Captain Georg and the Children
Von Trapp, THE SOUND OF MUSIC
#02 The Way Through
the Woods
Funnily enough, it's Dexter who ends up being late.
Birdeater has the sisters seated in the restaurant, then returns to his post outside. The routine of it is familiar, and so is the environment: Kintsugi has been their father's favourite restaurant for about a decade, and his love for kaiseki recurred monthly, monstrously, kaiseki being a traditional multi-course Japanese dinner. It seemed that it wasn't just the food Dexter enjoyed, but the ritual—and not just the ritual, but the ritual chamber too, a clean, clinical industrial warehouse of a restaurant in SoHo.
The space got rented out for every DeWitt family dinner, leaving it empty save for a skeleton crew of Kintsugi chefs, the half-dozen Web bodyguards the Huntsman kept on hand at any given moment, and of course, the DeWitts themselves. Their usual table was at the back, in the furthest corner away from the door, the sparse windows, and the skylight in the ceiling high above. It was allegedly the "most defensible" table in the restaurant, and though Scout thought nothing in a restaurant could—or should—be prefaced by the word defensible, she knew her father. Paranoid was not a strong enough word for what and who he was.
Late was rarely an accurate one, either, but here they were. At the table set for four, Scout sat opposite Spencer; Gargan would sit next to Scout, and Dexter would sit next to her sister. The absence was awkward and heavy as they waited, sipping water, Scout's eyes on the wall behind Spencer and Spencer's eyes on her hands. She kept her nails clipped short and clean while Scout, the seductress, had hers long—artificial, acrylic, acutely sharp. (On her right hand, at least; her left's nails remained short to allow her to play her precious cello.) Currently, they were a deep, dark red. She tapped them upon the tabletop, playing out the piano accompaniment to one of her performance pieces: Benjamin Britten's Cello Sonata. The first movement, Dialogo, was allegro. Marked, lively. Jarring, maybe—Spencer, not exactly a fan, had once described it as such—but within the four walls of Kintsugi, it was calming.
To Scout, at least. Spencer glowered, but said nothing. Scout stopped only when one of the spiders stepped out of the restaurant, Cross. Cross, known occasionally as Andrew, was one of Dexter's bodyguards, his personal favourite after Gargan and Birdeater. After those two, Cross was the first to know something, if something were ever to be known. Scout stared at his absence for the minute he was gone then, upon his return, looked swiftly away.
He must've spoken to Birdeater outside. Scout watched as Cross turned away, speaking slowly, quietly, over the comms device in his ear. It didn't matter; Scout still caught the words, the ones that mattered:
Spider-Man.
Scout tries to return to her allegro, but it eludes her—everything does. The routine, the ritual, her reality, that fucking restaurant. All she could think about was Spider-Man. Even when Gargan joins them at the table, a hand running through slicked, dirty-blond hair, her mind would not cease, would not stop seeing everything in bright red and blue. Gargan reaching to pour himself a glass of water was a sudden enough movement to snap Scout briefly out of it; her head turning whiplash-fast to look at him, she asked, "Why's Dad late?"
Gargan shrugged, peering into the depths of his glass, "He's taking care of something."
Scout paused. Then, lowering her voice, she spoke again: "Spider-Man?"
Gargan's eyes narrowed, almost comically. "If you have to ask, do I need to bother to answer?"
This was an answer in itself. Gargan seemed to regret the sharpness of his words. He cleared his throat. "Spider-Man knows your father's name."
"How?"
"He was betrayed."
Of course—it had to have been someone on the inside, a spider weak and incapable of keeping a secret. Scout had another sip of water, wishing partly it was Kurayoshi whiskey she was drinking instead. Because the very notion of Spider-Man required self-medication, specifically the premium spirit kind, with the so-called superb tasting notes of freshly buttered bread, toasted oak, vanilla and smoke.
But to understand Spider-Man, and the thread he posed to the Web, one must first understand the Web itself.
DEXTER: Do it over.
SCOUT: Yes sir.
SCOUT: The Web has chapters in almost every major city across the globe, but its three "radials"—
Picture a spider spinning a web in a doorway: imagine its anchor points: the head jamb and its two adjacent sides.
