Summary: You help Singed with a radical experiment. His fascination with your mind gives way to unsettling attraction. Science and obsession entwine.
Pairing: Singed x femReader
Word count: ~1,100
You weren’t sure when the line began to blur : between curiosity and complicity, between admiration and something stranger.
At first, it was just a research opportunity. A rare apprenticeship under one of Piltover's most controversial scientific minds, buried far beneath Zaun in a lab that always felt too cold, no matter how many hours you spent there.
Singed didn’t smile much. He didn’t talk unless it served the experiment. His voice was steady, low, and detached yet oddly soothing in its precision.
“Give me the stabilizer,” he said, eyes fixed on the tank in front of him.
You did without hesitation. Your fingers brushed his glove. He didn’t flinch, but he did glance at you just a flicker. Like he was cataloguing the sensation.
The creature inside the tank thrashed, translucent skin rippling with bio-luminescent veins. It had once been a rat. Now it was something else entirely.
“I don’t understand,” you murmured, reading over the notes. “This mutation—its cell division shouldn’t be sustainable.”
He looked up at you, slowly. Not as a scolding mentor. As something else. “Exactly.”
That was the moment something shifted.
You’d expected pride. Or perhaps cold dismissal. Instead, you saw something else in his gaze: a flicker of… admiration? Maybe even something possessive. Like he was proud not just of your observation—but of you.
From then on, he let you closer.
He asked your opinion more often. Gave you the most dangerous tasks. Let you document things he hadn’t trusted to paper in years.
And you said yes every time.
You told yourself it was for the science. For the prestige. For the chance to change the world.
But in the silence of the lab, sometimes you caught him watching you.
Not in the way someone watches a peer. In the way a chemist watches an unstable compound.
Fascinated. Intrigued. Aware it could all blow up with the wrong touch.
“You have an instinct,” he said once, after you'd stopped a reaction from melting straight through the floor. “A certain edge.”
“You sound surprised,” you said quietly, not looking up.
He didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched—barely noticeable. If you hadn’t known him so well by now, you might have missed it.
Then came the night you stayed too late.
The experiment had gone sideways. The test subject : a hybrid strain had begun deteriorating too fast. You stayed past midnight to run diagnostics, your hands shaking from the cold and lack of sleep.
Singed didn’t tell you to go home. He just watched. Hovered.
“You don’t take care of yourself,” he said after a long silence.
You looked at him. The lab lights buzzed overhead, casting strange shadows. “Neither do you.”
That… made him smile.
Just barely.
You didn’t know what it meant.
Later, when the trial was done and the sample destroyed, you leaned back against the workbench, fingers stained with something you couldn’t quite name.
He stood near, not touching, but close enough to feel the weight of his presence.
“You know,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “this would not be possible without you.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your version of gratitude?”
“It’s a fact,” he said. But there was something else in his tone. Something that made your skin prickle.
He reached out slowly—gloved fingers grazing the side of your neck, like checking your pulse. Scientific. Almost.
But not quite.
And in that silence, you realized something:
You had become part of the experiment.
Not the subject. Not quite the partner either. But something in between. Essential. Observed. Treasured, in a way that made your chest tighten.
And when he said softly, “Stay,” he didn’t mean for the night.
He meant for the work.
For the madness.
For whatever was slowly growing between you that had no name in science.
And you… didn’t say no because you wanted to stay with him.
A/N : First imagine I did on Singed. What do you think? Do u like it ?Have a good reading! A lot of love ! ❤️❤️❤️❤️ Would u like another one ?
Slow Descent: Ch 1: Not Looking for Trouble (Aren't You Though?)
Day 1 entry for @hatchetober
Prompt: Dark
Ao3
The sun has long since set over Hatchetfield. The darkness weighs heavily over the town and beyond. In Oakley Park, there aren't even any lights to illuminate the space. Which makes sense, seeing as it closes at sunset.
Despite this, a shiny red 2019 Corvette Stingray sits in the small parking lot. The Kansas license plate suggests the owner doesn't know any better. Which is impressive, given the signs posted that state the park's hours. Not that the locals need the signs. The locals of Hatchetfield know better than to be this close to the Witchwood this late at night.
