Chapter Text
Swift Retribution
Book One: The Leap and the Fall
He drifts in currents made of countless pinpricks of light. Endless darkness unfolds between them and Existences stir at the edges and then-
don’t look
A whirlpool of color, shimmering brightly, pulls at him. He feels impressions of sea and sun and bright sharp blood and then-
I don't want to go-
and then-
-opens his e y e s-
And then-
Erin blinks awake in a cramped, dark room. The walls and floor are grimy with dirt, and the planks are rough and uneven where he’s curled onto his side. His first thought is ow. His second is it stinks in here. Then, the sudden realisation washing over him like a static shock: where am I?
He jolts upright into a sitting position, breath coming fast and shallow. The room, with the only illumination being faint moonlight coming from a round window, is dark enough that he can’t make out anything apart from silhouettes, clustered along the walls and away from the door. Where the hell-
He lurches upright. His footing feels unsteady, like balancing on one of those rope nets from athletic challenges. He stumbles and barely catches himself. He leans against the wall and presses his fist to his forehead to try and think, his other arm wrapped around his stomach. Okay. Unfamiliar room. Pain. Feels like bruised ribs? Is this a kidnapping?
(something is wrong)
Ah, wait.
He died, didn't he?
Then how is he here?
(Look. It’s all wrong, just open your eyes and look-)
He doesn’t have a phone on him. His clothes are gone, and he’s dressed in a worn T-shirt and shorts (wrong). Fuck.
Breathe. It’s called box breathing, right? In for four, hold for four…
All of Erin’s efforts at calming himself down die a painful death when he registers the weight and faint clinking noise. Dread wraps a hand around his lungs and squeezes. He closes his eyes and focuses on the texture of the rough, grainy wood against his back. The feeling of wrongness surges in his chest.
He opens his eyes and looks at his hands.
He’s wearing chains. Dull, gray metal, nicked and scratched and slightly dented. The sight numbs his chest with fear.
Now that he’s looked, the second detail can’t be ignored any longer. His hands aren’t his hands. They’re wrong, small and soft and childlike, and there’s a torn nail on his left thumb, and he’s shorter than he remembers and he doesn’t know what’s happening-
A figure close to him sits up and says, “Hey, new kid.”
The words cut through his panic like a knife through butter. As in, the panic separates into two halves, one that focuses on the new potential fuckery going on and the other promptly goes back to screaming in fear and confusion and just screaming in general.
He exhales forcefully, trying to get rid of all the air in his lungs, before inhaling deeply through his mouth. Erin turns and stares at the figure half-illuminated by the window.
Fuck. Is that a child?
Well. He’s still taller than Erin. Don’t think about it right now.
“Hey, look. I know it’s probably scary,” the boy smiles weakly, obviously trying to reassure him. Erin feels like it’s pretty clear how that’s working out. “But panicking about it won’t help, okay? You’re hurt, so why don’t you sit down and get some rest?” “And let the rest of us sleep too!” Another voice pipes up from the darkness, sounding irritated. “Stop making a racket and bothering everyone!” Some distant part of his mind pricks at the fact that despite the anger of one of them, neither of the kids raise their voices beyond a loud whisper.
Slowly, Erin nods. He sits against the wall.
He waits until the kid lies back down and his breathing slows. Then he gets up, holding onto the chains to stop them making any noise, and quietly walks closer to the door, towards the brightest patch of moonlight.
He sits down crosslegged and digs his fingernails into his knee. The pain radiating from his leg banishes the last of the thoughts that all this is just a dream.
His breathing stutters, and he spends an unknown length of time quietly trying and failing to get enough air and calm the fuck down. He manages it in the end, though, pressing his palm to his chest and feeling his heart slow from the lowkey panic attack he’s been having since he woke up.
Erin slumps for a moment, exhausted, and then breathes in, sits up and studies himself in the small amount of light.
His skin, at least on his arms and legs, is a little paler than in his actual body. Or is that just the bad lighting? Find out later. Nails are fine, not too long or ragged, except for the break in his thumbnail, but they’ve got dirt under them from the general filth in the room. Erin turns his hands over to continue his inspection and freezes.
Black lines. A large, widening spiral in the middle of his palm, overlapping circles and arcs cutting across the central element. Looking at it makes his head hurt, and erin breathes out and thumps his head gently against the wall.
So. There’s a tattoo. On his right palm. That’s… concerning but frankly he’s got no idea about anything that’s going on right now so. Moving on!
Chains around his wrists, yep, and while he’s acknowledging the nightmare fuel scenario, a collar around his neck too. It sits loose and heavy around his neck and if he focuses on that for too long he might start screaming uncontrollably. Or faint. Something that is sounding more and more appealing as his exploration of this latest venture into insanity continues.
