(A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to the update of Kill the Rabbit! Once again, it is rather late…but it's here, and there's something very, very special. Something I think is really worth celebrating and makes me so happy.
It's been a year.
It's been a year of constant love and support from you wonderful people who clawed through the terrible writing at the beginning of this story, a year of the kind and encouraging words you leave in reviews, a year of one of the biggest projects I've ever taken on in my entire life, if not the biggest. And it's all thanks to you. Yes, you. Right there. Reading these words right now. This story is entirely thanks to you. I can never thank you enough for your dedication and constant kindness, your forgiveness for the grammar and spelling mistakes, and your enthusiasm for the story and its development that really motivated me enough to continue.
Thank you.
So have a cookie, maybe some tea, a brand new chapter, and all of my love and gratitude. You've earned and deserve it.
This chapter has been rated T+ for VIOLENCE, DISTURBING IMAGERY, and LANGUAGE
And now, as always, ON WITH THE CHAPTER)
It was only once they were well outside the forest and beyond the hellish screams of the Jabberwocky that they slowed enough to catch their breath. The trees had faded behind them like a monochrome nightmare, and the omnipresent, diffused light that seemed to shine from nowhere, or maybe from everywhere, lost some of the sickly pallor it'd assumed in that forest. It wasn't a huge change, but it was something.
The trio had stopped on the crest of a hill, meaning to catch their breath and try to figure out which direction they should be heading in. Whitebeard was surveying the terrain, looking for any indication of which way they should go. Marco leaned against a tree nearby.
"You know, you're going to need to be better than halfway-not-pathetic if you want to save Ace." At the voice, all three heads snapped up, focusing on its source. Cheshire. Why did he always have to show up just at the perfect time to either frighten or piss Marco the hell off? Whitebeard regarded Cheshire warily, hearing the words of their mental conversation in the woods repeating over and over again in his head. Cheshire's eyes were disinterested not lingering long on any of the three.
"Why are you here, Cheshire?" Marco asked guardedly. He wished he had a weapon… Cheshire blinked and looked at him, but seemed to pay him no more attention, either as an ally, threat, or simply a person, than one might a beetle that happened to be noticed crawling across a leaf near one's boot. Not arrogance, but… recognized power. Marco had seen that look before, on a day over six thousand years ago.
The day everything good turned to ash.
(But ash doesn't burn, oh no. Never.)
The sea, the sky, the barbed harpoons, weighted nets, the metallic tang of blood but not his, never his.
(Can fire drown the sea? In light? In heat? In sorrow?)
Immortal, They said. Eternal, They insisted. Not so eternal as to not feel it when the arrow pierced the flesh, when the hounds tore off everything but the part of them that could scream, the part of them that could die.
(Does Death divide? Je ne sais pas. Personne connait rien, ces jours.)
All except him.
(Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, but life to death. What happened to equality?)
How many of them had he saved over the millennia?
(This is the way the world ends.)
How many wars had he and his averted with words and diplomacy?
(This is the way the world ends.)
How many plagues had been cured, how many hungry filled, thirsty satisfied?
(This is the way the world ends.)
And in that cage, Marco could remember. It was his curse. His legacy. To always, always remember. Marco thought on all the sinners he'd saved, and, lying in that stone box that killed him as slow to act as human conscience, Marco wished to take it all back. To steal away all the lives he'd saved over his years. Because Marco learned to be just like them. Marco learned to generalize.
Marco learned to hate.
(Not with a bang, but a whimper.)
