Chapter Text
ANTHEMS (FOR A SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD)
PART I: PRE-PHASE ONE:
GORILLAZ:
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:
Kleptomaniacrow - Madilyn Mei
01:23 ━━━━●───── 03:37
ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ
---˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹---
OCTOBER 13TH, 1990: Liverpool, England:
Three bodies laid to rest: yet only one soul remained.
She hadn’t known how she survived—but she wasn’t going to question it with how much her head hurt. The day had already been stressful with her mother and father consistently arguing in the car, as well as shops and the restaurant they visited. It was a norm in the Dovewood family, having been dealing with this since 1985—when they first moved to England for her father, Arthur James Dovewood, retired from the military: perhaps even further back. Fights would escalate into divorce threats, but no action was taken. Nights like those, she prayed for an escape. Prayed for silence, for serenity, for the arguments to cease.
She didn’t want the silence to be this deafening.
The fight was much worse than usual. Driving the attention off of the road and onto his screaming wife, all while Daughter Dovewood blared music from her portable media player. It was a routine she developed, blaring the music as loud as possible. Her eyes narrowed as she glared out the window of the family car, the rain heavily tapping. Her leg bounced in beat with her music, and her irritation rose.
Why now, of all times? Why had they chosen to argue today? It was supposed to be a fun get together, something to get her out of the house. She was genuinely excited, the idea lighting her eyes up the night before. The glimmer of hope she hadn’t shown in the longest time.
For once, she felt safe enough to believe her parents. To follow them blindly on the excursion they planned happily at the dinner table. That was the most she spoke in the longest time, and unfiltered as well.
Except the morning started off bitter, and she wanted nothing more to lay back down in bed and enjoy the stormy weather.
She heard a terrified scream through her music, and she snapped her head forward. All she saw was bright, blinding headlights, and felt the heavy impact mixed with scraping metal. Loud crashes, shattered glass and screams tore through the atmosphere as the car rammed violently into the road railings.
And now, here she was. Sitting under the covering of the bus station, knees to her chest: she fiddled with the bracelet on wrist—a nervous habit she developed.. A bag of sweet treats, bread, even some books, laid at her side untouched. The anxiety curdled into fear within her stomach, making her sick with worry. She was far away from the damage, about a good mile or two. She couldn’t bear to see the damage yet, or ever.
She didn’t have a good relationship with her parents anymore. Her mother, especially: yet she never wished such a brutal death upon them. How the paramedics hadn’t come yet, she hadn’t a clue. She sat in lonely silence, the serenity having a deafening tone.
“Rather lovely night. Don’t you think so?”
Her eyes narrowed at a deep, rumbling voice. She turned to her right, seeing a tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside her. He had the ensemble of a plague doctor, but crow feathers plumed from his gloves, the fabrics of his cloak, everywhere. His mask was in the shape of a crow beak, and the brim of his hat often covered the upper half of his face. To tie it together, he had a satchel wrapped around him and was holding a black umbrella. She tilted her head as she stared, before quickly averting her gaze.
It was rude to stare.
“Not much of a talker, are ya?” He spoke up again. She shook her head. “That’s alright, Daughter Dovewood. The circumstances are understandable for you to be mute.”
She blinked, her head whipping back up. She visibly tensed as he called her that, but said nothing. All words died on her tongue, but her thoughts ran rampant. She settled for nodding. She scooted so he had room, and he sat down with a thankful nod. She planted her feet on the ground, shoulders squared.
“Daughter Dovewood, if I may?” The plague doctor held his gloved hand out. She tilted her head, brows furrowing. She got a glimpse of the bag of treats. Bread.
Birds eat bread crumbs.
She nodded, opening the bag. She rummaged through it with shaky hands, then pulled out a cardboard box. She opened the lid and revealed some treats. The only bread she had was pumpkin bread: she hoped he wouldn’t mind. She held the piece of pumpkin bread out to him, her brows creasing slightly. He ended up chuckling.
“Without hesitation too. What a sweet young lady.” He remarked, lifting the mask just slightly. She got a glimpse of his stubble, the brutal scars along his face, and his chapped lips. He looked as if the oxygen drained from his face, tinting his skin a blue pigment. He opened his mouth and bared crooked, chipped teeth with rotting gums as he bit into the bread.
There was silence again, and she put the box back in the bag. She rummaged through the bag again and pulled out a piece of pound cake. She munched on it, and they sat together.
Finally, she spoke. Small, uncertain. “Who are you?” She didn’t like how the words flowed out of her mouth, but curiosity ate at her.
“I have no true name,” he admitted, “so you may call me whatever you like, Daughter Dovewood.”
She hummed. She was good at coming up with names—it helped with her passion for creating titles for songs, poems, short stories. “Something with a crow symbolism could fit.”
The plague doctor chuckled. “Observant yet simple.”
“Why do you have the satchel?”
“Ah, this! I use this for trinkets. Things I’ve taken from people.”
She connected the dots to making a name for him. A kleptomaniac and a crow figure? Rather fitting, if she thought so. “May I see?”
The plague doctor nodded, almost eagerly. He waved her over, sliding the satchel onto his lap. “Come hither little dove, take a gander: I don’t bite.”
Despite herself, she scooted closer. She peered in to see watches, trinkets, wallets, coins and rings. They all looked rather expensive, but she knew better not to pry. “...The Kleptomaniacrow.” She decided. “Or…just Kleptomaniacrow, if you don’t like formalities.”