Arlen Mercier hikes his bag higher on his shoulder as he approaches the treeline. The beam from his flashlight illuminates the trunks of the trees and the ground in front of him. Crickets chirp loudly, almost as if in warning. He glances up at the night sky, noting the new moon, before walking into the forest.
He had just moved to Hatchetfield a month or so ago, in search of inspiration for his next novel. Sure, his fantasy adventure books were fun to write and sold well, but he wanted a challenge. Based on box office sales and tumblr posts, his target demographic seemed to be into horror.
He heard about Hatchetfield from a few fans, noting the town name on the return addresses of letters. It seemed like such a silly name for a town. Hatchetfield? Is that where you go to bury the hatchet? He had tweeted under his pen name of Claire Merren. The responses he received from fans who lived there, though, intrigued him. He read about their stories, urban legends and conspiracy theories, feeling drawn to the island town. A few days browsing the web and some phone calls later, he had purchased a house in a neighborhood called Pinebrook.
Tonight though, tonight is the first night he's gotten to do any investigating after asking around town. The Witchwood caught his attention after a brief conversation with a young girl with pigtail braids and dark, serious eyes. She caught sight of him outside of Lakeside Mall and had immediately become distressed. "Witchwood," she had muttered, glancing at the teenager in a Toy Zone vest at her side before looking pointedly at him again. "Apple… Dark…"
He had tried to approach her, to ask what she meant, but the teen had glared at him before hurrying the girl away.
Arlen finds himself in a clearing after several minutes of hiking over gnarled roots and unruly underbrush. The girl had been right about two things: it was dark and he was in the Witchwood. He shines the light around, slowly spinning in a circle as he moves to the middle of the clearing. He stops dead as two horrifying realizations hit him.
One: He doesn't know which way he came from.
Two: The crickets have stopped chirping.
He takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself calm. He looks around, trying to find some sort of sign or marker to have magically appeared to guide him back to the park.
Crunch
Arlen freezes, swallowing nervously at the sound. That wasn't a twig snapping. That sounded like-
"Well, well, well, who do we have here?" A low gravelly voice asks
Stumbling back, Arlen shines the light towards the sound of the voice. There stands a man dressed entirely in denim. The light reflects off the pins on his jacket. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, dark eyes glinting maliciously. In his hand is a green apple with a single bite taken out of it.
Panic begins to rise in his chest. "Wh-who are you?!" He demands in a shaky voice.
"Oh, I think the more important question is who are you?" The man looks him up and down. "Not from Hatchetfield, that much is for certain."
Arlen blinks. "How could you possibly know that?"
Somehow, the man's grin grows even wider. "Cause I know Hatchetfield. It's a mold, y'see, makes a very specific type of person." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes another bite of his apple. "...and you're not it," he says through a mouthful of apple.
Where to even begin with this. "Look, I don't want any trouble-"
The forest around him erupts with high pitched screams of laughter, making it almost impossible to hear the man's low rumbling laugh. There's something else, a single, almost hiccuping laugh underneath all of the other noises that seems to resonate through the forest.
"You don't want any trouble?" The man snickers, eyes burning with sadistic glee. "You came to Hatchetfield of all places and you expect me to believe you don't want any trouble?" He sneers. He begins to cross the clearing slowly, headed directly for Arlen.
He needs to run, needs to get away from whoever this man is. As he takes a step back, his flashlight begins dimming and flickering. Arlen curses. He just put new batteries in it before coming out. He hits it against the heel of his hand, desperately trying to get the light to come back. He glances up to see the man getting closer and closer, his lips curled in an arrogant smirk.
Witchwood. He glances around at the trees as he backs up.
Apple. His eyes fall to the green skin of the fruit in the man's hand.
Dark. His flashlight flickers one last time before plunging him in total darkness.
The next morning, the soft sunlight filters through the branches of the trees. Deep in the heart of the Witchwood, a clearing seems to glow from the light filling it. It appears undisturbed, aside from a single green apple on the ground, placed, somehow, exactly in the middle of the clearing.
Note: Thank you so much for reading! Arlen Mercier is my original character, please do not use without my permission. My Hatchetober fics are going to be one continuing story based around Arlen, so this should be fun!
