#and then throw that label in creator’s faces and dragging their name through the mud to make yourself look better on the internet

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CASSIAN BHATT, who is THIRTY years old. He is often called CASSIUS by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

He never loved his father, not even as a child. Perhaps it was their differences, a long list he’s kept since the moment he could write. Maybe it was the way Cassian had always detested what other little boys his age lived for—playing catch, riding their bikes, skinning their knees with kids in the neighborhood—and instead found comfort in the logic and reason between book pages far more interesting. One would think an avid reader would have adored a son who took to written word just as he, but the division always came down to one thing. Preference. His was non-fiction. REALITY. Looking to the clouds, Cassian never saw some great, profound potential, nor fluffy animals and fun shapes like other children; what he saw was weather patterns. Mother Nature rearing its ugly head on those too stupid to know they’re hurting her. He saw a world wrought with misconception, filled with beasts and famine. Misrepresentation of the plague an entire people had reaped by being WEAK. He had no time for their dreams, for their wild imaginations, or their incessant need to color outside the lines—just like his father. A renowned professor who always asked the two simple questions, what if? and why? He sought out the answers of the universe, pondered the wonders of man’s most celebrated philosophers as he spoke at colleges and universities throughout Cassian’s youth. And while his father loved language, too, written word to eat up with his hands like a barbarian, he also favored the unthinkable: man is good, man is worthy, man is trying. His son knew better. And he preferred a fork and knife when he consumed his DOCTRINES.

It was only fitting his mother was a POLITICIAN, another lover of words, but spoken to the masses with the conviction only a snake could possess, spinning lies into truths with such flawless execution. Part of him was proud, as he aged and watched her take over the whole city, secretly wanting to do exactly the same thing. Afforded the best possible education, Cassian spent his teenage years not with his nose exactly in a book, but at dinner parties where the guests were the best names in Science. The most progressive thinkers on cancer research were regulars of his parent’s Saturday night euchre party and the highest ranking government officials spent two weeks in the summer at their villa in Naples. And that’s not to say he spent these nights hidden in a corner, keeping to himself so as to not disturb theSHARPEST minds in the world—no. Cassian offered the quickest of wit, the most illustrious of answers to their questions, a rigorous debate over gender politics once ensuing one Sunday during brunch. He’d said something scandalous like society is the only reason we conform so strictly to such labels, nearly causing the bulging blood vessel in the poor, old cazzo’s forehead pop. He met the man with bared teeth, smug grin plastered along his reckless features. Without abandon, that’s how he always spoke, but only when it counted. Only when he knew his breath wasn’t going to be WASTED.

He dealt in cruelty the more he aged, grinding it out of the bones he deemed less than, those not worthy of his time then suffering the worst FATE of all: his attention. It was rare that one could easily draw his gaze; Cassian is not readily amused, if ever. He deals in facts, in history and how it so clearly repeats, saving little time and even less energy for brevity, for romance or comedy. But when you dare to look a monster in the eye, when you issue that kind of challenge, when you provoke a man who takes pride in evisceration, one gets exactly what they bargain for: DESTRUCTION. He harnessed this power by way of making the rules bend to his will, not a creator of such a power, but someone strong enough to wield—to tame such a brutal thing. Law school was met with eager ears and a hollow hunger in his chest, a craving for knowledge making a home in his throat, never to leave again. But he put it to use when he ran his mother’s second campaign and managed a full schedule with the ease and grace only a man meant to rule the world could possibly possess. And it was a dangerous thing at that, the poise with which Cassian carried himself, with such avarice for not money butINTELLIGENCE. The smartest man in the room, that was what he truly wished to be, and it wasn’t too hard assert such dominance with the title of dottore of the Law now fashioned securely on his shelf.

