TW: SA, Transphobia.

"What do you have to say in your defence?" Nicholas Scratch looked across the court and into the eyes of Quincy. Arms bound by rope, and with two large men flanking her on either side. If it wasn't for the men, she might have enjoyed this soiree. Her burgundy dress had a tear in the sleeve, though nothing she could not fix when given chance. If chance came.

The courtroom was dark, dingy and smelt of decay. They'd killed someone here, perhaps that smell simply lingered over the village. New England was already a place of death, tragedy and conflict. Was it any wonder it had come to this? Babes turned against their mothers, mothers turned against those in their servitude?

The wounded party inflicts harm against the next, navigating back through the ancestors. There was a term for it, though she wouldn't know it yet.

A long pause, as Quincy stared at the strange beard Nicholas Scratch wore. White stripes on either side leading from the corners of the mouth. Ugh, they always sought to overdo it. Devilry of the Witchbreed she could get behind, but not... whatever that was. Fortunately she'd gotten rid of hers. She knew she should have left Salem months prior, when the others were marked as Witches by the riled up townsfolk. These were the men and women she had grown up with, children she had witnessed play.

"Mr. Scratch?" Quincy asked, proposing a question. She shuffled her feet, smearing a clean streak in the thick dust.

"Yes, Mr. Able?"

Quincy cringed. It was Miss Able, for today at least. She'd long past moved on from such terminology. It was easier to hide her femininity when the day suited, than to stuff heavy sacks down one's front. Binders existed for a purpose, and the long journey of self-discovery was growing tiresome.

"I hope you crawl up your own ass, and lick the shit clean off your intestines."

A murmur tore through the crowd, some voices raised in anger and cursing her name. Cursing her. They were pathetic.

"Silence!" Scratch slammed his fist against the wood of the desk before him. The Courtroom ceased it's chatter, and the red faced Scratch wiped his spittle from the surface. His crooked teeth were as clear as the frustration he lived in.

"Mr. Able, despite all your efforts which we have tolerated for so long, the time has come to admit to your doings. Whatever spell your people laid upon us has been dismissed, and now we want names. I offer you a deal, your life for that of your kind."

"I will do no such thing." Quincy responded, curious as to how Scratch managed to weasel his way past the illusion spells. It was one thing to change yourself, particularly if you were a it was another to have always been changed in the eyes of those who knew you. Either way, Nicholas Scratch had found his way through, bringing down the spell that protected her, allowing her to hide as effortlessly as the day demanded.

Witchbreed had gifts. Perhaps he was one such? Or simply a powerful caster in his own right. It explained the strangeness of the bestd, and his insistence on possessing it. They wouldn't serve her here. In the corner of her eye she saw another courtroom, festering with joy and delight. People happy, a marriage taking place.

A future, perhaps. For she recognised none of them, saw boxes of light and flashes of brightness. And strange colourful spherical shapes that floated to the ceiling above, already well illuminated.

The murmur of voices brought her back to the present. She was frustrated, trying to understand why she had come to be chosen now. Where she had slipped up, to be found and put to trial. How could she have been so stupid as to have been caught out? Did she put a charm in the wrong place? Had she been seen leaving from the tunnels beneath the north of Massachusetts? FUCK! All she had worked to do in this godforsaken village, surrounded by the legions of Puritans who-

"Mr. Able." Scratch's voice cut through the monologue and stress. Quincy narrowed her eyes, bitterness threading through the room. If only she could sew his mouth shut. He'd managed to ward magic off in this place, likely enchanted the ropes. No doubt they'd be removed after they'd hanged her.

"Tomorrow is your last day of trial. I will provide one final night to consider your options. Take him away."

"Her." Quincy screamed, yanked backwards by her hair and dragged to the door. Her heels caught a loose nail, and a small ribbon of blood trailed in her wake.

The dark of the night came fast. Leaving her in the gaol, to watch the roving stars above. They never really called to her, not in the way they called to others. Quincy found solace in the spirits, in the Earthen tunnels and amongst her kind. Witches and Witchbreed.

How long had she been sitting here? It had to be about eleven at night. The moon was almost to its height, but not quite. She had lost her attention, living in times past. She ran a hand over the scarring on her thigh from when her sister had shot her, aiming for a desperate and hungry animal.

"Miss Able." Scratch's voice called at the door, already moving to unlock it and enter. It wasn't a big room, and she was still bound. No amnesty at her thigh. Without her blade she felt defenceless. Perhaps something from another space? Quincy pawed a nail, pulling it from another world, another time, and turned from the window.

"What do you want now? Come to make me reconsider?"

"An offer. You want to become a woman. I can offer that to you. A chance to bleed."

Quincy was gobsmacked, and then laughed. Why should she ever seek to copulate with someone so vile? Was this his desperate attempt to look good in the eyes of the villagers?

"No."

Nicholas stepped inside, face twisted with anger. His foot swung out behind, slamming the door closed. Now Quincy was worried, and her laughing slowly ceased. She should have known better to laugh, especially with someone so… unstable.

Nicholas' fingers brushed against Quincy's arm. She pulled back, stepped against the wall. Nicholas grabbed her arm hard, stepping again towards her. She felt her muscles pinch, fingers wrapping about muscle and bone.

"Get off me!" Quincy made an attempt to shove him, grateful for the strength she possessed. A small benefit of who she was. The two staggered against one another, until Scratch threw her aside.

"Bitch! I offer you what you want, and you think you can deny? You want womanhood so badly? Then submit!" Scratch roared, grabbing Quincy by the hair and yanking her back up to her feet.

"Absolutely not!" Quincy screamed through the pain, and jammed her hands into his face. There was a guttural screech, the nail in her hand embedding through his eyelid. He moved back, clutching the side of his face and turning. Blood pooled through his fingers, and he reached for the door.

"I'm going to make sure you burn, Quincy Able. You and all your kind." Scratch left, and the door slammed behind him.

Quincy sank to her feet, shoulders heaving with each sad shuddered breath.

There was a period where she was alone. Until a shadow moved across her from the window. A person, she knew that much, with a deep voice.

"You're hurt. I know, I know, I know."

The future Eternal Champion looked up through the tears, wiping them from her cheek. Who were they?

"Are you here to free me?" Quincy asked, realising how pathetically she sounded right now.

"No, no, no. You're going to forget. And remember when the time has come." The figure spoke once more.

Quincy's eyes felt tired, suddenly. Then Quincy fell asleep.

And on the next day, she burned.

Quincy awoke with a start, heart pounding in her chest. She clutched her hand to it, feeling it bang behind her ribs. Sweat slipped down her body, and the sheets were about her. The heat of Whenua Tipu didn't help. She was overheating, overwhelmed and desperate to get out.

Quincy slipped away from the sheets, untangling arms from Aeon. Quincy sighed, seeking clothes to keep her cool. A t-shirt and a pair of jeans would do the job for now. before slipping out to the nearby park. The sun hadn't yet risen, but it was close enough to provide some light. The light drizzle steamed from her, boiling away from her skin.

Perhaps Magik had been closer to the truth than any of them realised. Such memories, scored away by Basileus. But why?. Basileus always had their reasons. She'd have to read their diaries. How had Amnesty come with her, brought to this time? There were a myriad of answers, and she felt as though Basileus had them.

Quincy sat, and stared at the pigeons.

"Who the fuck is Nicholas Scratch."