emilbecker

[emilbecker]

[emilbecker]

WARDROBE. THE MANOR. JULY 17TH.

emil planned to attend with a mask, but after the stress of interactions with milo & remus, emil decides they’ll out themselves on their own terms, and leaves their mask on their bed. 

emil arrives in pale blue silk cordinated shorts, shirt, and jacket. they picked this ensemble specifically for the slumber party look, a play at looking relaxed while fear runs through every vein. thinking better of it, emil leaves his heels at home, opting for shoes that they can run and move in easier, accessorized with an overnight bag, and gold jewellery.

[emilbecker]

REMUS

Even a quick glance back to Remus’ own ring of supporters tells him he’s in trouble — a conversation shared with the infamous talk show host ( them and all their defamation against said supporters and their policies ) hardly bodes well for a candidate campaigning against Pale Horse’s reign of PR terror. Collected, despite the unexpected guest, Remus ignores their looks and keeps on with Emil; the faster he lets them run their designated course of polite fuck-yous and false smiles, the faster they’ll be gone once again. “Well, the issue is quite close to my heart considering my wife, Rita —” he starts, naming her as if Emil really needs the reminder, “immigrated from China when she was a girl. Breaks my heart to hear how cruelly the little shits at prep school treated her. I want a different world for my children,” Remus takes a step forward, leans in a bit closer to Emil and speaks with hushed tone, “because otherwise, look who the little shits grow up to be.” A hand motions to the crowd of current MPs and all the major political pundits that gather in wait for Remus Warden. Back to normal volume and at arm’s length away, he adds, “I plan to introduce much needed reform in the immigration system, something to combat the fucking mess Brexit made of it…” a divisive policy amongst Wardens, “and embrace the UK’s growing multilingual identity. Bien que nous devions tous respecter des règles avec lesquelles nous ne sommes pas d'accord pour arriver là où nous voulons être, n'est-ce pas?” Though we all have to play by rules we don’t agree with to get where we want to be, right? The smirk on Remus’ face is revealing, a joke shared amongst not-friends.

Laughter rings out, chilling and unwelcome, beckoning looks from around the room ( not counting the stares that never stopped, doing their best to let Emil know they’re unwelcome without so much as a word said ). It’s easier to be annoyed in French, emotions colouring mother tongue in a way that’s harder to control than in English: “Vous auriez dû les entendre me supplier de courir.” You should have heard them beg me to run. His own soft laughter follows, made in slight disbelief of how little Emil knows about the unseen workings of the political machine. “Personne ne mène une campagne sans le soutien explicite d'un ou deux ministres…” No one runs a campaign without the explicit support of a minister or two, he starts, carefully choosing what to keep between he and Emil and what to say loud enough for his supporters to hear. 

Such careless mention of his sister has Remus freeze, transfixed in the moment as his blood begins to trickle cold. Does he know why your sister died? Face turned sour, Remus takes two angry steps closer to Emil, the beginnings of a spectacle for all the crowd to see. “Tu sais, Emil putain de Becker? Dis-moi pourquoi ma sœur est morte.” Do you know, Emil fucking Becker? Tell me why my sister died. A nervous hush in conversation swallows the room around them, anyone near enough to hear now crooning to see the commotion. “Un autre morceau de merde caché dans Pale Horse, quelle putain d'originalité.” Another piece of shit hiding in Pale Horse, how fucking original. Remus laughs a quiet, angry laugh. “Dites à Uriel qu'il doit commencer à pousser ses putains de cafards ailleurs, ça devient trop évident.” Tell Uriel that he needs to start shoving his fucking cockroaches somewhere else, it’s getting too obvious.

they'll hand it to him, emil can't deny that remus is silver-tongued, that his words and his voice don't instill a type of calm and reassurance that they're sure MPs and citizens are eating right up. but before them stands a war profiteer, charming or not. “i empathise with her,” it's not a complete lie, he understands perfectly well how easily the english can make people who are different feel small. for a split second, emil thinks his huffed laugh might be genuine, but it does nothing for his conscience. they will be scrubbing this moment of joint agreement off their skin for days. “absolument.” absolutely. and that's where emil draws the line, they might have the odd view in common, or be practicers of the same ‘anything for the cause’ mentality but that's all that emil will accept the two share. remus will always be an enemy.

emil crosses arms over their chest, eyes narrowing on the faces around them. with a momentary tilt of his head, lips pressed into a line, emil hums with contemplation. “explicit? huh. i hope there's nothing unsavoury there, mr. warden, because someone will come looking.” their smile is bright, but it is not kind like emil tries so often to be.

