9. Memoirs of a magpie (part 1)

Cecil-Cecil-Cecil-

The curtain of fog was pulling back, the stage illuminating, the actors visible.

At last, at last.

A real memory.

O Come, O Come, Em-

Peter Lake had first seen Cecil Mature one frigid day in March, 1898.

The events that'd led to this meeting now unfurled before him, images flashing like a nickelodeon as the impact threw him through the white mist.

O Come…

He'd been sixteen at the time.

He'd already been bad at that age. A ravenous, desperate runt.

He couldn't see his own face, but he could smell himself. And hear. And decide.

Memories were too precious for him to cast doubt upon them. He'd been a bad man in his last life. Naturally, he'd been a bad boy, too.

O Come, O- Come-

He'd been taken in some months before by a man with tree roots on his throat.

This was the prologue. The context.

Because this man now sat before him in a candle-lit office, the flames dipping gently into jewels and silver platters and the glass that cocooned them from the cold night beyond. A comforting, horrible place. Paradoxical in its illusion of safety.

Peter Lake had hated this man, he felt. But he'd cared for him, too. Even admired him.

In this moment he now found himself reliving, little time had come between them, so their relationship lacked the twisted complexity that would later define it.

For now. It was 1898. It was night outside.

It was enough.

O, Come…

His sixteen-year-old shadow had been gripping the edges of his chair in terror, though his eyes burned from steadying the man's before him, unblinking and stubborn.

Because his inclusion in the man's 'group' had been called into question. And that only meant one thing.

From the feel of this memory, he hadn't been afraid of death back then. If anything, he'd been afraid of returning to the loneliness he'd been whisked away from, and the threat now sitting in front of him proved particularly horrifying as a result.

It was so… so, so ironic, now was it?

Good morning, Saint Peter.

He heard his own voice for the first time in an eternity.

"Weren't you the one interested in my 'talents'?"

He sounded so… different.

It wasn't only the age marking the difference. It was the accent. If you could even call it that. A concoction of tones and a slight lisp.

O Come, O-

The jagged scars glinted as the man cackled softly. "Yes, indeed. And I still am."

"Then what the hell do you mean by these threats?"

"Threats? Ah, now, now, little Peter-"

My name is Peter.

And the man's name was Pearly.

He knew now, too. He remembered.

Pearly… Soames…

He remembered the name. He remembered conflicting emotions.

And that was enough, for now. Enough, for this memory. This precious memory...

"- I'm not threatening you," Pearly had explained. "I'm simply offering you something you've never been offered before."

"And what's that?"

"An opportunity to do better. Look at yourself. Are you happy with the way you've been doing?"

"I think- I- I mean, just ask the rest of the guys, they've told me I'm doing great! Just the other day, one of the twins asked me for help with one of the locks in that bishop's pl-"

"The guys are happy with you. But are you? Happy? With yourself?"

Pearly Soames had been an excellent speaker. He had an Irish lilt in his voice, a musicality to his phrases, and his questions were as sharp as a swig of wine, immediately capturing one's senses.

Peter Lake had wanted to speak as eloquently as that, someday.

For now, though. For now…

"No."

The answer had been 'no' from the moment Pearly asked the first time around. It'd only been a matter of time before Peter Lake uttered it and made it a reality.

"But that means nothing," he'd deflected. "I know machinery, I can hear it, and half the boys in here are deaf to it. And I am quick on my feet and- and I'm a fast learner-"

Pearly Soames's scarred cheeks had tightened as he'd grinned. "You want to succeed in my pack, little magpie?"

"I am no little nothing! And yes, I want to succeed, I can succeed, and if you send me off now you'll regret it till the end of your days!"

He hadn't recognized these words as his own. But what had it mattered?

He'd been nothing and no one and he couldn't be back in the streets again, cold and alone and rotting in misery.

O, Come… O…

But Pearly hadn't been done torturing him.

"Mm… That's a fine argument. For a child. Which is what you are. Give me proof. Get your hands dirty. You're skilled with safes and locks, there's no denying, but you'll need to seduce more than metal boxes in order to have a future in this gang."

"What will you have me do?"

