Author's note: Since there was no Wish!Robin to distract Regina in my version of the wish realm, the Split Queen arc turned out differently.

MIRANDA:
O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't! — "The Tempest", William Shakespeare

It had been days since Nick had showered. Thank God for public swimming pools. The aquatics center he had found in a town outside Boston felt luxurious after a week of sleeping in his car. Now he relaxed in the indoor leisure pool, mentally preparing himself for Storybrooke.

The name was another jibe at their nature, thought Hansel. But if they were all stories, then how could the Evil Queen justify her deeds by calling her victims unreal? Or was it simply that once she decided it would be convenient to kill someone, they were no longer real to her? They were peasants, traitors, hallucinations, monsters...

Hansel had read all their stories in the book. He had read of a princess white as snow and her charming shepherd prince. He had read of Emma Swan, not a princess but a Savior, one purged of her natural darkness even before she was born. He had read of how a queen had become evil, cast a curse, and then through love of her son (who was not at all the Henry Hansel had known) "redeemed" herself. Only then she had decided to magically split herself into good and evil halves.

The evil half had used a genie to wish Emma away. Only, the queen who had followed Emma into the wish was not the evil half but the supposedly good half. The book didn't say what had happened in the wish world, but it didn't matter — Hansel had lived it. The good half of the queen had murdered Emma's parents and stolen her away back to the "real" world.

And then Emma's father in Storybrooke had wished for the Evil Queen to get what she deserved. According to the book, what she had deserved was to be accepted by Regina. The Evil Queen deserved to face up to what she had done, rather than pretend it was a different person she could dump in the trash.

I meant to destroy the evil part of myself, she had said. But evil wasn't something you could just wish away. Regina deserved to live with both light and dark in her, deserved to own her choices, as was the natural fate of every mortal born. That was what she deserved, according to the magic. But magical balance and human judgement were not the same. The Evil Queen's deeds were Regina's deeds. Was it justice to silence her victims and forget their suffering? The story of Regina and Percival in Camelot suggested as much. It was one thing for Henry Mills, who had only known the Evil Queen as his mother for the first ten years of his life, to love her and wish for her redemption, but how could the others be so eager to kill to protect her from the consequences of her own choices?

To Hansel's disgust, the royal family of Storybrooke forgave her everything. They accepted her as a hero, not caring what she had done in the past, not even the recent past, as long as she was part of their family, as long as she had supposedly changed for the better. Gods, Drizella had shown more genuine remorse for Gretel's death, and offered such recompense as she could to Hansel even when she held the upper hand. Forgiveness was irrelevant; it was enough that Hansel could let his vengeance go without feeling that he had betrayed his sister.

The heroes of Storybrooke had no such qualms.

It had been Queen Snow who had advised Regina to carve out her darker half. Thinking about that, Hansel remembered that Snow White had done the same to her own daughter, and that had happened before the Evil Queen had been defeated, which meant it had probably happened in Hansel's reality as well. Reading the book, it was clear that Snow valued having her own perfect family over everything else: over justice, over freedom, over truth, over the welfare of anyone not in the royal family.

Was it disloyal to pass such judgements on the queen? Hansel knew now that the Evil Queen would be shielded by her victims. Snow White of Storybrooke bestowed her forgiveness on Regina, and therefore no one else was permitted to hold the Evil Queen to account. Hansel would have to tread carefully, but he was more determined than ever. If the "heroes" refused to punish those who deserved punishment because they were family, then Hansel would show them the error of their ways. The people of the wish realm deserved better.

Henry deserved better.

Hansel worked out his frustrations in the pool, swimming laps until he was exhausted. Then he took a turn in the hot tub, forcing himself to be calm. He would need a clear head tomorrow. He wasn't even sure if he would be able to find Storybrooke, and even if he did succeed in reaching it, the town was crawling with magic-users ready to defend their "heroes." If he was caught, he needed a cover story prepared.

For that, he took inspiration from another of the chapters of Henry's book. There were other realms which sometimes touched Storybrooke. Camelot, Oz, Wonderland... The best for his purposes was the so-called Land of Untold Stories. Nick's memories suggested the name "Jack Robinson". As in, in and out before you can say "Jack Robinson". Or if anyone asked, he would say he was one of the shipwrecked family, a few years on.

