#i have so many thoughts but only the voide (tumbler) to scream them in to lol

[evoliravioli]

Finisht this manga and i have so many thoughts omg

[alpaca-writes]

Mystics, Chapter 7

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as they think...

Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five] [chapter six]

Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror

CW: leg injury, knife whump, 

---

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GODS OF JUST AND UNJUST MEN

        The man keeled over just as the darkness had engulfed him and the sensation of ground had returned beneath his feet. Ragged and shaking, he cried out in agony, clutching his right leg that poured deep crimson blood staining his fingers. A soft blue light emanated from a tunnel above his head, showering him in a beckoning glow.

       Beside him, a woman formed from the drifting darkness of the abyss. Her black hair was pulled off to one side in multitudes of smooth braids that reached her hips. She knelt down in her simple white linen gown, and touched the man on the shoulder. He stared up at her, his face soaked with more tears than rain or sweat.

        “Th-They don’t… They don’t remember me,” he stammered shakily.

        The Goddess hushed him softly, and brought her hand down to the knife handle. She met his gaze, and searched his green eyes. He became lost in her mesmerizing essence and in one swift motion, she pulled the knife out of his thigh.

        He launched onto his back, roiling in the unfathomable release of pressure in his leg. He was screaming, but the void consumed his cries until the very end.

        “I gather you were unable to kill him?”

        She had waited for him to stop screaming before tossing the knife down in a clatter by his head.

        The man still laid on his back, caring not for the wound that was bleeding out with fearsome speed. His lower lip quivered and he closed his eyes.

        “No,” he answered through gritted teeth. “He… He was in a meeting.”

        The woman breathed out the last of her hope and stood over him, shaking her head.

        “We don’t like excuses,” she expressed, circling him. “Lyrem is only a man, and Hades wants results. If you don’t deliver, then you don’t get to stay on Earth. Running away with another human is not what we asked of you, was it?”

        He shook his head, wiping a hand over his face like he was shielding himself from the rays of her shame.

        “Next time,” he said. Forcing himself to sit up, he looked at her squarely, and turned his face to stone to address the Goddess as she ought to be. “I’ll get him next time. Persephone, please send me back- I”-

        “No.”

        He forced on, “I’ll get him this time, I swear”-

        “Ar”-

        “SEND ME BACK!”

         This time, his voice carried farther through the void and then it echoed back to them. He lowered his voice reactively, sensing that he had done something severely improper.

        “Please… Send me back.”

        Seeing his emotionally fragile form was endearing as well as tremendously unsettling. Persephone lowered herself to him as he laid there, barely supported by his one elbow. Huffing, she laid a hand against his leg. He stared into her perfectly dark eyes, trusting her once more with great effort.

        “I can heal you partially,” she offered, “And with a bit of time, I’ll be able to send you back.”

        “Don’t bother healing me if you can send me back now.” He argued, “Lyrem has Arch”-

        “If I don’t heal you, you’ll bleed out and return here within minutes. And you will be of no use to us then. You’re a mortal, remember; dancing between worlds of life and death.” Persephone explained. Gently, she cupped his cheek with a soft, sympathetic hand.  “The rules were never written for someone like you.”

        He tore himself away from her grip, and gulped down the last option that he was given. He took some time, considering her words with the reverence that one would give to a wise crone.

        “I don’t know how long they… Fine,” he finally agreed.

        Arguing with Gods and Goddesses alike wasn’t a normal habit for him- but for now, he would take what he could get.

       “But I promise you… I promise Hades… I will kill Lyrem. I’ll do it, no matter what it takes. I’ll deliver his head to you on a fucking silver plate if it means I can go back to my old life.”

        “Usually, I would advise against making promises you cannot keep,” the darkness called through, washing over him. It was the voice of the Underworld; of Hades Himself. He could not be witnessed in the dark abyss, where only the dead contained the sight to see the God in His glory. The voice carried on, shaking the injured mortal to his very core as it rumbled through him like a thunder.

        “But with you… I am willing to believe that there may be some hope for us all.”

        Persephone blinked slowly; the words of Hades filling her soul like she had taken a breath of fresh morning air. She looked down to the human, allowing a small smile to sneak its way onto her face, as his filled with cautious determination.

                                              -------------------

          “I think I like them.”

