Chapter 2

Flynn woke slowly, drifting in and out of a half sleep, warm with fever and muddled by the fog and the pulsing of his head. The thought that he ought to breathe rose up from somewhere, and he gave it a try, regretting it almost immediately as it set off the pain in his muscles again.

Again? When had they hurt before? He could only vaguely remember pain and fear and a soft, scared voice and a rapid ticking noise.

He took bleary stock of himself, noting that everything hurt. His head throbbed and his arm twinged as though it was bruised. His hand stung when he tried to move his fingers, the chill of raw flesh scraping against cloth, damp as though it was oozing or slathered with ointment. He'd burned it, hadn't he? He kind of remembered that. It almost clicked in his mind that his hand had been bandaged, but the thought just missed catching on something solid and slipped away again with a wave of nausea.

Then there was his side. Oh shit, now that he noticed it, the pain was almost overwhelming. He moved to touch it, but his arms didn't respond like they should and he simply flailed for a moment before giving up.

It was dark. Why was it dark? Then he realized his eyes were closed and he opened them to stare off for a while until his senses returned at last.

He was in a coffin – a low, enclosed box that felt stuffy and bed-like. Did that mean he was dead? He couldn't dig up enough energy to care one way or the other.

But then coffins were never lit on the inside, and he could distinctly tell there was a dim light somewhere above his head, where he could never possibly hope to turn and see it.

He tried to push himself up onto an elbow with a groan, only to be stopped by something metallic and rusty pressed to his lips. Opening his eyes once more he found the chameleon directly in front of his face, staring at him, its foot pressed to his mouth to urge him to stay silent, its tail poised and ready to strike.

He took a shallow breath to whisper a question, only for the chameleon to tick threateningly, arching its tail even further back.

After staring at it for far too long, holding his body so still that his muscles screamed in protest, the chameleon clicked open a compartment in its side and eased out a tube on an extendable mechanical arm. Flynn assumed it was yet another concealed weapon, and flinched as the cap on one end popped open, showing a roll of paper nestled inside.

He blinked at it, then with numb, fumbling fingers, eased the note free. He had to squint at it, his eyes fighting to focus, and he held it up above his head to read it in the soft light. The letters were neat, almost as if they were drawn rather than written. Every Y ended in a neat spiral and every period was more like a little circle than a dot.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know how to address this note," it began, its oddness making Flynn feel even more disoriented. "You must stay quiet. You are in great danger here and I fear for what will happen to you if you are found. Please do not make any noise. Stay where you are. You shouldn't move around too much anyway or your wounds may reopen. Lie still and rest, or Pascal will make you. Love, Rapunzel."

He opened his mouth to comment that none of this made any sense at all, but the chameleon hissed again and he thought better of it.

He let his arm flop to the side and closed his heavy eyes with a sigh. The chameleon waited another moment to be sure that he wouldn't leap up and start singing before backing down off his chin to rest on his chest. Flynn absently noted that the chameleon must be Pascal.

What a weird name.

And how weird to give a chameleon a name in the first place.

Groggily, he formed the word to test it out.

Pascal.

The name - however silent it was - made the chameleon hiss with irritation and a sharp, crisp pain burst against his collar bone as the little monster struck him with its tail, drugging him into silence.

As the world blurred and faded once more, Flynn realized that if the chameleon had a name he must have finally found its home.

Flynn woke later to the flickering whir of a film projector. He felt much more alert and almost human, telling him that his fever had broken. His body still ached and his side and hand felt miserable. There was a numbness in his finger and lips and the very edges of his skin that told him he was still drugged, probably for the pain. It felt a bit like being cold.

He slowly inspected his bandaged hand, then pushed himself up on an elbow and craned his neck to see the bandage around his middle.

He now realized that the bed he was lying on could be folded up into the ceiling, which was most likely where he had been hidden when he woke earlier. But now it was lowered and the room was open and airy and no longer claustrophobic. It was dark, but less like the close, pitch dark of a tomb, and more a clear, freeing shadow of night. Most of the light came from the projected film on the far wall, the only wall not covered in tacked up drawings and notes and swirling images of girls with long hair caught in a wind and elaborate dresses that draped and ruffled.

