Chapter 15: Family Ties and Time
Wednesday Addams stood in Jericho's sheriff station, her black dress a void against the flickering fluorescent lights, the air heavy with the scent of stale coffee, ink, and old paper. Adam Stiels lingered by a rusted file cabinet, its surface scratched, his HUD glowing: Level 1, 16/100 uses, 10-minute cooldowns. Gomez Addams' arrest for a decades-old murder had shaken Nevermore, and Wednesday was unraveling a prophecy tied to Morticia, her mother's secrets a tangle of runes and blood. Adam's memory gaps—blurry voids around the Hyde and Crackstone—made him a shaky ally, but he was determined to protect Pugsley Addams, who'd tagged along with a mischievous grin. His goals: save Pugsley, back Wednesday's investigation, and keep Enid Sinclair close. The system's voice was dry: Saving Pugsley? You're gonna need a prank budget for this kid.
The station was a clutter of chaos—files strewn across desks, coffee mugs stained with rings, Sheriff Galpin's scowl a permanent fixture. Wednesday grilled him, her voice cold as a winter grave, her braids stark against her pale skin. "My father's innocent," she said, her eyes narrowing. "The prophecy's the key, and you're missing it." Galpin scoffed, his mustache twitching, but Pugsley, rifling through an evidence room packed with dusty boxes, triggered a collapse—shelves groaning, metal screeching, boxes tumbling like an avalanche. Adam's pulse spiked, his breath catching. Stop Time: 1 minute. Activate? The world froze—Pugsley's grin stilled mid-laugh, boxes suspended like a frozen storm, Wednesday's piercing gaze locked. Adam sprinted, his boots echoing on the linoleum, and pulled Pugsley clear, his muscles burning as shelves crashed in a cloud of dust. The system snarked: Kid rescue? You're one step from a babysitter badge, hero. Time resumed, and Pugsley gasped, his eyes wide. "Whoa, Stiels, you're fast!" he said, clutching a rubber snake, his grin infectious.
Wednesday's eyes narrowed, her suspicion a blade. "Morticia's hiding prophecy keys," she said, handing Adam a rune-etched scroll, its parchment brittle, its ink glinting faintly. "Nevermore's founders are involved—raven's blood, time rituals." They sat in a corner, the air heavy with ink, discussing the prophecy. Morticia's greenhouse meeting had revealed a founder's experiment, but Adam's gaps blocked clarity, frustration coiling like a snake. Why's my brain a fog? he thought, his fingers tracing the scroll's runes. Morticia's elegance, her velvet voice, clashed with her secrecy. "Wednesday, trust me," she'd said, but Wednesday's stare was unrelenting, her distrust palpable.
Enid found Adam in Nevermore's quad, the cobblestones glowing under moonlight, the air crisp with fallen leaves. Her pink sweater was a beacon, her eyes soft but worried. "You're my safe place, Adam, even in this chaos," she said, sitting on a stone bench, its surface cold and worn. Her hand was warm in his, her vanilla-pine scent calming his racing thoughts. They shared a quiet moment, reflecting on their bond, the stars above glinting like tiny promises. "We'll get that diner date soon," she said, her grin radiant. "Neon lights, milkshakes, maybe a dance." Adam's heart soared, his monologue swirling: She's my anchor, my spark in this gothic storm. Gotta keep her smiling.
Dr. Valerie Kinbott, Nevermore's therapist, approached, her notepad clutched like a weapon, her glasses glinting. "Your past is murky, Mr. Stiels," she said, her voice probing, her eyes sharp. "Care to clarify?" Adam deflected, his sarcasm a shield. "Just a guy with a knack for trouble, doc," he said, leaning against a pillar, his grin masking unease. Her suspicion lingered, a shadow on his transmigrated origins. What's she digging for? he wondered, his stomach twisting, the quad's spires looming like silent judges.
Pugsley bounded over, tossing his rubber snake, its coils bouncing on the cobblestones. "Prank war, Stiels?" he said, grinning, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Adam caught the snake, chuckling, and used Slow Time: 20 seconds to draw mustaches on Pugsley's comics, the world lagging as he inked bold lines. The system quipped: Mustaches? You're corrupting the kid, Romeo. Time resumed, and Pugsley roared with laughter, clutching his comics, their bond solidifying. "You're my kind of trouble," Pugsley said, fist-bumping Adam, his enthusiasm infectious.
Wednesday's investigation deepened, the prophecy a labyrinth of runes and rituals. "Find the founder's vault," she told Adam, her voice a blade, her eyes piercing. They discussed Morticia's role, the scroll hinting at a time manipulation ritual tied to Nevermore's core. Adam's gaps gnawed at him, the Hyde and Crackstone shadows he couldn't grasp. Wednesday's relentless, Enid's my light, and Pugsley's a mini-me, his monologue churned. But these gaps and Kinbott's probe are trouble. The system pinged: 17/100 uses. Family's cute, but don't get buried in the crypt, genius. The prophecy's weight loomed, and Adam braced for Nevermore's secrets, Enid's warmth his lifeline, Pugsley's grin a spark in the gathering storm.