SCOUT: —are located in Osaka, Japan; Saint Petersburg, Russia; and New York City, the United States of America. The NYC base is headed by the Huntsman oversees both the Osaka and Saint Petersburg bases, but there are individuals who report to him and, when he is absence, enforce the Web's core directives, maintain progress, and facilitate continuous improvement.
DEXTER: Who are the current second-in-commands for the Osaka and Saint Petersburg bases?
SCOUT: Miss Jorōgumo supervises Osaka. Following the death of Dreykov at the hands of former Black Widow Natalia Romanova, leadership of Saint Petersburg is shared by Messrs Bury, Vitsin, Sidorov and Stezhenksy.
DEXTER: Correct. Continue.
SCOUT: The Web generates revenue primarily through its proprietary design and provision of high-end, highly-sophisticated weaponry to various international powers. It is also notorious for its personnel; talented, specially-trained individuals who can be hired as enforcers, assassins, and bodyguards at a premium rate. The Web also offers training. It is selective and elite. Unlike our sister training program, the now-decommissioned Red Room, we accept candidates of any gender. Our only requirement for entry is that you must be exceptional—
DEXTER: (Clears throat.)
SCOUT: —and you must be ruthless.
SCOUT: The Web's main headquarters were formerly in Osaka. Operations have since relocated to NYC, following the Snap and the vigilante Ronin's culling of colleagues in Tokyo; as well as Homeland Security's dismantling of Wilson Fisk's criminal empire. The Web has taken over Fisk's operations, specifically his arms dealing, drug trade, and trafficking operations. It has also established a policing of the criminal underworld, executed through Web footsoldiers—Spiders—who ensure non-affiliated individuals do not interfere with the Web's business nor infringe on potential profits.
This is where Spider-Man comes in. That doorway you were imagining? That web? Imagine a 5'7" asshole dressed in red-and-blue spandex walking right through it and fucking up that spider's hard, honest work.
SCOUT: Since the return of displaced NYC citizens thanks to the Blip, the Web has simultaneously thrived and struggled in maintaining control of NYC. Spider-Man, a costumed superhero who was initially believed to have died fighting Thanos in 2018, was retroactively labelled as having been Blipped when he reappeared twenty four months ago. Four months ago, he intercepted an arms deal in Hell's Kitchen and, we believe, traced the weapons back to the Web lieutenant assigned to the neighbourhood.
SCOUT: That lieutenant was terminated and replaced. Since then, Spider-Man has continued to pursue and investigate Web operations throughout the city. Although there is an almost endless supply of Web personnel to take the place of anyone dispatched or incarcerated by Spider-Man, the Web's primary concern is optics. We prefer to operate discreetly and out of the public eye; attention from a vigilante such as Spider-Man becomes attention from the people of New York, which then becomes attention from law enforcement agencies, both domestic and international.
SCOUT: Neither of which are desirable. For obvious reasons.
SCOUT: (Speaking now in an overdramatic, theatrical voice) Despite his global commitments, the Huntsman has returned to New York to oversee the "Spider-Man Problem". With him in New York are his personal taskforce—the best the Web has to offer—and his family: returning from assignment in Japan is his eldest daughter Redback, who specialises in poisons and bladed combat; and returning from training in Russia is his younger daughter—no codename yet—specialising in ballistics and ranged combat.
DEXTER: That last part was unnecessary.
SCOUT: But we're a family.
DEXTER: I don't appreciate your attitude.
SCOUT: You should really give Spence a codename.
DEXTER: She'll get one when she earns it.
DeWitt family politics aside—
DEXTER: You're forgetting something, Scarlett.
DEXTER: What are the core values of the Web? What is it that we're working for?
SCOUT: ...
SCOUT: Power. Power, and poison.
Yes, poison. Scout knows it, and she knows it well. There is none like that which the father passes to his child.
DEXTER: Good girl.
Let's try that again. DeWitt family politics aside, Spider-Man was at best a nuisance and at worst, an undoing. Scout herself was yet to meet him personally; she'd only seen him through Web bodycam footage or online news videos. Maybe things would be different if she had been in the country—she'd spent the past few months training Web initiates in Osaka, returning to the States only when Dexter requested to see her. In the years she and her sister had been gone, he had learned emotions other than anger; still, it was anger that he nurtured like a third, youngest child. An anger toward Spider-Man. Spoiled and shiny and new, it truly was a child, his undisputed favourite. But there was something different about the resentment Dexter reserved for Spider-Man, something equal parts compelling and incomprehensible.
