#ch: v the mercenary

[pyjak-shit-slinger]

❝I'll talk to Kirk. But then you're gonna owe me one.❞

[anzellla-remade]

centzon? only tequila i drink. hm. how would you know?

[bethanydelleman]

Unconsciously Done: An Examination of Misogyny in the Treatment of Caroline Bingley in Jane Austen Fan Fiction

This essay is not meant as an attack on any specific author who writes JAFF. It is a criticism of a trend that is very strong in the genre and I find extremely problematic.

It is my firm belief that Jane Austen felt deeply for the plight of women in her era and that her books examine the difficult decisions that women were forced to make because of their secondary position in society. Jane Austen presents women to us who have little power and whose only hope in future provision and comfort lies in the whims of men. Moreover, Jane Austen never in her collected works, asks us to delight in the downfall or destruction of a woman. Given this context, I find it highly distressing and untrue to Jane Austen’s legacy that so often in Jane Austen Fan Fiction (JAFF), authors invite readers to celebrate the degradation of Caroline Bingley. This is a repugnant practice that both goes against the intent of Jane Austen’s works and by attacking a woman in particular is an unconscious display of misogyny.

After the Netherfield Ball, where the Bennet family shocks Elizabeth, Darcy, and Caroline with their vulgar behaviour, Caroline and Darcy agree that it would be better for Charles, Caroline’s brother, not to marry into such a family. Together, they go to London and convince Charles to remain there, away from Jane. Caroline writes to Jane to inform her of this. Later, when Jane follows them to London, Caroline cuts off the friendship, which lasted, we should remember, for only a few weeks. She also works to conceal Jane’s presence in London from her brother. She is aided in this endeavour, again, by Mr. Darcy. Her final act of the book is attempting to embarrass Elizabeth in company at Pemberley and then insulting Elizabeth to Darcy in private.

For the purposes of this argument, I will first lay out what the original Caroline Bingley does in the novel Pride & Prejudice. Caroline dislikes the unmannered inhabitants of Hertfordshire, specifically the Bennet family, a sentiment she shares with Darcy. They make fun of the Bennets behind their backs together in the first section of the book, along with Caroline’s sister Louisa. When Jane Bennet is sick at Netherfield, Caroline is not as attentive to her as Jane’s sister would like, despite spending several hours with her multiple times.

It is important to note several things. Firstly, none of Caroline’s actions cause lasting harm to anyone. In the end, Jane and Charles do marry. Secondly, Caroline is drawn by Jane Austen as a social-climber who is not above using artifice to reach her goals, but her actions are entirely rational within that context. Every action that Caroline makes is a logical expression of her two motivations, a wish to marry Darcy and a wish to see her brother marry well. Thirdly, Caroline is aided in nearly everything she does by Darcy himself. One could speculate that without Darcy’s interference, Charles would have returned to Hertfordshire as he planned. Darcy’s own words imply this, “with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own.” (P&P, Ch 35.)

The position of women in Georgian society is made clear through Jane Austen’s works. Women are dependent on their parents or guardians until they marry at which point they are dependent upon their husbands. There are only two acceptable options for women of the gentry, marriage or becoming a governess. When Charlotte Lucas submits to a marriage with Mr. Collins, we are told marriage was the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune (P&P, Ch 22). Jane Fairfax, in Emma, is so upset with her the profession of governess, that she compares it to slavery (V 2, Ch. 18). Jane Austen is clearly of the opinion that a woman should marry for affection rather than only for wealth, but she acknowledges how difficult this line is to draw when marriage is so vital to a woman's life. Caroline is set up as a representation of a mercenary worldview in Pride & Prejudice. Like many other Jane Austen women, Mary Crawford (Mansfield Park, specifically her early interest in Tom Bertram), Lucy Steele (S&S), and Charlotte Lucas (P&P) for example, Caroline is pursuing a man for wealth rather than love.

Lydia Bennet is another woman whom Jane Austen, in the social morays of the time, could have condemned and invited us to hate. In Mr. Collins letter we hear the morality that would delight in a woman’s downfall, “The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.” (P&P Ch. 48). Yet again, the narrator does not invite us to treat Lydia with scorn. We are reminded of Mrs. and Mr. Bennet’s faulty parenting and that he ignored Elizabeth’s advice, we are reminded of the character of Wickham, and we are assured of Lydia’s future provision. Lydia will not fall into poverty because her two wealthy sisters will protect her. Her sisters do this despite the fact that they had the most to lose from her rash actions. This demonstrates an acknowledgement that all women, despite their faults, deserve to be protected.

It is important to note that while Jane Austen invites the reader to disapprove of these women who marry for money, she does not outright condemn them. Charlotte Lucas’s decision to marry Collins is explained with some compassion. The narrator notes that, “the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid” (P&P, Ch. 22) which again reminds us of the importance of marriage for a woman’s future provision. Maria Bertram (Mansfield Park), who married for money and then committed adultery for love and whose actions are clearly condemned, is still allowed compassion. The narrator mourns that Maria must suffer more than her male counterpart for the offence, "In this world the penalty is less equal than could be wished” (MP, Ch. 48) and Sir Thomas spends a good deal of time blaming himself for not raising his daughter properly, “here had been grievous mismanagement” (MP, Ch 48).

Unlikely as it is for Jane Austen to desire further punishment for Caroline, it is more improbable that she would wish for men to exact that retribution. We are told in the history of Eliza Brandon, (S&S) how much power a man can exert over a woman in their guardianship. Eliza is confined to the house and allowed no pleasures until she submits to a marriage to a man who will treat her with cruelty and steal her fortune. This action is despicable and is presented as such. Yet, many authors write Charles Bingley exerting this same sort of control over his sister, or at least threatening it. They wish for him to cut off her allowance and thus financially constrain her behaviour. They have Charles threaten to disown his sister, who in such stories is under his guardianship, or sometimes even give her money away. Not only is this unnecessary, as Charles already can control his sister’s behaviour to an extent as we see during the visit from Mrs. Bennet when he “forced his younger sister to be civil also” (P&P, Ch 9), it is cruel.

It is unlikely therefore, that Jane Austen meant for us to hate Caroline or take pleasure in her imagined downfall. In the original novel, the ‘punishment’ Caroline receives is equal to her actions, she must endure seeing Elizabeth Bennet raised to the position of mistress of Pemberley. It is the same thing that happens to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who like Caroline, wants Darcy to marry for wealth rather than affection.

More distressing are the words used by characters in works of JAFF, mostly by men who in Jane Austen’s original works treat women with respect, about how Charles might control this “deviant” sister. These terms are often far harsher than anything used for the correction of Lydia Bennet, whom we know to actually be unmannered and wild. Proposals that Charles, “bring Caroline to heel” are repugnant. Caroline is a human woman, not a dog. However one imagines speech in the Georgian era, these are not words used by Jane Austen. Suggestions that Charles cast her out of the family home or be obliged to lock her up, when not said in jest, are terrifying. In this society, these things could happen and would be catastrophic to Caroline.

Even the mere suggestion that Charles should control his sister’s speech in in a start contrast our exaltation of Elizabeth’s lively manner. Jane Austen allows us to find Mr. Collins distasteful for suggesting that Elizabeth controls her tongue, “and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite” (P&P Ch. 19). Yet, JAFF authors want Charles to do this to his own sister! Would it be in keeping with the morality of the creator of Elizabeth Bennet to have a man force a woman into silence? Jane Austen gave women voices and ideas in a time when that was counter-cultural, yet 21st century authors, most of them women, want to send Caroline back to the dark ages.

Some authors have this same abuse performed by a husband that Caroline unfortunately marries for money or through "compromise" (a common but likely ahistorical trope), only to find out he is cruel. There are stories that present this outcome as just instead of horrifying. Again, these are 21st century authors, relegating a 19th century woman to a cruel marriage in which she has few rights and little chance of honourable escape. Occasionally Caroline is married to Wickham, and instead of Elizabeth Bennet pitying the match, as she does for her sister Lydia, she often finds it funny or just. The idea that any woman deserves to be trapped in an abusive situation, or have her wealth stolen from her by a deceitful suitor, is again, repulsive.

The final degradation that Caroline faces is also the most troubling: authors repeatedly deprive Caroline of her rationality. Jane Austen’s Caroline is a rational creature, as are all the women that are depicted in her works. Good or bad, Jane Austen’s women are carefully rendered images of real life and they have motivations that guide their actions. Caroline’s two motives were discussed above and her actions are entirely rational based on her goals Even if we dislike Caroline’s reasoning and acts, we ought to respect her humanity. Unfortunately, many works on JAFF, in an effort to create a more villainous character, twist Caroline into an evil, insane, psychopathic version of herself, bent only on cruelty and hatred, without any clear goals.

As for authors who relegate Caroline to a life of perpetual dependence, Jane Austen herself only consigns a single woman to this fate, Miss Bates in Emma. Jane Austen treats Miss Bates with respect and kindness, creating a town around her that takes care of both her physical and emotional needs. Emma is admonished by Mr. Knightley for ridiculing Miss Bates before other members of the community. To Jane Austen, a woman in perpetual dependence should excite pity, not disgust or laughter. Miss Bates also is granted a voice and we, along with Emma, are encouraged to listen to her and respect her value as a person.

The reason that all of this is so disturbing and repugnant is because these words are written by modern authors, people who should understand how oppressive and wrong the subjugation of women was in the Georgian era. For those authors, many of them women, to attack a fellow woman with the very tools of the patriarchy that we have ourselves struggle to throw off and fight against is horrid. Jane Austen does not resort to these methods; Caroline Bingley is not bent under the power of her male guardians in Pride & Prejudice. The only woman who is, Eliza Brandon, is an example we are supposed to pity, not scorn.

Worse, Mr. Darcy himself is an active participant in almost every bad action of Caroline. Yet, while Darcy is forgiven completely, and often given excuses like shyness for his actions, Caroline is again and again vilified. It is a double standard of the worst kind and one that especially female authors should recognize as unfair and unjust. Yes, we do not see Caroline’s apology or reformation in Pride & Prejudice, but she is also not a main character. Many JAFF works almost seem to forget Darcy’s interference or rudeness towards Jane and the rest of the Bennet family. He is excused and Caroline is hated and destroyed.

Instead of a human with rational motives, JAFF authors imagine Caroline as a demon. Caroline becomes a playhouse mirror imagine of Elizabeth, who is often turned into a “Mary-Sue” or a picture of perfection. This Carrie-Sue (credit to Amelia Marie Logan, who coined the term) acts in a way that Caroline of Pride & Prejudice never would. Carrie-Sue attacks and insults people in public without motive, including her own brother; she continues to pursue Darcy after he is married; she continually attempts to “compromise” him; and she will do anything no matter the cost. She is a grotesque in the worst sense of the word and she is not of Jane Austen.

If there is one overall thesis of Jane Austen’s works, it is that women are rational creatures. Elizabeth Bennet and Sophia Croft (Persuasion) actually use that term explicitly, but every heroine in Jane Austen demonstrates this same theme. We see inside their heads and we understand their humanity. Even the women we are meant to despise display rationality. Fanny Dashwood of Sense & Sensibility for example, talks her husband out of giving money to his sisters because she is greedy. Lucy Steele lashes out against Elinor Dashwood because she is fearful of losing her one chance at financial security: Edward Ferrars. Mrs. Norris (Mansfield Park), probably the cruellest woman in Jane Austen’s works, abuses her niece because she cannot bear her own inferiority to the Bertram family. She relieves her own feelings of dependence by pushing her niece further below herself. All of the actions of these women are despicable, but they also follow cogent motivations.

This is especially problematic because it is almost always Caroline who faces this treatment. Wickham, a character who actually deserves the term “villain”, is allowed rational motives, most often lust, revenge, and greed. He is allowed to retain his humanity and his mind; it is a woman who is deprived of hers. As I have stated, I believe this is done without malice on the part of the authors, but I would ask them to reflect on every instance, for I know there have been many i their own lives, where another person has deprived them of their humanity based on their gender. It is a pervasive problem that persists in our modern society and we ought not perpetuate it in our works of fiction.

To conclude, Jane Austen does not delight in the destruction, humiliation, or subjugation of women. If we wish as JAFF authors, and as women, to honour Jane Austen’s legacy, then we should refrain from doing those very things and from depriving a woman of her rational mind. The treatment of Caroline Bingley in JAFF is a form of misogyny and as such it should be stopped. This is important because while Caroline Bingley is of course fictional, the representation of women in fiction can perpetuate stereotypes and prejudices in real life. Jane Austen wanted to tell the world, through her fiction, that women are humans worth listening to and worth respecting. Let us leave Carrie-Sue behind and allow Caroline Bingley to finally live in peace.

[training4theapocalypse]

On Her Majesty’s Supersonic Service (Adrian Chase x Reader) Ch. 5

Chapter 5 From Gotham with Love

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: SMUT, TW: Rape roleplay, Bondage, Romance, Descriptions of murder, Descriptions of violence, P in V, Verbal humiliation, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: After the events of Project Butterfly, you and Adrian Chase become A.R.G.U.S. contractors-  your first mission is a heist in Gotham. But you've always wondered what it would be like if Vigilante was after you and if you could persuade him to let you go.

Masterlist

Chapter text:

Two weeks later

'The mission is simple'. Harcourt’s instructions had read: steal a flash drive without anybody noticing. 

This was your and Adrian’s first job as government-contracted mercenaries. The idea, of course, had been yours. Days after the events of Project Butterfly, Adrian received a payment from A.R.G.U.S. for services rendered to the U.S. Government. 

“Woah, we can actually get paid for this stuff?”

A few administrative procedures later, you’d set up your own firm, and you were now official suppliers of security services on A.R.G.U.S’s approved contractors list— self-employed, tax-paying, government-sanctioned killers. To Adrian’s slight dismay, you were quite the opposite of vigilantes. 

“Can you hear me, Birdie?” comes Adrian’s voice in your earpiece.

You sit at the bar of the Hotel Aventine casino, waiting for your mark to show up. You’d asked Harcourt for an easy job to ease Adrian into espionage, and as Interim Director of A.R.G.U.S. while Waller was suspended, she was able to arrange just that.

“Copy,” you whisper discreetly into your whisky glass.

Watching the high-rollers, you’re waiting for Tomasso Falcone to give the drive to his cronies to stash in his room safe. Then, once you gave him the all-clear, Adrian would climb into Falcone’s room via the balcony and switch the flash drive with a decoy while you kept a lookout in the casino. 

Simple. Easy.

Adrian drums his fingers restlessly on the balcony railing overlooking Gotham City’s nightscape below. Thunder begins to roll in as the clouds get darker and ominously closer to the towering hotel. 

“Adrian,” you mumble, hiding your mouth behind your glass. “Stop drumming Taylor Swift- my earpiece is picking it up.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s here.”