shit fuck shit fuck shitting fucking fuck. the inside of their skull is reeling, alarms blaring and panic setting in. you fucked up. their exterior, however, continues to smile, wider even, revealing none of the anxiety that builds and builds. soon, they are baring their teeth in a pearly grin, only smiling wider as remus makes his move of intimidation. “allez, ne fais pas l'idiot avec moi, remus. vous savez très bien pourquoi elle est morte.” come on, don't play stupid with me, remus. you know full well why she died. emil tilts their head to the side, they might as well get some satisfaction out of this. “karma, peu importe comment tu veux l'appeler.” karma, whatever you want to call it. without moving away, emil extends his hand, “well, it was a pleasure speaking with you, mr. warden, as always,” with a grin tempting the other to refuse him. go on, push me, hit me, cause a fucking scene, i dare you.

[emilbecker]

[emilbecker]

LAURA: My bad, Emi

[ She laughs softly before picking up a bag in her closet, considering if it would look good with any of her current dresses or if she'd need a new one ]

LAURA: Just sent you some dress options. Can you look? I'll bring the ones you think work best

LAURA: And don't you dare cry without me. I need a drink, or twenty tonight.

[ In truth, she doesn't feel like crying so much as screaming over the news of the Truce, but she doesn't say that either. ]

---

her laugh is contagious, and a high pitched, genuine giggle finds its way into the microphone of his phone.

EMIL: oh! yeah, one sec. i'm putting you on speaker—

they bring the phone in front of their face, switching on the speaker option before navigating away to find laura's messages.

EMIL: oh shit. oh shiiiit. the red one is stunning, like, i'm deeply upset right now that we are not the same size. who made it? but also, the detailing of that blue burgundy one is out of this world. is that lace? oh, no, mesh.

EMIL: this is a difficult one, babe. i think we're gonna need a cocktail, or two.

[emilbecker]

TASK. VALENTINES DAY CARDS.

thank you becky, kit, dean, and katie for being funnier than me.

[emilbecker]

SUNISA

with. – @emilbecker​ where.– emil’s town home (stratford) when. – june 5th. 

Unanswered texts leave Sunisa’s mind to wander. Never the type to outright worry, there’s something that this time, tells her maybe she should. But a gut feeling isn’t enough to convince them to put their heart into it, not yet. It’s the lack of response, counting on several hours now, that has Sunisa digging the toes of their converse into the side of Emil’s building. The window ledge she’s used for leverage once already acts as a stepping ladder. 

One hand coming underneath the window, she pushes upward, letting out a tsk noise that Emil hasn’t learned to lock their windows. She remembers to yell at them for it after she’s made sure they’re okay. Whether it’s guilt that has her checking in, or maybe actual care, she hasn’t deciphered yet.

Sunisa pulls herself through the window, one leg slung over. The room is empty from what the Angel can tell. Maybe they just aren’t home. Maybe Sunisa can wait, see if they show up later. She pulls herself the rest of the way into Emil’s home and stands up, dusting her hands off on the sides of her jeans. Closing the window behind themself, they walk further into Emil’s home, the hallway short, yet intimidating. 

“Emil?” Sunisa’s voice sounds small, and so they clear their throat. “I fuckin’ told ya, if you don’t answer your phone, I’m gonna keep climbin’ through your window.” Dipping into the kitchen, she notices their hunched figure at their table. 

they're making a cup of tea, having just put the phone down from a long call with penny, one filled with too many falsehoods. the rumble of boiling water and steam hissing is enough not to notice footsteps overhead. they have been hyper vigilant ever since the first ominous letter claiming to know a connection between the talk show host and a power of death. it results in playing music less, thinking he'll catch the sound of someone approaching his door to leave something else unsettling. but the creaks from the aged stairs are missed over the sounds of the kitchen, and emil takes their tea to the table in front of their laptop. their phone sits next to it, piling up with unread texts and emails. emil sits, blowing gently on the surface of his tea as he finally scrolls through messages.

“—fuck!” he hears her before he sees her, jumping up from his seat at the table in an instant. autopilot makes him to reach for the hot drink to throw in the intruders direction, but he catches himself as sunisa registers in their brain. “my god, babe. can you— i was about to throw my hot tea on you! stop sneaking up on me,” they whine, reaching up with one hand to rub their chest, to calm their racing heart rate. “i was also like... two seconds away from replying to you. what do you have against the doorbell, hm?” there's frustration, but it's laced with fondness. or is it guilt regarding her circumstances? at least he joined death openly.

one deep breath later, their smile returns. “you want tea? have you had dinner?” before they can answer him, emil refills the kettle and switches it back on. “you might as well tell me what your text said now that you’re here, too. did i miss something?” 

