And so we begin. Still a kind of short chapter but I swear I'll make them longer as we get further past the setups. I do have one question for you guys: would you rather have David be in a coma (aka, follow canon) or not? I'm slightly leaning towards having him up and about but I want to know what you guys think. Let me know, and thank you for all the reviews/follows/favorites!

Seven and a half months later

"Emma? You all packed?''

A tint of disbelief colored the woman's tone, for which Emma couldn't entirely fault her – one backpack full of crap wasn't exactly the sight most people expected whenever she turned up, but Emma had never been one for trinkets. Few things were sacred to her and they were in the backpack. Extra things she'd learned to let go of early – jewelry had never been given to her, toys weren't especially sentimental, and clothes required money, which was something Emma rarely had, and so every outfit she owned fit easily into the worn bag, along with basic toiletries, a tube of mascara, and the old, somewhat gross looking baby blanket she'd had since she had first come into existence; the one she had been found in, laying on the cold, damp side of a highway all those years ago. Talk about sentimental value.

''Yeah, I'm good.'' Backpack slung over her shoulder, and outfit combination number four being worn – faded jeans and an old INXS t-shirt, paired with the only pair of boots she owned – Emma smiled at the caseworker- Amanda- who offered a tentative grin back and opened the backseat door of the van.

Another school year, another house – at least she'd spent the entirety of sophomore year in one place, which was a rare treat. She'd even made a couple of friends, though they had, as almost always happened, fallen out of touch sometime around February – finals week, away games, and Emma's own distance nature having had a hand in the fading of friendship.

She did wish she could know where she was headed to next. Hopefully it would be better than inner city Detroit, anyway. Suburbs could be nice, condos as well. Maybe she would go further south, where it was warmer. In her experience, they always managed to keep her on the same side of the country, if not the same state, as though that somehow made up for being shoved around like a meal ticket, which happened far too many times for Emma to count.

And then there were the group homes. God, how she hated the group homes. Loud, strange smelling, and headed by stressed out and generally regretful foster parents, who clearly had no idea what they were in for by taking in a half dozen troubled children of varying ages.

Amanda didn't try to make small talk, for which Emma was grateful. Small talk had never been her thing, and she was far from in the mood to try. Instead, she just stared out at the passing scenery, dismal Detroit growing more and more distant as the minutes passed. They were driving down to Chicago, where she'd been evaluated and shipped off somewhere else. If only she knew where somewhere else was.

''Emma, how do you feel about Maine?''

A pause. It was the first thing either had said since entering the car twenty minutes ago. Emma blinked slowly. ''I...don't. I mean, I guess it's fine.''

''Good.'' Amanda the caseworker's eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, and Emma could see the wheels turning. ''Good.''

Hm. Emma could deal with Maine – anything but Detroit, anyway. The city was grating on her.

Storybrooke

It was rare that anyone ever came in to the pawnshop – so rare, in fact, that it was a mystery why the place was still in business at all.

But that was Storybrooke – so many questions, and even more vague, murky explanations.

''Well, all the paperwork is in order, Mr. Gold. Emma's in Detroit at the moment, I'm just on my way to pick her up – we're going to fly over from Chicago. We'll most likely arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime.''

''That's wonderful news, Miss Hayes. Everything's in order at this end as well – Emma's room is ready and waiting for her, as am I.''

''That's perfect, Mr. Gold. I'll call you when our plane lands in Boston.''

''Alright, dear. Speak to you soon.''

He ended the call with a beep and inhaled deeply, exhaling the breath loudly in the silence of the shop before smiling widely.

Mr. Gold was having an excellent day. For one, the weather had shifted.

He wasn't one to mindlessly blot out and ignore the repetitive nature of life in Storybrooke; on the contrary, he was perfectly aware of it. More so now that the Swan girl was on her way to the town. Mr. Gold had always remembered life beyond Storybrooke, having tucked memories deep into the back corners of his mind, almost impossible be to wiped or tampered with by anything, even a curse as dark as the one holding the entire town in Maine. But her name – Emma's – had broken a dam. Where once there had been blank spots, or dulled, blurry scraps of recollection, Rumplestilskin remembered it all.

He could only assume that the Mayor knew nothing of his recent awakening. If she did, she would have kicked the door in and rained hell down around them – Regina had always been one for the grand and scary.

But much to his delight, he had something over her – something she had no idea of, yet. Mr. Gold was opening his home to miscreant teenager Emma Swan, who had bounced around the foster system for years now. He was giving her a stable home and a town full of friendly people to interact with.

Including her actual parents, and all the people who were, essentially, a part of her would-be kingdom.

And Regina couldn't do a thing about it, that was the best part. As long as Mr. Gold stayed Mr. Gold, no one need know anything for just a little while longer. Emma could settle herself, he could introduce the idea of magic into her life, and then she'd break the curse, reunite with her parents, and he would be free to find Bae, wherever he was.

All while making the Evil Queen angrier and more powerless than ever. It was, truly, a win-win for both Gold and, though she did not know it yet, Emma.

The kettle on the stove whistled, and Gold smirked as he poured hot water into a cup of Earl Grey, and promptly dunked a biscuit into the liquid, munching on it thoughtfully. Things were already in motion. The clearing of the omnipresent Storybrooke clouds and cold outside was testament to that. Another few days and it might even get hot enough for a thunderstorm.