        Lyrem looked up from his two fingers of scotch whisky and smiled to the man sitting across from him in a matching orange armchair by Mystics’ storefront window. The lights of evening downtown glowed inwards, as the two of them caught up with each other. Lyrem had finished his story of the strange and annoying priest at the hospital- and the terrible treatment that his charge, Arch was receiving there.

        “I thought you might,” Lyrem replied. “I’ve primed Arch with talents they’ll be able to carry forward for years and years to come.”

        “And yet, you still cannot trust them to keep their memories.”

        There was a twinkle in the dark eyes of his guest. Everything from his squared off top hat to his jacket and to his bejeweled cane spoke of decadence and divine tailoring. He smoothed his long black beard down to its tip with long fingers, studying his friend and regular supplier with great interest as he took his time with his response.

        “I cannot be certain that they will follow me.” Lyrem admitted, taking a sip from the glass tumbler that sat in his right hand. “They are so connected with people… with life… How can one twist a mind that pure?”

        “All that purity, it ends somewhere. Everyone has their limits. Goodness leaves us all in the dust eventually and your successor cannot be someone with sentimental ties. One day, even you will have to leave them behind.” The man’s pinky finger danced in the air as he raised his own glass. “Since you know, the Devil always comes to collect on her debts.”

        Lyrem grunted rudely at the reminder.

        “Any word on when that might be?” Lyrem asked with deepening interest in his tired face, “I know you have an ear to the abyss, Paimon. You can tell me.”

        Paimon merely chuckled, and clicked his fingers. The record player began to set itself up, playing the tunes that were primed to go. The album was something picked out by Arch from the record store across town several weeks ago after they had grown tired of John Denver.

           I wouldn’t want to be a chimney sweep,

          All black from head to foot,

         From climbing in them chimneys,

         And cleaning out that soot…

        “Just enjoy life, Lyrem- while you still can,” Paimon winked as he finished his glass and clunked it down. “Throw out your stoic wisdom, already, and prepare your charge for when you’re finally dead. That’s my advice.”

        Sensing that Paimon was on his way out, Lyrem stopped him. 

        “One more thing... I suspect that a particular captive of mine has found a way out of the Labyrinth in the back room. There are no… other doorways that you neglected to mention when I purchased it off of you, are there?”

        “I am leasing it to you, Lyrem.” Paimon corrected him with a shake of his head in pity. “Like all rental properties, sometimes renovations are necessary.”

         Lyrem scoffed at his flippant response. But before he could say anything else, the demon had vanished from his chair.

         “At least give me a bloody notice first,” Lyrem muttered to himself before finishing his glass with a final swallow. Only the melody would keep him company now.

         The honey from the bee,

        The shellfish from the sea,

        The earth, the wind, a girl,

        Someone to share these things with-

        Lyrem switched off the record abruptly and then picked up the empty glasses left on the corner table. Paimon’s words rang in his head as though they were warning him. He had been sensing for quite sometime that Hekate had grown impatient with his antics. He had been given many gifts from the underworld’s many inhabitants in his short time on Earth, and as a result owed many debts; some debts simply would not be repaid in the bones of ancient Mayan sacrifices- though sometimes they did make thoughtful gifts.

        Demons and divine spirits, Gods and Goddesses alike, all had some opinion on Lyrem Nomadus. At one time or another he had procured an item or two for almost all of them- whether it was something as frivolous as an original Da Vinci sketch or as dark as a human heart for ritual consumption. Whether they had a fair opinion of the man, or a sour one, they would all agree that for a human, he was really rather quite useful and would go the extra mile to make them happy as long as he was paid in full with their favors.

        Lyrem was well aware that those days of retrieval and dealing were long past him now. His age was beginning to show in all the worst ways. Sentimentality becoming the latest of wrinkles in his pallid complexion. The first wrinkle of which was when he had removed memories from Maria, his one and only love, so that she could be happy living out the rest of her life with a normal human. Meeting Arch, and the strong connection that they had grown, was just another one of the latest displays of his sentimental nature. The visit from his old friend this night yet again, a reminder that his good work would soon be coming to an end.

        Lyrem had to be sure that Arch was prepared by any means necessary. This meant there could not be room for distractions. There was no room for failure. If Arch was unable to make use of the gift they were given, then they would die before they even started.