Found it, found it, found it! Marco was jostled from his memories and that ache as old as breathing by Cheshire's voice in his head. Cheshire's eyes were focused solely on him, that icy gaze melting into the elation of leverage, of power, and Marco felt trapped. I seeeeeeeeeeee you, I seeeeeeeeee you! Cheshire's laugh, unsettling when heard, was infinitely worse in his head. Secrets suck, huh Marco? I told you before, I'll tell you again. Run. While. You. Can. Because when I'm finally allowed to get my hands on you I'm going to-
Cheshire's head snapped up suddenly, eyes going distant, staring at something in the sky that nobody else could see. For a long moment he remained frozen there, ears twitching minutely as if listening to something. After a moment his brows furrowed sharply and he spoke to no one. "That's not fair. You're cheating." He fell silent for another moment, then, "They didn't even pass your first little test. What makes you think they'll even survive this?" Another break. "Yes, you are almost out of time, aren't you? But going back won't be better." Beat. "Torture here or torture in the real world. You know the price of losing the game." Cheshire's grin seemed to grow sinister at those words. Beat. Another. Cheshire's brows furrowed and he gave a sarcastic snarl. "Well then, give that fluffy bunny of yours a big wet kiss on the cheek for me, would you? Tell him I'll be by later to skin his ribs." Something in Marco knew the last sentence wasn't a joke, or even an exaggeration. He had no doubt Cheshire could be dangerous.
Another moment of silence passed, the annoyance passing suddenly and jarringly from Cheshire's face. "Very well." A pause. "Yes, yes, I know." A longer pause. "No." A beat. "I said no." Longer. "I won't say it again." The sinister purr dropped back into Cheshire's voice. "If you're allowed to break the rules and meddle, why can't I?" His gaze dropped disconcertingly to Marco. "I've already seen his mind. Twice, in fact." A beat. "Since when have I cared about any of that?" A beat. Cheshire grinned challengingly. "I'd like to see you try, creator-dear. Make this move if you like, but I grow closer and closer to checkmate. Are you really so ready to fall?" A pause. Cheshire laughed, long and low. Upon calming, he continued. "Trust? Trust doesn't exist! Dormouse is dead, Ace, and so's Tweedle Dee! He's back at the Gate, eating Dodo's skin! You can't trust anymore, Ace." A pause, and Cheshire scoffed again. "Don't try lying. I find it incredible you try to play naïve and innocent after all that's happened to March Hare. To be honest, I find it amazing that you can. It must all be Queen." A pause, and Cheshire laughed. "Please! Queen can't die in these conditions, you know that. He's been corrupted, though. Manipulated. There's no getting him back and no use trying. If you really move like you're planning-" A tiny pause before Cheshire all-out roared. "DON'T. INTERRUPT. ME." A slight pause where Cheshire became disturbingly calm. "Much better." A tiny silence. "No, really. It's quite alright." Marco felt an impulse to take a step away from Cheshire. This calm…wasn't natural. If anything, it was just as intimidating, if not more intimidating than Cheshire's previous violent anger. Cheshire's whole persona was a tiny, paper-thin mask of civility covering something awful. Marco didn't trust Cheshire. Didn't trust those ice-blue eyes. (Hazel-grey. Hazel-grey. Ace's eyes everywhere, but not here. Ice-blue. Fire blue. Pain blue. Why?)
"That's fine. Yes. …Yes, I suppose. …Hmmm. I'm not sure." A snarky sneer. "Tell Rabbit he can fucking hang himself on his ears." A pause, the harshness falling from Cheshire's face. His eyes closed softly. "You remember what I've taught you, right? Just…do that." The conversation seemed to come to an end, and Cheshire turned back to fully face the three pirates again. All were staring at him in a mix of confusion and bewilderment. He looked between them incredulously. "Oh please, you've seen Ace and Caterpillar communicate. Working long-distance is harder, so speaking out loud makes it easier."
"You mean Ace can…interact from wherever he is?" Thatch asked. Cheshire gave a small bob of a nod.
"Yes. Of course, he can't speak to you. But he can and has been watching," Cheshire said. "Well…not just watching, either. He's tampered a bit with the layout of Wonderland. He led you to the Gate, to the forest, to Tweedle Dee, even to here."
"…What was that you said about a test earlier?" Marco asked. Cheshire turned his head to look at him.
"Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dee was the test. To see how you'd react, how you'd handle the situation. Before now, you weren't allowed to know about the test because that would have destroyed the whole point." Cheshire replied.
"Which is…?" Marco asked.
"To see how you'd react. What your decision would be. How you would treat him." Cheshire said.
"But…why?" Marco asked. Cheshire cocked an eyebrow.
