Unspun

#𝟎𝟏 Spiders and Scorpions and Wolves, Oh My!

"Don't do that."

"Kill him, Scout! I need you to fucking kill him!"

"Calm down—"

"—Kill him!" The line clicked dead, and a moment passed before Spencer opened her door to repeat herself (as if Scout didn't get it the first fourteen million times.) "Kill him!" Then, she slammed the door shut again.

Sighing, Scout put her phone on the edge of the bathtub and pivoted again, in search of the spider. She didn't have time for this, for the obvious reason—it was stupid—and for scheduling ones. In exactly one hour, Spencer and Scout were expected at Kintsugi, their father's favourite Japanese restaurant, for their monthly family dinner. Dexter DeWitt did not tolerate tardiness, especially not when there was cause for celebration or ceremony. In this case, it was the former: his longtime friend MacDonald Gargan was back in the field. Gargan had had experimental surgery at Dexter's request; though he came out the other side with no major complications, he had still spent the better part of the past few months undergoing physical therapy.

Scout did not know the specific details of the surgery, but there were few men her father called friend, and even fewer that did not have their names on a watch list or registry. Gargan had sadistic tendencies, but in the Web, in the world, who didn't? He knew how to be kind. And he knew how to keep his hands to himself.

All this to say, Gargan was part of the family, which meant this dinner was important and so was the DeWitt sisters' punctuality—even more so. Scout was ready forty-five minutes ago, ever-prepared, ever-poised, while her sister, who was the complete opposite, took her sweet time. Scout judges her sister as non-judgmentally as possible; she calls Spencer her opposite in the most affectionate, complimentary way she is capable. It's a good thing, to be everything Scout is not. It's a good thing, to be disorganised when Scout lives her life in perfect order, to be soft when Scout is hard, unfeeling. To be scared of spiders when Scout is a spider herself.

These are small things, and they do not matter. Because it means that when it comes to the big things, the dark things, the killing things, Spencer can still be saved, all because Scout cannot. Scout likes this balance, however little it serves her; she's used to the undercutting truth of things, the fact of world that everything has its perfect other half, its exact and unobjectionable equal.

What does it take to be a killer?

But, by this logic, this anti-selfness, if Scout is the hunter, Spencer is the hunt. Scout, the predator. Her sister, the prey.

Scout doesn't want to think about this, so she chooses not to. She's always been good at that.

Her feelings aside, it would follow that while Scout needs Spencer, Spencer does not need Scout at all. This is another fact that Scout welcomes a little less warmly into her belief system. Spencer had once been the snotty little girl who clung to her older sister, who loved her more than the world, who could not be separated from her—not by their father, not even by the Blip.

Now, Spencer hates. Hates, hates, hates. Two years have passed and Scout is as resented as their father. Two years have passed and Scout means nothing to her. Two years have passed and Scout is only her sister when there are spiders to kill.

She is fit for the task, however temporary. There will always be more spiders, Scout tells herself, and—no matter what Spencer thinks, no matter what she says in the heat of the moment or, rather, snaps—she will always be Spencer's older sister.

The clock is ticking and her vantage point isn't doing a very good job of vantage-ing. In fairness, squatting on the bathroom floor is not the strategic genius Scout would have liked it to be. She rethinks her approach and stands, holding her shoe with two hands now. It takes a minute for the spider to reveal itself—himself?—but eventually, it does, crawling out from underneath the space between the bathroom counter and the floor.