Slow Descent: Chapter 6: A Squirrel By Any Other Name (Why Do You Even Have a Squirrel?)
Day 6 entry for @hatchetober
Prompt: Powers
Ao3
Arlen walks up the cobblestone path to the front door of a cottage. It sits on the edge of the Witchwood, distanced from nearby houses. It reminds Arlen of something from a storybook.
Except, instead of witches in the woods, he's dealing with some unseen entity.
He decided to take up Tony's offer to play cards with some of the guys. He figures it'll be a good way to take his mind off all the spooky things happening in his life. Plus, he'll get to meet new people.
He reaches the door and knocks. He's barely hit the wood twice before it's being swung open. There stands a man with short black hair and gorgeous hazel eyes. Arlen's distracted by his eyes for a moment before he notices the squirrel on the man's shoulder.
"Oh you must be Arlen! Tony mentioned you'd be coming! I'm Ed." He shakes Arlen's hand.
Arlen forces a smile, his eyes still focused on Ed's shoulder. "... that's a squirrel."
"Oh, that's Peanuts," Ed introduces. At the sound of his name, the squirrel perks up. "Come on in!"
Okay. Sure. Not the weirdest thing Arlen has seen in this town. He follows Ed into the cottage. It's cozy, definitely somewhere Arlen could see his characters living. His eyes flit to Peanuts and thinks about his character's pet goose.
They end up in a room off the kitchen. A large, circular wooden table takes up most of the space. There's already four men seated at the table. Arlen only recognizes a couple faces: Tony Green and Dan Reynolds, from the Hatchetfield Morning News. The other two he has no idea. They're both wearing glasses. One is wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. The other has hair a bit longer than Arlen's
"Okay, I think-" Ed's cut off by the sound of knocking at the door. Confused, he walks out of the room.
Arlen waves awkwardly at the men as he sits down. "Evening."
"Hey, there Arlen." Tony grins at him before turning back to the man with the long hair. "So Ken, you were saying you and Carol were planning a trip?"
"Yeah. Her sister moved down to Florida a few years ago and she's been wanting to visit." Ken sighs. "I just hate the heat."
The man with the earpiece looks up from his cellphone. "Just go in the winter," he comments in a snobby, almost nasally tone.
"Gary, you ignorant slut," Dan comments with a good natured grin. His voice sounds the same as it does on air: full and melodic, his words spoken in a soothing cadence. But the content difference is so jarring it makes Arlen blink. "Florida is always hot."
Before Gary has the chance to retort, a man with short, messy curls and a red flannel shirt steps into the room.
A chorus of Tom! breaks out in the room, all of the men lighting up at the sight of the newcomer.
"Hey Tony, hey Ken, hey Dan, hey Gary," Tom greets as he works his way around the table. He makes it to the empty chair across from Arlen, in between Gary and Dan. He goes to sit down but catches sight of Arlen. He leans across the table, a hand outstretched. "Hey, I'm Tom Houston."
Arlen stands quickly, reaching to shake his hand. "Arlen Mercier," he replies.
As they sit back down, Ed comes back in with what looks like a small metal briefcase and a small stack of takeout menus. Peanuts looks at Arlen with his beady eyes, his nose twitching. Ed takes the seat to Arlen's right, putting Peanuts uncomfortably close to Arlen.
"What, no Gerald tonight?" Dan asks, gesturing to the empty chair between Gary and Ed.
Gary answers, "No. He's at a charity fundraiser Linda is hosting and she was insistent he had to attend."
"She's got him by the balls, don't she?" Tony snickers.
"Who are you to talk?" Ed asks with a smirk. The metal case is open, revealing poker chips. He starts passing the white ones around the table in stacks. "You'd drop anything and everything to do what your old lady asked."
Tony nods. "Yeah, but my wife ain't Linda Monroe. For starters, she's actually human."
Laughter breaks out at the table at that comment. Arlen sees Tom chuckle, shaking his head.
Gary grabs the takeout menus, flipping through his. "So what do we want to do for food?"
"That depends, you buyin', Gary?" Tom asks the corner of his mouth curling up in a smirk.
Grinning, Gary looks over at Tom. "Sure, why not? Celebrate you coming back."