“A jumble of words,” The Kleptomaniacrow mused, “what a name indeed.”
She gave a sheepish smile, swinging her feet. “Is it too childish?”
“Not at all. I quite enjoy it.” He replied. “Now…what is your name?”
Right, her name: she hadn’t told him yet. It wasn’t that she hated it, but she would much rather use a name she made up for herself. For future use, when she made it as a musician.
“Seren80.” She blurted out. She watched as he tilted his head in confusion, and she elaborated. “Ah…it’s pronounced like ‘Serenity’. But there’s an 80 at the end. S-E-R-E-N-80. Like that.”
The Kleptomaniacrow gave an understanding, drawn out hum. “You’re a creative girl.”
“Thank you sir. I spend a lot of time thinking.”
Silence, but it hadn’t been uncomfortable. He spoke up finally. “You don’t know why I’m here, do you?”
She shook her head, swallowing. “No sir.”
“Let me show you.” He held out his hand. “Pick up your things, little dove. Come now, I’ll show you.”
She nodded, scrambling to grab her things while choking out a quiet “Yes sir.” in response. She took his hand, noting how a soft blue light circled both of their hands. She let him take her across the street as he used the umbrella to cover both of them. He then stopped, thumping off his boots coming to an abrupt halt.
“My condolences, little dove. This was surely unfair to you.” He spoke up, a gentle gravel in his words. She frowned, her eyes falling. Her parents were long gone now, but then she caught sight of a third body.
Her?
She almost jumped out of her skin at this revelation, gripping his hand: how was she sitting here if her body was over there? Was she dead?
She checked her pulse—still beating. What cruel trick was this? She couldn’t help but let out a strangled noise, seeing the blood and cartilage. She rammed herself into his side as she buried her face in his arm, her grip tightening. She couldn’t stop the tears that rolled, even if she tried. Her parents, her body, laying there after a wreck. She felt sick.
“It’s alright little dove.” He rubbed at her shoulder, attempting to keep her grounded. “But I’m afraid that your body will disappear, but you will remain here.”
“...remain here?” She repeated. “I don’t understand. Am—am I dead? I don’t remember dying.”
“Not exactly.” The Kleptomaniacrow answered. “You are alive, but with a twist.”
Her nerves spiked. “What twist?”
He squeezed her hand. “Bear with me.”
Oh god. “What twist?” She repeated, her voice straining. She didn’t like where he was going with this.
“You’re an interesting case.” He began vaguely. “I’ve walked this world for eons, and only a rare moment like this has happened. You are not a ghost: no, you’re something more.”
“Then what am I?” She asked, brows furrowing.
“You, little dove, are immortal.” The Kleptomaniacrow said.
Immortal. She was seventeen forever.
“Immortal?” She choked out. “What did…” Her eyes then widened. The glow around their hands. Had he cursed her? What was his plan?
“Now, because you’ve shown me kindness,” He began, “what is your desire? Unfortunately, I cannot bring your parents back—but I can compromise.”
Her hand clasped around her wrist, feeling for the bracelet—except it was gone. The bracelet her father gave her last year for her birthday, gone. Something she deeply treasured was gone within minutes. The Kleptomaniacrow tilted his head slowly at her distressed expression, yet no words have been uttered.
“You’ve wanted to be a musician, yes?” He finally spoke up. “Considering your name.”
“...what are you planning?”
“In trade of me gaining your soul for immortality, how about I make you a deal? Give you a chance to grow as a musician?”
“...a deal for that?”
“A deal for that.”
She didn’t know whether to jump into it head first or run as far away from him as possible. Yet Seren80 remained still, almost paralyzed with fear. She felt like she had to accept it. She didn’t have anywhere else to go, nobody else to turn to.
If she had to make a deal with a devil, she’d engulf in the inferno without a second thought.
“Alright…” She found her voice, “alright, I’ll bite.”
“Good girl.” The Kleptomaniacrow patted her head, his hand lingering. “Dear Serenity, I am pleased to help you grow your musical talent.” He bowed forward slightly, his hands behind his back. “Just leave a little offering wherever you are, on this day each year.”
“Can it be anything?” She asked gently.
“Anything you find nice, leave it out. I shall retrieve it at night.” He replied. She nodded, her knuckles gliding up to press against her lips. Her brows furrowed as she went deep into thought. She turned back to the scene of the crime. The rainpour continued its onslaught on Liverpool, and she held her arms.
“May I ask for a favor?” She looked back up at him. She didn’t want to feel vulnerable around a man she had just met—yet after seeing her parents dead, she couldn’t not be affected.
“Of course, little dove.”
“...can you take me back home? I’d really like to get some things.”
“We can arrange that.”
“....” Seren80 went quiet again, walking over to her parents’ bodies. She knelt beside them, then laid her head on her father’s chest. She hugged him tightly, squeezing the last bit of tears out of her eyes. No matter how tightly she hugged him, his body was cold and unliving. She pulled away and hugged her mother briefly—the same experience.
After what felt like an eternity, she pulled away and turned back to The Kleptomaniacrow. She clenched her fists, walking back over to him. Her hand slipped into his, and like the Grim Reaper, he took her away swiftly.
That night was a night she couldn’t forget—no matter how hard she tried.