Supper was a couple of cans of minestrone soup, heated on the stove and served with saltine crackers.

"Come on, eat something." Rogers offered Weaver a cracker, trying to snap him out of whatever magical trance he had fallen into.

"Huh? Oh." Weaver nibbled at the cracker without much enthusiasm, but allowed himself to be led to the kitchen.

"It's not much, but our options are rather limited."

Weaver shrugged. "I've had worse." He dipped a cracker into the soup.

"Any progress with the, um, magic?"

"I've been trying to construct a portal out of dust and void threads. The problem remains that I need a link to the outside to make it work."

Rogers nodded. Instead of asking for a more detailed technical explanation that he still wouldn't understand, he changed the topic. "What about Henry? He must be starving by now."

"Hardly starving," said Weaver, but at Rogers' glare, he relented. "All right. Let's see how the lad is faring."

Henry slept (like a log, Rogers couldn't help thinking), a peaceful expression on his face. Rogers hated to disturb him, but it couldn't be right to keep him in this state just for their convenience. "Wake him up, Weaver."

Weaver nodded tightly. He waved his right hand over Henry's face. The lights flickered and the air in the room seemed to sigh. Weaver stepped away as the boy began to stir.

Henry sat up abruptly, eyes opening wide in shock. His hands gripped the blanket, twisting it in his fists. "What...?"

"Henry. Henry Reyes." Rogers kept his voice low. "It's all right. You're safe. Do you remember me?"

"Detective Rogers." Henry's glance slid to take in Weaver. "And Weaver. What's going on? Where's my mother?"

"She's been taken, at a guess," said Weaver.

"I remember. I was at Nick's house! His father..." Henry stopped, looking disturbed. "Did he drug me or something?"

"Something like that," said Rogers before Weaver could start babbling about magic.

Weaver shook his head at Rogers. "No point pretending, dearie."

"What are you talking about? Where's Nick?"

"He's not here," Rogers told him. "It's hard to explain..."

"What's hard to explain? Where is 'here', anyway?"

Rogers let Weaver field that one.

"Henry, when you went to Nick's house, do you remember seeing a dollhouse?"

"A dollhouse?" Henry echoed in bewilderment. Then he nodded. "There was one in the living room. I think Nick's dad was using it to store his voodoo dolls or something. What does that have to do with anything?"

Weaver waved a hand, encompassing the room, or maybe the entire house. "That's where we are. We're the dolls, trapped inside Samdi's dollhouse."

"That's stupid."

"No, that's magic," said Weaver.

Rogers facepalmed. So much for not looking crazy.

"But magic—"

"Magic is real, Henry," Weaver said wearily. "Magic transformed you into a tree, and magic transformed you back. Magic has us trapped in a sealed box, so to speak, suspended in the void between worlds."

Henry stared at Rogers. "And you're going along with this bullshit? I thought you were supposed to be the honest cop!"

Rogers sighed. "I know it's hard to believe..."

"You're right. Because there's no such thing as magic."

"Come downstairs," said Rogers. "I'll show you. And if you still don't believe me, at least I can get you something to eat."

"Fine."

The exposed piece of void was wrong to his senses, no matter how familiar it should be to Rogers by now, and even Henry was affected.

"That's... weird." Henry sounded subdued, poking in a finger when Rogers nodded his permission. "It doesn't feel like anything."

"That's because it isn't anything." Weaver watched them from the foot of the stairs.

"That doesn't make it magic," said Henry, turning to frown at Weaver. "Some kind of advanced technology..."

"Are you about to cite Clarke's Law at me, lad?" said Weaver. He raised his hands, fingers spread, moving them as if holding some invisible thread between his hands.

Then Rogers recognized the motions. "Don't tell me cat's cradle is magic, too..."

Weaver smirked. "It's all in the patterns. Watch." He flicked the invisible strands one more time. There was a starburst of green, which expanded into a swirling vortex of light.

"Whoa!" Henry sounded shaken.

Rogers could sympathize. "Weaver, what the hell is that?"

"The portal, of course. Pity it doesn't go anywhere..." Weaver's voice trailed off and he froze, his eyes going unfocused.

