The rain came down in unrelenting sheets of cold water, so heavy Emma nearly missed the sign that read, "Welcome to Storybrook. It took less than a second to decided she would spent the night there. She didn't know how long it would take to find another town and didn't want to risk getting stranded on the side of the road, especially in this weather, so she made the turn and entered the town. The small, quaint town sat in the middle of a large, dense forest bordered on one side by the Atlantic Ocean. Small shops and an inn dotted Main Street, as well neat houses with evenly cut lawns and white-picket fences. It had the typical small-town charm, but Emma sensed something off about this place.

Still, she drove up to the inn and dashed out of the door, her bags clenched in her hands. Inside she asked for a room, ignoring the gaudy floral wallpaper and faint scent of mildew. Neither the old woman in charge of the inn nor her surly-looking granddaughter seemed to really see her. Their eyes had the glassy, far-away look she'd seen on one of her foster brothers when he got caught doing drugs in the basement, but unlike him these women were still and quiet. It creeped Emma out.

She realized, as the younger woman led her to a room on the third floor, that neither of them had commented on her prominent baby bump. Since she'd started showing, people had either cooed and gushed about her baby, or given her sharp judgement for being a single teen mom. These women had done neither.

Emma tossed her meager belongings onto the low, narrow bed; a duffel bag stuffed with two changes of clothes, a worn-out backpack with some personal items, and her baby blanket. She eased onto the bed, mindful of her bump, and closed her eyes. Already, she regretted spending money on a room instead of sneaking in somewhere or sleeping in her car. Neal left her with $20,000 from selling the stolen watches, but that would only take her so far, especially with the other little gift he left her. She hadn't even found out she was pregnant until three weeks after he ditched her. Eyes still closed, she felt her bump. The kid was sitting still for the moment. Emma couldn't deny how nice it felt to lie on a real bed, but she knew she couldn't stay long.

'Just until the morning', she told herself as she drifted off to sleep.

After what only felt like minutes, Emma woke to the sound of high heels furiously clicking against a hardwood floor. Light streamed in from the window, signalling that it was already morning. But Emma didn't feel the least bit rested. She still wore her rain-dampened clothes.

"Where is she?" a woman screamed.

Emma thought, 'I'd hate to be whoever she's talking about.'

A fist pounded against her door.

Damn it. Had she parked illegally last night?

"Open this door immediately!" the woman demanded.

Emma rolled out of bed and put marginal effort into straightening her hair and clothes before she opened the door. On the other side stood a middle-aged woman with an expression that Emma had become familiar with during her time in foster care, a hybrid of rage and distress.

"Hello, is somethin-"

"Did Rumpelstiltskin sent you? What is he planning?"

"Rum-Rumpelstiltskin?" Emma blinked, now more confused than annoyed. She noticed the innkeeper standing behind the middle-aged woman with the barest glimmer of concern in her eyes. Was this some kind of prank? "The fairy tale character?"

The middle-aged woman straightened her features, "How did you get here?"

Emma crossed her arms, "My name's Emma, thanks for asking. I drove here. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the mayor of this town."

"With those people skills? Is a wonder you ever got elected." Emma fumed.

"Excuse me!" the mayor's eyes widened in shocked. Clearly she wasn't used to be talked back to.

"Do you have a good reason to be pounding on my door?"

"Stop that!" the mayor barked. "You haven't answered a single one of my questions."

Emma replied, "And neither have you. I don't owe you anything, lady, even if you are the mayor. Now I'm gotta take a shower, get something to get eat, and then get the hell out of the freaky town." As Emma tried to close the door, the mayor tried to block her, but Emma managed to shut the door in her face. Maybe stopping in Storybrooke had been a mistake.

She stripped off her clothes and ran to the shower, taking only several minutes to clean herself before she dried off and get dressed again. As she stuffed her soiled clothes into her duffel bag, another pounding came to her door.

"Open up, this is the police," a stern male voice from the other side of the door commanded.

Fuck. What the fuck had she done?

Emma opened the door slowly. "Hello?"

A white man stood in front of her. He wore a star-shaped badge that read "SHERIFF" over his breast pocket. His eyes had the same glassy look that innkeeper and her granddaughter had.

His long arms reached out for her. Emma recoiled, but he grabbed her, spun her around, and locked her arms behind her back.

"Can you at least tell me what I'm being charged with?" she whimpered.

Emma hated how small and sad she sounded, but she couldn't hold back the cold fear creeping into her veins. Had they found about the shoplifting, the breaking-and-entering, the conning? Had Neal given her over to the police and told them about the watches? How had he even known she'd be here? No, this couldn't have anything to do with Neal. He couldn't have guessed she'd go to Maine, much less a tiny, backwater town in the middle of nowhere. The mayor. She probably had something to do with it. What had she been upset about, again?

