By the hands of the Gods, you have been plucked from your time and from your world, dropped into the box.
Only the box is a world of its own.
We are a mass crossover based on the concept of Pandora's Box. Characters from nearly any fandom can be played here. Because of the endless character possibilities, we are canon only here at Pandora. Take a peek at our rules and plot information before starting your new life in Pandora.
Working for two years as an assassin in a professional capacity had left Villanelle with some very particular presumptions. Chief among them being that she understood death. She had not just seen, but had been personally responsible for so many of them, that the intimacy of it had rubbed off on her. She didn’t deal with it only in the abstract, you know? Like the average low-life did? She dealt death out — it was as real an experience as it could get.
But basically, she had ideas: of how the whole thing would unfold within the dying. And boy, was she wrong.
She wasn’t even sure where things had started to go wrong in this manner; maybe the whole thing was doomed from the start; maybe everything around her was doomed, period. One moment she was content, quivering with excitement, next to this woman she was obsessed — a bit of an understatement, that word — with, and the next she had a knife in her stomach.
The scales had tipped without warning.
And despite Villanelle’s protestations, Eve did the one thing she was not supposed to. Then she screamed, panicked — a real classic — and ran to the other room. To look for what exactly? First aid?
Villanelle was going to die if she stayed behind for that bullshit. So she slid down, grabbed the gun from the floor, fired a few shots — never aiming to hurt, of course, despite everything — and ran.
Out the door, and down the stairwell. The old lady from next door had slid out to see her turn the corner, but Villanelle wasn’t exactly in the position to proffer an explanation. Maybe she would inform Eve about her escape, because Eve certainly didn’t seem like she had her mental wherewithal about her to notice Villanelle’s disappearance.
And she ran, keeping to the sides of Paris’ streets, planning her next step. She couldn’t just grab a bus to the hospital with all that blood marking her like a screaming stop! signal. Though the people Villanelle passed by didn’t seem to notice it just yet… so maybe there was some merit to the idea? Some more time before she passed out?
But people from the cities were also just preoccupied idiots — what she was she playing at?
She reached a pile; a homeless person’s pile, from the looks of it. Villanelle only had to rummage for a second before the bottle of alcohol showed itself. She poured some on her stab wound — seeing it in its nakedness for the first time then — and stole a sip for courage. She grabbed a jacket from the same pile, and had only taken one step away, before…
Weightlessness, swirling colours, a tinge of nausea — was she dizzy or dying? Villanelle didn’t remember dizziness ever feeling like this before, so she had to place her bet on the latter. But why was it so sudden? What the fuck was that alcohol laced with? Did she seriously survive her messed up childhood, MI6, a Russian prison, and a stabbing… only to die due to stealing some homeless person’s last resort to end it all?
“Ty che, blyad?” she called out into the universe. For all her refusal to speak Russian, it was still the impulsive go-to in moments of confusion. Because that is what she felt right now: pure, unadulterated confusion.
Her feet had found solid ground again a second ago, and her vision had returned — really, all senses back to perfect condition. Except the pain, and the wound, and the bleeding which seemed to be getting out of hand now. Literally. Her shirt was visibly stained.
Too bad, because she liked it. Sort of.
But now that everything was back to normal, Villanelle finally had the opportunity to notice the abnormality of it all. Everything around her was different, and starkly so. It was not the same alley that she had been in before. She was going positively nuts.
She dragged her feet to the main road it connected to. Less busier than Paris, but simultaneously bizarre. A guy with green skin walked past on the other side — really impressive costume, she had to admit. Then some kid with a tophat went the other way.
What had she done? Teleported herself to ComicCon?
Or maybe she was just dead and her personal hell was being stuck in a world full of geeks.
There was only one way to figure out: ask around. But ask who? She was not talking to one of those dolled-up nerds. So Villanelle looked around; thankfully noticing a plainly dressed girl to the side. She couldn’t be any older than thirteen — the age of rotten minds but smart mouths.
She could — no, would — answer, especially with a gun to her back.
“It’s a Glock. .9mm. Answer my questions, or I’ll shoot,” she threatened in the girl’s ear, touching the gun to her spine so she could feel it, and then dragging her a little way into the alley that Villanelle had first found herself in. She pushed the kid face first into a wall, decided to get right to business, “Where the fuck am I? Am I dreaming? ‘Cause if I am, you have to turn into a clown just about now — that happens all the time.”