"Weaver?" Rogers reached out tentatively. "Hey, are you all right?"

Weaver didn't answer. Green light reflected off his eyes, and his head tilted as if he was straining to hear something. Then he grabbed blindly for Rogers, fingers closing around his left wrist. "We're leaving. Hold onto Henry."

Rogers didn't understand what the hell was going on, but this was no time to start second-guessing his decision to trust Weaver. In for a penny, in for a pound. He turned to Henry, who looked considerably more skeptical. And scared. Rogers held out his right hand to the boy. "It's all right, Henry. I know how strange this all seems, but as I've found out recently, the world is a lot stranger than people give it credit for."

Henry's gaze went from the whirling vortex of light to Rogers and back again. "Understatement of the century. This is beyond 'strange', this is freaking insane."

"Aye, well, there is that." Rogers felt Weaver's fingers dig into his flesh. He heard a faint voice, calling from somewhere distant, or perhaps from inside his own head. He ignored the voice, concentrating on Henry. "But unless you want to be alone in the insanity, take my hand now. I don't think Weaver's going to wait much longer."

He hoped Henry didn't see through his bluff, because Rogers wasn't about to abandon the kid in this godforsaken box. To his relief, Henry nodded and inched closer, reaching warily for Rogers. As soon as he was close enough, Rogers locked their hands together.

Weaver's free hand swept up in a twirling gesture. As if in answer, the vortex of light expanded, growing to engulf all three of them. Then the light went out and Rogers was left blinking away afterimages. They lingered, floating in the darkness. He saw the house from the outside, and it was a dollhouse, open on one side. Three dolls drifted out from the house, and as he watched, they disintegrated into gray dust that faded into the void.

There was only the distant voice. A whisper of a name. Rumplestiltskin.

Rumplestiltskin? Rogers repeated the name to himself in disbelief. Surely he had heard wrong. Then reality snapped back into place around him, and it was no longer a disembodied voice he heard, but that of Neal Cassidy.

"...Rumplestiltskin!"

His name struck him like a curse, the dagger linked to his soul commanding his obedience. For a brief, terrifying moment, Rumplestiltskin didn't know who held his soul in their hands. He was dragged helplessly through the void, a slave delivered at the foot of his master.

Then he recognized the voice. "Bae!" And his son was thrusting the dagger into his hand, wrapping his unresisting fingers around the hilt. Freed of its compulsion, Weaver gasped and staggered back, instinctively tucking the dagger inside his jacket. Then another voice broke in, and Neal turned away.

"Dad?"

"Henry! Are you all right?" An awkward hug followed between father and son. "What happened?"

Weaver closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall as he forced himself to breathe, his heart rate settling back to normal. He felt a touch on his arm and twitched violently, opening his eyes to see Rogers' worried face.

"Weaver?"

"Fine. I'm fine." Weaver straightened, belatedly tuning in to the voices around him.

"...think we went through a wormhole or something," Henry was explaining. "Nick's dad had this weird set-up at his house. He kidnapped Mom! And probably Nick, too. We have to find them. I bet he framed Nick for the murders... maybe to cover up for an experiment gone wrong..."

"Whoa, whoa, kid, slow down," Neal managed to say when Henry paused for breath. "Now explain it to me slowly..."

"Good luck with that," muttered Rogers. "And was I hearing things, or did Cassidy call you 'Rumplestiltskin'?"

"Would it make you feel better if I said 'no'?" Weaver wanted to laugh at the expression on Rogers' face, but the situation was too dire for that. As Henry reached the end of his rambling, confabulated explanation, Weaver looked at Neal. "They took the wand and amulet from me."

"But the dagger..." Neal didn't finish the sentence, but Weaver understood what he meant.

"It chooses its own miracles. I can't force its power."

"Dad, you can't seriously buy into this fairy tale magic bullshit!" Henry gave Weaver an accusing look. "It's a con. He works for Belfrey, and she's like Nick's dad's rival. This is about industrial espionage. The voodoo stuff is just a cover story."

"Samdi is working for Gothel. And unless you want a future of all green, all the time, we have to stop them." Weaver glanced at Henry, then Rogers, and finally at Neal. "That's no cover story, that's the truth in whatever reality you think we're living in."

