Young Writers Society

Once they were out of the view of others, James started to pick up the pace a little. He wouldn't chase anyone over a hat, but he wasn't going to be on anyone else not being petty.

"That was the plan I was thinking," he said. "Though commandeering a ship is quite a bit more difficult than you're making it sound, I'm sure we'll... well. Cross that bridge when we get to it."

"You have an undead pirate on your side, mate," Kate said, giving the last word a mocking imitation of the stereotypical pirate accent. She was matching pace with James, just not all that easily. The guy was lanky as hell with legs the size of telephone poles. Kate wasn't nearly so Slenderman-like. Barely even close.

James laughed a little at that. "I've only met a few people who actually talk like that."

"I fucking hope so," Kate managed. By the fucking gods, could this guy hurry a little less. It was just a damn hat, the little sparkle-snorting bitch she took it from wouldn't be that cut up about it.

She tried to lengthen her strides to keep up with the fucking giant and ended up tripping herself up instead. She tumbled to the ground and landed hard on her knees, the hat falling off her head.

She was going to curse about her now-scraped knees when she cut herself off.

In the hat, attached to the side with a little leather strip sewn in like a holster for the little glass bottle. A glass bottle of a sifting, swirling collection of golden dust.

"YOU HAVE TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!"

James came to a sudden stop and whirled around to Kate. It was only then that he registered that his pace might have been a little to fast for Kate, who was a good few inches shorter than him.

"Oh, gosh. I'm sorry." He extended a hand to help her up.

Kate brushed him off and snatched the vial of dust out of the hat, tossing the thing off to the side. She sneered at it like it was filled with the essence of cancer mixed with black mold and, oh yeah, fucking fairy dust.

"Do you know what this fuckass shit is?" She demanded, thrusting the bottle toward James.

James took a small step back, looking down at the bottle of what looked like dust. He looked down at her in concern.

"...No?"

A low growl sounded from the back of her throat and she began to pace angrily, "Well guess what, you won't have to get on any boats anymore."

That did not help clear up any of his confusion. His brows knit together as he watched her pace back and forth.

"Uh. Okay." He didn't want to ever be on a boat again anyway, but he didn't understand why it wasn't necessary anymore.

"This," she thrust the bottle back in his direction, shaking the contents in agitation, "is pixy dust. I can use it to get home, if I never want to wear this jacket again."

"Okay... forgive me for not knowing, but what exactly does pixie dust do, and what does it have to do with your jacket?"

"It's magical. Basically pure magic in the form of thankless glitter that you can never get out of anything and that leaves the people who make it with superiority complexes the size of a fucking planet. Raw like this you can sprinkle a bit of it on yourself and it'll make you basically weightless. It's easy as fuck to get back to Neverland if I can fly. Takes hours instead of days and is technically more pleasant than sailing. I'll never get the fucking glitter out of my fucking coat if I use it."

"...Oh. Huh." James stared down at the little bottle of magical dust that looked so unassuming for something that apparently held so much power.

"D-" he started, looking down at himself. "Do you need my jacket?"

She looked him over, his jacket, specifically.

"No," she said, and shrugged hers off. After quickly rifling around in the pockets to take out her flask of freshly-harvested - but raw - blood and a few assorted knives and knick-knacks, she thrust it into James' hands. "But I'd rather mine not get ruined like that. It's big on me. It should fit a skinny bastard like you."

James took all of the stuff she threw at him stiffly, but he scrambled to readjust his grip and hold it all. Admittedly, he was still confused as to what was going on. Getting rid of a jacket because flying dust wouldn't wash out didn't seem like the most logical thing to do, but the fact that flying dust existed at all wasn't logical anyways, so what did he know?

He frowned at the insult, but didn't say anything about it.

It was then that he realized what she was doing. She was dumping all of the things on him because she didn't plan on keeping it. The jacket, at least.

And that meant she was leaving. Very soon.

"If you're not putting it on your jacket, then what will you put it on?"