        “What now?” Paimon returned, sensing Lyrem call for him in short thoughts. The demon stood, leaning against his cane by the door, regarding Lyrem with a tired interest.

        “I have an idea,” Lyrem postulated, placing the tumblers on the counter as he paced the store’s sale floor. “-but I will need your help to locate a shape-shifter.”

        Paimon perked his head higher, as Lyrem continued hesitantly.

        “One, preferably, that is extraordinarily good at acting.”

        Paimon’s lips curled as his eyes danced with amusement, and nodded.

        “I’m always willing to help out an old friend,” he smiled.

[vegetacide]

Sleepless

Veg●notable: So... this popped into my head.. wrote it.. and here we are.

Any mistakes are purely my own...

Characters: Kayo/Virgil, Jeff Tracy

General warning: Just a little gropey

Word count: 4541 words

Time: Middle of the night. Crack past when regular people would be sleeping

Location: Lounge balcony, Island

Summary: Someone is having a hard time sleeping.. stuff happens. Embarrassment ensues.

Enjoy!

o0o

Virgil sat upright with a jolt, the feeling of foreboding and dread chasing him into the land of wakefulness. Breath heaving, heart pounding a rapid staccato in his chest, he scrambled up his rumpled bed until his back found the headboard and kicked his legs free of the tangle of linens.

Croaking out a command, the shadowy remnants of the nightmare which had been plaguing his slumber vanished as the soft, pre-programmed lighting illuminated the quiet space of his room. Reassuring him that he wasn’t actually hanging from a mountain a mere finger’s width away from a trapped climber..

Cursing softly to himself, he racked a hand through his sleep tousled hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed resisting the urge to shiver as the temperature controlled air breezed over his sweat soaked back.

Slouching he braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed the exhausted fog from his eyes. The dream had felt so real, the blistering cold, the blinding wind, the burning chill in his chest as he desperately tried to stretch those last few centimetres.

He’d been so very close yet not close enough. The climber’s pleading voice, hoarse from screaming grew quiet and an odd calm of realization had settled over the indistinguishable features of their face. A dark truth had been registered, that salvation was not in the cards for them.

In that instant Virgil had recognized the climber’s sudden intent and throwing all caution to the bitter mountain wind, he’d lunged. His thighs coiling then thrusting him out and away from the purchase of the ledge he’d been dangling from and just as he started to free fall, the climber let go…

He stared down at his hand and frowned at the slight tremble in them. Clenching them a few times and dispelling the dull phantom ache he felt from the situation that had been conjured from the depths of his own subconscious.

Catching the dim, blue numerals of the digital display on his night stand, Virgil exhaled wearily and with a grunt of effort pushed to his feet. A couple hours of sleep was better than no sleep at all but after three straight days of this, the lack of a full eight was starting to wear on him.

His brothers always razzed on him for his late morning sleeping habits and it looked like it was going to be no different once the sun decided to crest the horizon. Little did they know though that his penchant for daytime slumber was more out of a dire need than laziness on his part.

He’d suffered the insomniatic spurts for a large part of his adult life. Some due to traversing multiple time zones on a regular and completely throwing off his natural circadian rhythm and other from an over-active mind that just ceased to shut off at a reasonable time.

He’d tried various sleep aids over the years, from the medicinal variety to the drinkable kind with a percentage stamped on the side of the bottle but neither of them were long-term solutions. Both had side effects that were detrimental to his chosen career path. Hard to concentrate on a rescue in a drug induced fog or function effectively with a hangover. He knew that from experiences and both were definitely something he didn’t want to try or risk again with lives on the line.

So letting the brotherly teasing just roll off him was his preferred dénouement. As for the twilight hours from dusk till dawn? He filled those lonely hours with copious midnight sessions in the island gym, or with twilight maintenance work on his ‘Bird. The latter had been done so frequently that he could reassemble Two’s VTOL thruster assembly blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back and with a set of nail clippers as his only tool…. On the rare occasion when the exhaustion wasn’t too intolerable, he’d even break out his art supplies. Usually though his creative muse would be out cold in a corner somewhere so his productivity on those nights was severely lacking and whatever he managed to produce was subpar at best.

No one ever saw those works of so-called “art”. They were tucked away in the far back corner of his art studio saved from the trash for some reason he was unable to wrap his head around despite the fact that he loathed them for their complete ineptitude.