As if to answer her, the pain from her wound shot back strongly. Too real for a dream.
“No, hold on, can’t be a dream. I could not have dreamt up that outfit of yours. It’s awful. You need help.”
Again, her body replied. Searing pain saying, “You are the one who needs help.”
“So, back to the first question, plain jane: what the fuck is this place?”
Cards on the table; the concept of Pandora was terrifying to Clare, and not in the same way she found tangerines scary, or clowns or the idea of toast falling on the floor with the jam side down. (THAT MEANT THE DEVIL WAS NEAR or so her granny would claim) but this was actual tangible fear. Here she was, a small teenage girl from what can be generously be described as a small town in the north of Ireland that the vast majority of people from Pandora had never heard of. The type of town, that you could walk from border from border in about twenty minutes or so...A boring little sleepy town, and THAT was enough to give her a vague sense of unease.
And now here she was; in the central hub of the universe, in a city bigger than new york, London,and berlin combined and full to the brim with creatures of every race and size.
It may be just slightly overwhelming for her.
She had been avoiding going out merely content to stay at her place and try in vain to try to adjust… until the day finally came where she steeled herself and set about exploring the main street. Clad in a bow clasped in her hair and a homemade knitted wool sweater.
It was honestly hard not to stop and stare at everything. The smells of the city were alien to her and their chaotic fragrance set her on edge. There was no tinge of earthy loam to the air like she was used to. No fragrance of spring growth or heady warning when rain was due. The fumes from belching vehicles underpinned everything, but punching right out of it would be the spicy offerings of the street vendors, coming sharply into focus like a camera zoom and then ebbing away again; only to be replaced by the next vendor and the next.
And it was fine. Sure she was staring blankly at every single store window like it was the most amazing thing she’ ever seen but.. it wasn’t as scary as she thought it would be, if nothing else she felt quite proud of herself. This was probably the further anyone from her school has ever gone! Forget Paris! Tis was something else! She was so cosmopolitan!
For a brief moment, for the first time in her life Clare Devlin felt like the coolest teenager on the planet.
...And that’s when she felt a gun pressed against her back;
It’s a Glock. .9mm. Answer my questions, or I’ll sh-”
That was as far as she got before Clare started screaming
“SWEET SUFFERIN' BABA JAYSUS! DUNT WANNA DIE! I’M NUT A CLOWN I PROMISE I’M JUST REALLY SMALL SO I AM! AND YA NOT DREAMING I SWEAR! I’M I? IS DIS A NIGHTMARE? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DUNT KILL ME? WANT EVER i DID I’LL NEVA DO IT AGAIN I PROMISE! HELP! FOR THE LOVE OF JAYSUS! HELP! SHE’S GOING TO KILL MA! SHE’S GOT A GUN!” Clare kept screaming over and over again even as she was dragged away into an alleyway, trying to resist as she did but to no avail, as she was pushed into the wall, instantly putting her hands up!
“I’M SO SORRY! I KNITTED IT MYSELF! ME GRAN USED TO KNIT JUMPERS FA ME, AND SHOWED ME HOW! i’M SO SORRY YA DUNT LIKE IT! IF YA LET ME GO, I WILL BURN IT! I SWEAR! I’LL THROW MY KNITTING NEEDLES OUT DA WINDOW! JUST DUNT KILL ME! Clare cried tears running down her cheeks as her voice became more and more hysterical and fast as if she was on the verge of a breakdown “It’s pandora ok? It’s called Pandora! Ya know? Like the box! Except it’s not a box? I don’t think so...it might be a box, LOOK I DON’T KNOW WHAT DIS PLACE IS,ALRIGHT?! I WAS DRAGGED HERE FROM ME BEDROOM WINDOW IN ME JIMMY-JAMS! I JUST WANTED MORE TIME TO STUDY FOR ME HISTORY EXAM!”
She had made the wrong choice. Read the person all wrong.
If that phrase about not judging a book by its cover had ever been true (she had never been a fan, to be honest) then it was in this moment.
The girl Villanelle had taken captive had such a diminuted presence that it left one with the impression that she’d quietly oblige to most demands when threatened; have enough substance in her head to compromise; to know when to shut up.