Falcone enters the room and walks over to the blackjack table. You watch as he confers with a couple of men. Then he looks over at the bar, surveying a few women sitting there until his eyes fall directly on you.

Shit.

You look away nonchalantly but feel his gaze raking over you. Through the busy casino chatter, the sound of footsteps on the slightly sticky carpet reaches your ears as he approaches the bar. You continue to look ahead but feel Falcone’s presence as he sits on the barstool right next to yours.

“Let me get a Jim Beam,” he instructs the barman. “And one for the lady.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” you say, gesturing at your half-empty glass.

“What? Boyfriend won’t let a guy buy you a drink or something?” he asks, and you hear Adrian drumming in your ear again, clearly agitated.

“Another Laphroaig then, please,” you say to the barman.

“What’s that? French?”

Ugh.

He swivels on his seat so he’s looking directly at you.

“So what’s a pretty girl like you doing all by herself in a joint like this?”

“I hate this,” says Adrian in your earpiece. 

You ignore Adrian. But shit, you need to get rid of Falcone.

“I’m here on business.”

“Business...” Falcone repeats as the barman sets your drinks down. “Working girl?” he adds quietly when the barman turns to serve another patron.

You look behind him at the women sitting at the bar and finish your first drink in one gulp. You were so focused on keeping a lookout for Falcone that you hadn’t noticed the dirty looks from them, who you now realise are some of the high-end call girls of Gotham. 

“I don’t want to waste either of our time, so let’s just say I don’t think you could afford me.” You tilt your head sympathetically, eyes lingering on his cheap drink of choice, and he gives you an offended look.

“I’m a guy who knows what he likes- that don’t mean I can’t afford you.”

Channelling your inner Harcourt, you raise your eyebrows and sip your drink but don’t reply.

“How’d you like to make more tonight than you make in a month?” he says with bravado, discreetly adjusting the sleeve of his suit so you can see his expensive watch.

“Now, that’s very forward of you- I don’t even know your name.”

“Falcone. Tomasso Falcone. And you?”

“They call me Emilia.” Adrian snorts when he hears you utter Harcourt’s name- the first that popped into your head. You hadn’t expected to interact with Falcone, so you don’t have a cover prepared. “And I’m intrigued to find out what you think I make in a month.”

He takes out a hotel key card and a black USB stick and slides them towards you, his hand covering them. You place your hand on top of his.

“Take this up to my room and put it in the safe. There’s ten grand in the safe- it’s yours.”

You tut, leaning into your role. “Mr Falcone, I’m appalled that’s what you think I make in a month.”

“A week?” 

“Try a night.”

He blinks incredulously. “I’m in the wrong line of work.” 

“So, I go upstairs, put this in the safe and wait for you to join me?”

“You just need to put it in the safe and leave- don’t come back down here. One delivery. And you don’t need to worry about spreading your legs for anyone tonight.”

“Let me kill him, Birdie…” Adrian grumbles as you meet Falcone’s eyes. 

“I don’t know about this- ” You go to withdraw your hand, but he places his other on top of it firmly.

“Look, I got eyes on me everywhere. They see me tell my guys to go to my room, and they’ll know somethin’s going down. They see me pass a room key to a hooker? Nobody looks twice.”

This guy is an idiot. 

You’re the one who’s watching him, and he hasn’t even realised it.

“Birdie, what are you doing? Take it!”

You don’t want to see too eager, so you pretend to hesitate and look around the room. Falcone’s men are watching your interaction closely. 

“Suit yourself. Plenty of other girls in this joint-” Your other hand grabs his before he can move it back.

“Fine.” 

He releases his grip, and you slip the items into your clutch. You slink off the barstool and press your lips to his cheek conspicuously. Falcone whispers his room number and safe combination in your ear, and then he watches as you leave the casino towards the hotel lobby.

He gestures his men over to the bar. 

“Give it ten minutes. When the whore’s done, make sure she disappears.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, that was easy,” says Adrian’s voice.

The elevator doors shut.

“Get to Falcone’s balcony- now.”

“Why? You’ve got his key. I’ll meet you outside his room.”

“Adrian, I can say with certainty that they’ll wait for me to leave the room and attempt to murder me. Get to the balcony.”

“Shit. Copy that.”

There’s a reason Tomasso Falcone is only a minor member of his organised crime family. He’s a halfwit and, from what you can surmise, a scumbag too. Outsourcing his dirty work to prostitutes and probably killing them afterwards- it makes you sick.

The elevator opens on the top floor- the 44th story. You walk down the hall briskly, and let yourself into his room.

Lightning flashes across the night sky, and you have to suppress a gasp of fright when you see Vigilante’s menacing backlit figure through the glass doors on the balcony outside, rain pelting down on the marble tile behind him. 

God, he looks so scary in his full suit in the dead of night. Gotham suits him. 

You let him in, and he blows right past you.

“I fucking hate that guy.” His voice is muffled as it penetrates the fabric of his mask. You stop his pacing and wipe the rain off of his red visor.

“So do I. But, Adrian, we need to get out of here quickly.”

He follows you to the safe as you get on your knees to open it. It’s empty except for a small stack of bills with a mustard band that reads $10,000. 

“Give me the decoy drive.” He hands you an identical black USB stick which you place in the safe. You take the band of bills, but Adrian holds the door before you can shut it.

“Wait- we don’t want his money!” 

“He’ll be suspicious about the drive if I don’t take the money. What kind of prostitute doesn’t accept payment?”

“What if there’s a GPS tracker between the bills?” 

You chew your lip, weighing up the options. There’s no time - you need to make a snap decision. You take the money and shut the safe with finality. Adrian’s towering figure extends a hand to help you to your feet, and he walks over to the hotel room door.

“No, Adrian- this way.” You jerk your thumb back towards the glass sliding doors of the balcony. “We might bump into Falcone’s men out there.”

“Good. We can take them!”

“We’ve only got two objectives,” you remind him. “Switch the flash drives and don’t draw attention to ourselves. Leaving a pile of bodies in the hallway would definitely be classed as drawing attention to ourselves.”

The room lights up as another flash of lightning streaks the sky. 

“Birdie- the storm outside. We’ve got one set of ropes, and you’re wearing… that. Super hot, by the way, but one slip and we’re both gonna end up painting the sidewalk.”

You have to admit that a satin dress, heels and a clutch aren’t conducive to abseiling down a building, but the other option would jeopardise the mission. 

Reaching up to clasp his shoulder, you meet his eyes behind his visor. “We can do it. But we need to move. Now.”

The wind howls, blowing icy rain into your face as soon as you slide the door open. You look over the edge of the balcony, and your stomach drops. Even though you’re well-practised in this, you’ve never had to do it in a cocktail dress and heels before. You grip your clutch bag tightly.

We just need to drop two floors and climb two rooms to the right, you reassure yourself.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Adrian calls. You look over your shoulder and nod. He closes the glass door behind him and starts securing the rope, looping it over the metal railing on the righthand side of the balcony.

“I’ll go first.” He pries your clutch bag from your hands. “We’ll need both hands.” You watch as he secures the bag with duct tape around his body. 

He carefully climbs over the railing and, using the rope, lowers himself onto another balcony two floors below. Once he lands, he silently tugs on the rope, signalling that it’s safe for you to come down.

You hoist your dress up, and one leg at a time, you too climb over the railing- carefully positioning your feet so your strappy heels don’t catch on the outer edge. You skillfully wrap the rope between your legs and back up behind your shoulders, holding the rope so you can rappel down the side of the building without a harness.

As you step off, the rain soaks through your dress, and you notice how the rope is becoming increasingly slippy to hold. As you lower yourself past the next floor, what seemed to take Adrian seconds feels like an eternity. Your fingers turn white as you grip the rope for dear life, ignoring the blisters forming on your palms.

The wind makes you sway on your descent, and you try hard to think of the task immediately in front of you and not to visualise yourself dangling on a tiny rope, now 43 stories above Gotham. Soon enough, you feel Adrian’s strong hands on your waist as he helps you down beside him. Momentary relief floods your body when your feet meet the solid tile- now all you have to do is climb between rooms.

Over the sound of the storm, you hear a noise from upstairs. Adrian grabs you and flattens you against the wall, one gloved hand over your mouth and the other on the rope to stop it from swaying in the wind, attracting attention.

“She ain’t out here!” You hear a male voice yell.

“Of course, she ain’t- it’s a goddamn thunderstorm.”

The heat of Adrian’s body pressed up against yours, and the fleeting protection from the rain is welcome- you’re soaked through to the skin. You hear a phone ringing above.

“Mr Falcone? There’s no sign of her… I don’t know! She musta slipped past us- don’t worry, flash drive’s there… Yep, she took the money … Sure, let me check the tracker on it.” 

Adrian tilts his head down to look at you through his visor, his eyes say, ‘I told you so’.

“It says she’s just outside the north side of the building- do you want me to go and get her?... Jeez! Okay, okay, I’m on it.” You hear the man shut the balcony door.

Adrian releases you and finds the opening of your clutch bag attached to his body to retrieve the stack of bills. Then, with tremendous power, he throws the band of money from the balcony, and you watch silently as the wind carries it, and it begins to plummet into the darkness of the city below.

You untangle the rope from the floors above and tie it neatly so Adrian can hook it back onto his belt. 

“Let’s move,” he says, hopping over the railing. He jumps to the next balcony and over the railing with ease, waiting with one arm outstretched to help you across. 

The gap is much bigger than it felt when you were abseiling down the middle of it. Your feet feel slippy in your open-toed, strappy heels as you lift yourself over the other side of the railing and adjust your stance, getting ready to jump. 

“C’mon, Birdie. Three… two… one.”

You launch yourself to the next balcony and feel your ribs slam into the cold, wet barrier. Adrian grips your drenched upper arm and helps hoist you over. He places a hand on each of your arms and looks into your face as your teeth chatter in the cold.

“One more jump,” he says determinedly. “We can do it.” There’s no longer any trace of uncertainty in his voice. With precision, he turns and leaps onto the next balcony. On the other side, he once again extends his arm, ready to grab you.

You stand on the edge as another jagged spear of lighting cascades across the sky.

“Three… two… one,” says Adrian.

As you jump, your high heel catches on the bottom of the balustrade. 

Fuck.

Time seems to slow down, and your stomach lurches nauseatingly as you fall. 

You watch as your fingers slide down the glass side of the guardrail opposite. Catching yourself by your very fingertips, you manage to hang onto the balcony floor just in time. Before you can blink, Adrian reaches over with lightning reflexes and seizes your arm. He helps drag you up and over the barrier, where you land on the wet marble.

Adrian opens the sliding door of your room, and you both practically fall inside. You slam it shut behind you and lean against it, breathless. The silence of your quiet hotel room makes it feel like your ears are ringing. Until now, you hadn’t realised how deafening the rain had been. 

“Whoo!” exclaims Adrian, and you watch him punch the air and circle his hips in a goofy little dance. “Yeah! We-did-it-baby!” He punctuates each syllable with a jab of his fist.

Despite the fact that you’re shivering in your saturated dress, now plastered to your body, you laugh at his ridiculous jubilation. Adrenaline pumps through you too- it was a close shave but you can’t let yourself think about how close you came to decorating the pavement below.

Adrian turns around.

“Shit, you’re freezing, B.” 

“I’m fine.” You stand up and walk over to the bathroom. “Can you email Hartcourt and let her know we got the drive?”

“What’s on this thing anyway?”

“Blueprints for Arkham,” you call over your shoulder as your enter. You do a double take at the shaking, drowned figure looking back at you in the bathroom mirror as you hear Adrian unwrapping the duct tape securing the clutch to his body. 

You slip off heels and your soaked dress and throw a hotel robe on. Grabbing a towel, you dry your hair as best you can and get it out of your face so you can wipe the running mascara from your wet cheeks.

“Birdie?”

You jump in fright for the second time this evening when you see a masked figure in the mirror behind you. It sends a jolt of panic through you until your brain processes that it’s just your boyfriend.

“Fuck, Adrian! You scared me.”

You’ve seen him as Vigilante plenty of times before, but tonight you can fully appreciate why he strikes fear into the hearts of criminals. He looks so intimidating, standing tall in his black suit, a stark contrast to your own white fluffy robe.

“Sorry.” He steps tentatively towards you. “I encrypted the files and sent them to Harcourt. Mission accomplished.”

He brings his arms around you to hug you from behind, and you lean back into his embrace, comforted by his touch even though your heart is still racing.

“That was fucking scary,” he murmurs into your neck through his mask after a few moments of silence.

“Just part of the job.”

“Birdie…”

“What?”

“Don’t bullshit me.” His visor meets your eyes in the mirror. “I know you’re tough, but that was a close fucking call out there.”

“I’m fine, Adrian-”

“You don’t have to pretend, B,” he cuts you off. “We’ll tell Harcourt and the guys that it was easy, but you don’t have to pretend like you’re not shaken up to me.”

You close your eyes and let the thoughts that have been bothering you just spill out.

“It just… it feels like you always have to save me somehow. On every single mission since I met you. And then on this one… I mean, I’m supposed you be showing you the ropes.”

“Birdie, I’m not saving you- we’re working as a team. And you are showing me how this stuff works. I would have killed every single one of those guys and tanked the whole operation if you hadn’t stopped me.”

He squeezes you gently -  a simple gesture of reassurance, but you feel distinctly aware of his body pressed up against yours. You open your eyes, and seeing his broad figure enveloping yours from behind makes something low in your abdomen clench.

“They wouldn’t have stood a chance. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw you in the bathroom mirror.” You guide his gloved hands to the belt of your robe. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, Adrian, I’d have thought that Vigilante was here to punish me for my crimes.”

He undoes your belt, and it drops to the floor.

“Uh, what crimes?” he swallows.

You shrug, and the robe falls off your left shoulder, exposing half of your body. “We just stole a flash drive - I think that counts as theft,” you suggest. 

You’re not sure he even heard you as he stares at you in the mirror. He’s never seen you in lingerie before. Your usual sports bra and underwear are nowhere near this beautifully made, nor do they show off every curve of you perfectly the way this set does.

The imprint of his erection presses up against you, and he slides the robe off of your other shoulder so he can appreciate the full effect of you standing there. 

Between hours of combat training and Adrian working his final few shifts at Fennel Fields, you’ve both been too busy to have sex since that night in the Corvette. Instead, falling into bed together, exhausted at the end of every day- battered and bruised from the rigorous practise Adrian has been putting you through to make sure your hand-to-hand and firearm skills are back up to scratch now that you’ve lost your powers.

“I always wondered if Vigilante was after me… if I could have persuaded him to spare me,” you say, pressing your ass against him.

He lifts his mask up over his mouth and kisses your neck, and you watch his sharp jaw move as he sucks on your skin. Adrian moves to take his mask off.

“Wait-” You grab his wrist. “- I want to feel like how all those other girls felt when they were fucked by Vigilante.”

