The growing of Agnes DeMille

A quick a bit sardistic story about Agnes DeMille from Wednesday season 2 have fun!

The Growth of Agnes DeMille

It began with light. A single, blinding beam that fell through the fog over Nevermore Academy one moonless night. Agnes DeMille had been walking alone by the lake, the hem of her uniform brushing over wet grass, her thoughts spiraling the way they always did somewhere between obsession and loneliness.

Then the light found her. Cold at first, then impossibly warm. It didn’t burn; it filled.

She didn’t scream. She only whispered,

“Finally.”

And the world tilted.

Day One

By morning, everything seemed almost normal. Almost.

Agnes, now standing at about 7 feet tall, noticed her sleeves were too short. The floor felt closer somehow. When she raised her hand, the air vibrated faintly. She could see further every leaf, every shimmer in the distant woods. Her body hummed softly, like it was remembering something ancient.

“Maybe this is what being seen feels like,” she murmured to her reflection.

The mirror cracked before her words even finished. Shards scattered across the floor, slicing into the wooden planks. She stepped back, and her foot crushed a nearby chair without effort, splintering it into dust. It was an accident, or so she told herself. But the thrill lingered, and she found it oddly funny the way the wood gave with a sharp crack, like stepping on a dry branch, but louder, more final.

From the humans' point of view at Nevermore Academy, Agnes looked wrong, stretched out like a funhouse distortion, her shadow swallowing half the dorm room. Students froze, then bolted, one girl cutting her arm on a flying shard, blood streaking the wall as she screamed. A janitor downstairs felt the floor shudder, cursing as tools clattered off shelves. They were shaken but alive, whispering about drugs or a prank, hearts pounding as they barricaded doors against whatever the hell she was becoming.

Day Two

She grew again. This time, there was no doubt. Agnes, now towering at around 20 feet tall, felt the dormitory ceiling as a fragile lid above her. Her breath fogged up every window, hot and humid like a summer gale. When she stepped outside, the grass flattened in perfect circles beneath her feet and then the ground cracked, fissures spiderwebbing outward like veins, swallowing a flowerbed whole.

No one dared come close. From afar, she saw the teachers point, the students scatter. One boy tripped in his haste, sprawling face-first into the dirt, and Agnes reached out instinctively to help. Her hand brushed the academy's old oak tree instead, uprooting it with a casual swipe. Roots tore free, showering dirt and stones that pelted fleeing kids like hail one stone split a girl's forehead open, blood mixing with mud as she wailed. The tree toppled onto a nearby shed, crumpling it like paper, trapping two maintenance workers inside; their muffled screams cut short by the crunch of metal and bone. Agnes chuckled softly at the mess, finding it darkly hilarious how her "help" turned people into ragdolls tiny, breakable things that popped and bled when you weren't careful.

“I used to be invisible,” she whispered, smiling. “Now the world steps aside.”

Out of curiosity, she poked at the fallen tree with her toe, watching it splinter further, bark exploding in chunks that flew like shrapnel. At sunset, she stood taller than the academy’s tower. The bells that once signaled morning now chimed for her until she leaned against the spire, accidentally bending it sideways. The tolling stopped abruptly as the structure groaned and partially collapsed, bricks raining down on the courtyard below, crushing a cluster of students mid-flight; limbs twisted at wrong angles, screams turning to gurgles in pools of red.

From the humans' perspective, Agnes was a nightmare on stilts, her footsteps slamming like artillery shells, vibrations rattling teeth and bursting eardrums in the front row. Dozens were hurt bad broken bones from the stampede, head wounds from debris and three dead under the rubble, their families getting frantic calls hours later. Sirens wailed as ambulances fought through cracked roads; people saw her grinning down like a kid with a new hammer, oblivious or uncaring, and whispered prayers while dialing 911 on shaking hands.