Rogers frowned at him. "Stop them? Considering what Samdi did to us before, I don't think the threat of bullets will be enough."

"If we have enough firepower, maybe." Neal looked at Weaver. "Remember last time? It can be done. We didn't need..."

Last time? Then Weaver remembered all too well. An imp locked in a cell, a knight too brave for his own good, insisting on defeating an army of ogres without magic. And Baelfire had died. "No! No. And Samdi and Gothel are no mere brutes."

"What choice do we have? You have a position here. You can make people listen, call up reinforcements..."

Rogers looked between them. "You mean, like a SWAT team?"

"No," Weaver insisted. Magic could influence minds, create illusions. He could see it in his mind's eye, a nightmare of heavily armed police shooting each other and any innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. "That will accomplish nothing except a bloodbath."

"Then what do you suggest?" asked Rogers. "We have to do something."

"We will. Actually..." Weaver smirked. In his bumbling way, the pirate had given them exactly what they needed. "Remember when you asked me why Samdi couldn't just magic the answers out of our phones?"

"You said... you said he couldn't use his powers on machines?"

"Exactly." Weaver turned to Henry. "Henry, I think you'll like this one..."

Neal stared at him. "You mean that... Oh, hell." He waved his splinted wrist to emphasize the point. "What if it goes on a rampage and murders us all?"

"What? What are you guys talking about?" asked Henry impatiently.

"The killer robot, of course." Weaver grinned. "I sorted out its programming. It's not that different from spellcrafting. It's safe. More or less."

Rogers left the others to their plotting while he dashed out for a sandwich run. The shop was two blocks from the police station, and Rogers had a new appreciation for fresh air after however long they had been cooped up in magical nowheresville.

Dazzled by the brightness of the sun, Rogers didn't see Eloise Gardener until her shadow fell across him and she called out his name. "Detective Rogers. How pleasant to see you again."

Rogers scowled, squinting against the light to focus on her face. "No thanks to you."

Eloise chuckled lightly. "Merely trying to keep you out of harm's way. You keep dark company, detective."

"Weaver told me who you really are, Gothel." Rogers spat out the name with as much conviction as he could muster. A land of fairy tales.

"What else did he tell you? That I'm 'evil', that I have to be stopped?" Eloise smiled her enigmatic smile again. "Maybe he told you who I am, but did he tell you who he is?"

"He said enough." Rogers quashed the niggling doubts at the back of his mind. She's just trying to mess with you. Damned mind games.

"And you trust him?" Eloise laughed. "Poor, foolish child. He's the Dark One. He's full of tricks and lies. You've let him manipulate you."

"No. You're the one who's been screwing with my mind, making me come rescue you..."

"That's what the Dark One wants you to think."

"I can think for myself," Rogers said stiffly. "Now if you'll excuse me..."

Eloise shook her head. "I'm just trying to save you from your own noble impulses. The devil's road ends in sorrow and regret. Don't follow Weaver and damn yourself."

"I'll keep it in mind." Rogers started walking again, trying to ignore the sweetly concerned look on Eloise's face as he moved past her. He didn't need her to know how shaken he really was. Weaver had done something to him — magic — that had revealed how Eloise had been twisting his thoughts. Or had he? Had Weaver been the one who had been manipulating his mind, and Eloise the one who was telling the truth?

Rogers thought about it all the way to the sandwich shop, and all the way back.

Weaver, oblivious to his partner's suspicions, was testing some kind of humanoid robot in the middle of the evidence locker. The killer robot was no more believable than the magic, yet there it was.

"Damn."

"Yeah," confirmed Cassidy.

Rogers had heard rumors of an underground fighting ring that Weaver's team had broken up, but assumed the stories about a robot were just tall tales to troll the rookies. Apparently not.

Henry didn't say anything, his mouth being too crammed with half a sandwich for words. The other half had vanished in about two milliseconds.

"Does it work?" Rogers asked, and Weaver's grin widened.

"It took me a while, but yes. It's in full working order now."

"Great, but where do we aim it?" Cassidy didn't look fully convinced. "Where have you been?"

"Samdi's house. But I doubt he's there now." Weaver set up his laptop on the table in the evidence locker. "And neither is my phone, but I can find that easily enough. It gives us somewhere to start looking." A map appeared on the screen. "Hmm."