“Woah, Birdie. I’ve never - ever- had sex with someone in exchange for letting them go.” He sounds offended. “That would be-”

“No, I know that. I just meant I know you’ve had sex wearing your mask,” you cut across him. “You’re a good man, and I know you’d never do that. But maybe you’d make an exception. Maybe Vigilante would stop being a good man for one night… for me.” 

“I dunno B…”

“I can be persuasive,” you say, pressing back into him.

“Yeah, I bet. I just don’t know if you could handle it.”

Now it’s your turn to be offended. He sees your expression in the mirror and explains.

“When I’m Vigilante, there’s no kissing- nothing. It’s just fucking. Hard.”

“I-” This stuns you. “…How much harder can it get?”

“The safe word’s ‘Eagly’,” Adrian says, pulling the mask back down. A shudder goes through your spine at the tone of his voice. Something instantly feels different about him, like a silent shift occurred when he covered his face again.

Vigilante unclips the roll of duct tape from his belt and forces your arms behind your back. The tape rips and he binds your wrists together.

Oh.

He runs his gloved hands up your body, squeezing your tits through the lacy fabric. Heat seems to flood your underwear as you watch his hands, the feeling of his gloves so alien on your skin, examining your choice of underwear.

“What’s a petty little thief like you doing all dressed up like this?” he asks, reminding you absurdly of Falcone’s questioning earlier. “Did you know I was going to catch you?”

“It- it was a surprise for my boyfriend.”

“Oh, yeah? Is he a criminal too?” You gasp when he pulls down the lace covering your tits, letting them spill out.

“He’s a killer. And he could kick your arse.”

Vigilante laughs. “Yeah, right.” His confident derisiveness makes your knees shake- you hold your breath waiting to find out what he’s going to do with you.  

“Bite down on this.” He pushes his fingertips against your lips, and you feel the rough rubber grips on your mouth. You part your lips, welcoming the intrusion, close your teeth over his middle and index fingers, and let him slip his hand from the glove. 

Vigilante pulls off his other glove and roughly pinches your nipples with his bare hands- you whimper, letting the glove fall to the bathroom floor.

“Was this expensive?” He drags his hands down your torso and toys with the hem of your underwear.

“Y-yes,” you answer truthfully.

He unsheathes his knife in one swift movement and cuts them off you.

“Your boyfriend can buy you a new pair with the money you got for stealing that drive,” 

His knife clatters against the bathroom sink when he tosses it aside to unzip his trousers. Vigilante pushes his cock through the apex of your thighs, siding it along your folds. You squeeze your thighs together in burning anticipation as his cock lightly brushes against your clit.

“Fuck, your pussy is so fucking wet already. I can’t believe you’re getting off on this.”

Your whole lower body is on edge, tensing up as you watch in the mirror, the tip of his cock sliding between your thighs, made easy from your slick. 

“God, you’re always so fucking ready for me. I mean-” He stumbles. “I mean, for the first time, you’re-”

“I always - always hoped you’d catch me eventually,” you interrupt, breathlessly grinding back against him. 

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and you whine as the hard ridge of his thick cock rubs back and forth against your clit. “Why’s that?”

“I knew- fuck- I knew I could get you to let me go.”

Vigilante pulls back and grips your hips, forcing you to stand on your tiptoes to match his height. Then, he pushes the head of his cock against your entrance.

“Who said anything about letting you go? I could just take you home with me. Keep using this wet little cunt.” 

Oh, fuck.

“But you better fucking cum for me if you want to live.”

He sinks into you with a decisive thrust, forcing a gasp out of you. Your walls clench around his cock as he fills you up, grinding into you.

“Fuck,” you choke. “I’ve w-wanted you to take me like this for so long.”

It’s not a lie. You really have always wanted to fuck him in his mask.

Vigilante sets a pace in and out of you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing in the dimly lit bathroom. 

“Yeah, I bet you have... You’re such a fucking slut. Come on, fucking moan for me.”

You don’t need him to tell you to make noise for him. The whimper that escapes your lips as he pounds into you is feral. 

Vigilante’s fingers thread through your hair, and he pulls your head up so you lock eyes with him in the mirror. His red-tinted glare is intense; you’ve only ever seen him so focused like this when he’s fighting- and you’ve never been on the receiving end of this particular stare of his. You know this must be what the lawbreakers in Evergreen experience when they find out Vigilante’s coming after them.

“C’mon, look at me when you take it.”

You can only gasp for air in response as you watch his other hand slide around your torso to work firm circles over your clit. The sensation brings you dangerously closer to the brink, and you push your hips back into him, already desperate for your fast-approaching orgasm.

“Hey,” he growls, his grip tightening in your hair and jerking your head back up. “I said, look at me.”

Oh, god.

All you can do is stand there and let him use you. He thrusts into you, hitting just that right spot while you writhe on your tiptoes. 

“Fuck, fucking look at you.” Your cheeks burn, listening to the continuous, wet, sloppy sounds of him burying himself into your pussy, amplified by the echo of the tile. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Oh fuck,” you sob as he rubs harshly on your clit. “Oh my god, Adrian, I’m-”

“Who’s Adrian?” Vigilante says through gritted teeth. “Your boyfriend? He’s not gonna save you this time, you desperate fucking slut.”

Holy shit.

The atmosphere is sucked out of the air as you gasp for breath. Seeing stars, your vision blurs as the waves of your orgasm begin to crash over you. 

You can’t control yourself as you whine and cry out shamelessly while he fucks into you, pounding your g-spot over and over and over and over, rubbing his calloused fingers on your clit.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Gonna fill up your tight little cunt-” 

Your sob interrupts him as you feel your walls pulsing around his cock. He pushes as deep into you as your body allows, and the scream that you unleash is so loud that it seems to bounce off the tiled walls and- 

CRASH

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes- bring it down for me, baby,” you hear him sucking through his teeth as his cock throbs, spurting hot liquid inside you.

You ignore the ringing in your ears and keep pressing back, riding out the last of your orgasm. 

Fuck, your legs are weak from standing up on your toes. He grabs you tightly before you can fall forwards. 

You blink.

The bathroom mirror has smashed into a million pieces all over the sink and floor.

No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. This isn’t possible.

“Uh, Birdie…” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to come to terms with the scene before you. “Can I kiss you yet?” he asks.

You nod. He rips off his mask and tilts your head up to kiss him.

His hand is wrapped around your jaw as he kisses you, sliding his tongue into your mouth. You can feel his effort to put a lot of tenderness into the kiss, to slowly bring you both back to reality. It makes your chest swell- you want to caress his face too but-

“Stay still a sec.” He reaches around you and carefully extracts his knife from under the pile of broken glass in the sink so he can cut your wrists free. You shake your shoulders from the awkward position and allow him to spin you around, careful that you don’t stand on any pieces of the shattered mirror and scoop you up. Your still shaking knees wrap around his waist, and you hear his combat boots crunching on the glass as he carries you out of the bathroom and over to the bed.

Adrian unclips his chest plate and places it on the hotel room armchair. You watch silently as he strips from his rain-soaked suit to his boxers, hanging everything up neatly so it can dry. He does the same with your discarded dress, and you feel like your heart might burst as you watch him tidying up after you.

He crashes down on the bed, exhausted, puts his glasses back on and pulls you into a cuddle.

“There’s not much we can do about the mirror without a broom.” 

The smashed glass is the least of your worries. You give him an incredulous look and point to your throat.

“I’m pretty sure you can still talk, B.”

You shake your head, eyes burning as you try not to look up at him.

“C’mon- try. You’ve been talking for weeks now. You just haven’t screamed… like that.”

Haven’t I? Wait-

You remember in the Corvette when he made you cum. And now, come to think of it… you’re pretty sure your face was buried in his neck, so your moan of pleasure was muffled. 

And the doctor… the doctor did say they’d removed most of the growths on your vocal cords. Is it really possible your powers would only work when you actually screamed? Could you be that lucky? To have control of your abilities and to be with just the right person to test it out? It feels like more than you deserve.

Adrian.

Your stomach twists. You could have killed Adrian if you’d been facing the other way. 

“I-” you say tentatively, sitting up and looking away from Adrian just in case. “I feel sick”. 

Anxiety swirls in your stomach as you think about how close you’d come to killing him with your scream. You flop back onto the bed, your head in your hands.

“Nothing bad happened! Just a smashed mirror.”

“Adrian, I could have killed you.” You gulp, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

“But you didn’t!”

“Adrian-”

“Well, you almost died tonight. So now we’re even because I almost died tonight. Shouldn’t we be bonding over the shared trauma?”

“Not funny.”

“If you think about it- it kind of is. Peacemaker would be cracking up right now if he knew you almost killed me.”

You cross your arms.

He has a goofy grin plastered over his face. “Am I gonna have to tickle you to make you laugh?”

You can’t help yourself crack a smile. He’s so stupidly carefree, even in the face of death. But it makes you soften all the same.

“Don’t you dare, Adrian Chase, or I’ll scream again.” You scramble away from his outstretched hands, but he grabs you, pinning you to the bed.

“See?” his fingers dig into your forearms as he plants kisses all over your face and chest, his slightly stubbly chin tickling your skin gently. “Look who’s making jokes now.”

You look up into his green eyes as he looms over you with a totally different energy than when he was in his Vigilante suit.

“You’re so mean and scary as Vigilante,” you pout.

“Well, you deserve it for being a big meanie the rest of the time,” he retorts and nibbles on your neck. “And that’s big talk for someone who nearly created her own supervillain origin story.”

The weight of him on you feels right somehow. Like you’ve been sleeping without a blanket your whole life, and now you have one. And it’s all yours. 

You’ve never felt so happy and content than when you’re with him. The sharp edges of you feel like they’re being slowly worn down by his presence. 

You want to say something to him, but you’re not sure how.

“Do you think you’re in love with me?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.

“Weird way to tell me that you’re actually in love with me,” Adrian mumbles into the crook of your neck.

You laugh and try to think of something to change the subject, but he interrupts your train of thought.

“I know you are Birdie.” He says bluntly. He’s not making fun of you- he’s being sincere in the way that he always is when you need it most. “And I know you have a hard time saying stuff like that even though you’ve got your voice back.”

You can’t believe Adrian is being the more socially astute of the two of you.

“I-” You need to say it out loud. Get over this emotional barrier. For him. “I do. I do love you.”

“I knew that. You wouldn’t have moved from London if you didn’t. I love you too.”

“Well, obviously.” You say playfully because he knows you can be unserious for him when he needs it too.

He presses his forehead against yours and looks into your eyes, returning your grin.

“You know we’ve never had sex in an actual bed,” you say, bringing your legs up and crossing your calves behind his waist.

He looks up over his glasses, pausing in thought.

“You’re right!” 

Adrian suddenly clamps his hand over your mouth and lowers his lips to your ear. You squirm in delight.

“Let’s fix that.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves.  A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent. 

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat. 

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords." 

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters.  Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark. 

 And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs.  He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins.  They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design.  And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin.  She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions. 

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour.  Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance.  If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle. 

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him.  The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

 "You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember.  When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course.  Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface.  The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon. 

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.  

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide.  Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer.  In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well.  The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing. 

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress.  In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same.  A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism.  Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure.  One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach:  the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill. 

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.  

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort.  The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity.  Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets." 

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more.  Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks:  Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue.  In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs.  Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"   

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.   

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel. 

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima.  A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many.  Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar. 

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass.  A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.  

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass.  The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver.  "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines.  And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership." 

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots."  She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?" 

"Vividly." 

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips. 

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch."  Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.  

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."  

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe.  Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath:  Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

 Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free." 

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures.  Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat. 

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his.  Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction. 

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.  

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls.  This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway.  Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage.  Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests. 

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter.  And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow.  First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen.  A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing." 

 "Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable.  It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler.  Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game.  Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric.  Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine.  He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems.  Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her.  Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars.  Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

[rangerslayer-97]

SWTOR OC Masterlist (Darth Malgus Server)

Characters within undercut. This will be updated as I stupidly make another character and as each one progresses their story to track their in-game age.

This post will be consistently updated.

**Since Tumblr only allows 10 screenshots, I'm only putting in 1 legacy and my main 8 characters. By that I mean my first character I made per class (now called Origin Story).

Zor-El Legacy will be a separate post.

Baliss Legacy:

1. Jedi Knight Violcrik (Republic/Republic Saboteur)

Species: Human

Sexuality: Bisexual (mostly leans towards women)

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Juggernaut/Vengeance (DwT)

Secondary: Guardian/Vigilance (DwT)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Dark Side Tier V/Chaotic Evil

Birth Planet: Alderaan; Core Region

Family Connections: Father (Status & Name Unknown), Mother (Status: Deceased - 0 BTC, Cerise Skywalker), Alexest (Twin sister, Status: Alive), Kateake (Half-sister, Status: Alive)

Relationship(s): Lana Beniko (Fling)/Kira Carsen (Girlfriend)

Year of Birth/Age: 10 BTC (3663 BBY); 20yrs (JK Prologue - 10 ATC)/25yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC)/26yrs (Shadow of Revan - 16 ATC)/27yrs (Prelude: Rise of the Emperor/KOTFE Chapter 1 - 17 ATC)/27yrs (KOTFE: Chapter 2-9; same age due to carbonite imprisonment - 22 ATC)/28yrs (KOTFE Chs 10-16 & KOTET - 23 ATC)/31yrs (Onslaught - 26 ATC)/32yrs (Echoes of Oblivion - 27 ATC)/33yrs (Legacy of the Sith - 28 ATC)

2. Bounty Hunter Kateake "Kat" (Imperial/Imperial Loyalist)

Species: Human (Cyborg)

Sexuality: Straight

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Mercenary/Arsenal (DwH)

Secondary: Powertech/Pyrotech (DwT)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Light Side Tier V/Chaotic Good

Birth Planet: Alderaan; Core Region (ran away at 16)/Imperial Space (Drifted between planets after running away)

Family Connections: Father (Status & Name Unknown), Mother (Status & Name Unknown), Violcrik (Half-sister - Status: Alive), Alexest (Half-sister - Status: Alive), Blizz (Adopted son - Status: Alive), Rekkr (Son - Status: Alive)

Relationship(s): Torian Cadera (Husband)

Year of Birth/Age: 10 BTC (3663 BBY - few months younger than Violcrik); 20yrs (Bounty Hunter Prologue - 10 ATC)/25yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC)/26yrs (Shadow of Revan - 16 ATC)/27yrs (Prelude: Rise of the Emperor/KOTFE Chapter 1 - 17 ATC)/27yrs (KOTFE: Chapter 3-9; same age due to carbonite imprisonment - 22 ATC)/28yrs (KOTFE Chs 10-16 & KOTET - 23 ATC)/31yrs (Onslaught - 26 ATC)/32yrs (Echoes of Oblivion - 27 ATC)/33yrs (Legacy of the Sith - 28 ATC)

