Wendy's scream yanked from her throat unwillingly, the image of Tigerlily's body thrown over the cliff on repeat moments after she'd plummeted into the sea. The seconds ticked by as agonizingly long hours, reality shifting into focus all at once. Harsh wind whipped her hair in every direction, Peter—no, not her Peter, but something else—stood as a stark outline on a darkened horizon.

Flickering light from the Indian encampment suddenly felt miles away.

She collapsed onto her knees, her heart pounding a furious drum against her ears, deafening in the sudden silence that inhabited the cliffside. Her knees scraped against harsh soil, cutting her hands on a sharp stone. She was too occupied looking at Peter to notice.

Peter who had veered from the edge and was striding toward her.

Recoiling back from his shadow creeping across the grass, Wendy was met with a horrendous understanding: She would die here. Like Tigerlily, she would be thrust across the cliff like a sack and be crushed underneath the sea's wrath–if Peter didn't take that pleasure himself first.

What would Killian think if he found her lifeless floating in the sea? He'd blame it on Peter surely, and the island would be thrust on its head and set on fire should the two meet face-to-face.

"What have you done?" She managed to gasp out, the outrage in her tone only betrayed by her trembling, her voice sounding weak. She grit her teeth, ground them hard. Begrudgingly, she rose, feet scrabbling unsteadily beneath her. "Are you looking to start a war ?"

"I was removing an obstacle." Peter answered flatly. He paused a few feet from her, arms crossed over his chest, a knife wiped clean on his pants now tucked into his belt. "Tigerlily would betray me if she did not have plans already."

"Did you have any proof of that?" Wendy yelled.

"Did I need it?" He shot back, causing her to flinch. "She spoke of a darkness plaguing Neverland, plaguing me, but I rather consider it a poison, don't you? One that brought with it age and decay. One that will be Neverland's downfall without someone of similar ideas to lead it."

"Is that to be you, then?" Her brows drew into a harsh scowl, the outrage in her voice becoming so clear and profound, so much so that it surprised herself, let alone the little flicker mirroring Peter's face. It was brief, shifting into flat indifference as he waved off her accusation.

"Who else is it to be? You ?" In the distance, branches cracked underneath the weight of the wind, a howling that could barely block out Peter's harsh tone–a childish wonder and sense of adventure snuffed out for this. "A coward?"

Wendy suddenly felt sick.

She scoffed incredulously. "Leaving Neverland to rot; abandoning those that do not serve beneath you to die? If anyone is a coward Peter, it is you ." The retort came out in a spat, her steps retreating, even while Peter's alarmingly steady form, unperturbed by the wind, stood still.

Motionless.

Intimidating .

Whatever empathy, whatever excuse that she may have conjured up before to excuse Peter's behavior was lost to an anger that shook her down to trembling limbs, equal parts terrified. She stood tall, then stood a little taller; a wasteless attempt when sizing next to someone— something —like him, but she refused to be deterred.

All respect had gone with Tigerlily into the sea.

Peter cocked a wan smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, a looming presence in the dark. "Well-spoken. You've lasted a lot longer than I thought you would. I'm almost impressed." Immediately, and with startling ease, his stature relaxed, an almost uncanny casualness to it as if they were old friends merely having a conversation.

Wendy didn't let her guard down. "That's it, then? You're going to kill me?" He didn't see her as a threat. "Like Tigerlily…" She cleared her throat. "And Jagger?"

Then he laughed–a low, harmonizing laughter that was fake for the basis of hiding something more sinister underneath rocking the cliffside to its very fragile foundations. It swept against the wind, a formidable combatant, and disappeared through branches that veered along the edge splitting apart. " Jagger ? That's quite the accusation." A definitive step toward her had Wendy retreating, taking a bigger step backward–one that he met with equal stride. "I may be the most efficient way of perishing on this island, but everything in Neverland can do it just as well."

Then Wendy did laugh too, dry and without humor. "You expect me to believe that?"

"You don't need to."

Wendy's last words would end with an accusation for murder. She'd presented her argument, and Peter served as judge, jury, and executioner. She stared Peter down, this version of him that Neverland had molded to accentuate its change.

With no other choice, she ran.

The heels of her shoes kicked up dirt as she turned and sped down the steep incline of the cliffside. What stretched beyond her was a dark and menacing nothingness, too dark to see through. It didn't matter—whatever fate laid in the unknown beyond had to be better than the death that awaited just behind.

Hair fanning out behind her, the pounding of her heart and heaving, panicked gasps followed her into the forest—unfamiliar now with the absence of light and no way of knowing which direction led to home. No. Not home. She couldn't go back to the camp—couldn't warn the boys of what they already knew. Jagger was dead. Horror struck her as she came to a sudden stop; Peter hadn't followed her that far.

Any of them could have been next.

They saw his wicked demeanor, and they stayed. Wasn't that their one, true desire in the end? The freedom to be as wicked and free in a place with no rules? Lack of restraint, killing for sport, hunting for game? And yet… they had not all bowed down, not that she had seen. She remembered Jagger—quiet and empathetic, undeserving of the fate handed to him. Her heart lurched in her chest, tears brimming with a grief so very profound at events that had transpired, and those still to come.