[emilbecker]

MILO

set: june 25th, evening location: york road station availability: closed | @emilbecker​

Ever since the attack on Death’s boat, he’d held onto valuable information regarding the identity of one of their members. Mostly, he wanted to see if it could benefit him in some way. After his last interaction with Emil back in April, he was eager to mess with them. Just like Death had been doing to everyone else for months. It was only fair, not that it would have stopped him either way. He started subtle by sending an anonymous note to Emil’s studio letting them know someone is aware of their affiliation. Then to their home, posted on the door by someone unknown and masked to avoid camera recognition. When sending messages became boring he stepped it up a notch. Had tea with one of their mothers. Milo planned it strategically, for a time when Emil was likely to see him. Of course it wasn’t obvious he was the one who knew their identity. He was just saying hello to a familiar woman in the tea room. Struck up a conversation when it was found that he was mistaken and acted surprised when he found out she was the mother of a local celebrity. It was purely to see if the encounter put them on edge, he had no intention of hurting their family. Milo just wanted to see them squirm.

Once the truce was in place and the masquerade announced in commemoration, he figured it would be a good time to let Emil know finally. There was little need to waste anymore time leading them on if he wasn’t getting something out of it. The entertainment value was gone and he was bored. If he was going to reap anything else it would rely on Emil’s need to keep the information hidden. Once a free moment presented itself that night, the blonde scanned the room for the talk show host. Milo stalked his way through the room until he was positioned behind them. “Good evening, Emil.” The greeting was ominous and just slightly sinister. A tight lipped serpent smile spread across his lips while he anticipated their response.

they should have seen this coming. but when they first received an ominous note at work, it could realistically be any of the three gangs threatening them, and even after investigation, no prints or distinguishing features could be lifted from the paper. even as more messages were left for emil, not so much as a partial print. at least emil can narrow this down to longtime players of this game, people who have trained not leaving a trace into muscle memory. but when emil is caught horrifically off guard by the sight of milo pierce in the kitchen of his mother's work, sipping tea opposite her, emil's suspects narrow down further. it would be naive to let a coincidence like this slip by, and yet emil hopes so passionately that it is not milo pierce that knows the link between himself and death.

so as emil makes his way through the space, trying to spot a familiar and friendly face in the crowd, they are tense. they would love to kick off their heels, feel the softness of their living room rug underfoot, sit back, relaxed, talking to people that really matter to them. instead he's stuck here, in the dark chill of an abandoned underground station, dodging the snakes in the grass. except, they don't do a good enough job, because an unfriendly voice sounds over his shoulder like the devil, calling his name and leaving them chilled. emil turns slowly and looks the other up and down. their heart races, stomach twisted in knots. they feel sick, and yet they remain relaxed. milo, again. the mask isn’t enough to hide the horror beneath. “you talkin’ to me, babe? i think you're confused,” feign fucking ignorance, feign fucking ignorance, he'll leave eventually. “better be confused and take a hike, instead of trying to hit on me, ‘cause i can tell you right now, none of you are my type,” with a pointed huff, they turn back away from him.

[emilbecker]

DOMENICO

     Babe. Domenico’s stomach sinks instantly, the walls closing in as claustrophobia clutches him in its grip. He knows that voice — all too well — and the Dominion’s made sure he knows most of the names within the other gangs ranks. The only one who remains somewhat of a mystery is Death. His saliva sours, bitterness spreading across his tongue, and when he speaks, he’s surprised it doesn’t waver, the weight of Emil’s identity pressing on every nerve, every organ, crushing as it stomps careless into his bones, “You should know I am.” He’s staring at him, rigid in posture, memories filtering through his mind: coffee dates and jogs in the park, intimate conversations about life in general, love… family. He’s known Emil before his fame, for about a decade, and yet here he is, seized by shock. 

     “I’d have said it could be worse but then you showed up,” he answers Emil’s next question pointedly, folding his arms over his chest, and he can’t tell if he’s suffocating his heart, its pulse seeming to slow altogether. He isn’t. Emil is. Emil and Domenico’s inability to realize he stands with Uriel. Were they there when Juno was killed? Were they the one who did it? His thoughts are racing, whipping through history to find the exact point where he’d gone wrong, and he doesn’t think their relationship was all fake… then again, he didn’t think they would ever be a part of a gang in the first place. Failure. He’s failed the Warden’s, War, nausea rolling over in his stomach when he recalls when they got dinner a month before, how he’d admitted his feelings for a coworker. He’d been open, like he always was with Emil once they got closer, and now he’s punishing himself for it, closing himself down. Only War. Everyone else is a suspect. A danger. A possible target. It’s too messy to care for people one might have to kill and Domenico’s never been faced with that hurdle. 