"You really think the deaths of all these inhabitants of Wonderland, these pieces of Ace's mind, is going to have no effect on him whatsoever? Ace is worse–much worse—than Tweedle Dee was. Terrified, hurt, alone, trapped. If you couldn't deal with Tweedle Dee, be kind and accepting, than Ace would have known that there wasn't even a chance of you aiding him. You'd probably have been rejected from Wonderland. Which, without Ace's assistance, would leave you comatose and braindead for the rest of your vegetative lives. But, even though you failed Tweedle Dee in almost every sense of the word, he's decided to let you continue. I don't pretend to understand his reasoning on this." Cheshire looked off, towards the horizon. "He's changed the game for you. It's both an advantage and a disadvantage. He manipulated and reorganized Wonderland to make your route as short as possible, but consequently you must also now pass through the most dangerous places. Hatter, Caterpillar, Queen…you're going to encounter them all before you get to Ace. Well…you'll encounter at least Hatter. And assuming he doesn't kill you, then you'll meet Caterpillar. And then, assuming Caterpillar doesn't kill you, you'll go on to the Red Palace. And beyond that, Ace."
"Why can't Ace manipulate Wonderland so he can meet us?" Thatch asked.
"That's because once they're dead, they're no longer so affable. Nor are they under Ace's control. It's like…" Cheshire trailed off, trying to come up with an applicable simile. "It'd be like chess if, instead of removing the dead pieces, they were forced to remain in that square for the rest of the game. Movement on the board has become harder and harder for Ace because, frankly, he's losing. The dead pieces are everywhere, so the best he could do was clear out the ones he still has control over to get them out of your way. Hatter, Caterpillar, and Queen, though, will not be moved."
"So they're dead then?" That could spell serious trouble for them. Dead inhabitants tended to be dangerous.
Cheshire tsked. "Always questions. How many times must I tell you that I don't answer questions? I said they will not be moved, not that they cannot. They each represent a particularly powerful part of Ace's psyche. The fact that they are such large and influential parts of his personality and mind give them power here, and even Ace, unless he had the aid of the others, doesn't have real control over them. He grappled – and I mean that in a very literal sense – with them on the way in here and made a few things easier for you, but with the chaos Wonderland is currently in…well, even they are dying. It's slow, but it's happening. And death makes us…well, not. Not what we used to be, and at least Caterpillar and Hatter used to be friendly. Queen was never friendly, and what's happened to him won't change that. They say a cat has nine lives, Alice, I hope you have as many."
"Alice?" Thatch asked. "What the hell?" Cheshire blinked indolently.
"You heard the story Ace told. You're just as useless, blind, ignorant, and deluded as Alice, so I thought I'd summarize all of that in one word." Thatch opened his mouth to retaliate but Cheshire cut him off. "Oh don't be like that, princess. The other two are equally moronic. You just happened to voice the stupidest thought." Thatch huffed, but before he could get into a fight with Cheshire, Marco spoke.
"Anyways, Cheshire-" Marco began.
"Before you say something equally stupid or ask a question which I will not directly answer or not answer at all, let me just tell you." Cheshire cut him off. Marco gave him a confused look. Cheshire didn't even know what he was about to say, for God's sake. For someone who hated being cut off, he sure did it a lot. "As I said before, you'll be passing by Hatter's domain first." He turned his head, indicating a direction off to their left. "That way. Don't try to go around. And don't dawdle. You've wasted enough time as it is."
"Wasted enough time? It's still…what, mid-afternoon? We can't have been here for more than a few hours." Thatch said. Cheshire turned his gaze to him.
"You remember when Ace came here before. Thirty-six hours in Wonderland translated to two weeks in the "real" world. You've been here for four hours now, and adding the time you spent in Ace's memory...well. It's been three days back on the Moby Dick."
Dumbfounded silence.
"…You're serious." Marco stated. It wasn't a question.
"Entirely. You've been comatose for seventy-two hours. And you have yet to traverse even a fourth of what you'll need to go through to get to Ace. Oh, and shall I remind you of the predicament Ace is in? He's losing. Fast. You want him out you need to get in gear."
"If Ace loses this…game, I'd like to know what happens after that." Marco half-asked.
"Predictably dense. It's not a question of 'if', Alice, it's 'when'. As for what happens…well," A sinister spark of interest seemed to enter Cheshire's eyes. "Everything will be different." Cheshire said.