The T-shirt and shorts are dirty and worn, but intact. He reaches up to his head and feels short, soft strands between his fingers. Erin stands up and looks down at himself. He’s definitely in a kid’s body, short and skinny, maybe around eight or nine? He lifts up the shirt and pulls the shorts down, but there are no more strange tattoos that he can see. He does, however, recognise the dark patch on his ribs.
The familiar birthmark is the thing that finally drains all the adrenaline from his body in one go. At least he’s in his own body, though the age is wrong. He brings his hands up to his face and ignores their shaking. The scar on his right pointer is pale and faded, barely visible as a remnant of a knife accident when he was young. This is Erin’s body. He didn’t take over some kid’s body. The nagging fear that’s been lurking at the back of his mind dissolves, and he’s left dizzy with relief.
He blinks slowly. The exhaustion rises and crests and crashes down on him, making him sway. Even standing still, the floor feels unsteady to his legs. He staggers over to a corner and curls up behind a huddle of – as he now realises – children of varying ages, all in the same situation as him, whatever it is. At least, they probably won’t beat him up while he’s asleep.
Hours later, he jolts upright, hits his head on the wall, and stares blearily at the shouty thug-looking man who’s slammed the door open and started shouting at them.
So, not a dream then.
Fuck.
*
Well, while they may not kick him while he’s down, they’re certainly willing to scrap with him when something’s on the line. So much for honour among kidnappees, Erin finds himself thinking an hour after that violent awakening.
Ahh. It’s not their fault, though. The kidnappers – two men with guns and sword, unshaven and unclean. Erin can hear more voices from beyond the door, though he can’t make out what they’re saying.
He’s discovered one thing, though. That rocking, swaying motion that fucks with his balance and stirs faint nausea in his gut?
This, he grouches to himself, is the worst possible way to find out if I can get seasick.
He’s on a boat. The only view through the window – porthole – is an expanse of blue. Which is just. Fantastic. The chances of him being saved by police, if there even are any wherever he is, just dropped to the bottom of the (ha) ocean.
The men (pirates? What the fuck even is this?) came in, dumped a sack of hard bread and apples in the middle of the room, and left it to the literal children to fight it out, hunger games style. Seriously, the oldest here can’t be more than fifteen. Though I guess you can’t expect more from people who chain kids up and lock them in a room.
When he stood up and tried to get some food, he was shoved to the floor (ow), kicked in the ribs (bigger ow), and had his hand stepped on.
I take it back, he thinks as he cradles his poor abused hand, fuck them kids. The Trunchbull had the right attitude. What, these snot-nosed brats? No way I could’ve been one of ‘em. How dare you accuse-
“Excuse me?”
His head jerks up to look at the speaker. A boy with white hair and red eyes stands in front of him. Erin traces his eyes over the crimson tattoos framing his eyes. It gives him a rather piercing stare. It’s pretty, though, in spite of the tattered clothes and, of course, the collar and chains.
Whitey’s smile falters, and Erin is abruptly reminded that yeah, he needs to reply. “Yeah?” Wait, that came out wrong, the tone is flat and his voice is rough and scratchy for some reason-
He clears his throat. Tries for a smile. “Sorry. My throat hurts a bit. You wanted something?”
The boy’s smile brightens. “Oh! Well. People here can get a little rough when it comes to food. I, um, saw you didn’t get to the food in time, so…” He lifts his hand. It’s holding an apple. Erin’s stomach chooses this moment to remind him that it hasn’t been compensated for its services yet, and it is, actually, in a union with the rest of his body, and they can and will go on strike should the bougie overlords not capitulate to their demands.
Erin grabs the apple and chomps down, managing a thanks between trying not to choke on a fucking fruit.
He does manage to eat it without dying, though there’s a rough moment where he chokes on a seed. Once he’s finished coughing out his lungs he sits back and looks at Whitey. “My name’s Erin.” He tells him. “What’s yours?”
“Mine’s Albo. Are you alright? You’re new here, right? Those people brought you in yesterday all dripping and wet. Were you in a shipwreck?”
What.
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Honestly, he’d hoped this boy would have some clue of what had happened to him. Like, oh, this is a secret government facility where they’re working on the secret of immortality. That would be bad, of course, but at least he’d know. Damn.
Well, he might still have answers to other questions.
Erin licks his lips as he considers. Then he asks, “Where are we?” The smile on Albo’s face drops, and he feels a little bad. “Ah… well, I guess you wouldn’t know, huh? Though the chains are a hint.” He tries to smile, weak and wobbly. “This is… these pirates are… slavers. They- “His voice cracks and the fear on his face is obvious. “They’re going to sell us.”
Dread feels like being submerged in cold water. His skin prickles all over. Erin shivers, then silently shifts closer to Albo.
They sit like this, in silent companionship, for hours.
Then, as the sun is setting, shining orange and red like dying flames through the porthole, A shout echoes down from the deck of the ship.
“Land sighted! We’re at the Archipelago, men!”