On one hand, Scout wanted to find this so-called superhero and shake his hand. Pat him on the back, maybe give him a medal or something; in her eighteen years of living she had never seen someone vex her father so, nor someone who could fight the way Spider-Man did, so effortlessly, so fluidly, like the arachnids from which she presumed he got his name. Scout had met a lot of spiders, but Spider-Man was the one she wanted pinned down to study, whether it was on her wall or under the lens of her microscope. Frankly, it would be a privilege, and of course, infinitely beneficial for the Web. Scout could only imagine how strong her trainees could be if they could fight like Spider-Man. If they could react like him. If they could think like him. This was something Scout had learned in her years of training, and training others. Technique only gets you so far. There was more to violence than simply the act.
On the other hand, as interesting of a specimen he would be should Scout ever get her hands on him, he was still first and foremost a threat. Not the kind of spider Scout—or her father—wanted in the centre of their web. Since Spider-Man had learned of the organisation's existence, he'd been slowly, methodically, intercepting smaller-scale operations throughout Manhattan. He'd worked his way through lower-level Web footsoldiers, trying to find the source, the spider who'd first spun the silk.
Scout wondered who it was that had snapped and told Spider-Man the Huntsman's identity. What had been their motivation? What had Spider-Man offered them?
Money, perhaps. Or a reduced prison sentence. Scout wanted to laugh. She was the one Dexter usually sent to take care of those who deserted or otherwise defected from the Web, and she had seen this all before. Okay, you accepted a bribe. Alright, you got a deal from some public defender in a shitty suit. Did you think that could save you? No amount of money could stop Scout's bullet or blade and no prison—no matter how good you thought your plea deal was—could keep her out.
She would know the traitor soon enough. Still, she was impatient.
"Betrayed by whom?"
Gargan gave her a pointed look. "Can this wait till after dinner? 'M starving."
"Mac."
"Scarlett. You'll know when you need to know, okay?"
Scout narrowed her eyes. "Will I?"
"Girlie—"
The door swung open and Gargan fell silent. Scout, who was already prepared to argue, closed her mouth, practically snapped it shut. In came Dexter DeWitt, still wiping the blood from his face.
Scout saw the damage immediately. Broken nose, bruised ribs—wounded ego. She watched her father cross from the Kintsugi entrance to their table, relishing secretly in the sight of him weakened. Tenderised, she thought.
"Thank you everyone for waiting," Dexter said, accepting a handkerchief from Cross. With it he wiped the blood from his mouth and smiled, taking his seat next to Spencer. "Andrew, get the head chef. We're ready to dine now."
🕸️
Dinner was quiet, not quite relaxing. Kintsugi's team were as skilled with their knives as Scout was with hers, if not more so: the food, though simple and subtle in flavour, was presented with a technical and artistic skill Scout could only envy. Kintsugi was a kappo-style restaurant, meaning that (with regular patrons, at least) it intended to emphasise the proximity between the diner and the chef cutting and cooking up the food. If you were normal, and not a sociopath who rented out the entire venue monthly for family dinners that were conversationally equivalent to Saw traps, you would sit at the counter where the chefs prepared your meal and watch them at work.
Scout's family was not normal. Having the "most defensible" table in the restaurant was more important than the art of Japanese kappa cuisine, so from a distance Scout admired the head chef's work, craning her neck between plates so she could watch his hands, the gleaming smile of his knife.
Kumamoto oyster. Washu beef. Cauliflower puree. Kue. Otsukuri—assorted sashimi. Wagyu tenderloin imported from Kagoshima. Winter vegetables and white rice. The meal was delicious but mostly lost on Scout. She had spent the last few months in Japan, and even abroad her father controlled her diet: all she had eaten was fresh and unprocessed, lean, healthy. Basically what was being served at Kintsugi, sans the embellishment and theatre. What she wouldn't give for some MSG or saturated fats.
Of course, she couldn't just say that. If Gargan alone drove her and Spencer home, she could probably guilt him into stopping at some 24-hour burger joint—this was the thought that kept her going during dinner, a sloppily-made cheeseburger dripping with grease and melted American cheese.
