Penny paced a wide circle around the… thing. The apparition looked exactly like Poppy, if Poppy had spent a week drowning in a vat of liquid depression and gothic eyeliner. The Creepy Poppy had a slouch that suggested her spine was made of disappointment, and her eyes were two black pits of pure judgment.
Creepy Poppy turned her head with a slow disgusting look, looking at the shivering, dripping-wet "original" Poppy. "Pathetic," the ghost rasped. "Look at you. Rescued by a group of wandering amateurs. You're nothing but a lead weight, Poppy. A burden. You'll drag them down into the dark just like you did with your last group of friends. Remember how they looked when the water took them? That was your fault."
The "original" Poppy ignored it, but the Creepy one just turned her hollow gaze toward Penny, her lips curling into a mirthless grin. "Though... he is cute, isn't he? A bit of a temper, but those boots are top-tier."
The real Poppy said nothing, her teeth chattering as she looked at Penny with a mix of exhaustion and genuine curiosity. Then, the apparition's head snapped toward Quentin and her grin widened. "But him... ohhh, give him the key. He'd wear the misery so much better than you."
"Okay, first of all," Penny snapped, gesturing wildly at the ghost. "Can we not? I've dealt with vampires, gods, and librarians with overdue fees, but a sentient manifestation of a mid-life crisis is where I draw the line. This is beyond fucked up."
He looked over at Kady, who was already looking at him and the space he was actively looking at in confusion, "Kady, tell me you see how mean this thing is. It's like a Twitter comment section achieved in physical form."
———-
They had pulled Poppy out of the water barely an hour ago, and the discovery had been a total whiplash. They'd spent hours prepping for a grand quest, only to find out this random survivor was literally clutching the Fourth Key in her pocket. It should have been easy and a "win."
But the twist was a classic Fillorian kick in the teeth: the key induced a state of "Negativity Manifestation." It took every intrusive thought, every ounce of self-loathing, and every "what if I'm a piece of shit" doubt and gave it a ghostly, talking body that followed the holder around, heckling them into a mental breakdown.
"I'm fine, really," Poppy said with a shaky voice as she started peeling off her heavy, waterlogged jacket right there in front it them, "Just need to... get dry. Can't think with wet denim."
"Hey! Whoa! Lady!" Penny barked, spinning around and shielding his eyes. "Boundaries! We are in the middle of a haunted lake, not a locker room!"
Quentin immediately pivoted on his heel, staring intensely at Alice, his face turning a bright, frantic shade of red as he tried to distract himself from the sight of Poppy changing clothes.
Poppy, now down to her thermal layers and looking remarkably unfazed by the ghostly twin currently telling her she was a failure, wrung out her hair. "There. All better. See? I'm okay now. Mostly. Except for the constant psychic assault from my own subconscious."
"Lady, you are miles past 'okay.' You're currently residing in the suburbs of 'Deeply Messed Up,'" Penny barked, still refusing to look in her direction while she wrung out her socks. "You have a literal shadow-demon version of yourself telling you that you're a human dumpster fire. That's not a personality quirk; that's a psychiatric emergency."
Poppy just offered a bright, slightly too-wide smile. "Oh, don't worry about her," she said, casually pointing a thumb at the gloomy apparition currently whispering about the inevitability of heat death. "Honestly, after the first ninty-six hours, it's just background noise. Like living near a highway or having a very judgmental roommate who never does the dishes."
"Is it, though?" Alice asked, her brow furrowed in genuine concern. "The fact that your brain has reached an 'understanding' with a manifestation of your own self-loathing suggests a level of psychological compartmentalization that shouldn't be physically possible."
"I mean, is it a problem?" Poppy tilted her head, her damp hair sticking to her forehead. "She tells me I'm a failure, I tell her her hair looks flat. We have a system. It's very 'Thelma and Louise' if Louise was a ghost and Thelma had a mild case of PTSD."
