma. Such behavior is the epitome of—what is that term Killian is so fond of—ah yes. Bad form."
"You said something about a deal?"
"Down to business." The Director grinned. "How very Emma. It's come to my attention that you are not the only collateral damage left behind by Alistair's plotting. Something dreadful has taken hold of Killian, and the poor sod is only getting worse."
For a moment, Emma forgot that this was most assuredly a trap and heard herself say, "You can fix him?"
"I can. And I will."
Emma's heart skipped a hopeful beat, even as reason tried to smother any such optimism. The Director couldn't be trusted.
Could Alistair?
"You must first do something for me, Emma. A gesture of good faith, if you will."
"What do you want?"
The Director waved their hand and pulled a sheet of paper out of thin air. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what this is."
"A contract?"
"An addendum. To your existing contract. Go on, give it a read."
At the foot of the page, beneath her signature, were new lines of script, penned in perhaps the finest fine print Emma had ever seen.
In payment of one magical cure to a guide-inflicted ailment (excluding death and/or dismemberment), the Wish Maker (your name here), agrees, as outlined by this addendum, in accordance with the Magical Code of Ethical Conduct, to relinquish his/her right to any previously afforded wish, along with any remaining sum of time previously allotted for the express purpose—
"You want my wish back?"
"I should think if you were going to use it, you would've done so by now. So really, what's the harm? Just collecting dust, isn't it? Out there, wherever such things lie."
Emma considered her options. The only way she could see out of this mess was to agree. At the same time, her wish seemed her only leverage. Once she signed it away, what guarantee did she have that the Director would let her leave? That their end of the bargain would be upheld? What if this cure came in a more permanent form than the Director was letting on?
Would Emma wake up from whatever this was to find Killian relieved of a pulse along with what ailed him?
And if her wish was of so little consequence, why use it as payment? Why ask for it back? Why not simply let the clock wind down?
"Can I think about it?"
"That's what I like about you, Emma. Always thinking on your feet." The Director grinned. Something about it—maybe it was simply that she knew Killian's face too well—told her the Director was displeased. "You have three days."
Before Emma could respond, the Director snapped their fingers and Emma was pulled from one world into another. The eerie silence of that park was traded for the sounds of everyday life in Boston. Such was the momentum of the Director's magic that Emma came crashing back to reality through the front window of an Italian bistro as the sea of people pressed on.