Not that it helped much. She remained focused on her sister throughout the night, ignoring Gargan and her father's rowdy laughter and retelling of stories she'd heard dozens of times to instead stare Spencer down. (Not comfortingly, evidently, but protectively.)
What does it take to be a killer?
Whatever it was, Spencer did not have it. In childhood, she had always been their mother's favourite. Shiori had chosen to protect Spencer, leaving Scout for the wolves. Maybe she thought that Spencer would be safe if she sheltered her; if she made an offering of her eldest daughter instead. Maybe she thought that Spencer would be safe.
She was wrong. Scout became the sacrificial lamb and Spencer grew up to be soft, too soft, something stark white and innocent in a family that had never been anything but deep, dark red—like blood. A mother's love means nothing when your father is cruel. The moment the girls were back from the Blip he put them to work, separating them and sending them in different directions; Scout, up the hierarchy of the Web, and Spencer, away and abroad. She had been in Saint Petersburg intermittently for the past eighteen months, flying in and out of various programs and intensives in Dexter's dedication to shaping her in his image.
She hated the cold. She hated Russia. She hated killing. Most of all, she hated herself. And Scout could see it on her face, even now at something as inane as a family dinner. She saw it earlier, bright and keen in her reflection in their shared bathroom mirror. She saw it in her own.
What does it take to be a killer?
Everything and nothing. It's not qualitative nor quantifiable. You can train your entire life and never have what it takes; you have to be a killer. It's total or it's zero. You either are one, or you're not.
Spencer was not. She never would be.
They have their last plates, Dexter smiling as he finishes his sake. Scout, who was not called upon once in conversation, was thanking the powers that be for such an easy time when he turned his head and looked at her, eyes pale blue and piercing. "Scarlett? Have you eaten enough?"
She stares at her glass, "Yes sir."
"And you didn't drink?"
"No sir." No-one offered her anything except for water. She would have declined regardless.
"Good. You'll drive. Mac, take Spencer home."
Gargan, who had also remained sober—merely pouring Dexter's drinks for him because, despite his affinity for Kintsugi, he still didn't fully trust their staff—nodded. He stood, so did Spencer, then they were gone.
The world is so, so quiet. Scout feels like that Little Red, trapped not in the text but in the pages of an illustrated children's book, papered and glossy and completely, utterly frozen, in full-colour and in fate. She has read this story before; she has lived it. She knows what comes next, when Red strays from the path, when the Wolf gets her alone.
She and Dexter get into his car, a dark, nondescript BMW. Cross and Birdeater do not join them. Dexter directs her, and from the passenger seat leads them out of SoHo, out of the city, and into New Jersey. He doesn't talk save for his directions. He doesn't touch her, either, not her cheek or her thigh, but still she feels that weight. The air-conditioning was cold and plastic, coloured by the alcohol coursing through her father's bloodstream. The car itself was new and unfamiliar with their secrets. It felt rotten.
He tells her to park somewhere off the road, just shy of Newark, so she does. The world is dark and quiet, lined with trees, and Scout waits. The recycled air is cold, clean, but in her lungs it's thick and gory. She used to bite her lip so hard it bled, liquid metal down her throat. She's gotten better, stronger, number but she can still taste that memory now, like fear, like injury. The car is a slaughterhouse and she's hung on her father's hook, bound by the ankles, wrist, throat. The blood sticks in the gullet.
Scout swallows.
But Dexter doesn't do anything. Minutes pass, then an hour, and he just sits there, watching her, breathing, almost silent but not quite. They used to hunt out in New Jersey, Dexter with his rifle and Scout with her bow; their trips were infrequent but prominent in Scout's recollections of her childhood. The image was easy to conjure—foxing through the trees, her hair braided back, her father close, always close, clear cut over her shoulder against the bleeding red-and-orange heart of the woods. With it comes sounds, textures: the crunching of fallen foliage beneath her feet like bones. The soft metal scrape of an arrow removed from its quiver and nocked upon a bowstring. Her father's breath hot against her ear.
He would always tell her she was perfect, and that she was. One arrow, one kill: Scout always found the heart. In these moments, she wasn't the heroine or the victim—for once, she was the wolf, the beast on the prowl, searching for his next meal. It was a good backdrop, an appropriate one. These were killing woods. Scout was fit for that task.