Crap results or not, it served its purpose of distracting his mind from whatever it was that was preventing him from dreamland and he found that on more than one occasion he managed to just stumble off to bed again before the rest of the house had roused to start their day. Hiding the fact that sleep had been evading him and effectively staving off both the worry wart that was Scott and matriarchal commandeering presence of his Grandmother.

Though these days, he had the added pressure of dealing with the wandering presence of his father as well. Who seemed to ghost around the house at night as much as he did. Virgil suspected that his father was still adjusting to being Earth side and except for one instance had managed to avoid him.

Jeff Tracy’s sleep patterns were erratic at best but that was to be expected after his survival ordeal in the Oort cloud. Virgil knew from a medical standpoint that given time his father would eventually adjust but in the meantime, he would have to play a one sided version of cat and mouse with the man just so he didn’t set his father’s somewhat questionable mental stability for a spin. He had enough on his plate to deal with already, he didn’t need the added weight of his second oldest son’s problems on top of it.

Giving his head a shake at the direction of his thoughts, Virgil made his way over to his closet. If he let his mind drift in that way for too long he would find himself down a rabbit hole he would have a hard time finding his way out of. At the moment he didn’t have the mental stamina or the wherewithal for it either.

Reaching blindly into the dark depths of his closet Virgil rummaged around until his fingers came across the soft cotton of a well loved pair of track pants. Slipping the loose folds of worn fabric over his legs he contemplated his options for the rest of the night and just couldn’t drum up the energy to make a decision.

Catching a glimpse at his bed out of the corner of his eye he knew that staying in his room wasn’t on the table. Turning, Virgil made his way quietly on bare feet out the door and towards the stairs. Maybe something good would be on late night TV but knowing his luck as of late it was unlikely. At this point though it was better than coming up with an alternative. He’d already gone over Two with a fine toothed comb and his muscles were still recuperating from the previous nights work out. Last thing he wanted to do was to end up with a work out related injury. He was already pushing safety parameters on call outs as it was and a sprain or strain was going to have him benched for sure

---

Ten minutes of channel surfing was all it took before Virgil hit the fed up phase of his evening. Abso-fucking nothing on TV. Nothing at least that could keep his attention. Tossing the remote somewhere to his left, he shoved up to his feet, grabbed his glass off the low table and headed out on to the balcony to watch the light show of a storm that was passing by off-shore.

Leaning his elbow on the railing overlooking the pool he watched the play of light as it rumbled across the dense cloud cover. By the looks of it, the storm was shaping up to be a big one but all their scans told them it would keep well to the South of their island home. Even as far out to sea as it was, the winds were starting to pick up and Virgil could hear the storm surge as it crashed against the shoals and rocky outcroppings far below the family villa.

Losing himself to the slashes of lightning that danced across the heavens in a vibrant display of scorching white streaks buffeting, turbulent bruise coloured clouds that in an instant succumb to the abysmal void of inky black. He could feel in his bones that beep bass rumbles that followed. Thrumming through the Earth, cement and rebar of his home up though his feet and the oppressiveness of its ferocity weighed on him. Even all these many miles away the might of Mother Nature could be felt. He just prayed that no one was stupid enough to be out in that mess.

“Fingers crossed.”

*-*-*

It hadn’t been her intention to startle him. Far from it and it wasn’t like she was trying to be quiet about her approach. Virgil had been just so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed her standing beside him contemplating the stark contrast of light and shadows across the expanse of his tense back and heavy shoulders.

“Shit… Kayo, you scared the crap out of me.” He heaved a sigh, settling his weight against the railing again.

“Sorry, didn’t mean too but I was just agreeing with what you said.”

Puzzled eyes turned towards her and a thick brow arched in question to her statement.

Mirroring his pose, she gave his shoulder a nudge with her own before pointing a finger off towards the churning storm. “That no one is stupid enough to be out in that.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he processed her words, noting the stiffness to his posture, the way the darkness hung like a bruise under his tired eyes and the paler of his skin. Even in the limited lighting he looked more ghost-like than human.

He gave a grunt of understanding before turning back to watch the storm and lifting his tumbler to the distant clouds in a salute. “Here’s to hoping.” The last dregs in the glass disappeared in short order as he tossed it back. The whiff of whiskey wafting her way as he set the empty vessel on the railing between them.