"Change…difference…doesn't necessarily imply harm…" Marco said. Cheshire turned cold, somewhat hostile eyes on him.
"Different denotes neither bad nor good but it certainly means not the same. Find the Hatter, Alice. He knows more about 'different' than you."
He burned away and was gone.
Hatter's domain looked like it had before.
Every detail was exactly as it had been, the almost coo-coo clock design, the dark wood, the shingled roof, the clock tower soaring above it all… it was exactly as it had been before.
All in all it creeped Marco the hell out.
It was like…it was like someone had drawn a picture of the old building and subconsciously fixed all the tiny, barely noticeable imperfections. It was too perfect, too nice, too exactly like it had been before.
The large doors stood exactly as they had before, polished to a shine, brass handles practically glowing in the diffused light. The large building cast a shadow over the party as they drew close to the doors, and Marco felt a chill settle to his very bones. An unnatural, deadly chill. (Flies in a web. Mice in a trap. Hares in a snare, necks snapped, flesh melted off the bones-) Marco instinctively knew this was wrong, wrong, wrong, but he didn't hesitate to pull on the door.
Gears turned, the double doors slid smoothly and silently open, and the clock bell rang three times.
The interior of the house was still. Motionless. Poised in unnatural perfection. The three stood outside the open doors, hesitating. The air within was as still and stagnant as a church, as a cave. As a tomb.
It'll be yours if you're not careful.
The light seemed to hesitate as they did, providing watery illumination through the doors and polished windows. Within there were gas lamps, hanging from the ceiling and on the walls, and the place glowed with light. But…it seemed oily. Foul.
As Marco stepped inside it cast an unhealthy glow on his skin. It felt…more solid than light should. Marco almost felt like if he reached out he could close his fist around it, seize something that by its very nature should be ephemeral and was, was the way it should be everywhere except here. This building was sick. Marco stepped as quietly as he could on the polished tile floors, but the footfalls still rung out louder than he would have liked. Thatch and Whitebeard were even with him, and as soon as all three of them passed the threshold, the door swung silently shut behind them. The click of the lock in the stillness froze Marco's soul. He didn't need to turn back and look at them because, even if he hadn't seen, he already knew.
There were no handles on this side of the door.
(Spiders smile, you know. They smile wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide.)
Marco took a moment to let his heart steady, to calm himself. Don't panic. Don't panic. Panic and you're dead. Keep calm and face it. A trap isn't a trap if you use it to your advantage.
Marco followed Whitebeard and Thatch down the hallway, evenly spaced lamps keeping the spaces so brightly lit shadows were nonexistent. It threw off Marco's depth perception, and seemed bizarre and unnatural. Besides this, though, there seemed to be no threats. Yet.
The red carpet beneath Marco's feet was just as plush and uniform as Marco remembered, the walls all painted the same shade, the lamps all exact replicas of each other. Movement became irrelevant in that hallway because it was impossible to measure distance. Everything just repeated over and over again, and Marco couldn't be entirely sure he was moving at all.
He knew they were in trouble when they reached an intersection.
Here the path branched off in two directions, left and right. Both were identical, the same paint, the same carpet, the same lamps as the hall they had just come down. Marco couldn't see the end of either, and as they paused at that intersection, he wondered exactly what kind of game this was.
"…I guess it doesn't matter which way we choose. Either way we're still equally lost." Thatch said. Marco couldn't help but silently agree. Thatch gave a snort. "Anybody have a coin we can flip?"
"If it doesn't matter, we may as well go right. Keep track of which direction we turn at every intersection, though, otherwise we'll never get out." Marco replied.
"This place is either a labyrinth or a maze, and either way, getting lost is the last thing we want. Stay together as a group. Do not get separated. Understand?" Whitebeard asked. Both nodded in return.
Marco took the first step down the new hallway and almost fell flat on his face.
He sprang up instantly, leaping away from what had tripped him, looking all around for whatever trap it logically should have set off.
Marco knew he'd sprung the tripwire and waited anxiously for the repercussions.
Nothing happened.