But no, she decided to throw a fit instead. She kept shouting all her replies, and Villanelle could only helplessly look around the place to check how much attention she was attracting.
As of then, none. But that could change any moment. She had this image of knocking the girl’s teeth out with a well-timed punch to the mouth — that would shut her up, wouldn’t it? — but realised how difficult that was made by her present condition. With one hand holding the gun and the other applying pressure to the wound, every single move demanded deliberation in thought.
So all she could do was growl in response and do her best to submerge all desires of pulling the trigger and getting this over with. The sound of a shot would surely draw a crowd from the road and into the alley, and Villanelle wasn’t sure of her ability to scale the grimy walls of the place in search of an escape — not even in her healthiest days, and much less when she had a gaping hole in her gut.
“SHUT IT!” She shouted right back, loud enough to surpass the girl’s decibels as she kept going on about her grandma, and jumpers, and knitting. With the pain surmounting ever-larger pieces of her consciousness, Villanelle had trouble concentrating and making sense of the girl’s garbled Irish nonsense.
She pressed the gun harder, “SHUT IT OR I’LL FIND YOUR NEEDLES AND SHOVE THEM DOWN YA THROAT!” She had tried to imitate the girl’s accent in order to get through to her, but it came out a bit stilted nevertheless. Only it seemed to work just enough for her to supply the place’s name to Villanelle: Pandora…
...and some bullshit about boxes. Villanelle was happy assuming that the girl was a nutter, or just really bad at physics… or geography… or whatever it was that they taught in schools nowadays. She just needed the directions to the hospital, and...
“OKAY!” Villanelle announced, feeling the cogs of a plan click into place in her head, and turning the girl around so that she could take stock of the situation herself. The gun moved to aim right at her captive’s head, “Ya see dis? Hurt. Blood.” Villanelle was trying her best to be accomodating of the girl’s seemingly limited intellect, “Not very cracker. Aye?” She hoped that the blood that had now begun to seep out into her hand wouldn’t send the girl into another one of her howling frenzies, lest bleeding ears get to her before anything else. “You... are gonna help me! Take me to the hospital!” That was it. She was going to force this kid into her excuse for being stabbed; attract as little scrutiny from the authorities as possible. Children were stupid — they would understand. “How old are ya? Twelve or somethin’?” Villanelle tried to be precise by observation alone, but honestly, she had never had the skills necessary to tell when the growth spurts had hit and gone, or if they had hit at all. The specimen before her looked like she wouldn’t survive a minute outside the playpen.
Maybe Villanelle was being merciful by taking her out of the streets for a few hours. “Ya are my wain now—” she began, before pausing to do the math in her head and shaking, “Nuh-uh! Sister! But our ma and pa carked it and I’m the one dat looks after ya, hm?” In that situation, it seemed like a workable story to her. Enough to keep police reports at bay, and enough to keep the girl safe if Villanelle refused to cooperate on account of… “You will be the wan dat stabbed me. You will tell them dat when they poke around, aye?” It was shaped as a question, but wasn’t much of that at heart. It wasn’t like Villanelle was giving the girl any options here with her gun pressed to the other’s head. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep ya safe when I tell them dat you’re not the full shilling and prone to losing your shit.” By that point, the pain and the blood loss were really getting to her, and she could feel the dizziness creeping up, “Oh! And we’re poor so I can’t afford ta’ take care of ya properly and you’re just takin' out all your rage on sad ol’ me.”
The script had been fed, mostly. All Villanelle had to do now was to keep her eyes open till they reached the doctors, make sure the girl said the right things at admission — statements changed later could be chalked up to her “sister’s” rebellious nature. It would buy her enough time to make both a recovery and an exit.
Villanelle turned to the girl once again, hoping to convince her to the utmost, “Look, in case I die and ya end up in prison… It’s way better than you dying here at me hands in this mingin’ alley. I’ve been to some prisons myself and I’d take them over being dead any day now.” NOTES:xxxxx
For all intents and purposes, the look on Clare’s face seemed to suggest either one of two things were about to happen.
She was going to be the first teenage girl, ever to suffer a stress-related stroke
She was literally going to explore, in a shockwave of internal pressure.