3. Smuggler Alexest "Alex" (Republic)

Species: Human

Sexuality: Bisexual

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Gunslinger/Sharpshooter (DPS)

Secondary: Powertech/Pyrotech (DwT)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Light Side Tier 1/Chaotic Good

Birth Planet: Alderaan; Core Region (separated at birth)

Family Connections: Father (Status & Name Unknown), Mother (Status: Deceased - 0 BTC, Cerise Skywalker), Violcrik (Twin sister - Status: Alive), Kateake (Half-sister - Status: Alive)

Relationship(s): Corso Riggs (Boyfriend)

Year of Birth/Age: 10 BTC (3663 BBY - 5mins younger than Violcrik); 20yrs (Smuggler Prologue - 10 ATC)/25yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC)

4. Agent Zeski'azere'rrasha "Zeski" (Imperial)

Species: Chiss

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Operative/Concealment (DwH)

Secondary: Mercenary/Arsenal (DwH)

Alignment/DnD Alignment:

Birth Planet: Csilla, Unknown Regions

Year of Birth/Age:

5. Trooper Rekkr Cadera (Republic/Republic Saboteur)

Species: Human

Sexuality: Straight

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Vanguard/Tactics (DwT)

Secondary: Powertech/Pyrotech (DwT)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Light Side Tier 3/Lawful Evil

Birth Planet: Odessen, Wild Space

Family Connections: Kateake (Mother - Status: Alive), Torian Cadera (Father - Status: Alive), Blizz (Adopted brother - Status: Alive), Mako (Aunt - Status: Alive), Gault (Uncle - Status: Alive), Knight Violcrik (Aunt - Status: Alive), Captain Alexest (Aunt - Status: Alive)

Relationship(s): Jaxo (Fling)/Elara Dorne (Wife)

Year of Birth/Age: *Standard SWTOR Timeline - 9 BTC/19yrs (Prologue - 10 ATC)/**24yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC/25yrs (Shadow of Revan - 16 ATC)/26yrs (Prelude: Rise of the Emperor/KOTFE Chapter 1 - 17 ATC)/26yrs (KOTFE: Chapter 2-9; same age due to carbonite imprisonment - 22 ATC)/27yrs (KOTFE Chs 10-16 & KOTET - 23 ATC)/30yrs (Onslaught - 26 ATC)

***24.5 ATC/19yrs (Prologue - 43.5 ATC)/24yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 48.5 ATC)

*Standard Timeline

**STORY AFTER REKKR'S CLASS STORY IS NOT CANON

***Kateake's Timeline (Timeline reversal)

6. Sith Warrior Ríkr (Empire)

Species: Human

Sexuality: Bisexual

Year of Birth/Age: 10 BTC/20yrs (Prologue - 10 ATC)/25yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC)/26yrs (Shadow of Revan - 16 ATC)/27yrs (Prelude: Rise of the Emperor/KOTFE Ch 1 - 17 ATC)/27yrs (KOTFE Ch 2-9; same age due to carbonite imprisonment - 22 ATC)/28yrs (KOTFE Chs 10-16 & KOTET - 23 ATC)/31yrs (Onslaught - 26 ATC)/32yrs (Echoes of Oblivion - 27 ATC/33yrs (Legacy of the Sith - 28 ATC)

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Juggernaut/Vengeance (DwT)

Secondary: Sorceror/Lightning (DwH)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Dark Side Tier 5/Chaotic Evil

Relationship(s): Malavai Quinn (Husband)/Pierce Morgan (Fling)

7. Jedi Consular Violexa Dorne (Republic)

Species: Human

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Guardian/Vigilance(DwT)

Secondary: Assassin/Deception (DwT)

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Dark Side Tier 3/Chaotic Good

Birth Planet: Odessen, Wild Space (Birth)/Ossus, Outer Rim (Raised)/Coruscant, Core World (Raised)/Tython, Core World (Trained)

Family Connections: Rekkr Cadera (Father - Status: Alive), Elara Dorne (Mother - Status: Alive), Torian Cadera (Godfather - Status: Alive), Kateake Baliss-Cadera (Godmother - Status: Alive), Violcrik Baliss (Aunt - Status: Alive), Alexest Baliss-Beniko (Aunt - Status: Alive)

Year of Birth/Age: *7 BTC (3660 BBY - Year of Birth)/17yrs (Prologue - 10 ATC)/**22yrs (Rise of the Hutt Cartel - 15 ATC)/23yrs (Shadow of Revan - 16 ATC)/24yrs (Prelude: Rise of the Emperor & KOTFE Ch 1 - 17 ATC)/24yrs (KOTFE Ch 2-9; same age due to carbonite imprisonment - 22 ATC)/25yrs (KOTFE Chs 10-16 & KOTET - 23 ATC)

***46.5 ATC (3606.5 BBY - Year of Birth)/17yrs (Prologue - 63.5 ATC)

*Standard Timeline

**Stories after Violexa's class arc is not canon

***Timeline Reversal (Fitting into Violcrik's main timeline)

Relationship(s): Felix Iresso (Husband)

8. Sith Inquisitor Ceréza (Empire)

Species: Human

Type/Discipline:

Primary: Assassin/Deception (DwT)

Secondary:

Alignment/DnD Alignment: Light Side Tier 1/Chaotic Good

Birth Planet: Dromund Kaas; Outer Rim (Birth)/Korriban; Outer Rim (Trained)

Year of Birth/Age:

[bthump]

I know this is a difficult question but how do you think the manga is going to end? Do you think there will be a big fight between Guts and Griffith where one of them dies (or both)? Do you think Guts will be able to defeat/kill Griffith? Tbh I'm dying to see them meeting again, really curious to see how that's going to play out. What does Miura have in mind...?? 😫 I know it's impossible to predict anything but I'd like to hear your thoughts!

lol yeah I have like 0 confidence in my ability to predict the story, but I’m kind of hoping there isn’t like, a big climactic fight between them. I think if there’s going to be a giant action sequence right before the end it should be between Guts and Zodd.

And if there’s a big action sequence between Guts and Zodd that should also be a reflection of Guts like, basically backsliding or reverting to his worst self, yk?

Like my take on Berserk, which has been followed up on even quite recently so I’m p confident in this, is that ironically for an action series with a swoosh swoosh big sword protag, Guts’ urge to fight is bad, and Guts living his best life would involve him putting down his damn sword and like, cooking someone dinner.

This is one reason that I really really dislike the idea of the story essentially forcing Guts to fight by putting him on the defensive at some point, eg through apostles invading Elfhelm or something (at the very least if that happens it should be treated less like Guts heroically saving his friends and more like someone giving an addict a shot of heroin). The story has pretty consistently hammered home the point that Guts needs to learn to say no to a fight and that turning himself into a living weapon was a bad idea and ~if a dragon is a dragon because a human can’t beat it what does that make a man who kills dragons~ etc etc. Guts kills people and monsters when he’s upset because it’s his shitty coping mechanism, and it’s turning him inhuman both literally and metaphorically.

The story has never made much of a point of, say, differentiating between good fighting and bad fighting. The most it’s done along those lines is essentially saying that fighting for a dream/revenge/emotional outlet/etc = bad but fighting because it’s your job = fine. And that distinction pretty much just serves to differentiate Guts’ urge to fight as bad without inadvertantly painting your average soldier or mercenary with the same brush.

If by some miracle Guts does get a happily ever after lol, thematically it should involve tossing away his sword and retiring to a village or something to live a domestic life.

More likely though, there will be a final climactic battle, and my hope is that it’s depicted as Guts failing to kick his addiction, becoming monstrous, and then either dying alongside Griffith as someone who’s given in to his inner monster in a slightly more mundane but still comparable way to the way Griffith did, so they can both go to hell together or w/e, or revealing his lingering humanity at the very end by not fighting Griffith and getting himself stabbed or something.

I think my ideal ideal very specific ending is Guts and Griffith having some kind of final confrontation at the top of a high structure or cliff or something, they may or may not duel again but if so it will be v low key and emotional and not a cool intense action sequence lol, something causes Guts to fall, Griffith instinctively catches him as he does, and instead of letting go of his hand like last time he drags Griffith down with him to both their deaths (as a bonus maybe with the implication that Griffith lets it happen.)

Like I’m just saying pulling someone up successfully or not is a recurring motif that’s played out in significant ways like a million times so far (eg griffguts in ch 15(1), guts and casca in ch 15(2), guts and casca when she tries to kill herself, griffguts on the hand, luca and her gf on the tower, farnese and casca at troll village, guts and casca again on the boat...) so it’d make for a fitting punctuation mark.

[fanlucadango]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: 第五人格 | Identity V (Video Game), 第五人格 | Identity V (Video Game) RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Aesop Carl | Embalmer/Joseph Desaulnier | Photographer, Norton Campbell | Prospector/Aesop Carl | Embalmer, Emily Dyer | Doctor/Emma Woods | Gardener Characters: Joseph Desaulnier | Photographer, Aesop Carl | Embalmer, Norton Campbell | Prospector, Eli Clark | Seer, Wu Chang | Black Guard and White Guard, Emma Woods | Gardener, Fan Wujiu | Black Guard, Murro | Wildling, Martha Behamfil | Coordinator, Patricia Dorval | Enchantress, Helena Adams | The Mind's Eye, Naib Subedar | Mercenary, Jack | The Ripper (Identity V), Orpheus (Identity V), Servais Le Roy | Magician, Victor Grantz | Postman, Wick the Post Dog | Victor Grantz's Dog | Postman's Dog, William Ellis | Forward, Fiona Gilman | Priestess, Vera Nair | Perfumer, Mike Morton | Acrobat, Demi Bourbon | Barmaid, Bonbon | Guard 26 Additional Tags: Aesop is an actual softy, Victorian era, Execution, Fluff and Angst, Comfort/Angst, Heavy Angst, Norton deserves to be loved, Modern Era, Joseph is an actual husband, Norton is a little shit, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Aesop is a salty baby, Fluff and Humor, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Past Era, Eli is a supportive baby, Naib is just himself, Emma Woods is a supportive baby, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, this author is sleep deprieved, messy tags, Boys In Love, First Love, Public Humiliation Series: Part 1 of The Fault in Our Golden Flowering Garden Summary:

Once a drop of golden of sunlight, hiding amongst everyone else. Like a flower shimmering golden petals, no matter how beautiful, no matter how great, nothing lasts forever because it will soon wither away.

The yellow roses symbolize joy & platonic love, optimism and Friendship.

Sometimes, Yellow Roses brings good luck to people.

But Sometimes, It is also another way to say goodbye... Author‘s Note: I have finally updated Ch.5 of my fic.... Oh my goodness... I wanna flop myself to bed NOW. I am going to upload about twice a month. Since Im going to compensate myself with life, gaming, uni and oh god. Let me sleep.

[hymn2000]

Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only The Piano Player - MCU AU Fanfic - C18

(Previously Ideal Confusion)

Story summary: Giving into the constant pressure from the press, Tony decides to put a rest to the rumours that Peter is his biological son - once and for all.

Previous Chapter(s): 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Part of my Frostiron and Spiderson series.

Warnings/themes: family, family stuff, family conflict, adoption, DNA test(s), pressure, peer pressure, social issues, mentions of alcoholism, mental health problems, potentially some minor medical inaccuracies, corporal punishment, hurt/comfort

You can also find me on AO3

Chapter 18 - So Much To Prove

-

Peter stirred uncomfortably, whimpering as he woke up. It was dark - too dark. He’d fallen asleep so quickly that he hadn’t even turned the night light on. He whimpered again, tears pricking his eyes, and became aware of someone’s arms round him.

“Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you”

Peter relaxed, somewhere between asleep and awake, pressing a hand against whoever was holding him, reassuring himself. He shifted slightly and slowly drifted back to sleep.

-

“Did I have a nightmare last night?” Peter asked Loki at breakfast.

“Surely you should know the answer to that one?” Loki said, putting his mug down.

“Well, I don’t always remember, especially when someone’s with me like you were”

Loki paused, quirking an eyebrow. “I didn’t go to you in the night, chick”

“Oh” Peter sat back, confused. “But then who..? Um...”

“Finish your toast. You don’t want to be late for school”

“I don’t know if I’m up to it”

“You are” he nodded at the door. “Blazer’s there when you need it”

-

Peter swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the car window.

“Did you and daddy talk last night?” 

“That’s none of your business” Tony said abruptly. “Don’t be so nosey”

‘A definite yes’, Peter thought. He looked at Tony, trying to figure him out. He was rubbish at hiding things, but he also neglected to talk about things that were most important, so sometimes the full effect got lost. 

“What are you staring at? You’re putting me off”

Peter shrugged and looked away. They were quiet until Tony parked up in front of the school.

“Try to have a normal day today, kid” Tony said. 

“What happened yesterday wasn’t my fault”

“I never said it was. Just don’t have a repeat, alright?”

Peter pouted at him. 

“Just be good, kid. Now go: you’re gonna be late”

“You’ve changed your tune”

Tony smacked his thigh, hard.

“OW! Dad!”

“Don’t be so cheeky. Now sling your hook”

Peter didn’t need to be asked twice. He grabbed his bag and stepped out of the car, all but slamming the door behind him. He didn’t have high hopes for the day ahead.

-

Malaki was on everyone’s minds and lips. There were a lot of rumours, and some of them were pretty worrying. Unfortunately, some of them were true, but, having not heard anything more from Malaki since the day before, Peter wasn’t sure about all of them. He didn’t really want to think about it.

Not that he had much choice in the matter. 

There were too many reminders. Almost everyone in the form had seen what had happened, and there were a lot of pale faces in the discussions. Peter turned round when the bell rang, looking at the conspicuously clean patch on the carpet, at Malaki’s empty seat - and Nigel’s too.

Flo rested a hand on Peter’s to get his attention.

“I think he’s gone and told the truth” she whispered. “I’m not entirely sure, though”

The door opened, making her jump, but it was just Ms Hathersage.

“Settle down, now!” she barked. “Well, well, well! It’s nice to see you all in one piece! Just about. How’s your head, Stark?”

Peter didn’t respond. He’d almost forgotten about his own injury. He probably would have done altogether if Loki hadn’t changed the dressing when he’d woken up. It seemed so insignificant, especially with Malaki in hospital.

-

Mr James’ practice room seemed like a refuge from the heavy stresses and talks of the morning.

“How’s your head?”

Peter shrugged.

“Yeah, I thought as much. Any news on your friend?”

Peter threw his bag down and plonked himself down at the piano, ignoring him. Mr James understood.