After a minute and a half, Marco allowed himself to relax, at least somewhat. He approached the wire again, bending down to inspect it. The tiny wire shone in the light, metallic surface reflecting the oily yellow from the lamps. It'd been nearly invisible, too small for even Marco to see, when he'd walked down the hallway, but now as he was looking for it it vaguely stood out against the carpet.
Marco reached for it slowly, glancing up at his two companions before lifting the now-loose wire. He followed its length carefully to one wall, where he could see the formerly-undetectable hook the tiny wire had hung from. There was no switch here, so Marco could half-relax. He turned and followed the wire to the other wall. Instead of having another hook which it hung from, this wire slipped through a tiny, needle-sized hole in the wall, disappearing into the depths of the house.
This string hadn't been for any trap, it had been to notify their 'host' of his new 'guests'.
Marco turned back to Whitebeard and Thatch, concern evident on his face. He was unwilling to speak in this place. To stir the silence seemed…dangerous. Marco had already completely denied his instincts by setting foot in this place, and that was already turning out so well. He was more willing to listen this time. Marco heaved a sigh. It was too late now for this trip wire, but that didn't mean they couldn't be more careful in the future.
It wasn't long after that that Marco began to lose track of everything. Time, which direction he was facing, if he was moving, where he was…once, for just one startling moment, he'd even forgotten who he was. The monotony of the halls, the lamps, the floors, the walls was seeping into Marco's mind, stewing it in itself and letting him slowly do this to himself. It wasn't long before Marco stopped counting how many times they turned. Eventually, after a certain number of stumbles, they'd even stopped counting the trip wires or making even marginal efforts to avoid them. Nothing happened either way, so what was the purpose?
Marco could feel himself sinking into the ennui and doldrums of his own mind and could do nothing to stop it from happening. Slowly, less and less seemed important to him. Less and less seemed to matter. He was too tired to do any of those things. All he could do was continue to meander down these halls, wondering when exactly he'd die-
The tripwire didn't wake Marco from this stasis, but the trap it sprung sure as hell did.
It was Thatch who'd sprung it, maybe two feet in front of Marco. Whitebeard was a ways in front of him, having just barely missed the wire himself by sheer luck. But the effect it had was instantaneous, too quick for Marco to move.
A wall seamlessly and impenetrably between him and Thatch.
Marco snapped out of his daze, instantly at the wall, pulling at it, pounding on it, unable to get through. Damn it damn it DAMN IT. I should have KNOWN this would happen! The other wires were just to make us think they were all duds, they were just decoys, lulling us into false security! Marco could dimly hear Thatch and Whitebeard on the other side, pounding against the wall just as he'd been.
Marco forced himself to calm down, to take a deep breath. This wasn't going to help anything. All he could do was…
"Hey guys," Marco shouted, loud enough that he was mostly sure they could hear him on the other side. The pounding ceased, at least, so he knew he must have their attention. "It's no good, I won't be able to get through." He dimly heard a reply in Thatch's voice, too muffled to be articulate words. Oh shit I hope that's not what I sound like to them. "Listen," Marco increased his volume, just in case. "I'm going to try to loop around. This place is a labyrinth, so there's no dead ends. You guys start making lefts, I'll start making rights. It's the best chance we have of running into each other." He heard dim what he assumed to be assent come from the other side of the wall. "I'm heading off now." Marco shouted. "I'm sure we'll find each other eventually." Again dim assent.
Marco waited near the wall as the silence descended again.
He took a deep breath and swallowed before turning to face away from the wall. It was looking at that empty hallway, hearing the void of silence that cemented it in Marco's mind.
I am alone.
Alone. Nobody to help him, if he should be jumped by Hatter or whatever else was in here. Nobody to keep him sane, keep him animated when his mind began to haze again.
Hatter planned this all along.
Marco forced his heart to steady, facing that breaking symmetry alone, and stepped forward.
It didn't take long for him to become hopelessly lost again. He made rights, just as he'd told Thatch and Whitebeard he would, so he wasn't lost in the physical sense.
The mental sense was another matter altogether.
It wasn't long before Marco felt as if he were merely walking down the same hallway over and over and over again. The lack of shadows, the exact similarity between everything he saw led to uncertainty. Was this a dream? Was he even moving? Was he even awake? Was he just walking down the same, endless corridor, or was he simply standing still in it?