The sheriff didn't answer her; he just slammed a set of handcuffs on her and led her downstairs, on hand firmly on her left shoulder. He didn't even recite her Miranda rights.

"Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" she questioned. He didn't say another, didn't seem like he could say anything. A jagged, hysterical laugh climbed out of her throat as they reached the first floor landing. "This can't be legal."

They passed the innkeeper and her granddaughter in the lobby. Neither woman reacted to Emma's arrest (though by now it was beginning to feel more like a kidnapping), as if they couldn't even see what was happening. 'I haven't paid for my room yet,' Emma noted.

Outside a few people drifted to work, and wherever Emma turned they all had the same blank, dead-eyed expression.

"Oh my god, where the fuck am I?" Emma whispered. Her voice grew stronger, "What is wrong with all of you?!"

No one reacted to her outburst, not even the sheriff. The townsfolk went about their days, their eyes seeing right through Emma whenever they turned in her direction, as if she were a ghost. The sheriff continued on his unrelenting march to the squad car, his long strides forcing Emma to move quickly or risk tripping. She pleaded with him to slow down but he didn't listen.

Maybe.

"Hey, you piece of shit, didn't anyone ever tell to be gentle with pregnant women? Or do you just like being a fucking asshole?" Emma screeched. No reaction. Despite her fear, she got a sick thrill out of swearing at a police officer and getting away with it. She want to laugh. She wanted to vomit.

The sheriff stuffed her into the backseat of the squad car and began driving. With another wave of nausea, Emma considered the possibility that he might just take her into the woods and kill her. How did she know he was real cop anyway? Her arms burned from the strain of being forced behind her back for so long. She looked down at her abdomen. 'I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe,' she thought to her baby. 'I'm sorry I fucked up."

The car stopped. Emma spared a glanced out the window, dumbstruck by the fact that they were outside a hospital, not a police station. The sheriff forced her out of the car, ignoring her wince of pain as the handcuffs bruised her wrists. Inside even more people wandered around with faces empty of all expression. A redheaded woman in a white physician coat approached them, flanked by two nurses, one of whom came with a wheelchair.

"I'm not sick," Emma insisted as the sheriff undid her handcuffs. The instant she was free, she turned toward the door and began running. Nothing stood between her and the front door.

The sheriff grabbed her just as she made to the sliding double doors of the hospital and wrestled her into the wheelchair. He used the handcuff to attach her to the wheelchair. A nurse plunged a needle into her free wrist and Emma knew it was sedative.

She blinked, and the next thing she knew she was lying on a hospital bed with the mayor was standing over her and listening to the doctor as she drone on about pregnancy and childbirth. Emma couldn't move, couldn't speak.

"But is she far enough along to induce?" the mayor asked impatiently. "I want to get that baby and get rid of her as soon as possible."

Panic stabbed Emma in the chest, sharper and harsher than anything she had ever felt. She opened her mouth to scream, but her jaw remained frozen. She tried to get and run, to fight her way out, but the most she could go was twitched her fingers. She could barely open her eyes. Whatever the nurse gave her must have been strong.

"I think she might be waking up," the doctor noted.

"Forget about her," the mayor snapped. "How soon can I get the baby?"

"I'd say she's about eight months along, but it could be less. The baby has a good chance of survival if we operate now, but preterm birth comes with a risk of lifelong complications. It would be best for the child if we let the mom-"

"Birth mother."

"-birth mother carry to term and delivery naturally."

Emma fought the heavy weight of the sedative. Her eyes opened, and she flinched as the harsh fluorescent light entered them. No. No. "No," she moaned. "You can't do that."

The mayor regarded her coldly. It wasn't a glare, per se, it held no anger; just a look of total indifference, as Emma was just a piece of litter she had noticed on the sidewalk. Emma noted that, unlike everyone else in town, the mayor's eyes did not have that haunting, glassy look. They were sharp and focused. Awake.

"You can't do this," Emma croaked as the sedative began releasing her from its grip.

The mayor smirked, "I can go whatever I damn well please."

"I'd rather die than let you have my baby," Emma swore.

"That can be arranged," the mayor replied. Something in Emma told her this woman was entirely serious. "How far along are you?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Nobody teaches kids these days any manners," she grumbled. The mayor crossed the room, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor as loudly as they had in the inn. She slapped Emma hard against the right cheek. "How far along?" she repeated slowly.

Emma took a second to collect herself. "I'm at 28 weeks," she lied. More like 35.