“I thought you were on rota tomorrow?” She questioned as she eyed the glass and wondered how much had been consumed.

“I am.” His eyes followed hers and he gave a shrug but no further explanation and Kayo didn’t press.

She’d basically grown up with the man and his brothers so she trusted his judgement impeccably but there was still something bothering her about the whole scene. Something felt off..

“You okay?” She was never one to bat around the bushes and her gut was very seldom wrong especially where it concerned the man beside her. The man she’d stopped seeing as a sibling sometime ago and started seeing as something else entirely. It was something that started to blossom one unforgettable snowy night the previous November in New York but neither of them had had the time to tend to since…. Other more pressing things had gotten in the way and there was now another Tracy planet side and returned from the dead as a result.

Maybe now…

He gave a shrug and he shifted to look at her, the wind blowing in off the coast tousling his unstyled hair in a roguish way across his brow. “I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

He was holding something back, she could tell. Something eerie lurked in his tired walnut gazed. Shifting across the usual vivid depths like the smoldering haze after a wildfire. Dampening what was usually brilliant and clear.

She stepped towards him, her hand reaching to cup his check. The unshaved scruff rough against the palm of her hand. “I’m a good listener if you need an ear.”

He turned into her embrace, brushed his lips over the soft flesh of her hand in silent thanks and smiled at her. “Kinda a prerequisite in your line of work.”

Her own lips quirked up. “Growing up in a house full of testosterone it was a necessity or I would never have been able to sneak out at night with five over protective brothers.”

Virgil chuckled, some of the murkiness leaving his eyes. “Point taken.”

She let her hand drop and a flash of something like disappointed flickered across his brow.

His breath fanned across her face as he sighed, the light fragrance of whiskey warming her. “So…” she said, crossing her arms and emitting the air of stubbornness she was known for. “Spill already.”

A heavy shoulder lifted, the light cast through the open lounge doors catching on the planes of thick muscle with the movement and she couldn’t resist brushing a hand over the warm skin.

“Rough night, that’s all.”

“Can’t sleep again?’

He looked surprised at her question and she had her answer without him saying a word.

“Virgil, I specialize in security. I am well aware of your night time routine.Two has never run better and the gym equipment requires a break from you before you actually break it. Besides,” She added admiring the way his biceps bunched as he rested his hands on his hips, “You get any bigger you won’t be able to fit down Two’s chute”

A soft curse slipped past his lips. It was obvious that he’d thought that his attempts to avoid his family had been successful.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t or wont say anything to Scott.” Her fingers gave his shoulder a light squeeze of reassurance. “If it gets worse I know you’ll do the right thing and say something yourself. You’re dealing with it right now in your own way and you have a right to your own privacy and council. Just, if you wanna talk...” she stalled out on her offering, shifting her gaze away from his to take in the night around them as heat started to colour her cheeks.

A moment later his fingers danced across her brow and she sucked in a breath as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His strong musician’s fingers lingered until she met his eyes again.

He was looking down at her, so close now that the bare skin of his chest brushed hers with every breath. He seemed to be sturdier now, more so then when she’d discovered him looking despondently at the storm. An assuredness that had been missing before seemed to have returned to the strong line of his jaw and the tension she’d seen in his posture was gone. There was a shift in the air around him, almost anticipatory in nature and she felt a thrill run down her spine.

Her pulse kicked at the heat imbued in his eyes as he gently angled her face towards his own. She stammered, not able to finish off what she had been about to say. “..uh..talk about....”

“Thank you, Tin’ He whispered, the oaky tang of alcohol ghosting across her lips and effectively stopping her uncharacteristic fumbling.

It took but a nanosecond for her brain to go from a midair stall out to ignition. Her inner monologue screamed, demanding that she act. Only the slightest of movements would be needed to bridge the distance between them. An easy contraction of muscles and she could push up on her toes, silencing all other words with the meeting of their lips. Without further hesitation, she did just that.

Months of denied contact and frustration sprang to the fore, blazing bright and intoxicating. Before either of them were aware, they were wrapped around each other. His strong body flush to her own, his hand tangled in her hair that had somehow between one second and the next come undone from its customary binding.