Day Three

The beam’s gift didn’t stop. Every few hours, she felt the pulse again a shimmer beneath her skin, stretching her bones, lengthening her spine. The sky seemed smaller. Agnes, now an immense 100 feet tall, watched as Nevermore’s roofs sank below her knees. The lake became a glittering puddle, reflecting a distorted version of her face calm, radiant, untouchable. As she waded through the grounds, her footsteps left craters, swallowing benches and statues whole. One accidental stride crushed the greenhouse, glass shattering in a symphony of destruction, exotic plants mashed into pulp beneath her sole along with the groundskeeper who'd hidden inside, his body pulped into a red smear, ribs cracking like eggshells under the pressure.

She laughed for the first time in years. It echoed across valleys, shaking windows miles away, shattering panes in nearby homes and slicing sleeping families with flying glass.

“Why does it feel so right?” “Why do I not want it to stop?”

Birds circled her shoulders, confused, until one dive-bombed her eye and she swatted it mid-air, feathers exploding in a wet puff. Clouds brushed against her hands like misty veils. Agnes lifted one finger and drew lines through them, sculpting shapes, tearing the sky open like it was silk. Curious now, she reached down and scooped up a handful of forest, trees snapping like matchsticks in her palm wildlife inside crushed flat, blood and guts squirting through the branches like toothpaste. She squeezed gently, just to see sap and wood pulp oozed between her fingers, mixed with the metallic tang of animal innards. The power surged through her, intoxicating, and she found the whole thing endlessly amusing, like popping bubble wrap but with real squelches and pops, the warmth of life turning to mush in her grip.

From the humans' POV, Agnes was a walking extinction event, her laughter a sonic boom that ruptured lungs and toppled power lines, blacking out towns for miles. Villages nearby buckled houses caving in from the quakes, dozens buried alive, rescuers digging through the night only to pull out mangled corpses. Injuries piled up: crushed legs, punctured lungs from debris, kids orphaned in the chaos. They saw her up close as a wall of flesh and uniform, eyes gleaming with bored curiosity, scooping up woods like they were nothing survivors in the trees plummeting to their deaths, screaming all the way down. News helicopters buzzed like gnats until she absentmindedly waved one away, sending it spiraling into a hillside in a fireball.

Day Four

She stopped counting in feet. The Earth had to be measured differently now. Agnes, now a staggering 1,000 miles tall, saw mountains as toys, rivers as thin threads of silver. Oceans shimmered like spilled ink.

The air grew thinner, colder, but she didn’t care. Her heart beat with the rhythm of storms. Every motion made continents tremble. As she walked across the landscape, cities crumbled under her careless steps skyscrapers folding like cards, bridges snapping with metallic screams, cars flattening into pancakes with drivers inside, bones grinding to paste amid twisted steel. It started as accidents: a misstep flattening a town, her shadow alone causing panic and evacuations that turned chaotic, traffic jams turning into kill zones as horns blared and people trampled each other in the dark.

“Look at me,” she said softly, not to anyone, but to the void. “All those years trying to disappear now I am the horizon.”

Out of curiosity, she dipped a finger into a river, diverting its flow and flooding nearby valleys, watching the waters rage and swallow farms people swept away in muddy torrents, drowning in their basements, bodies bobbing like driftwood for days. Then, feeling the rush of authority, she deliberately stomped on a mountain range, reducing peaks to rubble just to hear the thunderous roar; avalanches buried highways, smothering thousands in icy concrete, lungs filling with dust and screams cut off forever. Her laughter rolled like thunder, drowning out the distant cries. She didn’t feel alone anymore she felt superior, and the destruction was hilariously entertaining to her, like smashing sandcastles but with the bonus of hearing the faint, pathetic crunches of cities giving way, lights flickering out one by one like dying embers.

From the humans' perspective on Earth, Agnes was the end times made flesh, her footfalls triggering magnitude-9 quakes that liquified soil under megacities, swallowing subways whole with riders inside, gassing them in the dark. Hundreds of millions dead in hours tsunamis vaporizing coastlines, bodies shredded on rebar; inland, fallout from collapsed reactors poisoned water, skin blistering survivors. Governments broadcasted futile evacuations, then went silent as capitals vaporized under her heel. People saw her as a eclipsing colossus, uniform rags flapping like sails, her "curious" pokes carving canyons that bled red with human slurry, her grin a slash of teeth against the blood-red sunset.