"Ugh great," the mayor groused, as if this who situation were so inconvenient for her. She placed a hand on Emma's bump, which made Emma feel nauseous again. "Pretty big for 30 weeks, though."

"It's a big baby," Emma responded without emotion.


Emma woke up in a cold sweat. Her breath came out in shallow pants and her hands shook. She rose from the couch and went to the kitchen to splash her face with cold water in the sink. The same nightmare haunted her every night, and each time it became more vivid, more real, like something she had actually lived through. She dreaded going to bed; sometimes she feared she would open her eyes in the morning and discovered that the nightmare had followed her to the waking world.

Silence entombed to the apartment, broken up only by the steady drip of water from the faucet. Emma didn't check the time, but from the deep violet of the sky outside the window, she guessed it was a few hours before dawn. Mary dozed peaceful in her alcove, the twins rested in the upstairs loft, and Emma sink to the kitchen floor covering her mouth with her hands so her sobs wouldn't wake them up.


A pair of orderlies uncuffed Emma from the bed and led her to cell in what appeared to be an old-fashioned asylum in the hospital's basement. She had taken the wrong turn and landed in a horror movie. A nurse brought her three meals a day, along with prenatal vitamins during lunch and dinner. Twice a week she was brought upstairs for a physical evaluation. Each time attempted to escape. Each time she was brought back to her cell and shackled to the bed for a full 24 hours.

During her misadventures in the upstairs hospital, she took note of a few regular faces. A young woman, a schoolteacher, with short white-blonde hair who volunteered and occasionally brought her students with her. A man in a coma who never had any visitors. The mayor came everyday to see how the baby was doing, and Emma dreaded that part of the day. Days became weeks, and Emma felt her chances of escape slip away like sand through her fingers with each she spent in this godforsaken hospital. She'd give birth eventually and what could she do to protect her child then?

Emma noticed that as time went on the dead, glassy look seemed to fade from people's eyes and they became more animated. Less like zombie-like and more human. The nurse who brought her meals and meds started asking her about her day and looked a little remorseful whenever she closed the cell door. The patients said hello to her in the morning, waved to her when she was allowed in the hallway, and asked how she was feeling. It felt as though winter had begun yielding to spring.

One morning, as Emma sat on her bunk waiting for breakfast and thinking of a new route of escape, the mayor threw the door.

"I'm done waiting," she growled.

The doctor looked at Emma apprehensively, then looked to the mayor, "Don't you think we should put off inducing her? It's not medically necessary."

"No," the mayor said. She wore the rage-and-distress expression Emma remembered from the first time they met. "She's ruining everything! She's the reason the town is going to hell."

"I had no idea I was so influential," Emma tried to keep her voice light, but she felt dizzy with fear. Her time was up.

A flood of warm liquid burst from between her legs, utterly soiling her hospital-issued underwear and sweatpants. If she hadn't been so sure her water had been broken, and that she had completely missed her chance to escape, Emma would have been embarrassed.

The mayor smiled in triumph, "I guess you've got a baby to delivery."

The nurses placed Emma in a wheelchair and brought her to the maternity ward. At the mayor's order, they chained her to the bed by her ankles. Her contractions came and went, each one knocking the wind completely out of her. The ordeal stretched for the rest of the day and into the night. Emma received no sleep, no food, and no comfort. Despite her resentment and disgust toward Neal for abandoning her, Emma wished he were there. She wanted someone she knew holding her hand, not the nurse who had helped imprison her for a month.

The mayor stayed through the who delivery watching Emma like a vulture circling overhead. Emma felt even smaller and more vulnerable under this woman's gaze.

"Its crowning!" the doctor announced as Emma pushed the baby out of her.

"Cover her face, I don't want her looking at my child," the mayor ordered the nurses. The nurses stood frozen.

"Lady, you're fucking evil," Emma snarled.

A shadow passed over the mayor's face. "Do it or I'll make sure you live to regret it." The nurses flinched, but they followed her orders. One of the muttered an indistinct apology as she placed a white cotton cloth over Emma's face.

"It's best not to get attached; you both need a clean break," the mayor told Emma. "You didn't seriously think you could be a mother? You're practically a child yourself."

"That's not for you to decide!" Emma snapped. She roared in pain as she pushed for a final time.

The first, high, beautiful cry of her newborn baby filled Emma's heart with so much joy, love, horror, and pain that she couldn't think straight. She wanted her child, the ache of his absence was almost physical. The sound of his cry grew fainter with clinking the mayor's high heels.