It didn’t take long for him to have to put his newfound degree to the test, in fact it came the moment his mother’s name was SLANDERED in the press. Dragged through the mud so clearly by the opposition that he couldn’t not defend her, if for no other reason than not a soul speaks ill of the Bhatt name whilst he still has air in his lungs. His father may have soiled it with his prophesying and idealizing, but Cassian and his mother—though she loved the man for some reason; he can’t imagine why—still had something left of their lives to need Bhatt free and clear of any skeletons in its closet. Suing for libel, he won the case in record time, his words more convincing than that of the piss poor District Attorney who dared to try and poke holes in the confidence of a man with EVERYTHING to lose. So he took the sad sack’s job instead, convincing his boss to offer it up in under ten minutes flat. I just beat him, he’d said with a smug smile. And? he’d asked, brows raised at the sheer audacity of this sore winner. I can do the same for you. And with that, he had him. The position was his and he’d stood in the hallway of the courthouse, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching as the fool lost everything. True power doesn’t come from giving orders, nor does it come from brandishing fine weapons or throwing mean fists; it comes from being the best, and Cassian Bhatt is just that. PERFECT in every way imaginable. Just ask him yourself.

LILLIAN WEN: Fiancée. A trophy, something to show off, to place upon his mantle with pride and evidence of his of true ambition. She is that and not much more, but what a pretty face indeed. Glistening like a diamond, he’ll wear her around town if for no other reason than how good she looks with his Versace loafers. Lillian is a prize he thinks he’s won, but he’s yet to cross the finish line. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, and silly boy, does she ever feed yours. Gloat all he wants, parade her around like a doll and forget all she’s giving him, but if Cassian isn’t careful his intricate little plan will foil right before his eyes as she walks out the door. There’s only so far to push someone standing on the edge of integrity. Best he start appreciating the good deed that’s come his way before it blows up in his lap. He can’t survive another tarnish on his good name, not after how hard he’s worked to clear it. Cherish her, Mr. Bhatt, lest you lose the one thing to make you look halfway decent: a good woman to love you.

MONA CHEN & TIBERIUS CAPULET: Extortionist & Captain. She has pictures, hundreds of them, and despite his best efforts to seize them time and time again—even going so far as to hire the best thief money can possibly buy—they remain in her possession. Kept taught between her palms, held tightly against her chest, used to pull the strings of a man not used to answering to God or anyone, let alone a Madame. But she’s smart, he’ll give Mona that, always protecting her Sparrows first even if it means ruining a good man’s reputation in the process. He has no other choice than to obey, no other option than to come to heel and kneel before her and her boss. Though it’s his captain he’s more worried about. Cosimo’s nephew isn’t a man he wants to find the bad side of, but he’s well on his way if he doesn’t do his part. If he doesn’t do exactly as she says, execute every single order perfectly, it’ll be his ass that’ll need saving. Not hers from whatever sort of wrath he thinks he can come up with to outsmart the most clever woman in Verona. Nor Tiberius’ from whatever power play the lawyer thinks the heir won’t see coming. Checkmate, Cassian.

CRISTIAN DE LUCA: Interest. He’s never been one to lust after kingdoms, preferring to stick to the shadows as a powerful entity of demise with the flick of his wrist not a booming voice. Cassian wishes to be flocked to, praised for his deeds not his ability to bring people to their needs but his knack for dissecting the brain, its desires and every machination. He sees something quite similar in Cristian, and it’s so very enticing, so exhilarating to spot a creature just like himself out here in the wild. He wants to know more, see more, hear more from the man who has done nothing but kick up dust in the subtlest of ways since his feet landed on Italian soil. Pulling at the strings of chaos is his specialty, but to watch a man so apt at his favorite wicked game is exciting to say the least. He knows the man’s allegiance, on which side of the bridge his loyalties lie, but when have rules ever stopped Cassian from getting what he wants? And what he wants is a look inside that beautiful Montague mind.

TAMURA CHIKO: War dog. Be careful with that one, they bite. Of this Cassian is positive, what with how many times he’s been on the receiving end of such sharp teeth. But there’s something lurking behind those eyes, he’s sure of it, if only he could just—no. They don’t let him. With an arm outstretched, Chiko keeps him at a distance, and with good reason. He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks, a serpent slithering beneath the shade of the brush, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce; and sink his fangs into their neck he will. Dio does he want to, oh, so very much. There’s something so fascinating about their restraint, their constant will to never break composure. They are a puzzle Cassian is desperate to find all the pieces to, if only to marvel at his handiwork for having put it together. Paying no mind to the wreckage looking at such a visceral image could cause. They are everything his opposite, all violent combat and trigger fingers. He wonders what it would be like to hunt a creature like that. Satisfying, he muses.

Cassian is portrayed by RANVEER SINGH and was written by SIDNEY. He is DECEASED.

[jester-step]

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