It had been one hour and ten minutes when another car pulled up; Scout recognised it as Gargan's and breathed a sigh of relief. She was out of the driver's seat and into the cool night immediately, smoothing back her hair and pretending her hands weren't shaking.
Dexter joined her at the side of the vehicle. Though Scout had driven him here, he didn't acknowledge her. Upon Gargan's approach, he asked, "Did you bring her?"
Gargan nodded. "She made no fuss. She knows what's coming."
Scout looked between the two men, then settled her gaze on Gargan. He could always be trusted to tell her the truth. But before she could ask for it, he turned from her and went back to his car; instead of climbing into the driver's seat, he sidestepped around to the trunk and opened it up.
She smelled the blood immediately. For a moment she thought it was her own—had she bitten her lip again, for the first time in years?—then realised the truth as Gargan bent down to pull his unwilling passenger out of the boot, across the bitumen and onto the grassy side of the road. Here she lay at Dexter and Scout's feet. The only light was the moon, but even in its total, absolving whiteness, the woman's body was dripping, bleeding red. Despite her injuries, Scout recognised her instantly.
SCOUT: The Velvet Spider, Amelia Van Kirk. Head of logistics.
One of Amelia's eyes was swollen shut. It did not stop the mound from weeping blood.
SCOUT: Formerly head of logistics.
Scout looked back at her father and understood. "This is our traitor?"
Dexter nodded. Any sluggishness wrought by the sake was long gone in the dark, biting cold. "She contacted Spider-Man last week. Told him everything about me." He looked down at Amelia, who stared right back, unflinching. She was a severe-looking woman, even though it didn't suit her age: she was barely thirty, red-haired and built like a porcelain doll. Clearly, she broke like one. "Amelia. Did you tell him about my girls? You know what I'll have to do to you if you—"
"—Which girls?" Amelia interrupted. Her words were slow but deliberate, strangled with blood. "The ones you fuck or the ones you sell?"
Dexter kicked her and she whimpered. "My daughters," he said coldly.
"No. Not your daughters."
"Good." He kicks her again anyway and Scout watches, wincing. "What did he give you?"
"Nothing. I told him of my own free will."
"And why would you do that?"
"Because it's wrong. Everything you're doing is wrong."
Dexter laughed and although he was being cruel, Scout felt the compulsion to laugh with him. Yes, the Web was wrong. Obviously. But Amelia was part of it—she had no moral superiority she could, rightfully, assert. She had literally no leg to stand on.
The velvet spider was a peculiar specimen; at least, the female velvet spider was. It had no venom of note, but its concept of maternal care was mostly unique amongst arachnids. Upon the birth of her children, the velvet spider liquifies her insides then regurgitates them. On this substance, her children feast. Then when there's nothing left of her interior—nothing left inside to eat—her brood devour her body. Matriphagy, they call it. Matri- for "mother", -phagy for "feed on".
Amelia coughs and blood spurts forth from her mouth. Again, Scout winces. This time, Amelia sees it, and her good eye widens—she claws at Scout's legs, coughing and spluttering, spraying blood all over her boots. "Scout, please. You can help."
Scout looked at her father. He seemed unconcerned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"All those girls—"
"If you're going to even dare to speak to me, you could at least try not to waste my time." Scout turned her gaze back to Amelia and was surprised to see her face bright and begging. "Spit it out."
"It's starting again."
"What's starting again?"
"The Room."
"The Room," Scout repeated slowly, as if Amelia were stupid. But she knew exactly what she meant. Beside her, she felt her father tense.
"Do you think you're safe? They're just girls, Scarlett—"
"I think that's enough," Dexter said quietly. He stood straighter.
"—they're little girls. Just like you."
"I'm not a child," Scout said. In periphery, she saw Dexter unsheathe his blade; a handmade hunting knife with a deer-antler handle.
"No, you're not. But whose fault is that? Please, Scarlett. Please. You can stop him."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Scout said. Dexter grabbed Amelia by the hair, yanked her up with a snap, and slit her throat.
Then he turned to Scout and said, "That was anti-climatic. I was hoping for more."
Gargan picks up Amelia's body, throat still gushing blood—gaping—and carried her back to his car. He tucked her in the trunk, arranging her lolling head and long, delicate limbs almost tenderly, then closed the top and locked it. Then, he shot Scout a look, got back in on the driver's side, and drove away to dispose of the body.