     “How long?” He demands, throwing care out the window as he yanks the goggles off his face, wanting to look Emil directly in the eyes. He can’t, not when they’re still wearing theirs, and heat crawls up the back of his neck, the volume of the music too disruptive, and for a man who doesn’t really enjoy drinking, he wants one. Immediately.

there it is. in an instant. domenico turns from something gentle, into ice. if it wouldn't ruin their make up, emil would cry. the familiarity is still there, the acknowledgement of knowing one another, just perhaps not as well as they both wanted. there are so many stark differences between the two that most would find their friendship to be disingenuous to some degree, but emil has never felt more like thier old friend. gentle souls, wrapped up in a darkness neither of them can shake, lying and hiding things from loved ones. emil wonders if dom feels the same. “come on, babe, don't be like that,” they're attempting to hold onto humour, knowing full well it won't help them now, “surely having someone you actually like around here is better, no?” they grin, but it's not visible under their obscured features, so instead they reach out. a hand finds domenico's arm, squeezing gently as if to silently ask, don't give up on me now, please.

a sigh escapes him and he reaches up to flick off the light switch on their mask. they don't pull it down, but at least his eyes aren't so obscured from the purple glow. someone who knows them would be able to see his warm, inviting eyes. “like, end of 2018,” he admits, finding relief in it, “it's a really shitty coincidence, dom, i'm not like— i didn't do this to hurt you. i didn't know you were wrapped up in this till this year.” humour has long faded now, and sadness makes his throat ache as emil manages to keep his emotions steady. “what about you? how long?” they ask like it’s small talk, like they aren’t talking about the darkest corners of london. please don't say you've been here longer, please don't be one of the worst of them, please be in way over your head, please need my help.

[emilbecker]

SOLOMON

solomon takes but a second to relish in the accomplishment before whatever pride he grew turns into confusion, which happens in three phases. first phase: the pink one mentions a past which they’ve shared. in the midst of action, solomon hadn’t identified anyone in particular, nor was he trying to, but reevaluating it all, there was only one option. flashes come through his mind like speeding bullets - the size, the stance, maybe even the voice, bullets carving away at statues in an empty park just a month before. last time he was by the thames, it was under death’s secret pretenses, and he had ended the night heaving for air, with his back to the grass and his face smashed into a bloody pulp. there was a spot under one of his left ribs that still ached. there were fresh thin scars on his cheeks. and there is the culprit, at last within reach, and bragging about it just like solomon would. “you-”, before the confusion can fully be replaced by fury, the rifle hits him. 

second phase: there’s a ringing noise in his head, but this is temporary, always temporary, must be temporary. eyes are wide and unmasked, and solomon is kicked back down, now pinned by the target. he tries to roll away but to no avail, barely blocking any hits. this is certain, this is the one - no one else would know just where in his ribs and where in his head it would ache like this. this confusion is not just of the mind, as the lights int he distance seem to tremble far more than usual, and it truly yook a full breath out of him. 

third phase: the ringing is gone, but not fast enough, and low hums of pain leave his lips. “london? the fuck are you, the prime minister?”, he’s almost out. he must, since the other has been moving so damn much in such a short amount of time. he’d normally count the seconds, but the confusion did now allow for it. all solomon knows is that it’s been too long since he’s landed on top of his target, and the initial adrenaline fueled response is not eternal. soon they too must be tired. soon they’ll fail. the dominion looks around, both to flee the blows, and to case in the environment. with all this noise, there’s no way he’d pick up on the sound of anyone coming near. the idea that one day he’ll turn to find a bullet coming towards his face haunts his dreams, and no amount of hypervigilance can fix that. shit. just like that, his gun is gone, disappearing into the dark waters after a single moment of distraction. 

solomon grabs their wrist mid movement, pulling it towards him in swift action, head forcefully colliding against death’s soldier. with a rather drawn out grunt, he rushes up and to the side, pinning the other to the deck floors, one knee heavy on their chest, but moving vaguely, both to keep them down, and to feel around all the pink. no bullet vests under this, that’s for certain. also no hidden gun in an inside pocket. the information is filed away quickly as the confusion washes out and all that’s left is a dangerous man and a doubled need for justice. “ya should have finished the job last time.” one hand pulls a knife from the side of his holster, blade shining under the party lights, and aims it down hard. it sticks upright on the floor, narrowly missing emil’s neck, but they’d been moving far too wildly so a clean hit was barely expected. still, an unsatisfied sound leaves his throat. why must he find the shooter from the thames back on the river, where he should be pulled in a million directions? where his task includes rushing out of death’s soon to be wreckage? justice truly wasn’t fair.