"You can convince a door to open itself?" Pearly Soames had leaned forward. "No. Convince someone to open a door for you. Your people skills are lacking, little Peter. You're a shit singer and you're a shit dancer. And you speak like a dying bird. Give me a family heirloom through a willing hand. Give me a ring and take the finger, too. You want to stay here? Convince me to let you stay."

And Peter Lake hadn't hesitated. He'd been off in an instant, tailed by a couple of Pearly's goons, to prove himself worthy of his new, bloody home.

O, Come, O Come… Peter…

It'd taken him many bad dances and bad songs to finally decide to abandon music altogether. And focus on weaker targets.

No more crowds. No more Madison Avenues and Times Squares.

A safe had a single heartbeat. Too much noise and his own heart burst, muffling all sound, sealing him away from his price.

So he'd tailed one person, one silver ring, one finger.

And he'd followed him to the East River in the late afternoon, right before sundown, and almost by instinct, he'd flung himself from Pier 17 and bled into the water like a drop of ink and pretended to drown.

A drown victim, are you?

His prey had been in a boat, skimming towards the bridge. Just in sight of a filthy, sixteen-year-old boy kicking his legs in the grey, frigid water, begging for help.

And the man hadn't hesitated to go after him. He'd tried the nets, but Peter Lake had cut through them as he let himself sink under the surface. Thinning his breath, muddying the afternoon sky.

And like a fool, like a perfect fool, the man had dove, headfirst, to go after him, leaving the boat behind.

The water had been cold, but Peter knew it well. Water wouldn't kill him, he'd thought back then. He'd been born to it. He was named after it.

Peter… what? Waters? Rivers?

Strong, desperate arms had coiled around him, he'd felt himself being dragged back to the surface.

And Peter's limp body had tensed as his hand, still gripping the knife, turned to the man's twisted fingers.

Peter… Peter…

Bubbles had burst violently just next to his ear, as the poor idiot tried to wring himself free, but Peter Lake had been faster.

He'd already sliced through the flesh right below the ring, and bone had become twig at the maddening impatience that possessed him, for it snapped in less time than Peter had calculated.

The ring glinted as the finger untethered. Around them, a black-grey abyss warped against an explosion of red.

Peter…

Peter Lake had kicked himself away and swam madly, one hand closed around the finger and its ring, the other still holding the knife. Bloody paint strokes tinged the water around him.

Peter… My name is Peter…

When he'd emerged, he'd opened his eyes to the sky and taken in a vigorous breath, and winter had whitened his exhales.

He'd reached the lonely pier, and he'd not died.

O Come, Peter…

He'd stabbed into the wooden planks with his knife and dragged himself to solid ground. And upon it his legs had turned to jelly and he'd collapsed, exhausted, to the pier, still holding the bloodied finger and its ring.

The sun had gone and with it he'd gone, too, his black clothes hiding him away into the fading light.

A bad man, a bad boy…

Peter Lake had watched the colors change above him. Had taken in his every white breath as it clouded the empty sky.

And after a few minutes, he'd finally acknowledged that the finger was colder than the ring at this point, and that he himself was shivering from the water.

And that, from the river… the man was sobbing.

A thief… A damn good one.

He'd propped himself forward with the little strength he'd recuperated and known the perils of looking. But he'd looked anyways.

The distance and the poor lighting had mercifully blurred the details of the boat, the man's face, the mouth releasing those horrid sounds. But the shadow had been enough to chill his bones. The sound, too.

Peter Lake had sat on a pier that evening, a bloody finger in his hand, and he'd watched a middle-aged man sob helplessly in a boat in the East River, his body bent over his injured hand, his every breath distorted by pain.

Who was I…?

And he'd not allowed himself to feel pity, because that pity would have cost him everything. And he'd let himself forget the water dripping down his face and hair and clothes, to discard the possibility of tears.

Besides this…?

So, before it'd been too late, Peter Lake had gotten to his feet and turned around to walk down the pier and back to Pearly. To turn this confusion into something worthwhile.

And he'd seen, then, that there was another boy at the pier. Standing, and staring at him.