The others nod in agreement. "How have you and Tim been, Tom?" Ken asks gently.
"...getting better," Tom says after a few long moments. "It's been an adjustment for sure."
As Dan claps Tom on the back, Arlen shoots Tony a questioning look.
Tony glances around before leaning over to whisper in Arlen's ear, "Jane, Tom's wife, died in a car crash last year."
"Oh." Arlen takes a deep breath. Everyone seems so aware of the incident. It's the first time since he's moved here that it realizes him how much of an outsider he is.
"How about Pizza Pete's?" Ed suggests as he moves on from the red chips to the blue.
"Do they deliver?" Tom asks, raising his eyebrow. "I don't want one of to have to leave to go get food."
Something lands on Arlen's shoulder, distracting him from the conversation. He slowly turns his head to see Peanuts' squirrely little face inches from his own.
"Oh, that's rare," Ed comments, watching Peanuts with someone akin to pride in his eyes. "He usually won't go to anyone else."
Those beady eyes seem to stare directly into Arlen's soul. There's something almost intelligent there…
"Get him off me please?" Arlen requests, his voice slightly higher than normal.
Peanuts starts barking frantically, the noises unsettlingly loud from such a small creature.
"Hey, hey," Ed says, looking concerned as he scoops Peanuts up in his hands, cradling him close. He frowns, glancing up at Arlen before looking down at the squirrel again. It takes a few seconds, but Peanuts barks turn to squeaks then fade into silence.
Arlen looks around the room. Everyone is glancing uneasily at each other, unsure of what to make of what just happened. "Um, is there a good Mexican restaurant around?" He suggest. "I could totally go for some tacos right now."
That seems to break the tension. Everyone visibly relaxes, voicing their agreements. Gary pulls up the restaurant's site on his phone, selecting his order before passing his phone to Tom so he can order.
"So, Arlen," Ken says, glancing over at him. "Where are you from? What brings you to Hatchetfield?"
"Oh, I'm from Kansas, around Wichita," he answers. "I'm here for work."
Dan nudges Ken to get his attention, passing him Gary's phone so he can order. "Oh, what kind of work?" He asks, his voice making it sound like an interview.
"I'm an author. I write under a pen name though," he explains, "I wanted to branch out from my usual genre and I thought I could find inspiration here."
Ken passes the phone to Arlen. He quickly puts in his order, adding a couple extra orders of queso blanco and chips for good measure, before passing the phone over to Ed.
"What's your pen name?" Gary asks, raising an eyebrow in intrigue.
Arlen hesitates. "I dunno, I've worked really hard to protect my real identity."
"What are you, a superhero?" Tony teases, "Besides, who would even believe us if we told them?"
"That's a good point." Arlen considers for a moment. "Claire Merren."
Everyone shrugs it off, not recognizing the name, except Tom. "Aw, The Golden Goose Chronicles?" He asks, a wide grin spreading over his face. "My son loves those books!"
"Yeah?" Arlen asks, feeling himself smile. "That's awesome to hear!"
"What genre is that?" Gary asks as he gets his phone back. He submits the order and puts his phone away.
"Fantasy adventure," Arlen answers. "It's fun, but I want to try my hand at something else. Everyone seems to be into horror, so I thought I'd give it a shot."
That gets a few chuckles. "You came to the right place," Dan remarks. "The things people believe happen here-"
"What do you mean 'believe'?" Tony asks, raising his eyebrows. "You mean to tell me you're a denier of the very fabric of what makes up Hatchetfield?"
Gary groans. "Not this again. Look, we don't have any proof-"
"I think we should talk about something else," Ken says, biting his lip anxiously.
"Y'know, it's weird," Tom comments, "I didn't use to believe in any of that, but then I started going through Jane's things… found some of her notes from work."
Tony leans forward eagerly. "What did they say?"
Arlen glances around, noticing Peanuts is looking intently at him again.
"This one guy believed in these entities, five eldritch like beings who were also brothers," Tom tells, "Said they all had these powers and they were planning something terrible to everyone but their followers."
Arlen feels like he can't breathe.
"Did they have names?" Tony asks, absolutely enthralled with the story.