smash. the force of solomon's skull against his own. as confusion slows time down, emil is brought back to time spent in kashvi's home. they don't think of the clothes stripped from their hangers and left in messy piles, or the animal blood that stained her hallway. they think of being trapped against a kitchen counter, using the only weapon left on hand: their skull against hers. he wonders for half a second if this is cosmic karma, their price for causing pain. but the more time emil spends in this world, the more they begin to wonder if that wonderful force their mothers claim keeps everything right in the world, is just a tale to stop your children from crying. if it was real, there would be no kashvi singhs, no solomon romeros. 

with another slam, they're on their back again, sure to leave bruises to hate when their life is no longer at risk. emil has always been quick under pressure, one of the lucky ones, there has never been any hesitation. so when lights catch something shiny and pointed, emil fights solomon's grip harder, hoping eventually their height difference will give them the edge. the knife comes down, and emil jerks hard, but their breath still catches in their throat as it sinks into the floor a few inches from his skin. “take some of your own advice, old man.” that sore spot in solomon's ribs meets emil's curled fist again. one, two. their elbow swings up off the floor and into solomon's head. emil grins as their wrestling means he finally manages to bend his knee and bring his leg up enough to drive the heel of their boot into the others thigh. great day to not be wearing stilettos. still, this should more than a combat boot.

emil kicks himself free, pushing solomon down and away until he can land another kick to the others chest. they have but a few moments to get the upper hand as the force of their kick pushes solomon back. emil is more thankful than ever to have spent so many years walking in shoes like this. it'll never be their first choice, to fight an experienced killer in heeled boots, but emil gets to their feet nimbly all the same. “come on, honey. you wanna get your ass handed to you? again?” their laugh is drawn out, arms up defensively. come on, prick, hit me again.

[emilbecker]

LAURA: Have you decided what you're wearing to this super best friends forever truce ball?

[To say she's bitter about the recent turn of events is an understatement, and she knows Emil feels similarly. But without any means of comforting each other, she turns to the only other thing she can think of – an excuse to dress up.]

LAURA: And if not, do you fancy meeting after work to figure it out?

---

EMIL: my god is it good to hear a voice i like.

they sigh audibly into their phone, tucked between their cheek and shoulder.

EMIL: lau. babe. do you know me at all? you think i'm gonna be stressing and crying over what to wear the day before i have to wear it? you won't catch me slippin' like that.

EMIL: nah but please come over later, i wanna hear your thoughts. and i absolutely want to help you pick something, you'd be doing me a massive favour so i don't, like... start crying about all this shit again. i think i'll be done here at like 7 ish, so mine at 7:30?

[emilbecker]

GIGI

“He - what?” Shock reads plainly on her features, softening only when they grow quiet for a moment. Promise you won’t tell anyone? Emil asks, and Gigi offers a slight smile at how simple the question sounded on a surface level. “Your secret is safe with me.” For the amount of times she’d uttered those six words, the odds of her meaning it were rare enough to mark it as being special now. “It’s not your fault,” she speaks softly, shaking her head adamantly, (admittedly somewhat biased), “You couldn’t have known that would happen to her.” She wouldn’t have promised protection herself, but he didn’t need to hear that now. “Gwen was stressed, you were probably just the first, conscious, person in the line of fire.” Gigi waves her hand then, an unspoken implication for them to try not to pay any heed.

“Yours?” Mouth forms the question, almost inaudible, while the blue-grey of her stare moves between the blood stains and Emil’s expression, unsure whether or not she wants to know the answer. The thought lingers in the hollow of her chest, buzzing an erratic rhythm against her rib cage like a trapped bumblebee, worried that attempts to tamp it down could only hurt her. “Get it fixed,” Gigi decides for them, “When Penny notices, tell her I tried to clean it for you and fudged it. Burned it with an iron… got it caught in a dryer that you’ve been telling me to replace for months… whatever you want to say, and I asked you not to tell her because I was really embarrassed.” To be fair, it was probably believable enough, the actress useless with an iron, though didn’t own a dryer to begin with.

“Be a shame not to get it fixed when you looked so good in it anyway,” she adds lightly, inappropriate as it might have been, an awareness of that pulling gently at one corner of her mouth. “You might not ever want to wear it again,” given everything that happened, “but still.” 