“God..” she panted, barely recognizing her own voice. His lips skimming across her flesh, trailing like fire down her neck to that spot that made her world flip on its axis. Light headed she scraped her nails down his back. Seeking purchase as her knees grew weak.

“I’ve missed you…”

He emitted a groan of approval. The sound heady, potent and oh so primal. It was almost her undoing and the burn within her flared.

Desperate for more and caring little about where they were standing, she slipped her hand between them...

The sudden intrusion of a throat clearing had them springing apart so fast that she almost lost her footing and she gracelessly plopped down on the nearest lounger. A feeble attempt on her part to save face. The instantaneous lack of Virgil’s body heat made her shiver and it sobered her mind faster than any cold shower could.

One of the overhead lights flicked on and the silhouetted figure at the balcony door came into sharp focus. A short striped housecoat was sashed neatly at a trim waist and slippered feet scuffed lightly over the flooring as the head of the house stepped out onto the balcony. In one hand he swirled a glass of water. Condensation dribbling over faintly scared hands as the ice cubes tinkled with the rhythmic movement.

“Tanusha,” He greeted, one proud eyebrow arched high over suspicious eyes as he scanned over the breathless pair. “Son.”

*-*-*

Fuck… that was all that came to mind as Virgil gaped at his father though he knew better than to voice the expletive.

Reaching out a hand, he grasped at the railing and wished his own long forgotten glass wasn’t so empty.

How in hell was he going to explain this?

He peered over to Kayo hoping that she could provide something, anything that might salvage the situation. The stunned deer-caught-in-the-headlights look he found though didn't bode well.

His first attempt to speak caught in his throat and he cleared it self consciously before risking a quick glance down to assess his person. Thankfully everything was where it should be and mercifully, PG...well...kind of.

“...Dad…It’s late, what are you doing up?”

Jeff blinked at his son then held up his glass, the answer obvious. “Hydrating, as I can see you have been doing too.”

“Oh..ya that… just a night cap.”

“And you’re on call in the morning?” It was said more like a statement than a question and Virgil did his best to hide the wince at the hidden reprimand.

His father turned to Kayo, effectively dismissing the subject from further conversation as he was well aware that his message had been received loud and clear.

Virgil did a fast and stealthy re-adjustment of his pants and groaned internally. Chances were by morning he would find that his shift had been rescheduled and he was going to need to dodge the Scott Tracy hairy eyeball all day. An unwritten rule that all the younger brothers were well aware of; never mess with the Commander’s schedules. It was some old hang up from his military days that he’d never grown out of to the detriment of the rest of the island. As unpredictable as Scott could be when on mission, at home you could figure out the time of day by what the eldest was doing. From his morning jog right down to when he grabbed the daily stock reports and headed to the bathroom.

It was kind of freaky actually. The man’s bowels were perfectly timed, no matter the food that went in...even if it was Grandma’s cooking.

Giving the back of his neck a rub, Virgil surmised he spent far too much time with his brother, far, far too much time.

Well with the exception of playing a tantalizing round of ‘avoid the angry, overly concerned big brother’… at least he could attempt to catch up on some sleep.

Ding! Bright side!...Crap.

“Tanusha, didn’t know you were back on the island. How was the flight in?”

“Uh.. hell of a cross wind on approach, ” Kayo finally piped up, returning once more to her feet. Her security agent persona nailed firmly back into place. “But nothing Shadow couldn’t handle.”

“Hmm, glad to hear it. You’ll have to let me take her for a spin sometime.” His father said all conversationally as if that fact that his second eldest and basically his adoptive daughter hadn’t just been about to get it on right there on the balcony like a pair of randy teenagers.

Jeff tipped his chin in the direction of the storm. “Nice light show.”

Virgil caught a hint of a grin on his father’s face that was not quite hidden behind a careful sip of water. The man knew exactly what he was doing and he was loving every minute of it.

“Uhhh… ya. It is.” Well, this was definitely awkward and his father was sadistic. Now would be a fantastic time for John to call down with a situation.. Somewhere.. .Anywhere.. For anything.. Like a cat stuck in a tree in say like Alaska...right now…

Kayo nodded her head in agreement and mouthed an apology in Virgil’s direction when Jeff turned to take in the view. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you both but duty call.” She glanced down at her wrist as if to check the time but really it was to avoid the pleading look on Virgil’s face. “Canada’s about to come online and they owe me a report on last week’s protocol updates.”