The porcelain teacup fell from Priscilla's grasp and shattered on the floor, splashing tea on the expensive rug. Memories of her life - her real life, not the farce the Evil Queen had forced onto her - came back to her pain abruptness. Her hat, her imprisonment in Wonderland, her little girl. Grace. Her sweet, beautiful Grace wasn't part of her life in this realm.

Priscilla grabbed a coat and ran out the front door of the mansion. She reluctantly got into the car; the curse had given the ability to drive, but her instincts told her not the trust the metal, horseless carriage. It was the fastest way to time, Priscilla grit her teeth and went on her way. She drove straight to the elementary school.

"I need to see my daughter Grace," she told the receptionist in a hurried tone. "Where is she?"

The receptionist glanced through the school records for a moment and answered, "I'm sorry, but there's no record of a Grace Jefferson at this school."

"There must be. I've seen her get off the bus, she has the uniform, she goes her."

The receptionist's face took on an odd expression. "When did you enroll your daughter here?"

"I didn't enroll her, she's here because of the Evil Queen's curse," Priscilla answered impatiently. "I need to find her so I can take us back to the Enchanted Forest."

"Ma'am-" the receptionist didn't know how to respond.

"Get out of my way!" Priscilla scoffed. She walked passed the front desk and began running through the halls, searching each classroom for her daughter.


"Swan, you okay?"

Emma jerked up. Her heart stammered with surprise and, when she realized Killian was standing over her, embarrassment. She was at Granny's Diner; she must fallen asleep at the table drinking her hot chocolate. The right of her face felt cool and numb.

"Killian, hi!" she greeted him with as much fake cheer as she could manage.

"Have you been feeling alright?" Killian asked as he took a seat across from her.

"A little tired," she shrugged in what she hoped seemed like a nonchalant gesture. "But I'm fine."

He licked his upper lip in a way that Emma squirmed, but she doubted he was aware of the effect her had on her. He leaned closer to her, his voice low, "Okay, I'll be honest. You looked a trainwreck; a very cute trainwreck, but nonetheless you can't blame me for wanting to really know what's going on."

She hadn't told anyone about the nightmares; she wasn't used to sharing her problems with others if it was avoidable, much less expecting to receive help. The earnest concern in Killian's brown eyes drilled holes in a wall that was already crumbling under the weight of her exhaustion.

"I've been having nightmares," she admitted hoarsely. "About getting kidnapped, and losing a baby. It was so...terrifying...and it feel so real...it actually happened to me."

"Have you talked to Dr. Hopper about it?"

"No," Emma admitted. Her eyes fell to Killian's hands, long and dexterous and callous. Her cheeks flushed with the realization that she wanted to hold Killian's hand. "Maybe I should."

"It certainly can't hurt," Killian smiled. Emma found herself returning it.


Regina watched the sleeping form of Priscilla Jefferson, still and prone on the small prison cot. She had been arrested earlier that day for causing a ruckus the school, screaming about some missing daughter. Security had apprehended her trying to force a girl named Paige Lewis to come home with, and she had been charged with trespassing and attempted kidnapping.

Since that pregnant teenager had come to town, the magic had been weakening. No one had fully woken up, but they inched closer to their true personalities each day that brat remained in her town. She could have gotten rid her that first morning when she saw the unfamiliar yellow bug in Granny's parking lot. She hadn't been able to comprehend how a stranger managed to enter the town; she still didn't. But when she saw the baby bump, she felt the first stirrings of hope in her chest in a long time.

A baby. She'd never had a chance to mother Alexander before her mother had him taken away, and he had died hating her. Snow and Red had firmly rejected her, go to war with her, and tried to kill her. Often time she wondered if her bloodline was cursed: Cora hated her father, Regina hated Cora, and all her children hated her. The child this stranger carried could be her true second chance, a clear slate, the family she'd always wanted.

Henry was her miracle. Regina truly believed that, for once, the universe had cut her some slack and brought Emma to Storybrooke so Regina could have her son. She had fought to have him and she'd never let anything take him away.

A clause in the curse forbade her from taking a life, but that wasn't necessary. She hadn't used magic since casting the curse, but one never forgot magic. She crafted a complex but effective memory curse for Emma Swan. She'd get in her car, drive somewhere far away, and mourn the baby she thought had been stillborn. At first, Regina had considering making Emma think she had given her baby up for adoption, but she decided it was better not to risk Emma seeking a reunion in 18 years. And when Henry grew up, she'd simply tell him that his birth mother had left him for dead. He'd be grateful to her for rescuing him and want nothing to do with the woman who had carried him.

It seemed like the perfect plan. Until she realized that she'd had weakened by curse by doing magic. Emma Swan might not have her memories, but Priscilla of Wonderland did. And that was a problem.