By this point, her normally pale complexion had gone beet red, tears were threatening to spill over at any second and her shoulder seemed to be jerking despite herself, like some kind of nervous twitch born out of pure abject, mortal fear, her breath now graduating from panic breaths to straight-up hyperventilating her eyes crossed staring deeply at the barrel of the gun pointed right at her, a vein beginning to pulse in her forehead, and seemingly in seconds she seemed to be drenched in a cold sweat. The sad fact of it was, body and soul, she was simply ill equipt to deal with a loaded gun being pressed to her face.
“Aye, right. I don’t want ta labour da point but if ya really wanna talk ya might wanna take da gun away, like any where. If ya could just point it away anywhere el-”
SHUT IT OR I’LL FIND YOUR NEEDLES AND SHOVE THEM DOWN YA THROAT
The small Irish girl, made a sound that could easily be confused with a mouse suddenly being trampled on, and the words died in her throat, her nervous twitching becoming more intense,and the fear tinged tremors travelled down her legs until it looked like she was doing some kind of half-hearted jig. And enthusiastically nodding her head making sure the woman could see, she was very quiet and therefore nothing needed to be shoved down her mouth.
She should have known the first Irish person she’d met would threaten to kill her; It reminded her of home in a weird way.
She hasn’t actively noticed the woman apparently, most of this was spent with her back to the girl or staring dead at the gun in her hand, as if it might go off the second she didn’t give it the respect of direct eye contact, but once she raised her hand, Clare noticed that-
Clare’s head swam, a wave of nausea overcoming her, as her legs buckled, she swayed a little as her eyes glazed over…
So. Much. Blood.
Thankfully, the woman shouting in her face was enough to snap her back awake before she began to pass out and she shook her head back and forward, to agree that it wasn’t cracker, without saying a word,
Her eyes shot up into her hairline, in sudden surprise once she began to reveal her plan, wanting to protest but was too afraid to speak up but she did maintain the nerve to raise up her hands and flashed her all of her fingers before dropping four, leaving six. The meaning clear...she hoped.
The more she spook the more the panic on her face became more and more clear, This plan not sounding appealing whatsoever. Insanity? Clare stabbing people? She was way over her head and worse; she might get in trouble. Big trouble. Really Really big trouble, and there’s nothing that Clare Devlin feared more than the idea of getting in trouble.
….But a gun to the face might come close.
Once it became clear that the conversation was over, a trembling Clare tried to grab the weakened woman by the forearm and began to walk rather quickly, her eyes on the ground, trying to avoid looking at her blood-covered body.
“Look, in case I die and ya end up in prison… It’s way better than you dying here at me hands in this mingin’ alley. I’ve been to some prisons myself and I’d take them over being dead any day now.”
Clare seemed to chew this over for a moment, before she raised her hand in a timid like manner as if asking for permission to speak without having her tongue ripped out “Y-Ya wouldn’t have...a paper bag would ya? I might need to breathe in it...or vomit”
Granted, most plans would when they involved a loaded gun to the head, but there was a certain sense of achievement in having pulled it off under such bizarre circumstances. Really, how many people could claim to have been stabbed, whisked into mysterious neighbourhoods, and then live to tell the day?
“Y-Ya wouldn’t have...a paper bag would ya? I might need to breathe in it...or vomit”
Okay. It would be wise to hold judgement on the last one there. Villanelle had only picked the most incompetent child to be her pawn, after all. Going by all the shaking and sweating, she would have no one but herself to blame if the girl burst an artery out of stress alone.
On the bright side, Villanelle would have saved a bullet.
“Aye, because a paper bag is what I thought of carrying with me after getting stabbed,” she spoke with mock sincerity, turning to watch the girl’s face to read her reaction. She'd met her fair share of bumbling idiots in life, but this level of naivety was still alarming. And despite the pain she was in, Villanelle couldn’t waste an opportunity to mess around, “But I’m saving it for when me intestines decide to spill out from da wound. Which will definitely happen when ya don’t get me to da hospital in time.”
Not a long shot given that she was being made to walk on foot. In a direction she could only presume would lead to a hospital.
Because that was the best way to guide an injured person to urgently needed medical assistance, of course.
— This theory is brought to you by the human embodiment of a panic attack.