"What about my mom and Nick?"

"One thing at a time," said Weaver. He shut the laptop again and frowned at the robot. "A wee bit conspicuous, isn't it? Let's see what we can do about that."

Long-sleeved clothing, mirrored sunglasses, and a hoodie pulled low disguised its most startling features.

Weaver nodded. "That'll have to do. Come along, Roy." The robot moved smoothly after Weaver.

"'Roy'?" Rogers echoed in bemusement. "As in 'Roy Batty'?" He hadn't known Weaver was a Blade Runner fan.

Cassidy cleared his throat. "Ah, that was my fault. This whole thing we have, with people who... never mind. Anyway, it made me think of that movie." He gave Rogers an ambiguous look, then shrugged. "Whatever. We had to call him something, and he didn't come with a name tag."

They made their way outside, only to find Weaver standing on the sidewalk, squinting upwards, a worried frown on his face.

The sky had darkened in the past hour, filling with ominous clouds. The clouds circled overhead, punctuated by streaks of lightning, pale against the backlight of the hidden sun. Distant thunder growled rumors of doom.

"That can't be right." Seattle had its sunny days, and more rainy ones, but these clouds looked like nothing Rogers had ever seen before.

"It's not. She's begun," said Weaver cryptically. Then he turned to Cassidy. "Take Henry. We'll meet at Lipson's house... it should still have Ivy's protections on it."

"Didn't do her much good," said Cassidy.

"Probably because she wasn't inside when... well." Weaver had yet to explain what he thought had befallen Ivy Belfrey, and he didn't look about to start talking now. "Let's go."

As Rogers had left his car in the station lot, however long ago it was when they made their ill-fated trip to Samdi's place, he was the one who ended up driving Weaver to Lipson's townhouse. The robot sat in the back seat just like one of those dummies used by carpool lane cheaters.

Rogers stayed in the car while the others went inside. He turned to look back at the robot. "So, what do you think of Weaver? Should I trust him?"

The robot made no reply.

Rogers sighed. If Eloise was telling the truth, he would be doing the world a favor if he disabled the robot. Deprive the Dark One of an ally. He had seen enough back in the evidence room to guide his sabotage: the power supply was the weak link. He could—

He heard the crunch of footsteps and looked up, his plan put on hold for the moment. Weaver had returned with a pair of pruning shears and loppers, dumping them onto the floor below the back seats.

At Rogers' look, Weaver said, "Well, Lipson won't be needing them anymore, and we might."

"For what?"

"A spot of gardening?" Weaver shrugged. "You know, she called herself Eloise Gardener for a reason."

Rogers remembered Henry's transformation, and shuddered. Gothel. She's Gothel. It was as if a fog had cleared from his mind. "If... if she's really turning people into... into trees..." He couldn't believe he was actually saying this. "If we lop off pieces, won't that... won't that seriously injure them?"

"And if we need to stop them, bullets aren't very effective against trees. Pity Lipson didn't have a chainsaw."

Rogers stared at him, wishing he could believe Weaver was joking. "At least we have a killer robot?"

Weaver chuckled. "Yes, thank you." He cut off whatever else he was about to say as Cassidy came over to them. "You have to stay here. Protect Henry."

Cassidy frowned. "But—"

"But nothing." Weaver held up a hand, halting Cassidy's argument. He glanced at Henry, who was watching them from Lipson's doorstep. Weaver lowered his voice. "He doesn't remember. He won't even know the dangers."

Cassidy's eyes slid to Rogers.

Rogers shrugged. "I don't remember either, mate, but Weaver explained it."

"And you believe him?" Cassidy sounded incredulous.

Rogers grimaced. "After what I've seen, yeah, it's either that or... well, let's say I prefer to believe in my own sanity."

"And you trust him?" Cassidy glanced at both of them, and Rogers wasn't sure who he was asking.

When Weaver didn't answer, Rogers spoke up. "I know it sounds crazy, but yeah, I trust him." And it was the truth, despite whatever doubts Eloise had tried to plant. Even if it was crazy.

Cassidy sighed. "All right. But don't go getting yourselves killed, ok?"

