Chapter Text
It was a question cinder had grown to despise hearing. “What do you want to do when you grow up?” At the very least, it was never directed towards her. Every day she’d lived for the last decade had made one thing very clear for cinder, and pretty quickly ascertained for everyone around her:
She had no future. At least, not really. Not in the way that people mean when they talk about that. No dreams of being a huntress, or a doctor, or an engineer, or…anything, really. Dreams had been beaten out of her a long time ago, and even when she could bring herself to dream, all that ended up coming from such fantasies was that she would be hurt by them.
She was going to spend the rest of her life a slave and a puppet, and nobody would ever know. Sometimes, when she felt like being slightly more hopeful, she considered that eventually the Madame would die, and that’d probably be before Cinder… but even then, what would happen after that? It wasn’t like Cinder would be within five miles of the will, so she’d get nothing out of the death. Maybe the Madame would just kill her too-Cinder wouldn’t put it past her to have some sort of kill-switch in the collar.
Or maybe she’d just be cast out into the cold of Mantle to freeze to death. It wasn’t like she had any skills she could use to get a job, or anything of worth she could provide to the world.
The madame had been very clear about that. There was nothing she could do that someone else couldn’t do better-the only advantage she had for the Glass Unicorn was that she didn’t have to be paid. That was part of what had eventually broken her of any real hope of running away or leaving-even if she did, where would she go? The Madame and her step-sisters would find her, and then she would get right back to suffering. Even if she could manage to escape their pursuit, a near-impossible feat, she’d have no way to get a job. She may have barely been fed with table scraps, but at least she had those.
Without the madame, she’d have nothing. She’d be nothing. So questions like “Have you thought about a university yet?” always just felt like a sick, bitter joke. She had precisely one thing in her future, and it was probably a lonely, shallow grave with no headstone.
At least now that Ana and Rizel had gone off to Atlas Academy and Medical School respectively, she heard the question less often. To say nothing of seeing less of her tormentors. But it meant that even today, on a stupid day she shouldn’t care about, Hearing a Father ask his daughter that (at least, she presumed that was their dynamic-she had gotten better at reading relationships between hotel guests in her long years of servitude,) Just hearing that stupid question…made her pause.
And that was stupid. A five second delay between her duties might not seem like much-and it wasn’t-but the Madame could notice if she took too long. And today, she really, really wanted to avoid scrutiny.
Afterall, she had contraband hidden within the tiny, almost useless pockets of her work clothes. Still, she was good at distancing her thoughts from her work. Just falling into routine, doing everything quickly and carefully before she could retire for the night.
Retire still felt like too nice of a word for “Slink off into the lower basement and try to sleep until tomorrow” In her younger years, she’d been kept prisoner in a storage room on the side of the hotel-but that was, as it turns out, a temporary measure.
The madame had been busy getting the basement sound proofed more effectively. Once it was at the point that Cinder could scream bloody murder non-stop and nobody would hear or care, she was quickly moved to her new cell.
In all honesty, her new tomb. But at least today, as she walked down those familiar stairs, she had…something. It was shitty, and small, and made her acutely aware of her own failings, but today was one of the only days she allowed herself any sort of joy. In the form of her solitary, lonely birthday cupcake.
It was a stupid risk. November 5th was just a day, really-the fact that it was the day decided by the madame as her birthday on the paperwork shouldn’t have mattered to it. But she’d seen birthday parties before-both her Step-sisters and, on rare, beautiful occasions, the very few times she was able to watch old sit-coms on the tvs in guest rooms she was cleaning.
That habit of hers had been broken a long time ago-watching TV was time she wasn’t working, and it was also easy for her to be caught doing. But sometimes, she’d watch an episode with one of those perfect families-the family she was supposed to have where sometimes the sister fought but they always forgave each other in the end and it was never too bad to be fixed with a nice long conversation with mom or dad-and she’d see a birthday party.
And she wanted that. So desperately. More even then she wanted the kind of nice, unhostile workplace she could see in the other tv shows, with co-workers she could at least talk to.
So, she had hatched her scheme. With a stolen vanilla cupcake hidden in her pocket, a single candle and an old matchbook, she had prepared her tiny, stupid little party. There was a camera in the basement…but the madam rarely checked the footage, these days.
She knew Cinder was broken. She was a girl with no past-she vaguely remembered the outline of the orphanage in mistral, but very little about what life was actually like in the place that was supposed to be her “Homeland.” She had no future-just a long, lingering wait while her cowardice doomed her to quiet indignities. She was rarely shocked, these days-but the threat hung over her head all the same.
She was an 18 year old Dead girl walking. And she took out her little matchbook-two matches. Gotta make it count. She set the candle on the cupcakes soft top. She knew this was a pale imitation: a real birthday party would have friends. Family. If she felt like being ambitious, presents. It would have someone-anyone who wanted to celebrate her living another year.
She tried to imagine that person-someone who wanted to see her, who was excited by the prospect of her continued existence. Her mind drew a blank. At best, she could imagine some of the faces she saw on the news-but they distorted like cartoon characters in her head, because why would they ever care about gutter trash like her?
General Ironwood had stayed in this hotel, once. As the Madame liked reminding her wealthier clientele. And he had overlooked the sick teenager who wasn’t allowed to take breaks the same as everyone else.