“yeah! fully landed on top of me. ridiculous. dude's like what, fifty? i hope his knees are fucked.” frustration is an easy way of letting sadness be pushed to the side, but it doesn't last long, because frustration doesn't have a place here with her. “thanks,” they murmur, “yeah you're totally right, like, gwen said sorry after and i know she meant it so it feels extra stupid to still be upset about, you know? neither of us were trying to hurt the other.” she's good at this, at making people feel better, and emil considers himself lucky to be someone she's frequently expended her time on over the years. even if that time spent together has often left them confused, and sometimes hurt.

“mm?” they follow her eyes, and they don't like where they end up. may's blood saturates the sleeves, dark and crusted. “oh,” sadness washes over him again and he takes a slow breath in, “no. may. from carrying her.” when he exhales, he laughs, because tears are running down his cheeks again and can't help feeling fucking ridiculous. “i know she's stable, i know she's not gone, but like— she's not here either. i mean... what the fuck would we do without may? if it wasn't for her i'd still be crying on my sofa thinking i'm the worst person in existence.” emil moves to sit on the edge of their bed, dropping the suit next to him to put his head in his hands.

they look back at her with red eyes, nodding along to her plan. “yeah... yeah. okay. are you sure? ‘cause i mean, penny can't be mad at you.” a smile breaks through the sadness like the sun cuts through heavy clouds. a laugh sounds next, accompanied by wisps of shyness when met with her compliment, something only those closest to them witness. he looks to his side at the pink fabric, fingers reaching out to trace the seams. “i'm gonna give it better memories.” emil turns back to face her, “lets go dancing soon, yeah?”

[emilbecker]

NADIA

who: @emilbecker​​ where: Pale Horse Media  when: 24 June 2021

Playing nice and professional isn’t exactly her favorite thing. It’s one thing, putting on a false, empathetic smile for her patients at the hospital, but having to having to do so with the time locking lens of PR? There’s no slip ups to be had with that, the presence of cameras and recorders to document things. The media is a beast that can twist the slightest slip up to contort it to fit a synthetic narrative for their own means. The means by which Pestilence was granted this interview and the interview itself are nauseating and by the time the endless feed of question after question, platitude after platitude comes to a close, Nadia’s cheeks almost hurt from having to carry the gruesome weight of a demure, business professional smile. Sure, Nadia likes a bit wordplay, but surely someone else better suited for this sort of PR stunt would have been better suited. 

And fuck, that’s not even counting the supposed photoshoot that’s yet to follow.  They’re on break now while the photographer finishes up their preparations, and while Nadia pours herself a cup of coffee at the refreshment bar, she can’t help but wish she’d followed through on the fleeting thought she’d had that morning to smuggle in a flask of anything in her purse to spike her coffee with.  It’d sure make tolerating a shared space with one Emil Becker easier. For the hours that she’s already been there, there’s something stilted about their interactions that Nadia knows even a child would find hard to miss. She knows why she doesn’t want to be there. But she wonders just for what reason a television personality would have to mirror her own thinly veiled misgivings. It’s curious and Nadia wants to find out why.

“So tell, Emil Becker,” she calls over her shoulder, dumping two sugars into her cup. “How long until this second round of torture commences?” 

it's over, it's done, there's no way to take this back. they call cut and graciously, emil excuses himself to the bathroom. and then he's in front of a mirror and his cheeks are wet and his heart is in his throat, making it hard to breathe normally. it's failure and guilt that suffocate them. they're stuck with the thought, am i destined to keep failing? an attitude they were not raised to have. emil was taught to embrace their wrongs and to learn from them, and while he's not quite sure what this lesson is trying to teach him, he picks himself up, dries his cheeks gently and practices a smile. good as new.

nadia salem sits in the pale horse studio's green room, helping herself to fucking coffee. emil wants to slap the cup out of her hand, or better yet, dump the hot contents over her head. their anger is irrational, and they know it, killers need caffeine too. after all, he is part of that club too. even if the death he caused plagues him more than anything could ever plague someone like her. she's not looking at him when she addresses him, and so emil can sneak in one last roll of the eyes before his feet take him to her side. emil reaches for a cup himself, pouring hot coffee two thirds of the way up. “oh, nadia, don't tell me you're not enjoying yourself?” perhaps emil left their sincerity at the door, but they wrap up their words in a pretty packaged smile. “they're just setting things up now, torture isn't long off now.” he drops one sugar and some milk into his cup and stirs, turning around to lean back against the countertop as the sugar dissolves. 

“let me guess, as a doctor you don't really have time for photoshoots?” it's difficult not to look disgusted in front of a killer of her stature, but emil holds his ground in the face of a void for a second time, meets her dark eyes and keeps smiling. “they're really not that bad. this photographer is great, she's really good with people who... don't know how to be photographed, you know? and trust me, its way easier when you're not the only person in front of the camera. and i've done this more times than i can remember.” the biggest lie was their last. in a box in their home sits a collection of every photoshoot they've ever done, and they are remembered fondly, but they don’t want to share any part of themselves that they don’t have to. 