Oh, what was she to do ?

Killian immediately came to mind. Surely, he would help retrieve the boys, apprehend Peter… However much the idea that the Captain of the Jolly Roger was right; that the prince of Neverland was a lost cause. A demon: not a boy, once lost and confused.

With less vigor, she continued forward, hard soil giving way to mud that yanked at her heels with every step. She was blubbering, tears blurring the already unforseen path ahead. Her eyes strained against the darkness, the wind throwing off her already unsteady balance. It was as if Neverland itself was trying to stop her, from running away from her fate or urging her to play the hero from the stories that she used to tell the boys. The heels of her palms rubbed hard against her eyes, and then suddenly she was falling.

Falling in, rather than down.

Her neck snapped back as she propelled forward with a gasp, heels sinking underneath the mud where it grabbed at her legs, then her knees. Tiny crumbles of rock sunk inward, pressed against the sides of her torso. Dirt clogged her throat while she panicked, grasping for whatever lay close as she was pulled under the ground. Direction became an abstract concept as her vision clogged with dirt and rock.

The last thing she saw was a hand grabbing for her before she was gone.

Stale urine and what she was certain was the reek of something dead assaulted her senses first. Dim, artificial light broke through the threads of a sack fastened over her head; curly strands of hair caught in her mouth with no way to spit it out. Dry lips tried; a series of puffs, hisses, and a sharp shake of her head as if she were an animal caught in a trap further prolonging her humiliation as well as efforts that were wasted and also emerging fruitless.

Before she could get her bearings and begin mulling over options that bordered on ridiculous, a rough hand seized the bag from her head and yanked. Her hair was freed from its prison, and she coughed the debris from her throat, a thin string of vomit shooting downward and across the pavement. Sharp rope that bound her hands prevented her from lashing out at her kidnappers, but she appreciated the absence of stale onions and potatoes for the moment at the very least.

Her watering eyes, however, did very little to add to the aggressive farce that she attempted to put on. Two voices chattered on through the bare light, sounding as though they were having negotiations of some sort.

" Twenty? "

"That was the price."

"I'll confess. Twenty isn't a lot of money."

"Girls are a rare gift to Neverland indeed, but they are hardly much use these days if not for menial labor."

"You're serious."

"Hardly any use if not for menial labor for him ."

"Where am I?" She growled, announcing her consciousness and yanking their attention to her.

"Defeat the point of a bag if we said," one of the voices said nonchalantly, his face illuminated by a pale orange glow as he lit up a cigarette. Sallow and sickly, dark sunken eyes belonged to a boy not much older than the Lost Boys, sharp juts of cheekbones signaling starvation. He was filthy, looking as if he had dragged himself straight from a trash heap. Another one–his partner she assumed–wore an awful smile that made her heart twist with a sudden onslaught of fear and dread.

They were outside of a building a few stories tall, lights burning in every window.

What lay before her was an underground city–more like a slum–hollow in the earth and upheld by artificial means, pillars and man-made braces. The roads were dirt, houses crumbling in a suffocating maze, none looking inhabitable. Torches and lanterns lined the walls, their light flickering ghostly and foreboding.

Shoeless boys leaned up against buildings, some huddling over meager fires, scuffling in alleyways and others yelling incoherently in their hiding places. She swore that some of them were dead until they coughed, eyelids barely fluttering. Broken glass and questionable substances littered the streets, infested with rodents and insects wherever she looked.

A place like this existed in Neverland?

"We don't often find girls in the Underground." The sickly boy's partner sneered, pulling her focus back to her own situation, suddenly and brazenly attentive. "I hope you're able to put on a good show, Lass. If they don't want you?" He scoffed. "Then you were dead before you fell down here."

" They ?" She echoed, curling her lip in disgust. "I am right to assume that they are as gracious as you boys, then?"

Before he could get a word in edgewise, his irritation and the habit of their activities obvious in the way he advanced toward her while the other boy stood idly by, another voice broke through their dispute—deadpan and not the least bit interested.

"What's this?" The voice that approached did not belong to the body it inhabited, small and so very out of place. Yet, sparing another glance around, he didn't look too different from the poor souls that had made their home here. Prey among wolves. Her bemused expression couldn't have looked more obvious, and she was scarcely acknowledged despite herself.

The boys straightened immediately.

"Compliments of Pan, I'd wager." The sickly boy guessed. "A lass' presence is growing fewer and farther between these days."

Her stomach dropped, the idea that even if she'd fallen by happenstance hadn't been the first instance of someone coming down here unwillingly—and Peter being the cause, no less. The possibility that she'd only been chased into a trap became a more prevalent possibility.

She was stupid. Oh so very stupid. Suddenly she felt like the prey under their eyes; a rabbit fallen down a hole with only one exit.

"Rare creatures these days, they are." The boy—the wolf —said, detached and not the least bit sympathetic. "And you're sure nobody will come looking?"

