Never Moon

part 7

"By the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What was the colour of Mother's eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been forgetting, too."

Peter Pan, "The Home Under the Ground."

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Peter was not a very nice person, Char was quickly finding out. We know that he is mean, but Char, having just arrived, did not.

"Can I have something to eat, Peter?" Char asked, looking around the underground hideout. Mismatched furniture and clothes were scattered all around the big room, but there wasn't a kitchen in sight.

"No," Peter said. "You had a meal yesterday."

Char's eyebrows pulled together at this; had days already passed since she'd arrived?

Time, she knew, passed differently on the island, but it only felt like hours since she'd arrived. Turner had given her a tour of the area around the hideout (most of it was grey, dry and dead) and Strings had spent the time telling her about the glory days of the Lost Boys and Peter Pan before the pirates had killed most of them.

"Course," Strings had said, gesturing easily. "Mikey's gone and gotten himself kidnapped, so not all of them are dead."

The smile had faded from Strings' face, and Char knew better than to press him for details.

Char scowled at Peter now. "That meal was only made up," she protested.

"It was plenty real. I got full."

Char was going to point out that Peter was completely insane and childish enough to think that pretend food was enough to sustain oneself, but there was a scraping noise from above them.

"Someone's coming down the slide," Peter said. "Turner, is that you?"

"Yep!" Came Turner's voice, slightly muffled.

"Good," Peter said. "I want a report. I say we go and get Mikey tonight."

Strings emerged from behind the curtain, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "What now?" He asked sleepily. "I heard something about Mikey."

Char looked back and forth between Peter and Strings. Turner emerged from the slide, brushing himself off.

"You're bleeding," Char said quietly, her eyes trained on the red spot that was growing slowly on the front of Turner's shirt.

"It's not bad," Turner said, shrugging. "Just a knife cut."

Strings winced. "Nasty, those stupid things are."

Peter scoffed. "I would've been able to dodge it."

Char rolled her eyes. "Sure you would've, Peter." She gestured to Turner. "I don't care if it's nothing. I want to see it and make sure it's not infected."

"And I want a report," Peter said. He has a particular tone of voice he uses when making demands -- a sort of whining, pitched tone reminiscent of a child.

Strings threw himself down into a chair. Turner stripped off his shirt, where an angry red gash made its way across his chest.

"Not bad my ass," Char muttered. Strings tossed her a leather sack, which she opened to find relatively modern medicine.

"How'd you get this?" She asked Peter.

"What?" Peter asked, looking into the bag. "Don't ask me. I don't remember."

"This was one week ago, mate," Strings said. "Don't be daft."

"It was not a week ago," Peter argued.