Virgil’s shoulders slumped..

“Good night, Tanusha.”

“Good night, Jeff.” And she slinked off into the house, holding her head high despite that fact that there was still a healthy glow of red riding her cheeks.

Jeff shifted his attention back to Virgil. “So..you two were just,” He actually stopped mid sentence to emphasize his point with finger quotation. “Talking ?”

Exhausted beyond measure, embarrassed within an inch of his life and, if he was going to be truthful to himself; horny as hell…Yup, this evening was summing up to be a real shit show.

Crossing and uncrossing his arms, Virgil really wasn’t sure what to do with himself. It wasn’t like he was a teenager anymore. He was a grown man, of course he had relationships of a romantic nature.. He wasn’t a monk, by any stretch of the imagination but this was his father and old habits apparently did die hard.

Despite the length of time his father had been absent and the fact the family dynamic in the house was still adjusting to the patriarch’s return, Virgil felt like he’d somehow regressed back to a sixteen year old again. Caught making out with his highschool girlfriend on the couch and trying to make up excuses for the state of their undress.

The smile on his father’s face told him though that the man was well aware of his son’s floundering.

“Relax, son.” A humorous snort followed and he wandered over to stand beside him, leaning casually on the railing. “ I believe we had that conversation about the birds and the bees when you were eleven. You’re a grown man, I’m not going to fault you for looking for a bit of peace and comfort. ”

Virgil studied the ground, his mind drifting to the woman that had so captured his attention. He’d been skirting around how he felt in regards to her for months and he still had doubts if it was right of him to feel the way he did. To revise their adoptive familial relationship to something more intimate after everything they had been though. He often wondered if he was in some way taking advantage… as stupid as that might sound to others he seriously questioned his own motives.

It had been Kayo that had taken the first giant leap though. He shouldn’t have been surprised with her intuition. She’d seen right through him. Tore down all his defenses to expose what he so stupidly thought was hidden from her. Everything all out into the open for them both to see and after that..right into a penthouse suite at the Park Hyatt.

One thing about Kayo, she certainly didn’t waste time when the chips were down. She knew what she wanted and she went for it.

“So, you and our Tin-tin, huh?” Jeff chuckled and Virgil brought his attention back to his father.. “I never would have suspected but seeing you two together just now.. Well, I can definitely say that the pair of you are a good match. Complementary to each other actually.”

Despite his own embarrassment, Virgil started to relax. Relieve that his father seemed fine with what he had inadvertently walked in on. “Its, uh.. still very new.”

“Really?” Jeff questioned, his brows shooting up in mild surprise. “With that chemistry? Reminds me of when your Mom and I were together. After the first few months there wasn’t a lot that could distract us from…”

“Dad!” Virgil all but squeaked. He didn’t think it was possible to fit more blood into his head at that moment but apparently he could. Well at least the blood had stopped pooling somewhere else....thank God..

Jeff raised a placating hand and his words carried a laugh in them. “Okay, okay. I will spare you the details. The point being, the pair of you look good together and I must admit even with me still trying to get the lay of the land around here… you two fit and if it makes the pair of you happy, then I wholeheartedly approve.”

Virgil was speechless a moment. It had been the last thing he expected. Approval so easily given from a man he remembered as being rather commanding and if he was being truthful to himself, a bit intimidating.

His father’s time in space had changed him, changed them all in ways they didn't fully understand.

His father placed a hand on his shoulder, his calloused fingers tightening for a brief moment before he turned to watch the storm.

They sat a moment in companionable silence. Father and son, just taking in the light show together, getting reacquainted in a quiet moment while the rest of the house slept on.

It didn’t last long but it was enough to start mending the old tired fences that lay scattered between them. Not broken from misuse but worn from the years of absence. “You should try and get some sleep, son. You look tired and the sun will be up soon enough.”

Virgil inhaled deeply, tasting the distant rain and the linger hint of jasmine on his tongue. He nodded as he pushed away from the railing, rolling his shoulders to loosen up some of the knots that lingered there. “I should.” He agreed but paused before heading inside once more. “Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the storm."

Jeff tipped his glass slightly in salute. "I always did love a good show."