Watching the film was a bit surreal in its familiarity. It took him a moment to realize that he recognized it because he was there, the cobblestone streets filled with passing strangers, the carriages and the motor bikes, the buildings that loomed over one another like trees in a forest fighting for sunlight.

It was one of the films the chameleon had taken when they were in the capital, an assumption that was confirmed when the camera panned to the side to show a close, poorly framed shot of Flynn's face. The sight was a bit jarring, and as he watched he could see all the anxious trepidation in his own eyes as the time of his heist drew steadily nearer. He watched the way he spoke to the chameleon. He hadn't realized that he had been doing that quite so much.

The camera turned again, up to the sky, and he watched as an airship drifted between buildings, materializing out of the fog only to disappear once more.

"It looks so much different from the one that crashed. Bigger. And with a balloon. How does it work?"

The question brought Flynn's attention to a girl seated next to the projector. Her back was facing him and she leaned forward excitedly on her stool, soaking up every image, looking about ready to restart the film and watch it again. She pulled a pair of goggles down from her forehead and clicked a set of magnifying lenses into place for a more detailed view of the airship.

She was slightly built, her skin appearing pale in the flickering light. Her long, blonde hair was mussed a bit from her goggles, then fell down her back and out of sight behind a table covered in gears and wires and scribbled notes. Her skirt was bustled up on one side, revealing a mass of ruffled underskirts that were so heavy they were held up with suspenders that crossed over her back and ran around to buckle in front against her ribs. She looked painfully thin, but that might have been from her corset of thick, brown leather that looked a bit battered. Her forearms were covered in grey, woolen cuffs, with ruffles against her wrists that she fiddled with unconsciously.

He cleared his throat and asked, "You've never seen an airship?" and was irritated to find that his voice sounded weak and rough from disuse.

Gasping and spinning around, She snatched a heavy spanner off her work bench, holding it threateningly in both hands, her big, green eyes magnified to enormous proportions by her goggles.

"Whoa," he said, holding up a hand. "Whoa."

She paused a moment to blink at him, adjusting her grip on her weapon.

Flynn swallowed and mustered up a smile for her. "Hi."

This seemed to confuse her.

He put his hand against his chest and spoke slowly. "I'm Flynn."

She didn't move.

"And you are?"

She shifted, then carefully lowered her spanner, reaching up with one hand to shift her goggles back onto her forehead, mussing her hair further. The freckles on her face were just visible beneath a smudge of something like charcoal or grease. Somehow the look worked for her.

"Rapunzel," she said.

Another weird name. No wonder she called the chameleon Pascal.

"Well, it's great to meet you. And… thanks for patching me up and letting me crash here I guess."

"I didn't invite you to crash here," she said, her face falling into a stern frown that looked a bit forced, as if it was a rarely used expression. "Pascal did."

"Ah… Then thanks to Pascal."

She ignored his attempt at humor and continued to frown at him. "If my mother found you here she would kill you. Then she'd yell at me and then she'd move me someplace even farther away. Do you know how hard it was to get you up here? You're heavy."

"Uh… Sorry?"

"And your flying contraption! I just barely got it hidden. Could you imagine how angry she'd have been if she found me out of the tower? Running around in the grass, and the stream… and the little pink flowers…" Her voice turned wistful towards the end and Flynn decided that he had definitely picked the wrong tower to crash into.

"Yeah, that'd be… bad," he agreed for the sake of agreeing.

"Horrible!" she said, snapping back into her rant. "And did you know you talk in your sleep?"

"… I do?"

"You do," she said with a nod of her head. "I was sure you were going to be caught."

"And then murdered?"

"Horrifically."

"Right. Great. I guess I'll just get going then."

He strained to sit up more, only to have the girl rush forward and push him back down. "You can't leave. You're not healed yet."

"Well, I'm clearly not wanted."

She bit her lip slightly, sliding down to perch on the edge of the bed. She was far too easy to read, and he watched as her internal struggle played out across her face - her need to be apologetic against her want to continue to rant about him and the situation in which she found herself.

"You can't leave," she repeated quietly, not meeting his eyes. "Your side is still too gross."