Marco's mind quickly sank back into the fog it'd been in before. With the company of the others and their occasional words he had been able to drag himself out occasionally when the doldrums set in, but now, when he was all alone, there was nothing he could do. Eventually, conscious thought began to fade. Sensory perception was obsolete in these conditions, so that went first. After it was urgency. Then emotion. Then memory.
It wasn't long before Marco stopped making rights.
Marco had just convinced himself that the oily glow from the lamps was not due to fire but to some kind of bioluminescent fish when he came upon the door. It startled him so completely that he actually jumped, as if it was a surprise. It wasn't that he hadn't seen the door, per say, but he didn't notice it until he was standing right before it.
Marco tried to shake off the dregs of his wandering and think clearly, but he still felt delayed. Sleepy. Fuzzy. He didn't think when he reached out and grabbed the handle.
He didn't think when he turned it and opened the door.
Inside was a grand hall, long, infinitely tall, vast. Looking up to the ceiling which faded up into blackness before even beginning to slow its assent, Marco wouldn't have been surprised to see stars up there. After conquering his wonder at the height of the hall, Marco turned to survey the rest of it.
A fireplace crackled at one end of the room, casting a rosy glow on that end. A large, ornate crystal chandelier dangled from the center of the ceiling, the whiter light of the candles stunning in comparison to the oily filth of the light in the halls. None of these things were at all surprising to him, however, and it was only when he turned to look at the center of the room that he found something unexpected.
He'd expected a long, elegant table covered in the purest of white cloths, mirror-shined silverware gleaming off the table, napkins folded in elegant designs by each of the dozens of places, vases of exotic flowers or classic roses pouring color like wine onto the surface from their china vases.
He did not expect to see a small, common table surrounded by four chairs, its dingy surface only partially covered by an old, yellowed doily and the place mats. Plain teacups and saucers sat near each place, as well as a small plate for snacks. In the center of the table on top of the weathered doily was the teapot, a modest work in white china, chipped at the spout.
"Welcome."
The voice seemed to come from everywhere t once and it took Marco a moment to recognize that there was someone seated at the table. The last vestiges of haze had faded from Marco's mind, replaced with all the caution and vigilance he could muster.
"Please, come join me." After a moment's deliberation, Marco complied, approaching slowly. Don't piss him off. Don't piss him off. Whatever you do, don't piss him off. It was only once he got closer that he got a good look at Hatter.
He was slouched lifelessly in his chair, arms dangling off the armrests and head hanging forward. He still wore the same deep blue tailcoat and pants, but they were faded now, the velvet worn and old. The top hat still perched on his head, but it too looked like it had seen better years. He looked exactly the same in every way except for the strains of time. But then Marco saw him.
He was a puppet.
Wires protruded from the backs of his hands, the top of his head, the tops of his feet, extending up, up, up, into that unseeable ceiling. His body, head, limbs, all were made completely of wood. The hands were jointed and flexible, his carved fingers clacking together as his arm dangled off the chair.
He had no face.
The front side of his head was entirely smooth and polished to a shine. As Marco drew nearer, the strings tugged and danced and suddenly he seemed animated. He sat up straight in the chair, his arms swinging up only to flop gracelessly onto the table, clattering the cups against their saucers. His movements were jerky, jarring, and unpracticed, as if whoever controlled him had no real idea how to use a puppet. One arm swung up and wide, as if gesturing for Marco to join in.
Marco, unwilling to offend, drew closer still until he stood just beside the table. Hesitantly he pulled back his chair and sat down. Hatter reached out and jerkily seized the teapot, clumsily filling his and Marco's cups until they nearly overflowed. Eat nothing. Drink nothing. Don't trap yourself. Tea having been poured, Hatter turned to Marco, blank face 'looking' right at him.
"And how does one do, this evening?" The voice was strange, as if being played through a machine. Marco forced a polite smile.
"I'm very well, thank you," he said. Silence fell as Marco continued to watch Hatter (was it Hatter? Or was Hatter somewhere up there in the ceiling controlling this?) subtly and closely. Hatter, or the puppet, made no attempt at stealth, instead keeping its 'face' angled towards Marco at all times. It had no eyes, but Marco could feel someone watching him. After the moment began to stretch, Marco cleared his throat and spoke.