“Well, I’ve got some marking to do, so I’m taking this corner” he said, slinging his briefcase onto the little table. “It’s easier to focus in here. Less people knocking on the door, you see”

Peter nodded slightly, not really listening. He flexed his hands and tapped a few keys, not sure what to play. His head was all over the place: Malaki, Loki’s house search, leaving school, being Tony Stark’s biological son... He hadn’t even got his head around the first problem, let alone those that had followed. He didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do about any of them. He didn’t really know how he felt about any of them either.

Well, he was worried about Malaki. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. What if it was serious and he had long-lasting problems? He didn’t even know how he was now. He wasn’t sure it was his place to text and try to find out. Malaki’s phone could be dead, for a start, or he might be indisposed. There was nothing he could do, anyway.

Leaving school was just a fact of life now. He hadn’t had much time to, but if he really thought about it, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to leave anymore. He didn’t have any control over that either.

Loki’s house search was more confusing. Peter still wasn’t sure why Loki had lied and said he’d been asked to go back. Sure, they kept in touch, but why not tell Tony the truth? As much as he’d enjoyed his sabbatical, Peter wasn’t convinced he’d actually leave. But, Loki was nothing if not unpredictable. Besides, he’d heard his outburst about his time in hospital. Maybe the stress of that memory and not being able to talk about it was getting too much for him. If it was, maybe Scotland really did beckon. 

Some, everything was piling up, but those bloody DNA test results still felt like the biggest problem. Peter hadn’t had the television or radio on, or even checked his phone properly since the press release, but he could imagine all too well what was going off. He was still surprised no one had cornered him at the hospital about it.  It wasn’t the press that bothered him, though. Not really. What got to him, was the massive uncertainty that came with learning that the past you thought you knew was nothing but a fabrication. Plus, there was the whole issue of Tony seeming furious at the results one minute, and acting like they’d never had them the next. AND, on top of that, Tony and Loki were at odds, and Tony seemed to have started smacking again. Peter hoped what happened just before Loki rang Marco was an isolated incident, but he couldn’t be sure. His leg had throbbed for a good ten minutes after he’d been struck in the car that morning. He didn’t like the feeling that Tony might be taking his frustrations out on him. Sure, Loki had mentioned he was seeing someone to work through his problems, but he couldn’t be sure. Tony wasn’t great at the whole opening up thing.

-

“That was energetic”

Peter looked round at Mr James.

“Energetic. But sad” Mr James said. “It was good. You’ve always been good at the classics”

Peter turned back to the piano. He’d just played from the list on the wall, half-hearted but heavy-handed. Still, even then, he felt better for it.

“Did you do any playing last night?”

Peter shook his head.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. Tired?”

Peter shrugged.

“You’re quiet today” Mr James came over and stood beside him. “What’s burning in there today? We can have a little chat, if you like?”

Peter froze, reassured himself that it was only his parents who always used ‘chat’ to mean he was in trouble, and breathed out. He shook his head slightly.

“Well, I’m in the corner if you change your mind” Mr James said, squeezing his shoulder and returning to his table.

Peter was quiet a moment longer, before resting his hands on the keys and starting to play. Calm and light at first, and then a few heavy notes mixed in. He got into the rhythm, and soon started humming along under his breath. He felt safe in the funny little room, piano at his mercy, Mr James quiet in the corner.

He grew immersed in the music, his humming become more pronounced, a type of mumble of almost-words. And...

“-Caesar's had your troubles, widows had to cry. While mercenaries in cloisters si--ng; And the king must diiiiieee”

God, it felt so good to sing without worrying what people might think.

“Some men are better slaying sailors. Take my word and go.. But tell the ostler that his name was; the very first they chose”

Somehow, he was thinking of other things as he played. Mainly about school, and about what people might think if they overheard this. Oddly... well, he didn’t care. ‘Let them hear’ he thought, hammering out the final notes. He paused a moment, catching his breath, still on the same train of thought.

;Well’ he thought. ‘If anyone’s listening, I’ll give them something to listen to’

“You can never know what it's like.. Your blood, like winter, freezes just like ice.. And there's a cold and lonely light that shines from you.. You will wind up like the wreck you hide, behind that mask you use”

He played it heavy, a little slower, much more Rocketman than Too Low For Zero. Mr James looked up from his papers, watching closely. 

“And did you think this fool could never win? Well look at me, I'm-a coming back again.. Got a taste of love, in a simple way, and if you need to know while I'm still standin’ you just fade a-way..”

Mr James stood up, carefully, slowly, not wanting to interrupt. Not yet.

“Don't you know? I'm still standing better than I ever did! Lookin’ like a true survivor -  feelin’ like a little kid. I'm still standin’ after all this time.. Picking up the pieces of my life, without you on my mind..”

Mr James put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and he stopped abruptly. He swallowed, hands still on the keys, and slowly looked up at him, biting the inside of his lip.

“How do you feel about breaking the rules?”

-

Breaking the rules though it was, it felt right with it being a teachers idea. However, that didn’t help at the end of the day. At first, he still felt brilliant - incredible, energised, on cloud nine - but then the butterflies were replaced with moths, fluttering replaced with thudding, and he felt sick with nerves.

It wasn’t like Tony was going to find out, and, honestly, it wasn’t as though he’d really done anything wrong - but his father was so unpredictable right now that anything seemed to be a possibility.

“Not a bad lot of work for a Wednesday afternoon” Mr James said. “See you tomorrow, Master Parker-Stark”

“Thanks, s-sir”

“No problem. Well, you’d better be going. Bye now!”

Peter went out to the carpark, praying that it would be Loki, or even Happy, waiting for him.

No such luck.

“You took your time” Tony grumbled as Peter climbed into the car.

“Mr James’ lesson ran over” Peter said, not untruthfully.

“Mm” Tony said, obviously not listening. “Your father wants to have a word when we get back”

“Oh... About Scotland?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not!” Peter scowled. “Well, what is it about, then?”

“You and me. And... this” he gestured between the two of them. “I think”

“What could he know that we don’t? We’ve got the results, and you don’t remember my mother”

“We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

There was a short silence. 

“...Dad?

Tony sighed irritably. “What?”

“Do you regret getting us tested?”

“Just put your headphones in, kid”

“But-”

“But nothing! Put your bloody headphones in or I’ll smack you so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a week, understand?!”

He could have been bluffing - but Peter didn’t want to take that risk.

-

Loki sat Tony and Peter down at the kitchen table, much to Tony’s annoyance.

“Is this going to take long?”

“It takes as long as it takes!” Loki snapped.

There was a pause. Peter looked down at his hands. Loki sighed, and placed a brown A4 envelope down on the table.

“I don’t want you to get angry at me because of this. I didn’t really register at the time, and I’d honestly forgotten until I saw it today”

“What is it?” Tony asked.

Loki pushed the envelope towards Peter. “I think you should do this”

Peter hesitated. He didn’t like the feeling of them watching him, but he took the envelope nonetheless. It was thin, obviously not much to it. He slipped the piece of paper out of the envelope, turning it over and looking at it, reading it over. It all seemed pretty normal - aside from one thing.

“The birth certificate? I forgot you’d requested that. What’s the big deal?”

“Hand it to your father, Peter”

“Loki, I know what a birth certificate looks like. I don’t think-”

“Just read it, Tony”

Tony humoured him, taking the certificate from Peter. He glanced it over, and then stopped. His expression changed and there was silence as he set it down in the middle of the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained.

Peter swallowed hard, not that it helped. “What does it mean?”

Loki brought the certificate close, looking at the blank space where a father’s name should be.

“It means your mother knew”

*

[shianhygge-imagines]

Silver Rose [Vergil/Reader] {Devil May Cry} Imposter

AN: The gif above is not of Gilver, but it’s sexy and cool (I mean his fucking stance is everything).

For the purposes of Silver Rose, I will go along with the idea that Gilver was created by Mundus to mess with Dante, and that he existed around two or so years before the first game... but only appeared after the events of “Gifts.”

Warning: Long Chapter

|Masterlist Link|    |First Chapter|    |Prev. Ch.| --- |Next Ch.|

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I need eight fireballs to Jonny’s group, Y/N.” Shei announced, plopping the worn serving tray down onto the bar top. “And your boyfriend said to get yourself a drink. He’s paying.”

“Eight fireballs, on the way.” You confirmed, pulling out eight shot glasses and filling them up. “And for the last time, Tony’s my brother-in-law, not my boyfriend.” You corrected with a frown at your coworker.

Although you’d gotten stronger the more you went out on demon hunting gigs with Dante, it didn’t prove to be a skill that allowed for an agreeable living situation. Normal demon hunting gigs paid decently, but with the pay being split between two people, it wasn’t enough, especially when Dante wouldn’t accept payment. Dante couldn’t hold a normal day-to-day job, so you’d resolved to be the responsible one and got a job at Bobby’s Cellar. It was Dante’s usual haunt where he’d go by Tony Redgrave and get mercenary work, but the people knew you just as well. Which led you to your current predicament.

Shei raised her hands in a sign of surrender… or was it a shrug… either way, she winked and stuck her tongue out, “C’mon, Y/N, you mean you’ve never thought about leaving your absent husband for his hot brother? You know he has a thing for you.”

Your face didn’t change a single bit as you responded, sliding the full tray over to Shei. “My husband is missing, not absent.” Lies. “And I’ve never thought about dating Tony. Not that there’s anything wrong with him, it’s just that I don’t want to use him… do you get what I mean?”

Your coworker leveled a serious stare at you as she took the tray of drinks. “It’s not considered using him if you both like each other.”

Watching as Shei walked away with a sway in her hips, you sighed, muttering to yourself. “But I don’t like him like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with moving on.” A cool voice startled you, eyes darting immediately up and to the left where the newcomer sat at the bar, his arms folded on the counter as he leaned towards you.

The man was peculiar in the way he looked, sporting a green suit of all things and wrapped in enough bandages where only his startling blue eyes showed. Quirking an eyebrow at him, you spoke before thinking. “A newcomer… Well then, welcome to Bobby’s Cellar. Are you here for a job, a drink, or information?”

“Hmmm let’s start with information, my dear. Do you know every single person that enters this establishment?” the man’s sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through you ominously, as if he were threatening you to tell the truth. You wanted to scoff, knowing that you could probably take the guy in a fight if you had to. Something was off about him… something demonic, but it wasn’t strong enough for you to raise the alarm with Dante.

“Depends.” You drawled, making a gin and tonic and sliding it towards the man in bandages, “I know everyone who has established themselves, whether they be an information broker, mercenary, or just someone who needs a drink every now and then. That’s on the house, by the way.”

If the man’s face was uncovered, you had no doubt that his brows would be raised in interest if the slight lilt to his smooth voice was anything to go by. “Establish themselves? How does one do that?” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip after nodding his head in thanks.

A grimace appeared on you face at the mention of the initiation ceremony that went on in Bobby’s Cellar. Setting a glass down, you raised a sluggish hand to point towards the rowdiest table located at the back of the bar where Dante and Jonny’s group sat. “You talk to Tony and Jonny… and they issue a challenge. If you do well enough, you get invited into their little group of misfits. Once that happens, you’ll get a better shot at the better sources of info and jobs.”

The man finished off the drink before getting up, giving you an appraising stare. “Thank you…”

“Y/N.” You supplied, not really seeing the harm in giving him your name.

“Thank you, Y/N. I’m Gilver. It was a pleasure speaking with you.” The man was already across the room by the time you’d managed to process his name.

“Gilver…” you muttered, staring after the mysterious newcomer with narrowed eyes. He held a katana in his left hand, and from the back he looked too familiar. “Gilver… why does that sound so familiar?”

Gilver... G-I-L-V-E-R....

G-I-L.... V-E-R... 

V-E-R-G-I-L

Your face seemed to scrunch up at the anagram, eyes still staring at Gilver’s back. “That is the shittiest pseudonym ever.” You commented, hardly impressed with the revelation that you’d just made.

Naturally, your heart jumped to the conclusion that your husband was back, and that he hadn’t been taken by an evil force like you’d concluded when the armored figure stopped visiting... but your mind and instinct urged you not to assume... to observe and withhold judgement until all the facts were taken into account. The height and stature of the mysterious newcomer was right, as was his choice of weapon and the color of his eyes... but the more you observed Gilver interact with Dante and Jonny’s group, the more you began to realize that Gilver was not your husband, but was something demonic in nature.

Taking up Dante’s previous offer to make a drink for yourself, you pour a glass of whiskey and took a large gulp, face set in a grimace as you resumed your work. You didn’t like it when someone tried to screw with you... more so when it came to Vergil.

“Y/N?” Shei pulled you from your thoughts with a heavy sigh, “They’re at it again... Doing that stupid initiation ceremony on the new guy.”

From across the bar, you could see both Dante and Gilver looking at you expectantly, one with a shit-eating smirk, and the other with a curious glint in his eyes. A bemused expression appeared on your face as you looked away, shaking your head in amusement from what was bound to happen. “I hope the new guy can hold his liquor.” Which, if you were right, and Gilver was a fake Vergil... would mean that he’d be a woeful lightweight.

“The guy looks tough... I think he’ll give Tony a run for his money.” Shei laughed before winking, “New guy’s been watching you though. You gonna tap that?”

You gave a short laugh as you shook your head, setting a bottle of pure absinthe on the tray with two shot glasses. “What is with you and my love life, Shei?”

“Unless you wanna head back to my place, someone’s gotta make sure you get laid, Y/N.” Your coworker winked flirtatiously at you and turned to do her job.

You howled in laughter, “My god, Shei!”

She turned to briefly blow you a kiss, “You know you want me!”

“Just go do you’re job!”

And oh boy did Shei do her job. Calling one round after another in an odd display of competition, she served both Dante and Gilver their round of shots, the two men sitting across from one another as they drank. After three shots, Dante didn’t look much different than he would drinking a beer. Gilver, on the other hand, looked close to being drunk. It was subtle, but you noticed the way he had to sit a little straighter to prevent from slouching.

Another three rounds later, Dante was starting to grin in a daze, though was by all means not drunk. Gilver though... was probably about to collapse in an unconscious heap. You’d long since clocked out for the night to keep watch over the initiation ceremony, knowing that Jonny and his boys often mugged the newcomer if they passed out. 

Thump

You winced when Gilver fell forward, slumped unconscious on top of the table. Gilver was definitely a clone of Vergil, you confirmed, strolling over to the table and stopping Jonny’s men from robbing the unconscious man blind. “I’ll take it from here, boys. Your drinks are already paid, so there’s no reason to rob the guy now.”

“Y/N... what are you doing?” Dante asked, getting up from his seat when you knelt by Gilver’s side to prop him up. The man’s katana was already strapped to your back, though not before your were able to observe that it was a cheap imitation of the Yamato.

“Getting this mess to a safe place.” You announced, bracing yourself as you lifted the unconscious man into your arms, your demon strength being put to good use as you strolled out of the bar. “Don’t wait up!”