He looked down at it again.

"I had to give you stitches." She reached over and pushed some clunky odds and ends off a thick book on her work bench – a light bulb, a handful of tiny gears, some copper tubing. She readjusted herself on the bed, pushing him a bit to the side to sit next to him and show off her medical text.

If she was so concerned about his recovery, maybe she shouldn't be shoving him.

There wasn't really that much space here. She was yelling at him a second ago and now she was invading his personal space. Because – like everything else – that made sense.

"Mother got me this book to show what kind of terrible things could happen if I go outside." She flipped through the pages, showing gruesome, illuminated page after gruesome, illuminated page. "Sometimes I look at the pictures when I paint. If you ignore the insides that are spilling out, it's a pretty good anatomy reference. And then I studied the flow of blood for some designs I've done, so it's not so terrible, even though it looks a bit frightening. I followed the instructions on how to fix you and I think I did a good job. You're not bleeding any more. And you're lucid again."

"Am I?"

"Yes. But you really shouldn't be moving around this much."

"That's nice and all but- What day is it?"

"Thursday. You've been asleep for days. But it's lucky you woke up now. Mother just left this morning."

"Thurs..." Wait. "Oh God!"

He jerked up, hissing as pain ripped through his side. He tried to bite down the stabbing sensation that ran up his neck all the way to his jaw, clenched at his chest, and pulsed down his leg to cramp and twist.

The girl jumped away from him, eyes widened with fear and concern, hands held up to try to pacify him without touching him, suddenly afraid to do so.

"I have to go," he gasped. "Where's my shirt? Where's my- Oh shit! Where's my satchel?"

"Whoa! It's alright! Please. Wait. Just- your shirt is right here, and your vest and your tie and your jacket and your- your bag. See? I had to wash them and I tried to fix the holes but- But you can't- You-"

She froze for a heartbeat before grabbing a glass of water out of the chaos of her work bench and rushing to his side again just as spots started to dance in front of his eyes. She hastily arranged a pillow so he could prop himself against the wall, then helped him hold the glass steady with one hand while he felt his forehead with the other.

Part of him bristled with irritation at being treated like an invalid and having his perfectly arranged hair pushed back from his face. But those thoughts were washed away by the water and his sudden, pressing exhaustion.

His hair was probably already messed up anyway.

She gave him time to collect himself, kneeling on the bed next to him and holding his water glass while he cringed and waited for the spasms of pain to pass.

"You're hurt," she said at last, a quiet, sad quality to her voice. "And Pascal wants you to stay."

He eased one eye open to watch her, then turned to the chameleon sitting on the work bench next to the projector. It's face was as vacant as ever, but Flynn imagined that it looked pleased with itself.

"Does he?"

"Yeah. He says you're nice."

"He's misinformed."

"Yeah. I know… He tries, but… he doesn't know everything." She shifted slightly, as if steeling herself for something uncomfortable, straightening her skirt in an attempt not to look at him. "He says you know more than he does."

"I'm sure that's true."

Her gaze snapped up to his face, her eyes glittering with an excitement that was against her better judgment, which made no sense whatsoever.

"Really?" Why should it be surprising that he was smarter than a mechanical reptile? He must have said some pretty stupid things in his sleep.

"… Yes?"

She scooted further towards him, tucking her skirt under her knees so it puffed out behind her. "Um. So." She looked over her shoulder, back towards the chameleon, who nodded encouragement as she bit her lip.

She rolled her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. "Pascal's been showing me things about outside. He's done a tremendous job and I don't know where I'd be without him. He's brought me so many photographs and recordings. But sometimes I ask about things and he doesn't know. About people and how they act and what they do. Or about how things work. Or how things taste or smell.

"I think he's worried about that. That he's not doing a good job. And he wanted to help because he's a little helper and he just… I don't think he thought it through, you know? He brought you here to teach me, even though he should have known that it was a bad idea, but his heart was in the right place. Don't you think?"

Her ramble ended abruptly and she stared at him expectantly.

He blinked at her. He couldn't tell if everything was so weird because he was still drugged or because the girl was crazy.

"You want me to- wait. Sorry. What?"