“So, what’s your plan here?” she finally asked, turning the girl by the arm and moving a bit behind her so she didn’t catch another glimpse of all the blood. It was pretty obvious by now that she got squeamish at the sight of it, and that, mixed with her stress about being shot, was a dangerous concoction in a person upon whom Villanelle’s entire survival presently depended. “You’re gonna make us walk all the way? Is there a hospital nearby? ‘Cause we might want ta get a ride if there isn’t.”
Not that she’d caught sight of enough vehicles zooming around on the road here, but Villanelle could hear a four-wheeler rumbling up as she brought the girl to a stop on the pavement.
This was her moment to act. Perhaps her only shot at seeing the light of the next day.
She brought the gun back to the girl’s spine and leaned in, “Ya got any money? Don’t lie. ‘Cause if ya say you don’t, then I got a plan.” Craning her neck to check on the direction and speed of the thing, Villanelle gleefully added, “One dat does not end well for ya.” NOTES:xxxxx
So Clare was going to vomit. That much was clear. Any time she pricked her finger she felt light-headed, here standing with a woman gushing blood talking about how she was just stabbed and if Clare so much as spoke. So, in all honesty, Clare was having a bad time focusing on anything but the idea of being shot in the head and oh sweet and gentle mother mary, the small strong enough it might just make her gag or worse throw up.
So naturally, Clare was just a little bit wired and on edge as she waddled hurriedly pass everyone on the street wanting this to be over as fast as she could possibly will
“Plan?! oI dun’t know, oI don’t know, oI dunt know where da hospital is, I dunt eva have money I DUNT KNOW ANYTHING?! AND I KNOW I SHOULDN’T TALK BUT PLEASE DUNT KILL ME! I’M TOO YOUNG TA DIE!”
One really had to have the most rotten streak of luck for everything to fall apart in this way. Every time it seemed that she had something figured out, the situation would flip on its head and she would be left with absolutely nothing.
No plan. No money. No idea where the hospital is.
It had all started with her misunderstanding — or was it underestimating? — Eve and it all seemed to be heading to an end where she’d die because she went about overestimating her kidnappee’s self-sufficiency.
A less stubborn person would’ve given up quite a while ago, especially around the minute when they were seemingly teleported into another city. But not Villanelle. She had to keep kicking to keep her dignity; not so much steered by a fear of death as much as frustration at the thought of having her time cut short.
She deserved longer, didn’t she? If she could hail a taxi and get the hospital to take her in despite her situation, she deserved a concession, dammit. An award just for participating in the game of life: some extra time.
“I’ll think about it,” Villanelle announced, taking the gun away from the girl’s back — as if the decision about pulling the trigger was something that needed shareholders’ approval. “But ya have to help me first,” she spoke, locking her eyes on the vehicle racing towards them to gauge the timing for what she was about to pull off.
tick tick one…
With a deep breath, Villanelle removed the hand she had had pressed to her wound for so long, and it came up dripping with blood. Teeth grit together, she moved the gun into it so she could use the clean one to pull her jacket closer together.
tick tick two...
She struggled with the zipper for a moment before yanking at the girl’s arm and pressing the now blood-soaked gun into her open hand. “Hold this,” the woman commanded, her tone casual if not for the shiver brought into it by pain.
tick tick three...
She wiped the same hand on the girl’s sweater with two quick motions: front and back.
tick tick four...
Careful to not stain the outside of the jacket with any remnant blood — given that her assistant was holding the gun for her now — she zipped the whole thing up with both hands. There was hope riding on the fact that its dark shade could fight the blood from her wound for a few minutes and her condition would go unnoticed until then.
tick tick five...
The car was right there now; the distance being in that magical intersection of just enough to begin slowing down but not enough to prevent a disaster.
She waved at the rider with one hand, using the other to land an appreciative pat on the girl’s back that quickly turned into a vice-like grip at her collar. The vehicle slowed down slightly in anticipation that they were passengers, and would’ve stopped a little further away had it not been for Villanelle pushing the girl right into its path to bring it to a screeching halt.
And while her victim was in momentum, the gun in her hand had been skillfully snatched away with a kindly, “Thanks!” muttered into her ear.
Villanelle was many things, but uncouth didn't make the list. NOTES:xxxxx