[emilbecker]

KASHVI

Solomon and her appear as an united front, fingers laced together as they enter, but Kashvi finds that it brings her little reprieve. There’s happiness to be found in that small occurrence, sure, a warmth that seeps through her body — from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers. But this night is not about Solomon and herself, the Truce looming like a dark storm cloud above them. It’s not like the previous Truce, a time Kashvi had once longed for — too much blood has been shed for it to feel like those days again. Besides, the newest player on the board is not one to be trusted, a group which has proven to not be people of their word. There’s a tenseness between her shoulders, a distrust that comes with not being the only viper in the room. 

Unconsciously, her eyes seek for someone with the same stature as the person who’d found their way into her home. She feels secure now, living with Solomon, for more reason than one — still, there’s undealt with business there. And while she cannot do much about it – not in the way she’d like to, anyway – she craves to know who it is all the same. 

Her mask leaves her vision unclouded, at least, as does her decision to stick to two glasses of white wine. She makes small talk, here and there, keeps an eye on those that are tucked away in her heart, Rita and her pregnant belly especially, and mostly moves with intent. And then, there’s the undeniable sensation of liquid dripping down her body, from her stomach to the high-waisted panties she wears under her sheer gown, down her legs. A look of anger washes over her face, the tension between her shoulders tightening. “Idiot,” she snaps, checking the damage done to the flowers. “You think you can pour red wine over someone and get away with a fucking sorry?” Kashvi looks back up, staring at the face hidden behind a ridiculous gas mask, boring her eyes into his for a sign of familiarity. Is she paranoid, so desperate to find something, when she thinks she might? “How about you find a way to fix it? You might think it blends in, but perhaps you’re daft when it comes to the concept of fashion. These flowers were hand-painted.” She’s angry, feeling that familiar warmth curl in her stomach, but she wants to keep this stranger here. Eyes dart to his feet, noting heels in stead of combat boots, and then she’s looking at his eyes again. “Klutz you say, hm? Break any other things recently?” Like a glass table?

her rage is so familiar, and it makes his cheeks shift into a knowing smile under his mask. in this setting, she looks divine, and if she were someone else, they'd be far more upset about spilling red wine down a dress like that, the detailing of which they wish they could fawn over with penny. but not only does his sister's heart not belong in a place as rotten as this, emil fears she could crumble into so many pieces that he would never see her whole again. so while he longs for the love and support that once never left his side, to confide in her would serve only himself. he can not tell penny how he purposefully ruined alexander mcqueen with red wine because the woman wearing it is a mass murderer, but at least he can laugh about this with laura. or gigi, or gwen, or buffy. perhaps he's not as alone as he goes to bed feeling.

an apologetic smile does nothing for them hidden behind a gas mask, so their faux guilt is forced into how their hands rub at the back of their neck. “hey now, you're making it sound like i did it on purpose,” they could laugh, but they hold their tongue. emil pretends to glance around for a solution, and in doing so, catches a passing server, handing them the empty glass. “hey, buddy, could you get us some napkins or something?— thank you so much,” when they look back at her, they are met with an intensity that makes them grin. emil wonders how much his height difference is throwing her off, if there's anything recognisable in the way he speaks now. “i know,” he sighs audibly over the music, “alexander mcqueen, right? it's gorgeous.” shame about the fucking model. they consider her question with a hum to mask their amusement. “hm, are we talking my property, or someone else's?” like a lamp, or a coffee table?

[emilbecker]

CEMILE

JUNE 24 || PALE HORSE MEDIA || @emilbecker​​

Cemile hates this more than she can say, but the one small comfort she has, waiting in one of the press rooms at Pale Horse Media, is that she’s certain whomever is set to interview her will hate it just as much. If not more.  She hardly slept but a quick pass of makeup makes it impossible to tell. There are no nerves, just impatience. Truce or not, she doesn’t like lingering in enemy territory any longer than necessary. Though, she suppose she’ll have to get used to it a bit now, especially as PHM changes their tune. There’s a degree of smugness she sits with, thinking back to her conversation with Sacha Tarasov months prior, when they’d tried to paint PMH as a hero establishment, practically doing humanitarian work. And now? They were agreeing to let Bellum Nova shine. Really, PMH brought nothing new to the table, except maybe domestic terrorism and libel. They couldn’t even do that anymore. 