"I was thinking," she said, pulling a lock of hair forward and tugging at it nervously.

Flynn realized that it was longer than he first thought. Much longer. Yeah, he must still be drugged.

"Since you're stuck here anyway… I mean, I'm sure I wouldn't be too much of a bother… and you're not really doing anything else…"

"Huh?"

She bit her lip again and then took a quick breath before bursting. "Can you tell me about the outside world? Pascal wants you to. That's why he brought you here."

"Outside world? Outside of what?"

"The tower."

"What- Why don't you just go look?"

"Oh, well," she started pulling at her hair again, then seemed to realize she was doing it and quickly dropped it, only to fiddle with the ruffle on her cuff a moment later. "Mother won't let- I mean, I don't want to leave. It's too dangerous."

"Your mother's holding you hostage?"

"Oh no, no, no! She's keeping me safe from ruffians and trolls and slave traders."

"Trolls?"

"Have you seen a troll? Pascal hasn't seen one. What do they look like?"

"No, I haven't seen a troll. I'm pretty sure no one has."

"Oh." Her shoulders sagged in disappointment.

Flynn was growing steadily more confused. "So when was the last time you left this tower?"

"I went out a few days ago when you crashed in the meadow. I brought you inside and hid your- your flying machine." She made a gesture with her hands that looked a bit like the scout ship's wings, then she decisively bit back a question about it.

"And before that?"

"Uh… That was it." She tried to smile, but ended up cringing a bit. Flynn's vision blurred and he had the momentary, fuzzy thought that Rapunzel was adorable.

Then he shook it off.

"Let me get this straight. You've never left this tower."

"I left three days ago."

"You've never left this tower except for one minor expedition three days ago to pull me out of some wreckage and hide a scout ship."

She nodded.

"And you want me to tell you all about the stuff you're missing because you're locked in here with your crazy mom."

"She's not crazy."

"Amazingly over protective."

"Regular over protective."

"Whatever."

"That's the gist of it," she said.

"Hmm… Tempting, but no."

"What?"

"Yeah, see I've got these guys that I'm supposed to meet and when I don't show up they're going to murder me in the most painful way possible, so I really need to get going. I'm sure I can manage. Thanks for your help."

She pushed his shoulders back again before he got very far.

"You can't."

"Look, I'm sure your little friend can find you someone else. Maybe a tutor or something."

"No. I mean, you physically can't leave. You can't even sit up. How are you going to get to the people that want to murder you? I don't think you can even climb out of the tower."

Flynn didn't like being told what he couldn't do. But she had a point. The weight of his eyelids confirmed that.

"Personally," she said, "I wish you'd never come at all, but now you're here so we'll just have to make do."

He flopped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut and groaned as he calculated how long it would take to walk to the rendezvous against how long he was going to be stuck here.

Apparently he did this out loud because Rapunzel interrupted him to say, "Maybe I can fix your… scout ship? Is that what it's called? I can work on it while you rest whenever Mother's gone. Once it's working you can get to the people you're supposed to meet in no time. Then you don't have to worry about rushing. Just rest up and tell me stories."

"You can fix a crashed scout ship?"

She shrugged. "I'm good at fixing things."

"Do you even know how it works?"

"No. I'll figure it out."

Flynn groaned again. "Even if you got it fixed up, it's out of power. It won't work."

She considered this, then shrugged again. "Well, at least while you're hidden here the people that want to kill you can't find you. This tower is the most secret place on earth. Aside from the secret places inside the tower that Mother doesn't know about."

Flynn did not find this thought comforting.

From its spot hidden in the corner of the room, the royal chameleon switched off its recording tape.

After stowing away in Flynn's satchel during the chaos of his escape, it had slipped out when the girl wasn't looking and waited for three days, invisible and silent. If the man had died, the girl would have hidden the battery and the royal chameleon would need the location. If the man recovered and moved on, it would have followed.

Now there was no more waiting. Now there was something to report.

With perfect stealth and camouflage, it eased its way across the room. It went unnoticed in the flurry of activity as the girl asked if the man was ready to be interrogated about airships and the man slumped to the side and declined. It scurried out of the tower, and made a hasty retreat back towards the capital.