s u m m a r y

Two people. Two stories. Both fighting to forget their pasts. But when the two lives cross, will they be able to work together to stitch each other up? Or will they clash and damage each other's souls?

•

p r o l o g u e

April fifth.

"Age?"

The boy hesitated, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Eighteen."

The redhead squinted, eyeing him suspiciously as she twirled her pen with her fingers. "Nice try. You're tall, but you don't even look sixteen."

"I'm eighteen," the boy lied again. He understood the gist of getting involved in this type of . . . club. He knew what ending up at the bottom of the process meant for him. And, if he should fail, he was certain of the consequences. Yet he paid no mind to it.

The woman smirked. She was quite pretty, the boy noted. Her copper strands billowed between the several hair ties she'd wrapped along the length of her hair, and the tips of it just reached the back of her knees. Her light brown freckles were smattered delicately on her cheeks and across her nose, almost framing her unnaturally emerald coloured eyes. Her slightly tanned skin contrasted with her shining gold bangles around her arms. She looked young and dangerous, yet there was something in her gaze that appeared to have a motherly touch to it. It suddenly brought back memories about his own —

No, he thought. Forget about it. You're on your own now.

He pulled his attention back to the woman as she said, "Sorry, hun. You're still a child here. Accept it."

The boy's stomach dropped. The only thing about this unauthorised gig he had decided to be wary of was the truth of his age. After all, the more youthful ones always had a bigger target on their backs.

"Alright, now that we have that sorted," the woman said with an amused smile. "Name?"

The boy paused. He hadn't even thought through this far. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't thought anything through properly; his mind had been too preoccupied with figuring out how to cover himself from the freezing air, seek out any food scraps from the garbage, and generally not die. A name would hardly matter compared to everything else. But just to be safe . . .

"Landon." He shoved his hands in his dirty pockets. "Landon Glasspoole."

The woman arched an eyebrow. She looked him up and down and stared into his eyes long enough for him to believe he was in the midst of an interrogation.

When he became unusually uncomfortable with the attention, he scoffed softly. "What, are the others going to bash me up just because of my ridiculous name?"

She grinned, shaking her head. "Nobody here cares about your real name, sweetie. The only thing that matters is what you're called in the Octagon."

The boy bristled. "So why did you ask me for my name?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up as she pointed her pen at him. "Because I like you, kid. I'll be keeping my eye on you."

That was a first. The words 'keeping an eye on you' had only ever made his skin crawl or left him filled with burning frustration that was always accompanied with the absence of trust. Maybe starting over wasn't a bad idea.

"So, have you gotten one?"

After again drifting off in his thoughts, he snapped back to reality. The woman was looking at him expectantly. "What?"

The woman shook her head, but a small smile played on her lips. "A name. Something you go by. How you'll be recognised. What you'll hear when the audience chant. Well, assuming you actually succeed, that is."

Oh. A name. He hadn't thought about that. The fairy gods must have been tormenting him by now, clinking their glasses together as a gesture of amusement. Typical.

The boy hadn't realised how much he had prolonged his silence until he heard the crackling of a wrapper. Apparently, the woman was becoming so bored she'd decided to grab a snack from her pocket. Popping a hazelnut into her mouth, she waited patiently.

Quickly scrambling for words in his head, the boy drew out the only suitable name from his childhood (of which he could remember). It may not have screamed out 'street fighter!', but it would have to do for now.

"Puck."

The woman popped another nut into her mouth, then settled the packet down onto the podium. She sucked her teeth with her tongue, observing him. Then she sighed and smiled. "Alright, Puck. People call me 'Rapunzel'."

'Puck' kinked an eyebrow. Well, that explains the long hair. "Is that your real name?"

"No. And I'm not going to tell you my real name."

"Why not? I told you mine."

'Rapunzel' snorted. "You really think I'm that naive? You seem clever enough not to reveal your true identity."

Huh, Puck thought, trying to determine whether this strangely-named woman was messing with him or was actually as clever as she seemed to sound. He decided on the latter. He also decided that, with further scrutiny, of course, she could be trusted. Maybe he would be making a grave assumption, but he'd rather take his chances than end up in some godforsaken garbage chute.

He considered swallowing his pride and asking her if she knew any places he could stay for the night. But, before he could open his mouth, he heard a raucous cheer come from behind her. A music performance of clinking metal followed, and Puck guessed that people were exchanging money.

Somebody just won, Puck realised. It seemed like many were enjoying the victory, as it was probably the major entertainment element, but the boy could only think about the reward. And not the intangible reward of satisfaction, but the material cash he could make from winning. Because he needed it to survive.

And he'd do anything to survive at this point.

"Alright, kid," Rapunzel said, sticking her thumb behind her. "It's your time to shine." She flicked a brow up. "Or not."

Puck stared at the tattered drapes behind her. "Now?"

There was a flash of some emotion in her eyes he couldn't identify, but he prayed it wasn't pity. "Unless you wanna bail. It's not too late for that. But make a decision quickly before the bulls come out. They don't like being kept waiting."

"No," Puck said without hesitation. "I've got this."

She stared at him, long and hard, until she nodded and gestured for him to go through.

But, before he entered, Puck turned to her and said, "What happens if I don't win?"

She shrugged, the corners of her red lips tilting upwards. "You lose. But that's just life, isn't it? You fail and fail."

Maybe she saw the slight crease in between his eyebrows as she added, "But life is also full of surprises. Who knows what'll happen."

And, with that, he pushed past and took in a breath of fresh air. Yes, it stank of sweat and alcohol. But it also smelt like a new life.

He saw the stained banners on the metal walls, several with different text on them, and the crowd of hundreds stood underneath the flickering lights and cobwebs. But it was the centre of the room that drew him in; it was a platform with eight sides, and was bare except for the unconscious body lying on it with a very much conscious body raising his fists in the air beside it. Puck thought he caught a glimpse of red splatters on the platform, but he ignored it.

He was ready to step into the Octagon.

And, as if his instincts were kicking him mercilessly, Puck turned his head and looked at Rapunzel.

"I've changed my mind. It's not 'Puck'." He clenched his fists, feeling energy course through him. "It's 'The Trickster King'."

Because, apart from the subtle sliver of memory from his former life, he was determined to leave everything behind and fight for his future.

Robin Goodfellow was no more.

•

A/N : so, although I have a basic plan, I'm not too certain of the finer details. Hopefully this works out :)

I'd love to know what you think of this.

- feifeltower