She struck the first match. It flickered, slightly, but tending a flame was easier with practice. She cupped her hand around it, letting the fire rise and ebb before moving it closer to the candle-
Gods you’re pathetic.
…That hadn’t been her thoughts. Or-it had, but it wasn’t her. The voice sounded strong, bitter, slightly older…and angry. It sounded angry, in a way that made her cringe instinctively. Bracing for impact.
None came, but the voice returned.
Stay calm. Stop shaking. I’m here to help you.
She had gone mad. It was the only explanation. Finally, after all that she had been through, her brain hadn’t been broken by the madam-it had just shattered into a million tiny pieces of distorted glass all at once.
You’re not crazy. Just…light the candle. We need to talk.
Cinder swallowed. This was already insane, and yet…what did she have to lose?
With the strike of a match, she could feel the flame flicker to life. She pressed it to the candle-fortunately, she had already set down the cupcake, so it wasn’t crushed by her sudden moment of panic.
She gazed into the flame, and saw the face of a monster. It was like her face, but… horribly warped. Her left eye seemed horribly burned and scarred, and her remaining eye was intense and hateful.
It felt like staring into a cursed mirror. Seeing what she’d look like as a demon. She couldn’t suppress a whimper that escaped her. This was how she was going to die. Killed by a demon wearing her face who just wanted to taunt her first. She whispered a little-the same tone one would use for a prayer.
Or quiet begging for her life.
“What…are you?”
She heard the voice inside your head, seeing as the creature-the monster spoke the same words.
I’m your savior, Cinder. All you have to do… is trust me.
Cinder didn’t know many stories. Mostly, they were cheap, mass produced stories-sitcoms about dumb co-workers or odd family dynamics. She remembered very few fairy tales she had been told as a child in the orphanage, and those she treasured like hidden diamonds. No matter how hollow and childish they seemed now, with their impossible promises of safety for the oppressed and kindness to the meek, the fact that they were something she knew-and the madame didn’t know she knew-made them worth something.
Even so, she knew that trusting a demon was a very, very bad idea. And this monster certainly qualified. She could see her smile as she mentioned trust, and felt the wickedness in its fangs.
But she was desperate. And she was probably crazy.
“If I trust you… will you free me? From this place? From Madame?”
Her strange doppleganger smiled.
All that and more, Cinder. Tomorrow morning, this place will seem like a bad dream. All you have to do is give me the time to make it work.
Cinder looked at the ashen demon once again, saw it clear as day: a monster, beckoning her to make a mistake. But if it could really free her? Bring her somewhere else, let her live her own life?
She was willing to pay any price of blood to make that happen. She didn’t want to be a dead girl walking anymore. She wanted, more brightly then she had in maybe two years, to live.
“...Fine then. I trust you. Just…do your thing.”
The shadows seemed to pool around Cinder like cold puddles of spilled oil. And then she was falling into a nightmare.
The nightmare was more terrifying than almost any she’d had before. Not just because she was scared. But because she could see people around her that were scared. A fairground, engulfed in flames. Strangers, running for their lives in panic and terror.
Cinder had, in some of her quieter moments, when she was still young and foolish and thought there was a way out, fantasized about killing the madame, or Ana, or Rizel. But in those fantasies, it was quick, and made her feel like a bold hero, striking down the monsters that had tormented her.
This was nothing like that. She was in the shadow of a tower-proud, and tall, and there was fire everywhere. She wanted to go home. She wanted there to be a safe home for her to run to.
She saw a man get mauled to death by a beowulf. It was like what she’d imagined, and yet somehow far worse. He didn’t die-not immediately, even as his internal organs were splattered on the pavement. He just lay there. She heard a voice-her voice-echoing from all around her.
“The first time I did this, I was in a rush. So I didn’t get to take my time with it. Enjoy my work. This time, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
She could smell fresh blood in her nostrils. Everything was wrong. People were suffering because of her. There were monsters and screams and she didn’t know why anything was happening-
And then she woke up. In a bed. That was Cinder's first sign that something was wrong. She didn’t have a bed. And though this was not a particularly great mattress…it was still comfortable.
And that was a state of affairs that simply should not be.
She lurched upwards in a cold sweat, taking in her surroundings as she did. This was…a bedroom she had never seen before. It was a little bit like The Glass Unicorn’s rooms, but…worse. Was this a motel?
She blinked, bleary eyed, at the morning light. And she heard the voice of the monster-the demon that was her, apparently.
Turn on the news. This should still be big headlines, so any channel will do.
Cinder’s heart thumped faster. No. No, what had she done?! Stupid girl. Stupid, dumb, idiot girl, trusted a demon, and now-
She flicked on the TV screen. She saw the only home she had ever truly know burning.
She saw the news ticker at the bottom, though she didn’t really process what it meant by “Possible white fang Arson Attack?”
She didn’t process much of anything, at the moment. She brought her hand to her mouth in horror, and wanted this to have all been a nightmare. A figment of her madness. A hallucination. Any moment now, she’d feel the shock on her-
Her collar was gone.
It was…it was really gone.
She spoke again-softly. Her voice had been taught to be soft, both by the fact that the collar had probably shocked her voicebox close to non-functionality, and that in general, the cruelties didn’t last as long if she was quiet and soft.
“...What did you do…”
The response was fast, smug, and painfully mocking.
What you should have done a long time ago.