Killian.

"Yes," Wendy interrupted their negotiations, braving herself against their oncoming scrutiny. "Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger is sure to come looking for me." She sat up a little taller, puffing out her chest in a show of certainty, and tilting her head up in a show of pride. "In fact, I know that he is."

The silence that followed was deafening, expressions of confusion flickering between the three. "Captain Jones?" The sickly boy laughed, tossing his cigarette to the ground and snuffing it underneath his ratty shoes directly in front of her. "The man should know that it's bad luck to bring a woman aboard his ship unless for simpler pleasures."

"Perhaps that is what she means then, lads." The partner snickered, horrendous chuckling rumbling amongst their trio.

Wendy's face burned. Anger boiled in her stomach, rising up in her throat until she was gritting her teeth. "It's not like that."

"Then he has no reason to come searching." Wolf moved to assess her more closely, acting as if he were performing a mere appraisal than anything. His unimpressed expression mirrored her own, and she scowled. "No one comes through the tunnel systems these days. If you are so proper that such pleasures are sophisticated, then I will be the first to tell you that choosing a pirate was perhaps not the wisest move."

"I know he will," she said defiantly, not backing down from his scrutinizing gaze. It only fueled the sudden hate, and the urge to pull a page from Peter's book and act with aggression to hide the fear that she felt. She only hoped that would be enough to secure her own survival, not confident that anyone would find her down here. Nobody that she wanted to find her. "And if you are aware of his reputation, then you will be just as wise to release me, and I will speak no word of this for your benefit."

"Is that so?" Wolf hummed. "Are you so desperate for your freedom that you would come up with such a juvenile threat?"

"No."

" No ?" He replied, staring incredulously. From the way his mouth had cocked back into a humorless smile, she assumed that he believed that she would beg to be freed from this hellscape.

Wendy was no stranger to disappointing lately, it seemed. "Are you suddenly deaf?" She spat.

"You expect me to believe this act?"

"Are you so delusional that you believe it is one? You have nothing else of value to offer me except my freedom. Your talk of things that are sophisticated in my society would be wasted on the likes of your kind, anyhow." She leaned forward, willing as much venom into her voice as she could manage. " Boys ? Filthy ones at that." She laughed dryly. "I will gladly take my chances with the next puffed-up thug that happens along, or as you so eloquently put it, a pirate ."

The sickly boy hummed from his place behind them, appearing impressed, and Wendy took a brief moment to let the pride swell before delving back into the aggressive facade that kept her own fear from breaking her apart. "You appear to be very unaware of your situation, Lass. That, or something pissed you off before you happened down here."

"You have a reputation down here I am certain, but it is what you would consider juvenile compared to up there." She scoffed. "And what you would do to me is nothing compared to what he would do to you." She leaned forward with a hardened gaze, reveling in their sudden uncertainty where they exchanged glances. "Is that enough to be of worth to you?"

This victory was small, but one that she took and held close to heart. Such behavior was unlike her, un-ladylike and unsophisticated. Her father would faint if he saw her now, and yet she did not care. Too frequently the last few days she'd been pushed around, ridiculed, and demeaned. Neverland had made itself her enemy, and for once she took pride in whatever balance she could interrupt–briefly or not.

Neverland lashed back instantly.

As Wendy had grown older, she'd read novels without happy endings; people died and they did not go to a realm where they were immortal, creating new lives full of wonder and happiness that never waned. In those novels, it was always quick; a step to the windpipe or a singular shot would do the trick just as well, but now, she realized that just like the stories she told to the boys, grown-up stories could still be just as unrealistic.

Blood spattered over her dress as Wolf's face suddenly exploded into a bleeding mass, grimy and unkempt teeth clattering cartoonishly across the ground. The whimpering that assaulted her ears ground like glass, the desperate clawing of nails grabbing for her pants marrying bloody fingerprints permanently into the fabric. With a screech she fell back, bound hands scrabbling uselessly for the ground only to use her legs to create distance. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her other two captors standing side-by-side, looking stupidly ignorant, staring in horror.

Then who–?

Desperate hands gradually stopped clawing for mercy, arms raised over his head with every stomp, his attacker taking great joy in turning his face to mush. Bones cracked like an orchestra erupting into a symphony, shrill cries rising from the ashes to meet it. His head was grabbed and slammed into the pavement, a quick stomp to the throat crushing his windpipe.

The other two didn't move.

"Stop!" Wendy screamed at his back, sobbing, feeling sick. Her facade slipped into someone she knew quite well. "Don't kill him!"

The assault tapered off, paused, then finally stopped. Blood spattered up the attacker's arms–elbow deep–and his split knuckles were bleeding, pattering the mass cowering at his feet. When he turned and looked at Wendy, she finally managed a good look at his face. To her horror, she couldn't read much of it, but if it hadn't been for his eyes, she may have thought that he was older than her.

There was something disparagingly familiar about them.

"Well," he murmured, cautiously curious. "What do we have here?"