Before Tom can answer, Ed cuts him off. "Oh no. Names have power and I live too close to the Witchwood to be invoking the names of any eldritch entities." Peanuts is on his shoulder again, finally turned away from Arlen. Ed holds up a deck of playing cards. "Who's dealing first?"
Slow Descent: Chapter 5: Got My Foot on the Gas (But Are You Getting Anywhere?)
Day 5 entry for @hatchetober
Prompt: Friend
Ao3
The next morning, Arlen heads over to the Monroe residence. Linda brags about how much she knows about Hatchetfield and all of its residents. She must know something about the Fosters. He knocks on the Monroes' front door and waits.
It takes several moments, but finally the door opens. "Hey, Mr. Mercier," River greets cheerfully.
"Hey, River. Is your mom around?" Arlen asks, already preparing to step into the house.
"No."
Huh. That's weird. Arlen freezes. "Did she say where she'd be?"
"I think she said something about the society and brunch," River answers, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of his brothers calling his name. "Bye, Mr. Mercier!" The door closes in Arlen's face
There goes that plan. Arlen slowly crosses yards again. He glances at his car before doing a double take. He sprints to the Corvette, kneeling by the passenger side door.
There's a baseball sized dent in his otherwise pristine car. His fingers trace over the crater in horror. He can see the spots of metal where whatever hit his car took the paint off.
He immediately glares over at the Monroes' house. It was definitely one of the boys but there's no point telling their parents. Gerald has no spine and Linda believes her boys can do no wrong. Sighing, he pulls out his phone.
Half an hour later, he's pulling into the lot of an auto repair shop in town. He parks before walking into the office attached to the garage. Behind the counter sits a middle aged man wearing coveralls and a baseball cap. He looks up from his newspaper. "What can I do for ya?"
"Hey." Arlen waves awkwardly. "I'm Arlen Mercier, I called about half an hour ago. Are you Tony Green?
"Sure am." Tony sets aside his newspaper as he stands. "Let's go check out the damage." They walk out the office and out to where Arlen parked. Tony lets out a low whistle when he sees the dent. "Any clue how it happened?" He asks as he crouches down to get a closer look.
Arlen sighs. "If I had to guess, one of the neighbors' boys hit a baseball into it."
"You talk to their parents?" Tony asks, glancing up at him.
"No, I live next door to the Monroes-"
Tony cuts him off. "Ah, say no more. Have you tried rolling down the window?"
"Yeah." Arlen nods. "It still rolls up and down."
"Good. Means it didn't damage the window motor. That woulda been a pain in the ass." Tony takes to his feet. "I can fix it, but it'll take probably about a week."
Before Arlen can answer, a familiar station wagon pulls into the lot. It parks a few spaces over. Duke Keane climbs out of the driver's side and walks over. He nods at Arlen before looking over at the mechanic. "Morning, Mr. Green."
"Duke." Tony seems a bit displeased at the man's presence.
"Is Ethan around by any chance?" Duke asks. "I have a few questions for him."
"...he's in the garage, working on his car." Tony jerks his thumb at one of the bays where a beat up old car sits. "Go ahead."
Duke thanks him before walking away. Arlen looks at Tony. "Who's Ethan?" He finally decides is the safest question.
Tony sighs. He looks at Arlen before turning to walk back to the office. Arlen follows him. Tony sits behind the counter again, in front of a giant window that looks out into the garage. He gestures at the empty seat next to him. Cautiously, Arlen takes the seat.
"Ethan is my son," Tony says after taking a sip from a mug. He glances out the window. Arlen follows his gaze to see a teenager in a plain white T-shirt wiping his hands on a rag while he talks to Duke.
Arlen nods. "Is Duke one of his teachers or…?"
Scoffing, Tony takes another sip of coffee. "No. Duke Keane is a social worker. Ethan… Ethan's a good kid with a heart too damn big for his own good." He shakes his head. "Ethan's been going steady with a girl for a couple years. Her family is a trainwreck though. That's why Duke comes to talk to him sometimes, to try to figure out if things are good or not."
"...wouldn't the kids in the family tell Duke if something was wrong?" Arlen asks, raising an eyebrow.
"That would sure make things easier." Tony looks exhausted. "Lex is terrified of her and her little sister getting separated."