A young black boy, a little younger than he'd been, his mouth tense almost in petulant disappointment. Two slightly-slanted eyes that shone mildly despite the poor light.

Somehow, this vision, combined with the sobs of the man still blaring behind him, had frightened Peter so much that he'd nearly fainted.

And he'd stood, paralyzed, staring at the boy.

Deja vu… Isn't that what it's called?

He'd done that… a lot.

Standing, like this. Peter Lake realized, now. The feel of it brought him familiarity.

Who are you?

In this moment, he had sheepishly made a move to wipe the water from his face and realized all too late that he'd instead stained it with the blood from the finger and the ring.

And the boy had blinked, simply, staring at him soundlessly.

And a new feeling had crept into him. Revulsion. At the blood, the cold, the boy. The smell of the city above him. The cries behind him.

And he'd tried to speak, but he'd been unable to do so. As if water still enveloped him.

And then he'd seen the shadows of the boys running down the pier, screaming and laughing as they trampled to Peter in excited strides.

"Look at him!"

"Hey-o, Pete! Pearly's gonna love this!"

And by the time they'd reached him, Peter Lake could no longer see the little boy.

And the need to vomit had ceased, the moment those eager arms looped so wholly around him.

And Peter Lake had fallen into them.

Petes…

As he fell now.

Now, whenever it was, his old life long lost, a new one awkwardly beginning. Through a fog, into Cecil's empty arms.

Pete…

Now, he was on the ground, and his hands and knees burned, and Cecil wasn't there.

And there wasn't a man in a boat crying anymore.

Peter…

Only him.

And the girl.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

This is my longest chapter for "A Hundred-Year Fog" so far. I did debate as to whether this was worth it or not, to cut the impact of Peter's collision with Cecil/Abby with an elaborate flashback, but I wanted this to feel sort of like the "flashing-before-your-eyes" kind of chapter: hyper-elaborate on paper but believably-brief when imagined visually -, where I make Peter relive his first "real" theft and his first time seeing Cecil.

Yes, I was planning for Cecil and Peter's first meeting to take place when they were kids a long time ago, since late 2023 to be exact (I know because I posted sketches of their potential first meeting there, too, only in that time I imagined Peter to see Cecil when Pearly first took him in, and now I've changed that) and I have another flashback between them planned up, so. Yeah. This is "part 1" for a reason, I have been dying to explore what Peter could have been like at his darkest moments, since these are part of the many memories he needs to recapture in order to be whole again. And Peter's life was far from easy, in fact in ASITL I make him suffer a lot just by the guilt he must be feeling from his past involvement with Pearly.

I planned from the "TFOTM" days that I wanted Cecil to first start showing up as a warning sign that would later serve as Peter's withdrawal from Pearly's gang, so his path with Peter needed to involve seeing Peter at his most violent and morally-grey. Athansor and Beverly's roles in helping Peter's character growth are lain down in the actual film already, but with Cecil, who barely shows up, I have always taken a lot of liberties. And I'm glad for it, cause I love my vision of Cecil so much, I grew fond of him in TFOTM and of course I wanted to feature him here too, as much as I can without diverting from the movie's central structure :3

And since this is only "part 1" of "Memoirs of a magpie," expect more flashbacks as Peter recuperates his memories. I am especially interested in exploring Peter's behavior in Pearly's gang, since we are already introduced to him after he's made the decision to leave it.

All we have from the movie are dialogue bits from Pearly explaining Peter's "lost potential" - among these lines, which he says to Beverly when he first meets her, is how he was disappointed with Peter's new "ideas" when stealing: "here's how to steal a ring, and leave the finger." So. I made a whole chapter about that. Peter's first "real" theft, lest he disappoint Pearly, involves him ripping a finger from a man's hand just to steal his ring.

And I made it take place in the East River cause... of course I did XD I love narrative motifs and parallels and I wanted to callback to Peter's death and birth in a way. I loved writing this.

Anyways. As always, my Note is super long, I don't even think anyone is reading this (let alone reading my chapters ANYWAY-), but, if you're here, as always, here's a hug for you. Thank you very much. I'll be back soon - this time, with Abby :3 *hug*