So there she is, awaiting the pre-interview, the real one airing tonight. It’s rushed, but fresh on the heels of a truce, Gabrielle and Warlock had wanted this to get out before the weekend. Give people something to talk about and consider. Cemile sends a message to Kashvi about plans for the weekend, answers a few work emails and checks the time once again. Twenty minutes past the designated meeting time and she’s still waiting. She rolls her eyes, used to this game, and continues scrolling for another ten minutes before she hears footsteps and the door opens. Glancing up, Cemile flashes a smile, congenial and as put together as ever, even in the face of PHM’s star anchor. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” she says, tone sweet as honey. Standing, she extends a hand. Play nice. The words of her higher ups echo in her mind as Cemile reminds herself that she’s here to make Bellum Nova look good, even if, really, she’d love to burn this place to the ground.

fuck this fuck this fuck this. emil paces, swallowing down the disgust and rage that this order leaves bubbling in their stomach. this war has taken and taken and taken, and emil wonders if all that giving will ever amount to something tangible. they wonder if they'll still be alive to see the day all this pain turns into something better. it's not his faith in the cause that falters in the face of this truce that bleeds him slowly, it's faith in himself. it's easy to believe in others, in may specifically, but as much as they want to believe they aren't a quitter, they have bowed out before. this spiral is one he knows well, one he has dragged himself out of more times than he can count on two hands. because to leave a losing game can’t be a failure on himself, emil believes that easily. they stop, facing the dressing room mirror, looking himself in the eye as they take a steady breath. “you got this. you're career isn't ruined. it's all fine.” because if they speak it out into the world, maybe there's a higher chance it'll weave itself into the fabric of reality.

after practicing a smile, emil straightens up and leaves the dressing room, and just as the door clicks behind them, their assistant appears with a grim look, handing him the list of interview questions to mull over. “you've got like, two minutes. she's here already.”

emil groans, barely glancing at the sheet of paper. “i might not have a choice about this, but the actual interview doesn't start for a few hours. let me pretend to be looking at something important on your computer and i will buy you dinner.” heidi grins and the deal is made. for the next fifteen minutes, they pretend to be deep in thought over an email, and another five minutes taking the longest route to where the older sadık sister waits. and while he makes his rounds through the studio, emil shoves down the resentment that comes with her treatment of evren, her willingness to walk into war’s arms. they enter the room with the same warmth they give to any stranger, shaking her hand with a wide smile. guilt flashes across his features, disingenuous but remaining kind. “i am so sorry, miss sadık, it's a busy time. i should have asked you to come a little later, my mistake. how are you? were you offered a drink?” i hope not, they think, what a waste. “so is this the first time you're doing an interview like this? totally okay to be nervous, you'd be surprised how many people find it daunting, like, even actors.”

[emilbecker]

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋: [ evren ft. emil ]

EVREN: of course it's about the interviews, emil, i — [ she pauses, rewinding the last 15 minutes of the episode. she should watch it, hear what they're actually saying, but instead, she turns the tv off.]

EVREN: our agreement doesn't make any sense. if gabrielle's willing to work with the man who murdered her daughter, can you then imagine how little the rest of us mean to her? and you are a pretty face, but now's not the time for jokes.

EVREN: i guess i just... i don't know. do you think that people tune in to watch your show because they want to hear what they always hear? or is it because they want the truth? [ it's only the beginning of her tirade, one that emil doesn't deserve, but ignoring the anger within would only be worse. ]

EVREN: i don't know, emi, i'm ... [ her voice breaks when she realizes that the last time they spoke was nearly two months ago. she's the one who left first. ] i'm tired and i'm angry. i wish things were different. i wish they weren't like this. i wish i had met you earlier. in elementary school. during recess. i've been robbed of my time with you and it fucking hurts.

---

EMIL: i'm not joking, ev.

they suck in a slow breath. if left unregulated, emil would scream. so painfully aware of how this truce is taking and taking, reducing him to a person he vowed never to be. if they struggled to look their mothers in the eyes before, it's near impossible now.

EMIL: of course they want the truth, i do too. but i don't have any power here—

irritation rises up, and emil strokes the head of that beast until it falls back to sleep.

EMIL: you're making it sound like i want this.

they can hear the voice of their mother as if she was in the room with them, telling her child to always be open and honest with those he calls friends.

EMIL: i know you didn't mean it, but it's hurtful, you know? i didn't ask for this to happen.

her words are heavy, and emil feels like he could sink through the floor. maybe that would be easier than this conversation.

EMIL: i know... it's shit. it's really fucking shit. sometimes i think i shouldn't have said anything about... any of it. that we'd be happier if you still didn't know. but i'm glad you didn't hear it from someone else.

[emilbecker]

Alex Levy | 1.04 “That Woman”