Arlen's eyes go wide. He glances out the window at Ethan, who seems a bit agitated, gesticulating as he speaks. "What about Lex and her sister's dad? Is he not in the picture?"
"You're really not from here, huh?" Tony's eyes soften. "I doubt Pamela even knows who their dads are. Those kids have it rough, that's for sure. With Lex and Ethan, I just worry-" He clears his throat suddenly. "Sorry, you probably don't want to listen to all this small town drama." He stands.
The door into the garage opens and Ethan walks in. "Hey, Dad," he calls as he grabs a leather jacket off the back of one of the chairs in the small waiting area. "I'm headed to the mall."
"Okay. Say hi to Hannah and Lex for me," Tony deadpans. "Oh and will you drop off Mr. Mercier here at the rental place?"
Ethan glances over at Arlen. "Sure, no problem."
Arlen stands, offering a hand to Tony. "Thank you."
"Not a problem." Tony shakes his hand firmly. "If you'll just hand over those keys, we'll be all set."
Nodding, Arlen pulls his keys from his pocket and places them in Tony's hand. He slips out from behind the counter and goes to follow Ethan out of the shop.
Tony calls after him. "Me and some fellas in town meet up to play cards on Thursdays. If you ever wanna join in."
Surprised, Arlen looks back. Tony gives him a nod before busying himself with some papers. Smiling faintly, Arlen steps out of the shop, suspecting he made a friend.
Slow Descent: Chapter 2: Trapped in Your Own Story (Why Didn't You Write a Better Situation?)
Day 2 entry for @hatchetober
Prompt: Nightmare
Ao3
Arlen sits up straight out of bed, his shoulder length hair swinging with the movement. He gasps for air before covering his face with his hands.
One week. It's been one week since he had gone into the Witchwood. He had gone the night he had heard the girl at the mall mention it. He hadn't seen anything, but hadn't been able to shake the feeling someone had been watching. The feeling had only intensified when he had reached a clearing. He had barely set a foot into it before immediately turning around and racing back to his car.
Then he had the nightmare: going into the clearing, the man with the apple, everything going black, the apple in the clearing.
He tried to brush it off. It was just a dream, after. Despite his best efforts, though, he couldn't convince himself. He headed back to Oakley Park.
During the day, the Witchwood seemed… peaceful. Birds chirped happily as Arlen made his way through the forest. He broke through the trees into the clearing. Everything looked normal. He walked forward, eyes scanning the trees. He glanced down, freezing at the sight of a green apple with a couple bites taken out of it on the ground in front of him.
He had never screamed so loud before.
Every night, every single fucking night for the past week, he's had the exact same nightmare.
With a heavy sigh, Arlen drops his hands from his face. He wanted to do research for a horror novel, not end up in one. He scratches at his beard thoughtfully. If he were a character in a novel though, he knows what his next step is.
He needs to find out who the man in denim is.
One shower and a quick breakfast later, Arlen steps out of his front door just in time to get hit in the head by a soccer ball. The ball bounces on the driveway before rolling to a stop.
"Sorry, Mr. Mercier!" A boy with shaggy blonde hair calls as he jogs over from his lawn next door.
Arlen rubs his head. "It's okay, River," he assures him. He kicks the ball back to him, sending it in a graceful arc.
River easily blocks the ball with his chest, letting it drop at his feet. "You wanna play?" He asks hopefully.
"Not right now, I have some things to take care of. Why not ask one of your brothers to play?" He suggests.
A guilty grimace comes over River's face. "Cause they're all in lessons right now," he admits, "I'm supposed to be-"
The door to an ornate house to the right flies open. A small, elegantly dressed woman storms out, her dark eyes burning with rage. "River! Why is your father paying for piano lessons if you're not even going to attend?!"
River ducks his head, muttering a bye, Mr. Mercier before scooping up his ball and racing back home.
"Good morning, Mrs. Monroe," Arlen greets as the woman approaches him, "How are you?"
The woman chuckles. "Oh, stop it with that Mrs. Monroe nonsense." She steps almost uncomfortably close to him, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. "I've said many a time that you're permitted to call me Linda."
"Of course, my apologies," Arlen replies, trying his best not to smirk. "Good morning, Linda." He considers her for a moment. "You've lived in Hatchetfield for a while, right?"
