thousands of island dot the coast line, unfound and unknown. so many that people are unsure which are real and which aren’t. Aunt Sarah’s Ledge, Deadman Point, Pound of Tea and Poverty Nub. and the 26 all named Bar. boats blow past them in the night and there’s no sound on the radio. just static.
old men, hands as rough as rope, toil endlessly on piers. night after night, their boats docked in the inky water, they hum an ancient tune and grin at the sea as if they’ve seen it’s worst and they know that while nature is cruel men will always be crueler.
people say the devil burns hot. up north they say other wise. they say the devil is the open woods, freezing and laughing as you load your rifle with another round. but you can’t shoot darkness, kid. there’s nothing there.
the paper mill is closed. the paper mill is starting up every morning in the same way, the sound of machines whirring to life and the march of footsteps. you throw a rock at a window and pretend you don’t hear shouts when it shatters the glass. the water wheel turns and the paper mill is closed.
witches don’t die. they take classes at the university, 13 members of the occult, class of ‘79. they stain grave stones, with feet and hearts, the only parts of the girls that didn’t burn. witches don’t die, not here anyway. they roam the graveyard at night and run surprisingly seamless websites.
there are no billboards in maine. no “hell is real”, no “jesus saves”. so people make do. they paint it on barn sides and picket signs. they scream it from the mountain tops and sear it into your heart. they feel it in their gut, late at night and later still, when the church two towns over burns down and you swear you can still smell the smoke.
there’s a one stoplight town with a grocery store and a gas station that kisses the canadian border. people stare at you as you drive by. you’re from around here. they know that, they can tell by your skin and teeth and smile. from around here, but not from here. not here, not here, for the love of god, not here.
there’s a car stalled on the I-95. a neon diner sign, never turned off. an old bean factory, a rusted bridge and schoolhouse that hasn’t seen a child’s face in ages. there’s a feeling of belonging, of shells between your fingers and of fear. there’s a signal on channel 6, but no pictures. just static.
Imagine Eobard introducing you to Washout (Malcolm Merlyn) and Deadman (Damian Darhk), but then getting really overprotective of you…
“(Y/N) this is Washout and Deadman,” Eobard casually explained, pointing a hand to the two men as he took his place beside you.
You looked over the two men and suppressed a giggle as Eobard dubbed them ‘Washout’ and ‘Deadman’. ‘Washout’ seemed like someone you could get along with. ‘Deadman’, on the other hand, not so much. He didn’t seem so interested in you, more interested with Eobard’s arsenal of weapons. Not that you cared anyway.
Malcolm rolled his eyes, but took a step forward with a hand outstretched, “My name is Malcolm Merlyn,” you took his hand and shook it. For a Washout he had a firm grip.
“(Y/N),” you replied looking up at the man with a shy smile, which he gladly returned with a wide smirk. Eobard narrowed his eyes at Malcolm, almost contemplating whether to stop his heart or not.
“What’s a beautiful young lady, like you, doing with monsters, like us?” Malcolm questioned as he brought your hand up and placed a small kiss on the back of it. Eobard glared at Malcolm and coiled an arm around your waist, bringing you closer to him. You could tell that he was holding himself back from attacking the Washout.
“I’m here to help,” you replied confidently. You had developed healing powers after the particle accelerator exploded. When Eobard disguised himself as Harrison Wells he managed to help you gain control of this new ability.
“Help?” Damian asked turning his attention away from the weapons. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at you, but didn’t speak. “We don’t need a little girl ruining our plans.”
“Watch it Darhk, (Y/N) has healing powers that are of use to us if we were to get injured on our missions. Other than that she’s staying at our base.“ Eobard explained. Looking down at you with adoration in his eyes,“I trust her.”
He let go of you and walked up to the pair in a threatening manner, “And if you lay a finger on her, I will not hesitate to end your petty lives.”
“Honestly, I feel like people who hate on Ganta for the typical ‘he cries too much’ etc reason are not only being ridiculous considering all he had to go through and that he’s only 14 years old, but also missed the entire point of his character and therefore one of the most major points of Deadman Wonderland overall. Ganta’s emotional and sensitive personality is a strength that many prisoners of DW do not have and the fact that he refused to lose himself, or ‘stay quiet and slowly go mad’ as Karako put it, is what makes him amazing.”