Back in the BMW, Dexter cleaned his knife lazily on his pants, smearing the charcoal grey a bright, messy red. When Scout reached to key on the ignition, he touched her wrist; she stopped midair and, in her stillness, wished to die. But then her father removed his hand and used it to put away his knife, instead.
"I have something I need to discuss with you," he said.
"About Amelia?"
"No." Dexter said curtly, and Scout understood she was no longer permitted to ask questions. In lieu of inquiry, she simply locked her jaw and nodded. "About an assignment. Not training—you're far too good to only be a trainer, we both know that. You deserve a better use of your time. No," he said, gentler this time, something of an affection in his voice, rare and unsettling, "there's something I want you to do for me."
"Yes sir."
"I want you to kill Spider-Man."
"What?" Scout said, eyebrows knitting, but Dexter ignored her and continued talking. His hand wandered up into her hair, fingers twirling a long, red strand.
"I've already made the arrangements for you to stay in New York indefinitely. What I want you to do before killing him is study him. I want to find out exactly what it is he has that allows him to fight the way he does. I want it for the Web." In the moonlight, his nose looked not just broken but wicked, an evil tree with weaving, wending roots. Scout looked back at the side of the road, where Amelia's blood had pooled, darkened. "Gargan will act as your liaison and escort, when necessary. He needs to stay in the city anyways, we're still working out that suit of his. You'll be dealing with Spencer Smythe too—I want you to tell him everything you learn about Spider-Man. He's going to help us adapt Spider-Man's technology into our own weaponry."
SCOUT: Dr. Spencer Smythe is the roboticist who created and oversaw the experimental surgery Mac Gargan underwent earlier this year. He loves robots almost as much as he loves spiders, which is a very specific intersection of interests. I have never met the man.
"You'll have my apartment in Greenwich to use as your base of operations. Now, I trust that you'll be efficient in learning the Spider-Man's ins-and-outs, and even more so in executing him. That said, I want you to be thorough. And I know I cannot expect you to spend every waking hour dedicated to your cause. So, you may take your cello with you and, if you so wish, you may get your GED and enrol in college."
Scout stared.
"But this is a reward for two years of good work, Scarlett. It's a privilege. So if Gargan tells me you're slacking, or spending more time fucking around than delivering on what's expected of you, then said privilege will be suspended and you will be punished accordingly."
She could barely believe what she was hearing. "Dad—"
"When your work is done then you will be expected to continue your classes online—I will probably need you elsewhere. And of course, I will set aside for you a weekly allowance to spend on food, drinks, whatever it is teenage girls like to waste their father's money on."
It was too good to be true. "I don't know what to say."
He closed his fist around a section of her hair, but didn't pull. "You could thank me, for starters."
"Thank you." Then, again with more feeling, and even something of a smile, "Thank you."
Dexter let go of her hair. "You're welcome."
Scout watched him. "And Spence?"
"What about her?"
"Where will she go?"
"Back to Russia."
She blinked. Yes, it was far too good to be true. "Russia?"
"Yes, Russia. She needs more training. There's one last program that I think will whip her into shape. Into the spider she's meant to be."
What program? Scout should have asked. But she didn't, too possessed with the idea of her new life. "She can't stay with me?"
"No. She already doesn't work hard enough and your brilliance just depresses her."
"I don't think that's fair."
"Then what do you think it is, Scarlett? It's certainly not untrue. She's not like us. She's weak."
She's not a killer, Scout thinks. She doesn't say it. "She likes it here, though. She hates the cold."
"I don't care what she likes. I care what she is, and what she is is pathetic." Dexter paused, touched her jaw gently with the pad of his pointer finger. "She's not like you."
You can stop him, Amelia says, a ghost whispering in Scout's ear. She doesn't move. "Does she know?"
"Know what?"
"That she's leaving again. That you're making her leave. You promised her three months back here. Back home."
Dexter dropped his hand and shrugged. "What can she do about it? I'm her father."
"Dad, does she know?"
"No, she doesn't. Are you really going to be the one to tell her?"
Scout looks away, silent, and starts the car back up again. On the drive home, all she could think about was those woods. She had snagged herself in the thicket once, while racing to reach a trophy stag she'd put down with one proud arrow. Her braid, which was already loose, caught on a branch and came completely undone. A few strands of her hair were claimed. They drifted in the wind, danced, like a spider's web destroyed by a human's careless hand.