"Since I was born, yes," Linda responds in a prideful tone. "Why?" She moves in a bit more, carefully trailing a finger down his chest.
Arlen does smirk this time. "Does anyone around town dress… eccentrically? Like, wearing a lot of denim, for example?"
Linda scoffs as her hand drops. "The only person I can think of who has abused their denim privileges is that Holloway woman, but she… died? Disappeared? I can never remember which one." She waves the thought away. "Only person who was troubled by it anyhow was Duke Keane."
"Duke Keane?" Arlen asks, raising an eyebrow. "Can you tell me more about him?"
"I could…" Linda smirks. "It'll cost you though." She walks past Arlen toward his front door. She looks back over her shoulder and winks at him. Grinning, he follows.
-
A couple hours later, a second shower, and feeling much more relaxed than before, Arlen finds himself walking through the bright orange door of Java Cafe. For a place that claims to be a tiny town, it seems to be pretty big. He can't think of any other small towns that have three coffee shops.
He's barely inside when he hears a barista call "Duke! Coffee for Duke!"
A man in a black polo and gray slacks approaches the counter with a warm smile to claim the coffee. His dark hair is combed back from his face. Arlen follows him back to a small table in the corner. "Excuse me?" Arlen says.
The man turns to look at Arlen. "Can I help you?" He asks, sounding politely confused.
"Hopefully." Arlen gives a friendly smile. "Are you Duke Keane?"
"I am." Realization flashes across Duke's face. "Are you looking to report? I can take a statement, but it would be best to contact the Depart-"
Arlen interrupts him. "Oh no, no, nothing like that. I…" he hesitates as the weight of what he's about to ask hits him. "I was hoping you could tell me about Miss Holloway."
A chill suddenly fills the air, making Arlen shiver. Duke's features crumple for a moment before turning stony. "I don't know why you'd be asking about her," Duke replies coolly, looking away from Arlen. He picks up a bag from the table and slips it over his shoulder. "She… passed several years ago."
"I'm sorry. Talking about her must be painful." Arlen nods respectfully. "I just need to know if she knew anything about a man who wore all denim."
Duke's entire body goes stiff. Slowly, he turns his head to look at Arlen. "What kind of man in all denim?"
"Dark, greasy hair, dark eyes," Arlen describes. watching horror creep into Duke's eyes. "Deep voice, had an apple."
"... what's your name?"
The question takes him off guard. "Oh, um, Arlen Mercier."
"You busy tomorrow?" Duke asks as he reaches into his bag. He waits for the negative before offering a business card. "That's my personal number. Text me in the morning. I'll be better able to answer your questions then."
Arlen takes the card. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Duke appears grim. "If it's him… well, we'll talk about it more tomorrow." He nods at Arlen before turning and walking out of the cafe.
Note: Arlen Mercier is my original character, please do not use without my permission
Slow Descent: Chapter 4: Bring Me a Dream (Or Would You Prefer a Nightmare?)
Day 4 entry for @hatchetober
Prompt: Song
Ao3
Arlen races through the Witchwood, bursting through low limbs and bushes. The low hanging limbs and thorns shred his clothes like paper to claw desperately at his skin. Blood oozes from the stinging cuts. Fearfully, he glances behind him.
Wiley's strolling leisurely behind him, tossing and catching a rotting green apple as he moves. From his cruel, twisted lips, he croons a haunting rendition of Mr. Sandman.
No matter how fast Arlen seems to run, Wiley keeps gaining. The sound of the song just gets closer and closer-
With a gasp, Arlen's eyes fly open. His chest heaves, as if he really were just running. His eyes dart around wildly, taking in the suede furniture, the plush rug, and the fireplace before he realizes he's at home. He takes several deep breaths before sitting up on the couch. He grabs his phone to check the time. 6:47pm. Cursing, he scrubs a hand up his face. He must have dozed off.
The past few days have been rough. He had tried to convince himself that he had bought that apple during his last grocery trip. That had been believable enough. He liked apples. He must have grabbed it that morning and set it on the counter. Easy enough, he's scatterbrained sometimes. He probably meant to take it with him as a snack when he went to meet Duke and, in his anticipation, forgot about it. He wants to believe that, but no matter how many times he repeats it, he can't shake how wrong it is.