"I think the 'mild' part is doing a lot of heavy lifting there," Kady muttered.
Quentin, finally feeling it was safe to turn around now that Poppy was mostly decent, cleared his throat. "So, uh, how did you even end up in the Abyss? This isn't exactly a popular tourist destination."
"Spring Break! Class of 2016!" Poppy chirped, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Didn't turn out so well for most of us, obviously, but that's a whole 'nother story involving a very confused travel agent and a portal that smelled like wet dogs."
She leaned against the wall of muntjac while stretching, "Anyway, me and my crew stumbled upon a dragon's treasure-nest. We witnessed the dragons... well, mating, which is a visual I will never, ever be able to unsee. Think 'scaly car crash' but louder. Somewhere in the middle of the beautiful scene, we ended up stealing this golden key."
Kady's eyes widened. "Wait. Class of 2016? That's the same year as Josh Hoberman and Victoria."
Poppy froze, "Wait... you know Josh? Is he... is he still wearing those terrible Hawaiian shirts?"
"Daily," Penny grunted. "Unfortunately."
"And Victoria?" Poppy asked with a slight up beat in her tone, "She's...?"
"Alive," Penny said with a rare, genuine smile. "A bit cranky, but very much alive."
"Oh, thank the Gods," Poppy breathed, looking genuinely moved for a second before her face snapped back into its manic default. "That's amazing! In that case, we're practically family! Here, can you hold this for me please? My hands are still a bit prune-y from the lake."
She reached into her pocket and held out the Fourth Key, its golden surface shimmering even in the gloom. She moved to hand it directly to Quentin.
Penny's hand shot out, physically intercepting Poppy's wrist before the metal could touch Quentin's skin. "Whoa, whoa! Seriously? You're just going to pass that over?"
He pointed aggressively at the Creepy Poppy apparition, which was currently licking its lips while staring at Quentin. "Look at that thing! You want to pass the 'Manifest Your Inner Demons' token to the guy who is essentially a walking collection of repressed trauma and daddy issues? Do you want a skyscraper-sized ghost of Quentin Coldwater crying over a broken mug to follow us around? Because that's how you get a skyscraper-sized ghost."
"Hey!" Quentin protested, though he looked at the Key with a look of absolute terror.
"No," Penny said firmly, looking at Poppy and then at Quentin. "Yeah, no. That is not happening. I am not spending the rest of this trip listening to 'Goth Q' talk about the symbolism of dust."
Quentin stared at the Fourth Key in Poppy's hand, "That is... spectacularly evil," he muttered, his voice cracking. "You were just going to hand-deliver a psychic parasite to me? I have enough of those naturally, thanks."
Poppy shrugged with a manic glint in her eyes. "Hey, can you blame me? I've been the designated 'Misery Vessel' for weeks. My entire Spring Break crew ended up killing each other or themselves because they couldn't handle the 'Truth-Bomb Twin' here. I'm tired, Q. My brain needs a nap."
"Delightful. Truly. A glowing review for the merchandise," Quentin said, shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn't handle the cramped, haunted energy of the lower deck anymore. He turned and headed for the upper stairs, Alice following close behind, her expression a mix of pity and clinical fascination.
Poppy watched them go, then looked at Penny. "So... what now?"
Penny sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Well, now? We get the fuck out of this night space-purgatory. I've had enough 'inner growth' for one lifetime."
——-
Tick was scurrying alongside Margo and Elliot, "Tick, talk to me," Margo barked. "How bad is the situation with our 'guests' from the Floating Mountain, and can it wait until I've had at least one martini that isn't 40% spite?"
"It is... a bit complicated, Queen Margo," Tick squeaked, sidestepping a suit of armor.
"Complicated is a Tuesday, Tick," Elliot interjected, "Explain, use your words and preferably ones that don't result in me needing to sharpen something."