Years ago, Dante would have never let you run off with a stranger. But now that he knew you were capable of defending yourself against any threat, he trusted you to keep yourself safe. Though to his credit, you wondered if Dante only let you leave with Gilver in your arms because he thought it was funny that you would be carrying the man like a bride. You admit the image would have amused you.

Gilver didn’t stir the entire time trip down the street to an admittedly nice hotel. He didn’t stir when you’d rented a room for the night while earning strange looks from the hotel staff and snide remarks from the hotel’s other clients. He didn’t so much as make a peep when you’d dumped him onto the bed, positioning him so that he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

Gilver did stir when you’d taken his shoes off, but he didn’t wake. He didn’t make much noise when you’d tossed his katana onto the bed with him either.

“If you’re anything like Vergil, you’ll wake only when you’re ready to.” You muttered before picking up the hotel’s phone, calling in an order of tea and cake. Your husband was a heavy sleeper when he was passed out from exhaustion. Nothing would be able to wake him up... except maybe violence, but you didn’t want to pick a fight in a hotel.

The tea and cake arrived not long after you settled into the hotel room’s couch.

Leaning back after having your fill, you closed your eyes, fully intending to nap as you waited for Gilver to wake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a faint clinking sound from the table, alerting you to the sudden presence on the couch and rousing you from your nap. Opening your eyes, you noticed that a green suit jacket was thrown over your form, and that Gilver sat opposite of you on the couch, his piercing blue eyes staring at you in curiosity.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, moving to sit up from your reclined position, trying to act as casual as possible.

“Are you always this trusting?” Gilver shot back, his expression hidden behind the bandages although you could see the mirth within his eyes.

“I don’t trust you.” He still hadn’t answered your question.

Gilver shrugged, his eyes not turning away from you. “And yet you took care of me. I assumed that you had already grasped my identity.”

You scoffed at his statement, meeting his eyes, accusing. “Did you think that I was foolish enough not to recognize an anagram of my own husband’s name? Who are you, Gilver? Because you are certainly not Vergil.”

At your demand, Gilver hummed in amusement before leaning forward, closing the distance between your two faces in an act of intimidation. He snatched your hands and slowly raised them, placing them on either side of his bandaged face. “Are you so sure, my dearest?” It was a dare as he kept his blue eyes locked with yours.

You hesitated, your hands trembling the slightest as Gilver held them in place. It was an act of intimidation on Gilver’s part, but you needed to know if you were correct in assuming that it was not Vergil sitting before you. Your hands moved to trace the outline of Gilver’s jaw before grasping the bandages and pulling. The bandages fell in a cascade of white as they unraveled to reveal a face so familiar that a sob managed to escape you. Gilver was almost identical to your husband, but upon revealing his face, you noticed that his eyes seemed to flit between crimson red and sapphire blue. An illusion to hide the true color of his eyes.

You could help yourself as your hand rose to cup his face in the palm of your hand, caressing his cheek with your thumb. And like Vergil, Gilver was unable to resist letting out a hum of content. “You were created to look exactly like Vergil.”

Gilver’s eyes remained closed. “Yes.”

“So that you can be used against me.” You realized, drawing your hands away from the man before you.

“Hm... not just you. Dante as well.” Gilver confirmed, opening his crimson eyes to stare at your face below his. “And why not? I am, as you said, identical to Vergil. Why not let me be the husband that you want?”

“You’re not him.”

“But I can be.”

“You’re only saying that to better serve your master.” You grit your teeth at the thought of replacing Vergil with this... puppet.

“Smart girl.” Gilver grinned at how you didn’t give in to emotional weakness. “Mundus created me to weaken Dante... and to seduce you. Don’t you miss Vergil? Don’t you want him back?”

“Of course I miss him.” You growled, shoving Gilver away and standing up so that you could assert your presence over him, “And I could never replace him.”

“You wouldn’t know the difference if you allowed me, Y/N.” Gilver called out to you as you stormed past him to the door.

You froze by the door, a question nagging you from the back of your brain. When you turned to look at Gilver, he was already standing in front of you, probably hoping to stop you from leaving. “If you are like Vergil, then let me ask you this, Gilver. Are you content with just being this? A puppet for Mundus to control?”

“I was created by Mundus for the express purpose of hurting you and Dante, I’m not a person.” Gilver replied blandly, idly playing with a strand of your hair.

“... but do you want to be?” You asked, eyes searching his own before stepping out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After that night, Gilver became a near constant presence at Bobby’s Cellar. Every night you worked, you would find Gilver seated at the bar, sometimes teasing you, sometimes attempting to seduce you. Most of the time, however, you found that he worked to earn the trust of the cellar patrons, buying drinks for people or even bringing in new jobs. You knew that he was up to no good, but left the fun to Dante, going along for the ride.

Rather gradually, you noticed that Gilver was slowly acting less and less like Vergil, adopting a rather playful persona towards you, but a cruel and cold demeanor towards others. He also stopped offering to replace Vergil, and instead started to suggest that you leave Vergil to be with him. Perhaps what you’d said that first night had made him think a little.

Though... perhaps not enough because he still seemed intent on continuing to follow whatever Mundus’s plan was.

Still... despite yourself, you’d started to consider Gilver a friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon Dante’s suggestion, you’d taken a break from working at Bobby’s Cellar and retreated to your home in Redgrave City just for a week. He’d insisted that you deserved a break after working so hard to keep up with the rent and utilities at Devil May Cry. But you’d noticed the ever growing presence of demons because of Gilver, and you knew that whatever peaceful time you had with Gilver’s teasing friendship, was about to come to an end.

It was a clear night when Gilver appeared in your kitchen, bandages unraveled and torn, and blood seeping through the green suit his wore. His katana was gone as he stumbled and gasped out your name in pain. “Y-Y/N!’

Dropping the knife that you’d been using to cut vegetables for dinner, you practically flew across the room to kneel by Gilver’s side. You’d recognize the wounds on Gilver’s body anywhere... “You picked a fight with Dante...”

Gilver gave a hollow, bitter laugh as his body lost the energy to prop himself up, collapsing into your arms. “And lost...”

“I... I need to get a first aid kit.” You muttered, eyes wide at the number of wounds you needed to patch up. “You’ll be fine once I’m done with you. I just...” 

You made a move to leave, but Gilver’s hand quickly shot up to stop you. “No... it’s too late for that... just... stay... please. Look at me, Y/N.”

Your eyes started to burn just from looking at the number of open wounds, but you allowed your eyes to rise, meeting Gilver’s crimson red as he smirked weakly. “You’re going to die if I don’t do something, Gilver.”

“I’m going to die whether you do something or not, Y/N. Just... stay by my side. That’s all I’m asking.” 

You could only nod, speechless that you were going to lose a friend. You bit your lip as you tried not to cry, just giving in and holding Gilver to you, resting his head against your shoulder as the light started to leave his eyes.

“Hey, Y/N? Look at me for a moment.” Your burning eyes rose to meet his crimson ones despite the tears nearly blocking your view. “I should have listened to you.”

“You still can! Let me help you!” You snapped, the tears finally falling free.

“Heh. No thanks.” Gilver gasped out, raising a hand to wipe the tears away. “It’s not a bad way to go... In the arms of a beautiful woman.”

“Now’s not the time to be flirting with me!” You growled, moving to sit up so that you could move Gilver, panicking when his body began to slowly turn to ash.

“It’s always a good time to flirt with the woman you love.” Your breathing hitched when Gilver used last of his strength to lean up, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips and pulling away with an uncharacteristic smile. “When you see Vergil, let him know that he’s so lucky that you love him. Or I would have swept you off your feet. Goodbye, Y/N-”

“Goodbye, Gilver.” You sobbed, managing to get the words out before he burst into ashes dissolving and disappearing. No trace of his existence. Not even of the blood that previous stained your clothes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed my work, please consider buying me a Ko-fi!

[anzellla-remade]

So, manage to learn anything?

[notalwaysthevillian]

Into the Deep

Warnings: Gagging, food mention, swearing

Word Count: ~1.1k

Pairings: Platonic LAMP, Brotherly Logicality

Masterlist

Ch. 4

The next morning, after Roman had speared and cooked their breakfast with his thermoblade, the four of them sat down and made a plan.

“Getting the base built is our number one priority,” Logan said, biting into a fish. He made a face immediately, swallowing hard. “The second is creating a stable source of food.”

“What, you’re not a fan of the fish?” There was a teasing look in Roman’s eye.

Holding back a gag, Logan nodded toward the fabricator. “The ingredient I was missing is something called table coral.”

“Oh, I saw some of that yesterday! I tried to grab some, but it’s really stuck on there. We’re going to need Roman’s knife.” Making a slashing motion with his hand, Patton grinned at the mercenary.

“Very well then.” Logan pushed the rest of the fish away, making another face as Roman eagerly grabbed it. “Once we’ve finished...breakfast...we’ll all head off. Once we have the table coral, we can get settled and have power, as well as a place of refuge. I can’t imagine the weather will stay this tame forever.”

As if on cue, the sun was blocked as clouds moved across the sky.

Roman gulped down the rest of Logan’s fish, grabbing his freshly made oxygen tank. “Let’s go.”

The four of them suited up, Virgil helping Patton with his tank, before ducking into the water.

The sheer drop under the island made Virgil uneasy, but he made sure to stay behind Patton. Roman insisted at being at the back in case something came at them, despite Virgil’s protests.

With Virgil there to speed Patton up, they made it to the spot in half the time, though the storm may have had some influence.

Logan stopped close to where they’d picked up the supplies the previous day. “Where did you see the coral?”

Patton ducked his head underwater for a second. When he surfaced, he pointed. “Around there.”

“Roman, go with him and collect as much as you can. I suspect we’ll need more than one computer chip.” Logan glared at the water, mad at himself. “Virgil, if you’ll come with me and help me gather quartz. I’d like to build a few observatories at the mountaintops if possible.”

Virgil nodded stiffly, making sure that the other two knew to surface in about five minutes. He and Logan dove down, easily navigating the brightly lit shallow water.

They’d just passed a cave when Logan heard a familiar sound. He swam away as fast as he could upon hearing it, seeing Virgil in his peripheral. A sigh of relief left him as the creature exploded far enough away that he wasn’t injured.

Virgil fixed him with a look, but didn’t force them to surface. Instead, he filled his pack with as much as he could carry before kicking up for air.

“What the fuck was that?” He asked as Logan popped up next to him.

Logan sighed, knowing this was inevitable. “It was a creature I bumped into last time. This time I was fortunate enough to recognize the sound and get away.”

“This time?!” Virgil yelled, splashing the water around as he moved his hands. “You mean that thing exploded next to you?”

“Affirmative.”

“As soon as our base is built I’m taking a look at any possible wounds you might have. “ Without thinking, Virgil was already running his hands over Logan’s side. “If you’re injured, we need to know as soon as possible. I know you want to take full responsibility for us getting stuck here, but the only one who isn’t at fault is Roman. Patton could’ve denied your orders and I could’ve fought harder. So don’t blame yourself, it only makes you feel worse. Trust me, I’d know.”

Logan winced slightly as Virgil’s fingers ran over a tender spot. “Thanks, V.”

Virgil nodded and the conversation died as Roman surfaced and called their names.

They swam over, reaching him just as Patton came up for air. A large grin spread across his face as he patted Roman’s pack. “We’ve got enough table coral to last us a long time. You should’ve seen the way he was slicing and dicing!”

“Well, I hope they aren’t sliced too much or it may not register in the fabricator,” Logan said bluntly.

Rolling his eyes, Roman shook his head. “Relax, Captain, I only sliced them enough to be able to pick them up. And I left enough so that it can grow back. On Patton’s insistence.”

A low rumble sounded overhead.

Virgil looked up, seeing the clouds starting to darken. “We should get back. The sooner we can make shelter the better.”

Once they arrived back on the island, Logan took no time in making the habitat builder. Loading his pack up with titanium pieces and quartz, he headed for the clearing.

By the time the others had packed up some of the excess materials and headed over, Logan had already built a multipurpose room and a hatch.

“I’m assuming we’d all like our own rooms?” He asked as he heard the others.

“If we can’t spare the materials, I can share.” Virgil offered.

Looking in his bag, Logan winced. “We don’t have much titanium to spare, despite the amount of wreckage Roman managed to grab. I saw that some of the outcrops gave titanium, but I thought that we had enough.”

“It’s okay, we can share!” Patton turned to Virgil and Roman. “Would you two be okay with sharing?”

The two shared a look before Virgil nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine.”

“If you don’t-”

“We’re good, Pat, I promise.”

Logan coughed, his face slightly red. “I don’t suppose you gathered some of those vines? We’ll need a mesh for beds.”

“Don’t worry, we got you covered.” Limp vines were pulled out of Roman’s pack. “If you want power though, we should make some solar panels. It’s gonna get dark soon and we’ll want all the power we can get.”

Holding up the habitat builder, Logan started on creating the room. He was beyond thankful that the technology was a breeze to use - after all, he’d created the fabricator and the habitat builder with the same technology.

The lasers whirred, finishing up the room. Logan inserted the ingredients for the solar panels, watching the titanium and quartz be rearranged into the panels.

Once the solar panels were in place, Logan created two more multipurpose rooms and placed two beds in each. Virgil immediately curled up and was out like a light. Roman was right behind him, leaving the two brothers awake in their own room.

“Hey Lo?”

Logan rolled over, seeing the blurry figure across the room. “Yes, Patton?”

“There’s no one I’d rather be stranded with.”