Day Five

Agnes, now an astronomical 100,000 miles tall, no longer stood on the planet. She cradled it. One of her eyes, now vast as a continent, watched its slow spin. Clouds and storms moved across it like tiny sighs.

“So fragile,” she thought. “So small and yet, it made me.”

There was no fear in her. Only wonder and a soft, dangerous joy. She traced her fingertip along the curve of the atmosphere, feeling it shimmer, careful at first not to break it. But curiosity won: she pressed a little harder, puncturing the ozone in spots, letting solar winds scorch patches of land below. Fires bloomed like flowers, incinerating forests and suburbs alike people fleeing in cars that melted to the road, skin charring black as they crawled, blistering and popping in the heat.

Then, abusing the power that coursed through her, she flicked at a tectonic plate, triggering earthquakes that split continents, tsunamis swallowing coasts in walls of churning debris laced with bodies. It was deliberate now a test of limits, a reclamation of all the times she’d been overlooked. Volcanoes erupted in response, ash clouds billowing like her exhaled breath, blanketing cities in choking gray, lungs clogging with silica as kids gasped their last in schoolyards. Agnes found it all profoundly amusing, giggling at how the little blue ball quivered in her palm, its inhabitants' frantic signals radio pleas, satellite flares like mosquito bites she could scratch bloody, the seismic rumbles vibrating up her arm like a cheap massager.

Space stretched around her endless, silent, alive. Stars reflected in her eyes like constellations reborn. She could feel gravity bending for her, the universe adjusting to make room.

“I was nothing once,” she whispered. “Now everything has to look up to see me or crumble.”

From the remaining humans' POV on the fractured Earth, Agnes was a cosmic horror filling the sky, her eye a bloodshot moon judging them all. Billions gone: quakes pulverizing bones to dust, floods grinding flesh against coral, radiation cancers blooming overnight in bunkers. Survivors maybe a few hundred million huddled in caves or orbital scraps, screens showing her fingertip gouging the air like a drill, scorching swathes where loved ones had been. Her joy echoed as infrasound, inducing puking and madness; they saw her not as a girl, but a force, uniform shredded to tatters revealing pale skin veined with power, her casual flicks erasing nations like typos.

Day Six

Agnes, now spanning light-years in scale, no longer thought in words. Her thoughts were movements the slow drifting of galaxies, the hum of light years passing. Yet somewhere deep inside, a small, human voice still whispered her name. Agnes.

She smiled.

“I love this,” she said, though there was no one to hear. “I love me.”

Out of sheer curiosity, she reached for a nearby moon, shattering it with a grasp, debris raining down on the fragile Earth like meteors, carving craters and extinguishing lights impacts vaporizing cities in fireballs, shockwaves pulping organs miles away, survivors shredded by fragments the size of houses. Then, in a final act of power, she squeezed the planet just enough not to destroy it entirely, but to reshape it in her image, oceans boiling off in steam clouds that scalded the last holdouts, lands fracturing under the pressure of her whim, magma erupting to drown the remnants in lava flows that hardened over screaming forms. It was the ultimate amusement to her, like crushing a grape between fingers, feeling the wet pop and spray, the universe her sandbox where even stars flinched from her touch.

The stars seemed to pulse in answer, flickering as if in fear.

From what was left of humanity's perspective handfuls of irradiated wretches in deep vaults or drifting pods Agnes was the all-devouring everything, her form a nebula of limbs and smug satisfaction, her squeeze a global vice cracking the mantle, venting superheated gases that melted steel and flesh alike. They died in agony: lungs seared, bones liquefied, last visions of her vast, laughing mouth blotting out the void, her "love" the punchline to their extinction. No broadcasts, no heroes just static and silence as the last heart stopped.

And far below, what remained of the Earth continued to turn a scarred, broken marble glinting faintly in the reflection of a girl who had outgrown the shadows, only to cast her own eternal darkness.