He stands, groaning as he stretches out. He needs to get out of this house. He can't count how many hours he's stared at the Polaroid on the fridge and thought about what Duke told him. He needs some fresh air, something to get his mind off of it.
-
Arlen sits at the scratched up bar of the Birdhouse, sipping a whiskey sour. The smokey air might not be fresh, but it's still a welcome change. His eyes scan the bar idly.
"Lookin' for somebody in particular?" Comes a smokey voice from beside him.
He twists around on the barstool to an older woman with a bad blonde dye job and mousy roots. Her lips are painted almost an offensive shade of red. Her tank top fits tightly in an unflattering way.
"No, I'm not," Arlen answers before taking another sip. She was probably gorgeous when she was younger. She has gorgeous blue eyes, the beauty offset by deep crows feet.
"Well…" she leans towards him, her breasts almost falling out of her top. "If you was smart, you'd be looking for me." She winks before ordering a beer.
This is a mistake. Arlen recognizes that clear as day. He leans in as well. "Oh? And who would you be?"
"My name's Pamela," she answers in a sultry voice. She looks him up and down, her bright red lips curling in a pleased smirk. "I ain't see you around, hot stuff. Who are you?"
"I'm Arlen." He watches in distaste as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "I moved here not too long ago."
Pamela accepts her beer from the bartender and takes a deep drink. "Oh yeah?" She takes a drag from her cigarette. "What brought you round to these parts?"
"Work," he answers vaguely.
That doesn't seem to bother her. She drains her beer quickly before giving him a predatory grin. "How's abouts me 'n' you get outta here and I can show you some real good hospitality." She winks again as she brings her cigarette to her lips.
That is definitely a bad idea. Arlen gets the bartender's attention and pays for his and Pamela's drinks.
"So, did you drive here?" Pamela asks as they step out of the Birdhouse.
"No," Arlen lies easily, "Did you?"
She leads him over to an old, beat up pick up truck. Almost reluctantly. Arlen climbs into the passenger side.
A short ride later, Pamela pulls into the yard of a small, rundown trailer near the back of a trailer park. Arlen considers bolting as soon as he steps out of the truck. Instead, he finds himself following Pamela up the stairs into the trailer.
Once inside, Arlen looks around cautiously. It seems clean enough. He takes a few steps forward before the sound of a ukulele reaches him, carrying the sounds of Mr. Sandman. He looks in horror, expecting to see Wiley standing in the trailer's narrow hall.
"For God's sale," Pamela mutters before raising her voice to an obnoxious yell. "Nanners, fuckin' knock it off or I swear-"
A door down the hall swings open and out storms a familiar looking teenager. "Don't fucking talk to her like that!" She seethes as she steps into the living room. She catches sight of Arlen and scoffs. "Oh, so now you're bringing men back here? Fan-fucking-tastic move, Mom."
"This is my home, Lex, and I'll do what I damn well please !" Pamela shouts back. "You're lucky I still let you live here, you ungrateful-"
Arlen starts backing up for the door. He glances down the hall to see a younger girl peeking out from around a doorframe. Her dark, serious eyes and braids are also familiar. He can't quite place-
"Hey! Stop fucking looking at her, you creep!" Lex shouts at him, moving to block his view of the hall.
Pamela yells something unintelligible as she grabs Lex's arm. Arlen doesn't bother hanging around. He opens the door and darts out, letting the door slam behind him.
He jogs back to the Birdhouse. He doesn't slow until he sees his car in the parking lot. He stops beside the Corvette, doubled over as he breathes heavily.
It's not until he's back home, scrubbing the smell of smoke off his body, that he remembers: the girl was the one who mentioned the Witchwood and Lex was the one in the Toy Zone vest beside her.
He turns off the shower, thinking hard. He definitely doesn't want to be around Pamela Foster again. He could go to Toy Zone to ask Lex if he could speak to the girl, but judging how she's reacted to him, that's not a good idea either.
He needs to find out more about that family.
Note: I am falling behind. I am so sorry. Arlen Mercier is my original character, please do not use without my permission.