Logan could feel Patton’s smile, which generated one on his own face. “Thank you, Patton.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 5 May 2019

Quick Bits:

Age of Conan: Bêlit #3 throws a few road bumps in the way of Bêlit’s plans as the Kushites renege of their deal and her drunken “Captain” continues being a jerk. I’m really liking this exploration of Bêlit’s early days from Tini Howard, Kate Niemczyk, Scott Hanna, Jason Keith, and Travis Lanham.

| Published by Marvel

Archie #704 throws some roadblocks in the way of Archie and Sabrina’s relationship through the form of a “Bachelor”-like charity programme set up by Cheryl. I love the even more stylized pastel colour palette from Matt Herms.

| Published by Archie Comics

Batman & The Outsiders #1 is an entertaining debut from Bryan Hill, Dexter Soy, Veronica Gandini, Clayton Cowles. I’ve not read the arc in Detective Comics that feeds into this, but this first issue provides enough information for new readers now to be lost and gives good incentive to check out what’s come before. Great art from Soy and Gandini, with an interesting look inside a team and a compelling start to a mystery about the last survivor from a metahuman generating factory.

| Published by DC Comics

Bettie Page #4 concludes the QE2 aliens caper. Love the art from Julius Ohta, Ellie Wright, and Sheelagh D.

| Published by Dynamite

Bronze Age Boogie #2 continues the strangest Doom Patrol story as the Martian invasion angle has taken hold in the future and a motley crew of heroes bands together to try to stop them. Stuart Moore, Alberto Ponticelli, Giulia Brusco, and Rob Steen are playing with some interesting cross-media influences to tell a highly entertaining tale. It’s rounded out with the usual goodies in the form of prose, letters, and what’s probably my favourite of the back-up strips so far, Major Ursa, from Tyrone Finch, Mauricet, Lee Loughridge, and Rob Steen.

| Published by Ahoy

Conan the Barbarian #6 sees Jason Aaron, Mahmud Asrar, Matthew Wilson, and Travis Lanham tell a story of Conan’s frustrations as a mercenary in the skirmishes between Turan and Stygia. People constantly underestimating Conan is always a fun story.

| Published by Marvel

Deadly Class #38 sees Marcus and Maria return to King’s Dominion. It’s kind of messed up seeing the new status quo, but at the same time the tension that Rick Remender, Wes Craig, Jordan Boyd, and Rus Wooton build here between to old Legacy kids and Marcus & Maria feels like it’s going to explode, suggesting something even worse for the characters is coming soon. It’s very captivating.

| Published by Image / Giant Generator

Detective Comics #1003 reveals the identity of the Arkham Knight. It’s not really anyone you could have possibly guessed, but an interesting addition to Batman’s rogues gallery. Also the cult surrounding the Arkham Knight is certifiably insane. Gorgeous artwork again from Brad Walker, Andrew Hennessy, and Nathan Fairbairn.

| Published by Marvel

The Empty Man #7 goes full Clive Barker as we get an explanation for what the Empty Man really is and how he continues to manifest himself upon reality. I know I keep saying it, but the body horror brought about in the art from Jesús Hervás and Niko Guardia just can’t be stressed enough. Every issue they seem to outdo themselves with creepy and intriguing designs.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Eve Stranger #1 looks to be another winner for Black Crown. This first issue sets up the titular character as a secret agent who seems to need to reboot her memory every week. Why, exactly, is left unknown, but that’s part of the fun. David Barnett, Philip Bond, Eva de la Cruz, and Jane Heir do a wonderful job here with the action and intrigue. Also it’s great to see Bond doing more espionage tinged action, his art always looks so great telling these kinds of stories.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Excellence #1 is a thoroughly excellent debut from Brandon Thomas, Khary Randolph, Emilio Lopez, and Deron Bennett. The world and character building in this first issue is impeccable and the art from Randolph and Lopez will just blow you away. Incredible development of a magic-based society and the class structure therein.

| Published by Image / Skybound

The Flash #70 begins “Year One” promising new insight and occurrences during Barry’s origin story. Given that the last time this happened his mother was murdered, changing the timeline and resulting down the line in Barry trying to fix it with Flashpoint, anything’s possible. The real draw, though, is the stunning artwork from Howard Porter and Hi-Fi. Porter is really giving this his all and it shines through wonderfully.

| Published by DC Comics

Hawkman #12 brings Bryan Hitch’s tenure on the series to an end with the conclusion to “Cataclysm”. This is an excellent, action-packed final confrontation between the legion of Hawkmen and the Deathbringers, setting up a whole Hawkman for possibly the first time and hints as to worse things waiting on the horizon.

| Published by DC Comics

Infinite Dark #6 amplifies the terror and chaos as the dead-ish things exposed to the void start spreading fear and panic throughout the station. Ryan Cady, Andrea Mutti, K. Michael Russell, and Troy Peteri ratchet up the horror here.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Invaders #5 raises more questions after we thought some things were coming into focus in the previous issue, as Chip Zdarsky, Carlos Magno, Butch Guice, Alex Guimarães, and Travis Lanham continue “War Ghosts”. The tension here on the brink of all out war between the US and Atlantis is incredible, and there are more interesting twists that suggest something far more sinister occurring.

| Published by Marvel

Jim Henson’s The Storyteller: Sirens #2 features a gorgeous adaptation of the story of Chinese mother goddess, Nuwa, by Chan Chau with letters by Jim Campbell. The artwork is amazingly beautiful supporting a very sweet tale.

| Published by Boom Entertainment / Archaia

Justice League Odyssey #9 opens up an interesting thread that Starfire, Cyborg, and Azrael may be unduly under the influence of Darkseid. Dan Abnett is setting up some simmering conflict between Jessica Cruz and the rest of the team here, along with quite a few occult catchphrases thrown in to help amplify the mood.

| Published by DC Comics

Lodger #5 is the end to this excellent crime drama from the Laphams and it is all kinds of messed up. We learn what really happened to Ricky’s family and...yeah. This has been a strange, at times disturbing, ride and they stuck the landing.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Murder Falcon #8 is the epic conclusion to this series as Jake and Murf take on Magnum Khaos. Between this series and Extremity, Daniel Warren Johnson has proven himself time and again as a master storyteller and it shines through with the heartrending end to this story. This one goes up to eleven.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Red Sonja & Vampirella Meet Betty & Veronica #1 is an interesting mash-up of the three properties from Amy Chu, Maria Sanapo, Vinicius Andrade, and Taylor Esposito. Some nice fish out of water humour as Sonja and Vampirella acclimate to Riverdale.

| Published by Dynamite

Savage Sword of Conan #5 concludes “The Cult of Koga Thun” from Gerry Duggan, Ron Garney, Richard Isanove, and Travis Lanham. Some interesting twists in this finale of what has been a highly entertaining adventure.

| Published by Marvel

She Could Fly: The Lost Pilot #2 sees Martín Morazzo cut loose again with some of the designs and presentation for Luna’s dreams and schizophrenic episodes.

| Published by Dark Horse / Berger Books

Star Wars: Age of Rebellion - Boba Fett #1 features some incredibly rich artwork from Marc Laming and Neeraj Menon. Great detail throughout this story spotlighting Boba Fett’s cold, silent amorality.

| Published by Marvel

Star Wars: Doctor Aphra #32 begins “Unspeakable Rebel Superweapon” as Aphra and her young protege steal the titular MacGuffin. There’s some interesting flashbacks to Aphra’s youth and it’s great to see Caspar Wijngaard doing more Star Wars art, even if just the flashbacks.

| Published by Marvel

These Savage Shores #4 is a sumptuous feast. Ram V, Sumit Kumar, Vittorio Astone, and Aditya Bidikar are elevating the artform of comics which each subsequent issue. The epistolary narrative, the horror and mythological themes, the plays upon the nine-panel grid, the shadowy character designs, the lush and spooky colours, the overlap with historical events, the unique approach and detail in each character’s missive...just one of these elements would result in an entertaining tale, this comic mixes all of them into a superlative package. You’re doing yourself a disservice if you’re not reading this series.

| Published by Vault

The Unstoppable Wasp #7 throws Nadia a birthday party, wherein she learns of her relations to what seems like half of the Marvel universe. Also, issues a death threat to Tony Stark. It’s cute, from Jeremy Whitley, Alti Firmansyah, Espen Grundetjern, and Joe Caramagna.

| Published by Marvel

War of the Realms: New Agents of Atlas #1 sets up the conflict in the Pacific with Sindr while introducing a swath of new international characters to the Marvel universe. Also, Amadeus Cho continues to be a massive idiot, even at his shrunken size. Great art from Gang Hyuk Lim and Federico Blee.

| Published by Marvel

Wonder Twins #4 sets up the twins with a pair of dates, allowing for some hilarious misadventures. Also, Polly seems to have a weird obsession with testicular cancer. Mark Russell, Stephen Byrne, and Dave Sharpe continue the fun, even though this one kind of takes us away from all ages material.

| Published by DC Comics / Wonder Comics

Wyrd #3 opens up the messy can of worms of Wyrd’s past further as a figure out of the past he can’t remember emerges for a “meet”. Great tone and atmosphere for this story from Curt Pires, Antonio Fuso, Stefano Simeone, and Micah Myers.

| Published by Dark Horse

X-Force #7 begins “The Counterfeit King” from Ed Brisson, Dylan Burnett, Damian Couceiro, Jesus Aburtov, and Joe Caramagna as past and present threaten to collide. Some nice character development for the team as they wait for Deathlok to do his thing.

| Published by Marvel

Other Highlights: Accell #20, Age of X-Man: Apocalypse & The X-Tracts #3, Battlestar Galactica: Twilight Command #3, Betty & Veronica #5, Black Hammer: Age of Doom #10, By Night #11, Captain America #10, Captain Marvel #5, Catwoman #11, Curse Words #21, Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man #6, Gunning for Hits #5, Hack/Slash vs. Chaos #5, Hit Girl: Season Two #4, House of Whispers #9, Ice Cream Man #12, James Bond: Origin #9, The Last Space Race #4, The Long Con #9, Marvels Annotated #3, Oberon #4, Ronin Island #3, Section Zero #2, Shadow Roads #7, Six Days, Spider-Man/Deadpool #50, Star Wars Adventures #21, Supergirl #30, Symbiote Spider-Man #2, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #44, Unnatural #9, Vindication #4, War of the Realms: Journey Into Mystery #2, Wasted Space #9, Waves, Wonder Woman #70

Recommended Collections: Accell - Volume 4: Slipstream Dream, Beyonders - Volume 1, Blackbird - Volume 1, Doctor Who: The Thirteenth Doctor - Volume 1, The Freeze - Volume 1, Justice League - Volume 2: Graveyard of the Gods, Pearl - Volume 1, Quantum & Woody! - Volume 2: Separation Anxiety, Red Sonja/Tarzan, Spider-Gwen: Ghost Spider - Volume 1: Spider-Geddon, Star Wars: Age of Republic - Villains, Thor by Jason Aaron: Complete Collection - Volume 1, The Woods: Yearbook Edition - Volume 1

d. emerson eddy feels like a frappuccino.

[ergomaria]

Miles to Go Before I Sleep - Ch. 11

"Excellent. I suppose we'll be seeing each other quite soon." While Bastila's comment was supposed to be friendly, it somehow sounded ominous.

"Right. Over and out." Clipping her comlink back to her belt, Meetra drew a steadying breath as she continued her march through the canyon. Atton was a few paces ahead while the rest of her crew trailed behind, giving her a little too much space to think as she moved through the wasteland of her own making.

But was she the one to blame for this devastation? All of the old outrage and resentment that the former Consular assumed had burned away during her self-imposed exile was swiftly surging back to the forefront of her mind as the crew trudged past the evidence of her slaughter. 'This was all necessary,' she told herself even as the words grew increasingly meaningless beneath the weight of her regret. 'Revan thought it was necessary and he's the tactical mastermind. He made it sound so simple.' She hadn't been lying when she told Vann that the decision to use the Mass Shadow Generator was entirely hers, but recognizing her own culpability didn't quell the bitterness that simmered in her heart.

All of those thoughts were swirling through Meetra's mind when her group reached the rendezvous point. Vann was waiting for them, his tension palpable, though whether it was caused by his partner's recent injury or the planet itself was difficult to discern. His concern only deepened when he spotted his former co-commander. "Are… Are you okay?"

"No. I'm back on this planet and the Sith are trying to conquer the Republic yet again." Meetra tried to force a smile, but her face wouldn't cooperate. "It's a little difficult to be cheerful."

"You don't have to be on the surface. If Mira is willing to exfiltrate you, I sure as hells wouldn't mind having your eyes in the air." The complicated thing about Revan, and later Vann, was that his violent temper was counterbalanced by a great deal of compassion. These traits gave him the courage to be an unquestionable hero who frequently utilized the tactics of a villain. It could be infuriating.

The old animosity that stemmed from all of Meetra's unresolved feelings towards the war exploded unexpectedly. She honestly thought that she was better at controlling her outbursts, but she had believed several things upon arriving on Malachor V and so far none of them had been true. "I didn't tell you this before, but I spent years being angry at you over the Mass Shadow Generator. You were the one who had the idea for a superweapon, the one who made it sound like it was the only option we had. And I believed you because your tactics always felt like the best course of action. It helped that you had all of the facts and figures ready. Hells, you even warned me that there were risks, that being close to so many deaths might reverberate into the surrounding Force with unexpected consequences."

Vann didn't seem surprised at this confession, as though he'd been expecting it for quite a while. "I'd like to believe that I would never order someone to use a kriffing superweapon if they didn't know all of the potential dangers."

"The problem wasn't what you said, it was how you said it. You made using the weapon sound so simple. And maybe for you, it was. After all, there's nobody in the galaxy who understands war the way you do. I don't know what your thoughts were when you gave me the orders to use the Mass Shadow Generator, but maybe you assumed that I could manage any potential repercussions just as efficiently as you would have. But I didn't."

"Don't blame him." Alek was imposing as he straightened to his full height. "You made a choice and all of this is the result. You're the one who ripped a hole in the Force after I warned you that using a weapon of mass destruction was a bad idea!"

"I did it because he made it sound like our only option!" Gaze growing distant, Meetra couldn't stop the memories from rushing back. "He said it was necessary, just like accepting seventy percent casualties provided we won the day. Or embracing just a little bit more darkness because it would allow us to see things more objectively."

"Yeah." Wincing, Vann muttered, "That all sounds like something I would say."

The blunt acknowledgment only fueled Meetra's long-contained outrage, mostly because the only thing she currently wanted was the reassurance that she'd always depended on Revan to provide. She needed to confess all of her doubts so that he could explain them away, soothing her worries by assuring her that their actions were entirely necessary. During the war, his conviction that they were on the right side of history had given others the strength they needed to keep fighting. But right now, he just seemed lost. It shattered the last of the former Consular's self-control and she couldn't stop herself from lashing out in frustration. "What, you're not even going to defend yourself? Maybe throw all of my former positivity back in my face? Say something, dammit! Defend the orders that you gave!"

"You know that he won't and you also know exactly why!" Glaring sternly, Alek challenged the blonde to contradict him.

But she said nothing because they were both well-aware that Vann had more guilt about the past than the rest of them combined, an emotion exacerbated each time he was presented with proof of his penchant towards unmitigated violence. Beneath the exterior of the shiftless mercenary and calculating commander lay a person who was deeply insecure about every choice he'd ever made. It wasn't that he lacked the darkness he'd possessed in the war, the rage that sometimes turned his eyes sickly yellow was proof of that, it was merely that he kept witnessing the results of his decisions without any recollection of why he'd originally made them. He didn't remember enough of the past to recognize what they'd gained, all he saw was everything they'd lost.

"If the person who gave the original orders can't defend them, how am I supposed to continue justifying my actions? I've spent seven years convinced that this was the only way to win the war. But… was it?" Gesturing to the broken landscape, Meetra's tone cracked as she pleaded, "How is this any better than seizing control of the Republic to defend it against an even greater threat?"

Alek pointedly refused to answer those questions, even as his expression softened. Instead, he repeated the same words that he'd offered a hundred times at the beginning of the war when the former Consular was still mourning each casualty that paved the way for their victory. "What do you want to hear? What do you need me to tell you so that you can keep moving forward?"

