𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

"Uh..." Taylor's pale finger points to a big darker coloured green mass at the very centre in the map. "There, but, look, it's kind of sketchy. Squatters and meth heads use that place as a crash pad. My mum has it cleared out every couple weeks." she says uncertainly. "What's this about?" she finally asks, confused.

Saturday turns his head to look down at her. 

"Nothing." came the luscious deep voice, though Taylor didn't believe that statement for even a second. There was never 'nothing' behind Saturday's motives and actions.

The boy flips the map over, looking down at its other side.

Taylor decides to tease him a little. "You're really becoming obsessed with this monster in the woods thing." she says playfully, looking up at him.

He quickly turns his head to look down at her. "Would you rather I develop an obsession with Kochō and emotions? Thank you for the help."

That sharp and cold statement momentarily shut her up, though a big smile was on her face.

Saturday decisively turns away from Taylor, and stalks a few paces before stopping to Taylor's voice.

"Hey, listen, the ruins are kind of tricky to find." she catches up to him as she says unevenly. The pale brooding boy turns around to face her once more. "I could take you this afternoon. My shift ends at 2:00." she suggests hopefully, smiling.

"Principal Weems would hang, draw and quarter me if I miss the big statue dedication." returns the boy coldly and rationally. "And as enticing as that sounds, I'd prefer to keep a low profile."

Taylor's winning smile falters.

"Besides, I know my way around the great outdoors." the boy finishes matter-of-factly.

"Don't tell me you were a Boy Scout." 

"I could eat Boy Scouts for breakfast." came the cold, vicious answer. "Actually, I have an uncle who went to prison for that." he reveals, just as a fun fact.

Xaviera was wiping tables and collecting plates in the background and Saturday gives her a cold glare as he stalks past, to the door. She looks longly at his broad back, blinking multiple times.

☟☟☟

The cawing of birds could be heard under the vibrant blue sky and shadowing dark, thin trees.

Saturday stalks quickly to a house-like structure in the forest, very much in ruins, missing the whole roof with many wood strips gone off the walls, leaving thin spaces in between the planks.

The ground was filled with dead leaves and crunched softly under his black leather shoes.

He "entered" the structure through the open wooden door, spaces in between its planks like the rest of its walls.

He puts his black slate on the ground and moves further in to examine the area.

The flap of the slate opens and the pale, severed, stitched hand: Thing, carefully crawls out, positioning himself as close to the black slate as possible, wary.

Although Saturday appreciated the sinister air of this place- it was where he was most at home after all, there was something off about it, and not in a good way.

He walks over to the discarded, large, black fireplace, set in a perfectly solid stone wall.

He turns around to Thing. The large pale hand shifts on the ground.

"I was expecting more too." the boy agreed, emotionlessly.

Thing stiffens on the ground as a figure  stands from a hidden room and approaches the tall, black haired, pale boy from behind, making little noise, but he didn't escape Saturday's sharp, trained senses.

The boy moves his dark pupils to glance sideways at the tramp. 

"Who you talking to, little boy?" he asks coarsely. He was the same old man that had stolen the camera from Uriah's Heap, with the light, long ginger hair and thick beard.

Saturday turns to face his adversary. Rarely, it was not Bianco this time.

"Use the words "little" and "boy" to address me again and I can't guarantee your safety." he warns menacingly, his deep voice husky and threatening. His obsidian eyes pierced right through the tramp.

"This is my place. Get out!" demands the tramp indignantly, his coarse voice raising fiercely.

Saturday glances towards the severed, pale hand on the ground. "Thing, a hand here?" he requests authoritatively, boredom filled his tone.

Thing quickly scuttles across the short distance and crawls up the man's leg like an overly eager rat. He crawls up the man's stomach and chest, and before the man was aware of what was happening, the large, powerful hand pulls roughly on the man's thick beard.

"AH!" the man exclaims helplessly as Thing assaults him violently. "WOAH! HEY!"

Thing's powerful grip starts constricting and the man was helpless to the appendage's rough action, grabbing onto Thing with both hands in an attempt to throw him off his face.

The man grunts as he struggles with the large hand, swaying from side to side as the "little boy" walks nonchalantly away. 

The tramp slams open a tall, wooden door in his attempts to free himself. "Hey!" his cries were getting further and further away from the brooding boy as he stumbles further into the dark misty forest. 

"Get off! Get off me!" he yells, and actually succeeds in tearing Thing off himself, the pale hand falling to the ground, cushioned by soft leaves.

Thing immediately stands effortlessly upon touching ground, while the tramp, now conscious to the fact that the hand was already off his face, continues to run haphazardly into the forest.

Thing scuttles back to the door the tramp had bolted out of.

"There's nothing here." concludes Saturday, his usually smooth, deep voice husky, undoubted frustrated.

He looks expectantly at Thing, who taps the dirt with a long, white forefinger.

"No, I can't just touch something." his dark eyes manoeuvre back to the surrounding structures of the building. "My visions seem to happen spontaneously." the tall boy looks back down at Thing.

The severed hand frantically scratches the ground.

"I would rather dye my hair pink than ask my Father for advice." the boy replies smoothly and icily.

Thing pokes at a nearby log.

"Oh, you want me to prove it to you?" the boy challenges, slapping a large, white, black nail-polished hand on a nearby tree trunk. Nothing happens.

"No."

He slaps both hands onto the stone wall holding the discarded fireplace, and looks back down accusingly. "Nothing." he concludes coldly.

Thing had placed himself on top of the dead log, posing awkwardly.

"Ah, I bet this will give us some real insight." his Master says sarcastically, promptly holding up a light brown paper bag with both hands in front of his face that read: 𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗢 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟, with a white silhouette of a simple bell as a large logo on top of the writing, mockingly tilting his head backwards in a ninety degree angle, giving Thing a scorching glare when he had pulled his head back into position.

His eyes dart around skilfully. 

"My visions are about as predictable as shark attacks." he remarks with disdain.

He swiftly snatches his slate and grabs the door, intending to leave, when, suddenly, an invisible force really did pull his head back ninety degrees, and he steps onto the other side: into his vision.

☟☟☟