"So…where's March Hare?" The puppet seemed to jerk, head spinning to 'look' straight ahead.
"It isn't late anymore." Hatter reached woodenly into one of its pockets and withdrew something. It took Marco a moment, to recognize the tattered ear for what it was. "See?" Marco felt sick with dread. They were too late, Hatter had already died and he was less than two feet away. If Hatter attacked, Marco was screwed. Oh so very, very screwed. He forced a smile and gave an amicable nod.
"Ah yes. Uhm…very…nice." Hatter tucked the ear back into his pocket. Silence fell again. Hatter watching again.
"…Why does one not drink their tea?" Hatter asked. The tone was as light as before, but Marco could feel a darker undertone beneath it.
"Well…you see, you've caught me in a rather awkward spot. My friends and I actually just had tea before we came here, so while I appreciate your hospitality, I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline." The lie flowed easier than he'd expected. Hatter stared at him for another moment before speaking again.
"It didn't drink its tea either," he said. "Not one drop." His voice was going oddly mechanic, apathetic. He cackled abruptly. "Not anymore, see, not anymore!" He turned his face to instead look at the teapot, facing it the same way he had Marco. Marco waited another anxious minute then hesitantly reached for the teapot. Hatter didn't move. It was as if he didn't even notice. Marco wondered if whoever was pulling the strings had withdrawn for a moment. Slowly, gradually enough not to startle, Marco lifted and brought the teapot to himself. Hatter continued staring at the place it had been. Marco pulled off the lid almost hesitantly, wondering what, exactly, would be inside.
March Hare's dead eyes stared up at him from the bottom of the pot, jaw slack in a silenced scream. His severed head was too big to float freely in the pot, and was instead wedged near the bottom. He'd been dead for a while, no blood seeping out of the injury that had separated head and shoulders. Grey brain matter slipped out his ears, polluting the dregs of tea with chunky slime. Marco swallowed the bile he felt in his throat and replaced the lid, setting the teapot back in its original place. When he looked up he flinched wildly away.
Hatter was no longer in his seat.
His 'face' was less than three inches from the side of Marco's head, shoulders strangely slumped, arms unnaturally loose. "Oh no." The voice was monotone, entirely dead. "It saw. It saw." Marco turned his head slowly to look at Hatter just as Hatter moved.
Whirrrrr click.
In the moment between the move and the attack, Marco could do nothing but widen his eyes in horror.
Thatch and Whitebeard had been up and down what might as well have been the same hallway for a long time now. They'd established a system where every time they came to an intersection and turned, they'd have a brief conversation, generally about something meaningless but that required some brain function, just to keep from going mad in the silence.
When they came upon the door it was entirely by accident.
They hesitated before opening it, relieved to see something different, but unsure of what lay beyond. On one hand, perhaps Marco was on the other side, or perhaps an exit. On the other…they didn't know if Hatter had died yet, and if he had and was on the other side of the door, it would be in their best interests to stay away.
It was the scream that decided them.
Whitebeard didn't know whose it was, the amount of pain in the voice limited its distinction, but he knew that whoever they were, they needed help, pronto. Whitebeard flung open the door, through it in a moment, and took half a moment to get a basic survey of the room, trying to locate the source of the voice.
Table. Walls. Fireplace. Chandelier. Chairs.
And Hatter.
He made no move as they entered the room, as if he didn't notice them. He was once more slouched in his chair, facing out towards the room. Whitebeard's eyes narrowed. It couldn't have been him that screamed. He had no mouth. The scream had come from in here, and as far as Whitebeard knew, it was just them and Hatter, which left one candidate for the scream.
Marco.
Whitebeard felt his parental protectiveness surge and found it a miracle he didn't fly across the room and pop Hatter's head clean off. He did storm closer, making no attempt at stealth. Hatter didn't move, remaining slumped in his chair. Dimly, behind his concern for his son, Whitebeard wondered if maybe someone else had been here and had killed Hatter and done…something with Marco, but first things fucking first, he needed to deal with Hatter.