Just like during the war, Meetra found herself pouring out her hopes and fears. "For years I've been assuring everyone, myself included, that I turned this planet into a graveyard for some higher purpose. Tell me that I wasn't wrong. I'm already a murderer, don't make me a liar too."

"If you didn't stop the Mandalorians, we wouldn't be fighting the Sith today because they would have already won. I don't know if the Mass Shadow Generator was the right answer, but it was the solution we found. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't hear anyone else coming up with anything better." Atton stared at the three former Revanchist leaders as he slunk beside Meetra. "I learned a long time ago that living with your past isn't about believing that you were right. Sometimes it's about accepting that you were wrong and trying to learn something from it."

It was an answer, even if it wasn't exactly what the former Consular wanted to hear. But she'd asked him to tell her the truth. "And what am I supposed to learn from this?"

"That right and wrong are too complicated to divide into neat categories? Maybe that even the best leaders are still fallible? Or you can just be glad that we won the kriffing war. It's like you said, one Malachor is still better than a dozen Serrocos."

"That doesn't feel like enough."

"And maybe it's not." Atton shrugged. "We all made choices, now the hard part is living with them."

Meeting the former assassin's gaze, Meetra pleaded, "How do you do it?"

"One slow, painful, gut-wrenching step at a time." The wry smile that Atton gave her was one of the most heartfelt gestures he'd ever displayed.

"We should keep moving." The flatness in Vann's voice was alarming, as was the defeated hunch of his shoulders and stiffness in his gait. Though his Force presence was carefully shielded it wasn't hard to read his current mood. A myriad of emotions was hidden behind his emotionless mask, the same as during the war. Bastila was already rushing up to offer gentle encouragement, even as he brushed her away.

Guilt welled up in Meetra. She'd released her frustrations on the easiest target even though the person she was really angry at was herself. "Vann, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

"Don't." As he waved off Bastila's lingering attempts to coddle him, the former mercenary drew both of his lightsabers as he stoically stated, "I sense the academy up ahead, which means that they probably know we're coming. There's a lot of Sith inside. Be ready for a fight, because this is going to be a hard one."

READ THE WHOLE CHAPTER ON FANFICTION AND AO3!

[whatscallion]

rise: ch. v

//- A Medieval AU with the help of Anne who always encourages my muse to no end.

Chapter Summary: One of a few story arcs. The first one! The Demon Widow approaches Saint Johann, and she’s just not feelin’ it anymore. Enjoy!

Chapter Word Count: 1,742

Previous Chapters: Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four

Tagging: @cptsteven @blackberrywidow​ ( message / ask to get tagged! )

Ravens were perceived as harborers of every malady known to man, countless eons cementing every rumor and myth into place without recourse. The wake of every known tragedy rode on oil slick feathers, and yet their more prominent traits were forcefully ignored. Cleverness unmatched with intelligence to round out rough edges of an animal psyche, ravens were the masters of their own realms. Trickery and survival both intertwined beautifully to allow ravens an allotment in life unparalleled. It was this mastery of wits that proved to be integral to a plan in its lifelong journey to reality. One lone raven would change the course of history and lives through its own honed instincts and uncanny connection to an Instrument no more. Faith was displaced, the sliver of light within, precious in its scarcity, turned from the heavens above and onto oneself. Faith would begin in the actions and convictions of an enlightened being, held before an audience unknowingly. It would be now that the Widow Demon would become known.

The fire had started in simplicity, the obsidian bird having spent years upon years building tinder within the walls of the newly renowned Saint Johann. A man of the cloth in which God Himself spoke freely through, yet so few knew just how much of a fantasy that was. All it took was one push, one thought of sentience and deviation, and a kingdom hidden in the shadows of hulking monoliths would crumble as a leader fell. Natalia would see to it personally, though not for sentimental reasons. It was not for the death of her mother or her stolen life. It was not for the exile of Matthias or the killing of so many innocents. It was proof that the evil of man would become it’s own undoing through fundamentals and deadly flaws.

All it took was one push.

The moonless night brought a thick veil of the unknown to even the most open of areas, needing candlelight to grant safe passage even among the well known. But those who operated and dwelled within the seeping darkness would find their advantages heavy in this night. The Widow preferred to live this way, keeping eyes off herself in order to maintain an illusion of an enigma. She was meant to be a mystery, people doubting her very existence until her supposed wrath rained down upon them. Her reputation had been bolstered in the doubt of truth in her abilities. No one could be that good. No one could be that deadly. Rumors would be confirmed, just as she entered Saint Johann’s Cathedral, where he ruled over the low layers of society. His power was creeping towards the sun, and there was little standing in his way.

“My young Sister!” Johann bellowed from the altar, cheerful glee spreading a smile too wide upon his aging features. “I was having doubts of whether or not you were able to wash the sins of the Blind Nomad or not.” Natalia’s stride didn’t stop as she pressed forward down the center aisle. “Tell me, did you procure the Scripture?”

His question drew pause to her advance, finding it unnecessary to glance about her. It was easy to assume there were lesser Instruments surrounding her, all eager to make a name for themselves by tearing down the Widow Demon piece by piece. Johann was trying to read her as an exercise in futility. Natalia’s indifference ran through to the very core of her being, allowing so little to be gained at face value. It was unwittingly one of her most invaluable traits.

“Yes,” she answered firmly. Adrenaline was beginning its slow release into her system, causing hyper awareness to envelope her completely. The doors closed behind her, and the trap was set. It wouldn’t have mattered what she had done in those cold mountains. Her fate was sealed by the Hand of God’s own mercenary. Johann beckoned her forward, skeletal fingers curling before him, yet she remained steadfast in her unmoving ways.

“Bring it here, my darling.” The eagerness glistened like lamp oil in his beady eyes, hunger causing thoughts to salivate over the mere idea of finally obtaining that which should’ve been burnt ages ago and buried with the ideals of their forefathers. Hands remained loose despite the buzzing just beneath the surface.

“No.”

A glimpse was caught among the sudden flurry of darkly stained robes and sharpened steel, of Johann retreating to those secret chambers dreaded. So many Instruments had been added the ranks, most of which weren’t of the Three Bloodlines, and they all descended upon her with blind faith in a man who was no more than just that. The following felt too familiar, these sheep thinking they could take down someone with such a natural edge. The fundamental understanding of weaknesses and precision was not something to be taught, but something given. Natalia could only grant herself an instant of relief in the knowledge that Ivan resided at his manor and not the Cathedral like every individual she proceeded to slay.

In her own deceit and betrayal, the Widow Demon died away, forfeiting tenure and reputation with each Instrument falling by her hand. Specks of blood repainted natural freckles along her stoic features, exertion slow to rise as she cut down the masses who had strived to become a fraction of what she’d made of herself. This was not Ivan’s doing, but her own determination and strength that pushed her to stand upon hallowed ground. They were beneath her, and in this act of savage rebellion, it came to stand in bronze.

Fire began to lick up the tapestries and parchments adorning the walls, flames spreading within the infrastructure to burst forth with so little to stop it. Her raven, her guide, her true speaker of destiny. He had given the spark to bring this crashing down in an elegance to match her own grace. The deadly dance that only she could choreograph in brutal grace and ruthless finality was left unaffected by the volatile nature of the spreading fire. In order to get to those chambers, to the one she knew he retreated to, she must cut her way through pitiful emulations of herself. These fallen copies were innocent in their own right, the only sin they held was that of mistrust.

She had to work quickly as to ascertain safe passage out of the symbolized crumbling of an empire born of mankind’s evil. It didn’t matter now, how many she left alive or barely clinging to consciousness. Johann was where her fate lied, and the Widow made quick work of moving into the series of chambers stowed away behind the altar. Though she claimed to be the best, numbers had not left her unscathed yet the razor focus she now held was keeping frivolous things such as pain away from the forefront of her attention. Repercussions for this necessary deed would be contemplated at a later date, though Natalia was aware of the immediate reactions to her betrayal.

Steeped in the blood of her brothers, she pressed on with emerald eyes searching out every corner and turn to find the King of Liars. It would be in his own bed chambers she found him, attempting to stow away what few treasures he thought highly of. Materials that were given as offerings in the time of worship were selfishly taken as spoils of spiritual war, painting Johann’s privacy in decadent tones of gold and velvet. Three paces forward, and a blade had already pierced through him, her form pinning him to the floor to allow her to loom overhead with unrelenting fury burning as brightly as the cathedral itself. Crimson sputtered from his thin lips, disbelief shaping his face into something befitting that of a caught thief.

“N-Natalia...my- my sister.” The sound of her name slipping off his dying tongue forced the blade in further, her split lip curling into a heavy snarl so rarely seen by those surrounding her.

“Twist the name of God in your favor, Johann, and He will surely smite thee in time.” The dark voice she used was gritted with a proclamation itching to burst forth. “Did you not think you would fall prey to his wrathful ways? There are no exceptions, Demon.” The moniker so easily used on the Instruments was now turned upon himself, and the rebuttal was laced with anger as energy crumbled from the man beneath her.

“I am no Demon. I s-see your lies, y-you heathen! D-Daughter of a whore, I-I should’ve killed you w-with her.” The true colors of the archbishop were shining through, thick like tar and rancid in its show in the fire’s light. A small smile began to accompany the snarl on the Widow’s scarred facade, finding humor in the dying man’s words.

“You are no Demon,” she agreed. “You are The Destroyer himself, dear Brother. Tell me, Fallen One, if it is God who holds your fate in his hand, how is it that I hold it now?” Silence between the two was filled with the inferno pressing on beyond the chambers. Time was ticking away without mercy, yet Natalia couldn’t pull herself away from this moment, finding too much pleasure taken in the sinful decree of murder. Speechlessness from Johann was sipped upon much like an oasis in a never ending desert. This triumph would affirm her own past actions justified in more ways than one. Blood of the Lamb would be washed from her soul in the eradication of evil in His eyes. And yet”

“Look upon me, Johann,” she whispered, leaning down to become the only thing he could see. The light was dwindling in ice cold eyes glaring up at her, weight pressed further upon the weapon of his destruction, the length of it having now sliced clean through his chest. “I am not the Widow Demon. I am not your Instrument. I am not of your flock.”

Johann slipped into purgatory upon Natalia’s parting words, falling from her lips with unshakable conviction.

“I am God, Johann, and I have judged you unfit for my precious gift of life.”

O Holy Mother in Heaven, I beseech thee. Praised be unto the God Widow, for her wrath is swift and unending. Guide me, Mother, and I will follow the shadowed footsteps through the valleys and mountains.

O God Widow, I worship thee.

Look upon me, and tremble in sight of the God Widow.

[accidentandinjuryclaimsblr]

BC Court of Appeal – Expert “Fact” Witnesses Entitled to Only $20 Fee for Trial Attendance

Useful reasons for judgement were published today by the BC Court of Appeal confirming that when a professional is summoned to testify at trial about facts they have knowledge of (as opposed to privately retained expert witnesses to give opinion evidence) they are entitled to no more than the $20 fee that must accompany a subpoena.

In today’s case (Luis v. Marchiori) the Plaintiff was injured in two vehicle collisions and sued for damages.  At trial her family doctor testified but not as an expert opinion witness, but rather as a witness of fact.  The Plaintiff paid $2,651 to the doctor for this service and tried to recover this as a disbursement.  In refusing to allow this the BC Court of Appeal noted that when a professional testifies as to facts they are entitled to nothing more than any other fact witness.  The BC Court of Appeal provided the following reasons:

[5]             It is useful to begin by distinguishing between expert fact evidence and expert opinion evidence. Witnesses who become involved in litigation due to their profession—such as a treating doctor or an engineer overseeing a construction project—may be called to testify about their observations. Although the observations may be beyond the knowledge of a layperson, that testimony is not opinion evidence. Examples include a witness describing radiological images, identifying a microbe seen under a microscope, or identifying the pathological process seen on surgery or autopsy. Such evidence is sometimes described as “non-opinion expert evidence”: Robert B. White, The Art of Using Expert Evidence (Toronto: Canada Law Book, 1997), ch. 2 at 16‒21.

[6]             Justice Schultes addressed this distinction in Anderson v. Dwyer, 2009 BCSC 1872 at para. 14 in the context of the Rule requiring notice of opinion evidence:

… However, the witness’s factual narrative of the actions he took and the observations he made, including describing without interpretation, the anatomical features he observed in the x-rays does not amount to offering an opinion and does not offend the Rule. The fact that he brings special training or experience to bear in having taken those actions and made those observations is not determinative. It is whether he draws inferences or offers opinion beyond what the actual evidence itself is capable of revealing.

[Emphasis added.]…

[46]         Although I agree that some professions are more regularly called upon to testify in court than others, it is not readily apparent that a particular individual will be called upon more often. Further, these appeals have focused on the potential financial hardship to professionals such as physicians, engineers and lawyers called to testify as fact witnesses, but as Justice Park observed in Lonergan v. The Royal Exchange Assurance, (1831), 131 E.R. 280 at 283, “time to a poor man is of as much importance as to an attorney.” Indeed, the loss of a day’s work at minimum wage may be a greater relative hardship to a lay witness than the loss of a professional person’s earnings. In addition, to focus on monetary losses alone may be too narrow. Although some witnesses make a sacrifice of time and labour and thus of profits and wages, others sacrifice privacy, and experience the “disagreeable consequence of disclosure”: Wigmore on Evidence, vol. 8 at 72.

[47]         In my view, the interpretation Ms. Luis advances is of no small significance, departing as it would from the longstanding tradition that attendance at trial is “an inherent burden of citizenship”. As John Henry Wigmore put it so eloquently:

That the ordinary witness should be paid more than the nominal dollar — i.e., should be fully indemnified for sacrificing his day’s livelihood in order to perform his testimonial duty — is a plausible assertion. The argument against it, that the total cost of reimbursing highly paid citizens would be prohibitive, gives no real answer, for the state is bound to supply the necessities of justice however expensive. The best answer is that the testimonial duty, like other civic duties, is to be performed without pay, the sacrifice being an inherent burden of citizenship. Neither for military service nor for public office can the citizen claim that he shall be paid on a scale which will bear any equable proportion to the loss of his livelihood’s income. Any other principle would be worthy only of a purely mercenary community. If the sacrifice made is a real one, the dignity of the service rendered should ennoble it. The sense of civic duty done must be the consolation.

Wigmore on Evidence, vol. 8 at 136. [Emphasis added.]

[48]         If there are sound policy reasons for departing from that tradition and the present regime, it is in my view for the legislature and not the judiciary to effect that change.

[49]         In summary, I am of the view that the payment of an attendance fee to expert fact witnesses beyond the fee prescribed in Schedule 3 is not a disbursement recoverable from the opposing party. I would therefore dismiss the appeals, with thanks to all counsel for their able and thorough submissions.

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