"The Floating Mountain tribes have begun... well, 'pillaging' is the polite term," Tick explained breathlessly. "They seem to believe that the marriage alliance means Fillory is now their personal pantry. And the local Fillorian people? Well, they've started getting 'creative' with their responses to send a message back."
Tick stopped at the entrance to the council chamber, his face turning a shade of pale that almost made him look like the fairies themselves, "Most of the floaters caught in the Southern woods have become... uh, how should I put it? Quite intimate with the pointy ends of very long sticks."
Both Elliot and Margo stopped dead in their tracks. They turned in unison to stare at Tick.
"Come again?" Margo said with shock and surprise appearing on her face.
"The villagers," Tick swallowed hard. "They've taken to impaling the raiders, and setting them on rows along the road and the main trade routes. It's... very vertical. And very permanent."
Margo's eyes widened as she processed the image. "Holy shit. Our subjects went from 'passive-aggressive sheep farmers' to 'medieval war criminals' in record time El."
Elliot let out a dry, mirthless whistle. "Well. Someone's been reading up on their Vlad the Impaler history. I suppose it saves on burial costs, but the aesthetic is a bit 'Early Dark Ages' for my taste."
"Shit," Margo cursed, rubbing her temples. "This is going to turn into a blood feud."
"Precisely," Tick added nervously. "The tension between the Fillorian people and the remaining Floaters has reached a boiling point. If we don't intervene, the 'Unification' is going to be a very quiet affair, mostly because everyone will be on a pole."
Margo swung around the corner of the grand corridor, her heels clicking with a sharp, angry staccato against the stone, "Those absolute twats! I was ten minutes away from bringing Queen Agate into the fold with our plan and now my subjects are turning her people into human shish-kebabs!"
Elliot smoothed his waistcoat, though his expression was uncharacteristically grim. "In Agate's defense, she's likely not going to take kindly to her people being served up as roadside decor. It's a bit of a diplomatic buzzkill."
"Then they shouldn't have touched what wasn't theirs!" Margo snapped, throwing her hands up. "Fillory isn't a 24-hour buffet for mountain trolls with entitlement issues. If they wanted a snack, they should have asked for a—"
She cut herself off so sharply she nearly tripped. Standing directly in their path, was the Fairy Queen. She stood perfectly still while looking at the two of them with a questioning look, "Oh, look," Elliot said, "It's the neighborhood watch. Did we forget to pay the 'not-creeping-in-hallways' tax, or are you just here to critique the masonry?"
The Fairy Queen's gaze didn't flicker as she continued staring at them. "We need to talk, High King and High Queen. Immediately." Margo arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow as her hand settled on her hip. "Oh? Do we? Because usually, when you want to 'talk,' it involves a lot of vague threats and me losing another piece of my sanity." She said to the fairy queen before the queen left to wait for them at the throne room.
She looked over at Elliot, who was currently inspecting a loose thread on his cuff. "I wonder why she would suddenly want to speak with us," Elliot mused. "Do you think she's finally figured out that her 'nursery' is missing its most colorful residents?"
Margo's lips curled into a sharp, dangerous smile. "Oh, I'll definitely give her an audience. I love a good drama." She started walking toward the throne room, but Elliot reached out and caught her elbow.
"But first," Elliot announced, patting his stomach, "I'm famished. All this kidnapping and looming civil war has left me positively hollow." He looked at Margo with an exaggerated pout. "Aren't you hungry, darling?"
Margo paused with a wicked glint in her eyes as she caught Elliot's drift. "Now that you mention it... I am in the mood for an omelet. A very, very large one. Maybe with some 'special' red-capped mushrooms on the side."
Elliot let out a short, melodic laugh. "Ah, quel dommage! Un petit déjeuner de vengeance est exactement ce dont nous avons besoin pour calmer les nerfs, n'est-ce pas?"
Margo smirked, her amusement genuine. "Totally, El and perhaps we can invite her to join us?." She said before they both left for the throne room with an amused smile on their faces.