"Where. Is. Marco?" Whitebeard's voice was cold, furious. A long moment of silence, then the strings tugged and Hatter came alive, sitting up straight and tall in his chair, limbs flailing until they flopped to the table, immediately after assuming a position of nobility and elegance, resting woodenly on the teacup and saucer. His head was the last to animate, snapping up and angling towards Whitebeard and Thatch. A long moment of silence passed before Hatter moved again.
"Little birdie blue breast?" The wires danced again and Hatter rose, arms hanging strangely before him until the strings attempted to withdraw them. It was a sloppy attempt, and they only ended up spread like wings, the left higher than the right. He hung from the wires as they dragged him along the floor. His feet dragged against the carpet, wooden joints clacking as he bobbed. He stopped a short ways from the pair and the string made him practically slap himself in the face as he assumed a theatrical look of contemplation. "Little birdie blue breast?" he said again in that tinny, disembodied voice.
"Tell me where Marco is or you die." Whitebeard snarled.
The wires sagged and Hatter's limbs flopped, his head lolling on his chest, and a tiny, different voice echoed with laughter. "Already done, already done." It hiss-sang. The strings reanimated, tugging him back to attention. "Little birdie blue breast came to sit by me. He whistled very nicely but he did not drink his tea." The little voice sang, louder than before. He rose slightly off the ground, the wires pulling him higher, limbs dangling aimlessly by his sides.
"No more games! Where. Is. Marco? What have you done with him?"
"Little birdie blue breast tried to flee the floor. It couldn't get away from me…" Hatter's head did a full 180. Whirrr click.
This side of his head wasn't bare.
Hatter grinned, eyes wide, head at a horrible angle on its limp thread.
"It doesn't whistle anymore."
(A/N: This chapter…didn't turn out how I really wanted it. Hmm. I think I'll possibly come back later and fix it. But maybe it's better than I'm supposing. Let me know what you think! This chapter's reviews come with birthday cake, because it's Kill the Rabbit's first, and mine was three days ago! :D
Anonymous Reviews:
Guest (no signature): I'm glad you like it! :D I hope the update wasn't too slow for you! And yes, children's tales are actually pretty freaky all on their own, but with proper manipulation, can be made even scarier.
Ladyuzuscarlet: Hahahha thank you, as always. Poor Tweedle Dee indeed. :( it sucks to be him. Oh yes. Well…kind of. It's hard to explain. Certain parts of Wonderland really, really don't want Marco, Thatch, and Whitebeard in there, but other parts (ironically including Mr. Savage) don't. It's hard to explain, but I'll try to somehow touch on it in another chapter. Well…I suppose so, yes. Though maybe not in the way you're thinkng…you see, these memories are recorded like any others, this is essentially an adventure for them like any other, excepting the fact that if they get hurt they'll be perfectly fine once they return to their bodies. So it can have lasting effect in the way any adventure and discovering your best friend and crewmate's subconscious is filled with violent, horrific monsters does. (XD) Hahahaha well, not exactly Carpenter, but Jabberwocky may or may not appear again. I am temporarily free, only to drown once more in their clutches on Monday when I start the hell that is summer school. But thanks for your concern, and I promise I'll write whenever I can. :)
Panda Bear: Yeah it was pretty sad, wasn't it? I'm glad you enjoyed it. Well, they're thought. How do you kill a thought? Or a piece of your personality? Honestly, take the Black Widow for example, how would you go about physically murdering a projection of compassion? It's only when they're in the "real" world and thus given true physical form that they can be killed in at sense of the word. Does that help at all?
Rio: Thanks for the advice! I may not have really incorporated it in this chapter, but if the opportunity presents itself I promise I will seize it!
Guest (no signature): I will! Hope you enjoy!
And I'd just like to say thanks again to everyone out there reading this story. You make it so much more worthwhile to publish it, seeing all of your positive responses makes me so happy. As long as you guys continue to enjoy, I'll continue to write. I love you all! Thanks for all your kind words and ongoing support!
~Mountain97
IMPORTANT PS: After Kill the Rabbit is done (and we've got a ways to go, mind you), I'm planning on writing a story on my version of Marco's backstory (which I vaguely hinted at in this chapter). Would you be interested in reading something like that? Please let me know!)