"You know me, son," said Weaver. "Not the self-sacrificing type. I have a nasty habit of surviving."

Cassidy gave Weaver an unreadable look, then nodded and turned to join Henry at the door. As Rogers pulled out of the parking space and drove away, he could see them in the rear-view mirror, still watching.

Weaver didn't comment. He read off terse directions from his laptop. As it turned out, Weaver's phone was in his car. Which was parked in a run-down lot behind a dilapidated strip mall. Which Rogers instantly recognized.

"This is where Cassidy took us before," he said.

"The under-city?" Weaver went to check his car and retrieve his phone, which still had enough charge left to turn itself on.

"Yeah." Rogers trailed behind him. "Huh, good battery on that thing..."

Weaver snorted. He scrolled through his messages. "Looks like Samdi sent everyone on a wild goose chase, until..." He thought for a moment. "Until about the time he sent Henry to us." He frowned up at the sky. "And now they're making their move."

"What does it mean? Can they control the weather? Is it magic?"

"What do you think?" Weaver handed another phone to Rogers. "Here. He left yours in the car, too."

"Didn't make much of an effort, did he? You'd think he wanted us to find them."

"Or find this place." Weaver went back to Rogers' car, opening the door for the robot. "Whatever hold Gothel has on him, Samdi's working his own agenda."

The robot climbed out on its own, light-footed and graceful as a dancer. Weaver grabbed the shears and loppers, bundling them under one arm. Luckily, the lot was nearly deserted, and no one paid them any attention as Rogers showed Weaver the door to the underground.

"You really think they're down there?" Rogers unlocked the new padlock which had replaced the old one when the place had been taken over by the city, pending designation as a historical site.

"Let's find out." Weaver led the way, the robot following obediently. Someone had run a power cable down into the under-city, installing a series of lights through the tunnels. It only made it seem creepier than ever. They went deeper than Rogers had the first time, past the bizarre glass coffin. Then Weaver held out a hand, stopping Rogers. He said softly, "Can you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"The change in the air." Weaver tilted his head back, peering up into the darkness.

Rogers followed his glance. Darkness. Too much, too high, and where had the ceiling gone? He shivered, the air suddenly cold with the feeling that he had stepped off the edge of the world and never noticed. Rogers swallowed his fears. "Where... where are we?"

"Somewhere ancient."

"Older than the city?"

"Older than humanity." Weaver took a wary step forward.

Rogers followed. The darkness softened, with hints of light breaking through. The fall of shadows changed, giving him the impression of standing under the canopy of the deep forest. Suddenly, Weaver's shears and lopper didn't seem so crazy. They continued forward, space opening out all around them. The walls of the buried city had given way to something wilder. Rogers reached out and found his fingers brushing against what felt like a hanging vine. "Where are we going?"

"To the eye of the storm."

But what they found was an old well, dry to the bottom and crumbling around the sides. And there, hanging against the inside wall like a ghastly parody of the crucifixion— A woman. Her eyes were shut, her face barely recognizable behind the growth of vines that were also pinning her in place.

"Ivy Belfrey," breathed Rogers. He felt Weaver's hand on his shoulder, drawing him back.

"Be careful."

A hideous sense of familiarity overtook Rogers. This was what had happened to Henry, and the vines were not merely growing around Ivy, but out of her. "We have to free her!" He grabbed blindly for the loppers.

"Wait. You were right, before." Weaver set the gardening tools down on his other side, away from Rogers. "Some of those vines are keeping her alive."

"Then how do we get her out?"

"We can pull her up, once we loosen the vines from the wall. Then I'll see what I can do for her."

Which turned out to be less than Rogers had hoped. Of course, Weaver wouldn't have made a deal with Samdi to save Henry if he could have done it himself.

"Alice is better at this," Weaver muttered as he did whatever it was he did to manipulate magic. "But at least she will be conscious and mobile."

Rogers nodded, deciding not to ask who Alice was. Another memory of the other world, he assumed. A little later, finally allowed to use the loppers, he trimmed away lengths of woody vine as Weaver directed.

"Ivy. Ivy, can you hear me?" Weaver knelt by her prone form, fingers resting lightly on her forehead. Rogers held his breath.

Ivy opened her eyes.