Of course, no-one had destroyed Scout. (Yet.) She'd picked a fight with this forest all on her own, walked right into her own fable, her own unhappy ending. She was only a kid then, hadn't yet reached for the dye, so that orphaned silk was dark and ambery in the wind.
If Scout were back in those woods now her hair would be the complete opposite: bright red and bleeding. Phantom-like. A wound midair.
🕸️
Dexter stops her before she can get out of the car. "Scarlett."
"Yes?"
"You start tomorrow, alright?"
She didn't expect it to be so soon. "And Spencer?"
"She leaves tomorrow, too."
Her sister wouldn't even get a day's grace—or warning. In periphery, Scout saw Birdeater waiting at the door to their apartment building, ready to switch places with Scout and park the car. There was more she could say to her father, she knew that. But there was a lot less he would be willing to hear.
In retrospect, she should have fought it. She should have forced him to let Spencer stay with her; better yet, she should've just grabbed her sister and run.
But you tried that, didn't you? Two years ago. And you weren't strong enough. You've never been strong enough.
Scout gives the car over to Birdeater and goes upstairs, carrying her guilt through the lobby, up the elevator, and down the hall. When she gets into the apartment it's dark and cold. Though the interior architecture was modern and the furnishings and fixtures luxurious, it was hardly a home. Dexter's room was functionally and spiritually empty—he resided elsewhere—and his daughters lived here a collective four months per year. Rarely were these months consecutive.
Scout wondered what her new place in Greenwich would be like. In the shower, she let herself think about it, let herself be excited. She knew there were more pressing matters (namely, the Spider-Man Problem, which would surely prove to be more complicated than it seemed at surface-level) but she had always been good at distracting herself, and this occasion was no exception. She thought about hardwood floors and big windows, a nice spacious kitchen and acoustics; a corner of the apartment where she might practice her cello. These thoughts saturate her every atom of being, like the shower spray in the bathroom she shared with Spencer.
Spencer. Scout dried herself off, brushed her teeth, cleaned Amelia's blood from her Docs and then went to her bedroom. She kept it as bare and minimal as possible; inside there was a bed, a dresser, a desk and a chair. The chair was separate to the desk, located in the furthest corner from it. Here Scout would sit and play.
She would play now if it weren't so late. She tries to sleep instead, but it doesn't work. So she grabs her pillow, blanket, and—impulsively—her music box, from where it sat in the top drawer of her dresser. It had been a gift from Shiori, the singular proof of affection she had for her first-born daughter. Shiori had been an opera singer when she was still young and beautiful; her voice was as lush as her body and as operatic as her ill-fated relationship with Dexter. The two had met in Japan and, shortly after giving birth to Scout—named for the famous fictional Southern belle—Shiori moved to the Big Apple. Bitter apple, she called it, poisoned apple. Which is a phrase that makes Scout question the lack of princesses, castles and dragons in her childhood, but whatever.
Shiori had a run at West End, then Broadway. She was Christine Daaé in The Phantom of the Opera for a time, and perhaps a song from that musical should have been the tune played by Scout's music box. Instead, it was the melody of The Sound of Music (the song, not the musical itself.) Scout never knew her mother to be fond of the musical, or the movie, or even Rodgers and Hammerstein for that matter, but she did later learn that her biological father Eiken had been the one to make the music box. It was simple and unassuming on the outside, but inside—inside was a world of its own.
Eiken had painted the inner lid in the image of a forest in spring, all green and sunlit. A stream began in paint but grew into tinted blue resin, broken only by stepping stones across the "water." On this water was a miniature porcelain girl dressed in a bright red dirndl, blouse as white as virginity and skirt a deep, leaf green. She was accompanied by a baby deer, which—well, Scout wasn't aware of any deer in The Sound of Music, but it was a very pretty creature. The girl's small, dainty hand rested upon the back of its neck.
This girl, Scout thought, would tremble if a bow and arrow were forced into her hands. She'd shoot through a whole quiver, useless, and sob at even the slightest of injury to her sweet, doe-eyed animal friends.
Scout goes into Spencer's bedroom and puts everything on the floor; lays out her blanket, her pillow. Then, quietly, she climbs up onto Spencer's bed. Sits, waits, then—
"Are you awake?"
"Yes," Spencer says immediately. She sits up too, a silhouette blacker than the dark. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." She didn't want to talk about it. Instead, she reached over to flick on Spencer's bedside lamp. Light filled the room, cool and weak, but it was enough. "I want you to have this. It was Mom's."
Spencer recognised the box. If she were two years younger, her eyes would've lit up, gotten big and round and soft like they used to. Instead, they narrow. "Why?"
"Because." Scout says. "I want you to take it with you."
"Where? I'm here for three months, Dad promised."
"But for when you do," Scout lied, too easily. "I just want you to have it, okay?"
"Okay." Spencer frowned, not for any particular reason. She took the music box and opened it carefully. The melody skipped the first chorus and began at the verse, tinkling, delicate:
My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds
That rise from the lake to the trees
My heart wants to sigh like a chime
That flies from a church on a breeze
To laugh like a brook when it trips
And falls over stones on its way
To sing through the night
Like a lark who is learning to pray
Then, Scout's favourite part:
I go to the hills when my heart is lonely
I know I will hear what I've heard before
My heart will be blessed with the sound of music
And I'll sing once more.
They let the tune play twice. Then, Scout turned off the light and laid down on the floor. She falls asleep to the sound of her sister's breathing, and wakes up to find Spencer's dresser drawers pulled open and emptied, and their mother's music box sitting on her stripped twin bed.
Gargan comes over for breakfast, cooks up an omelette for Scout and makes her a coffee. "It's moving day," he says, trying to lift her spirits. He even smiles, which is a sight so rare she forces herself to smile back.
"I hope you know this was all my idea, Little Red." Gargan says, sipping his own coffee. He looks a lot younger when he smiles. "I poured that poison into his ear. Scarlett could handle it, Scarlett wouldn't have a problem with Spider-Man, Scarlett'd be running circles around that bug-fucking-freak. Blah blah blah. And look where we are now, girlie."
"Look where we are," Scout affirms. After breakfast, Gargan helps her pack up her few possessions; her clothes, her cello. She remembered the last time she packed up and left—she remembered the darkness after it, that long, endless nothing.
Then, the light. And her sister's hand in hers.
She and Spencer had lasted two months on their own after the Blip before Scout dragged them back to their father, crawling, crying, begging for forgiveness at his feet. For the longest time, she told herself this was for the best. They had a roof over their heads, they had food. They had each other.
Had. Her sister was gone. Later—much, much later—Scout would learn exactly where. Then, she would be sick for days, violently, viciously ill, wracked with guilt and self-loathing. Peter would try to comfort her, run his fingers through her hair, press soft kisses into the crook of her neck, but he didn't understand. How could he? He was an only child. And he had never betrayed anyone as badly as Scout betrayed Spencer. As she would eventually betray him. Her beautiful boy. He had never been so selfish.
There's one last program that I think will whip her into shape, Dexter had said. Into the spider she's meant to be.
It's starting again. Amelia's voice, wet with memory and with blood. They're just girls. They're little girls.
The web, the widows. Scout should have known.
But that's later. For now, she remains selfish and stupid—unknowing.
"Chin up, girlie," Gargan said, nudging Scout's shoulder as he put her bags in the back of his car—a truck this time, not the bloodied SUV from the night before. Scout knew she should be happy. At the very least, she should be proud of herself. All her hard work had finally paid off. All her killing.
But all Scout felt was alone. Completely, utterly alone.
🕸 me updating any fic, let alone the same fic, within two months is actually crazy. part of me thinks i deserve a victory tour, another more realistic part thinks this is probably the bare minimum. regardless, welcome back to the story.
🕸️ i know this is a bit of an exposition-y chapter, but i still hope you guys enjoy it regardless. we get deeper into scout's current relationship with dexter, and also more into her relationship with spencer. there's a lot that's only hinted here, which will definitely be explored later.
🕸️ you will also have noticed the red room mention. HEH HEH HEH.
🕸️ and of course the future mention of peter. very exciting things happening ... we (scout) shall meet him soon. for now, thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed the story 🤍🤍 and if you did, please vote and comment! i love reading your guys' thoughts and feedback. it truly makes my day.
🕸️ till next time, i hope you're well!
GRAPHIC BY SOULOFSTAARS 🫂