Virgil paused a moment, not sure how to take that but quickly decided he was way too tired to figure it out. Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes with a soft chuckle and stepped back into the house.

o0o

FIN

[bbrandy2002]

The Fall of Cordonia

Chapter Three

Trigger Warning: Infant mortality mentioned, suicide, sexual assault and murder.

A/N: Im a little shook from writing this 😬

Word count: 2342

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Thanks to my girls @burnsoslow and @emceesynonymroll for prereading snippets.

Tagging: @khakie4 @jemrmax2love @princess-geek @rainbowsinthestorm @annekebbphotography @ao719 @texaskitten30 @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @lodberg @romanticatheart-posts @duchessemersynwalker @cordoniansqueen @burnsoslow @kimmiedoo5 @innerpostmentality @sirbeepsalot @emceesynonymroll @janezillow @cordoniantrash @jovialyouthmusic @dcbbw @moonlightgem7 @polishchoicesfan @jessiembruno @lovemychoices @mallorycortez @angi15h @hopefulmoonobject @gardeningourmet

Nikolas had not stopped crying since being placed in Marguerite's arms many hours ago. She sat on the edge of her bed with him, thrusting her nipple into his mouth, attempting to feed and soothe him;  disregarding the fact her supply dried up months ago. Each time he suckled desperately, his tiny mouth released into an erratic fit, fingers balled into tight fists, unsatisfied with his continuing thirst.

Her scent was different, the sound of her voice unfamiliar, and the beating of her heart did not have the same rhythmic tune that usually lulled him to sleep.

The Princess continued her attempts to feed and bring comfort to him, however, the baby refuses her breast. After the night she had, all the crying, Nikolas refusing to bond with her, sleep deprivation, she wasn't sure if her plan would be plausible, if this child would ever accept her as his mother.

She rose from the bed and gently laid him in the bassinet that sat directly next to her, staring at his swollen, bright blue eyes, that were full of rage and fear. Those same eyes were similar in color and form as her own newborn son, except his had been void of any emotion...there were no tears, no blinking, no pain, just stillness.

Her own eyes began to mist as she thought about that day,  privately delivering a stillborn child, two months before her due date. She knew the minute she saw the soft, downey hair of blonde that covered his small head, the father was not a current King, but, rather, a former prince.

Nikolas was the closest thing she now had to keeping her miserable reality a distant memory. Nearly the same blood that coursed through his tiny veins, was the also the one that burned with desire and passion for her almost a year ago. Would Leo ever accept this child as his own? He had been so relunctant to before, but, now, just maybe, if he held their baby in his arms, would she be able to entice him back into her world. Except, this wasn't their sweet baby, she wasn't his mother and Nikolas was making damn sure, without a doubt, she knew it.

Feeling depleted, she plopped back down onto the bed, the sheer volume of his ever continuous crying, driving her to the brink of insanity. She was positive, at that moment, all of Monaco could hear the weeping of the young prince of Cordonia; it was almost a symbolic gesture of his first duty, to share the downfall of his country and to share his displeasure.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably and an intense pressure started to rise in her chest that caused breathing to become laborious.

She had to silence him somehow and quickly, to end the nightmare of her own enduring agony.

With her first real attempt at being a mother, seemingly failing, she called for her maid servant, unable to take it any longer. She hastily wrapped Nikolas in the blanket he arrived to her in, which bore a tiny phoenix in the corner,  the crest of his mother's house. Marguerite dropped the child in the arms of her servant, at which time, his crying began to subside. She made explicit instructions to rid her of the reminder, that once again, her failure to secure an heir and the man she lusted for, would be in vain.

The servant bowed and shuffled from the room with Nikolas nestled in her arms.

Marguerite turned to face the wall opposite of her, the one that held the sword of generations of Monacan monarchs, her tiny hands releasing it from its mount.

Gripping the pommel, she held it in front of her, and with a deep breath, thrust the blade into her gut and twisted. She fell back onto the bed as pools of hot blood flowed at her sides. The Princess ran a finger down the cool, shiny, silver blade, embracing her pending death and inevitable peace.

******

Liam directed Paul to take the remains of his step mother back her quarters and placed with dignity in her bed. He then ordered the other guard to lay the Countess with her, until proper arrangements could be made, if it ever could at this point.

With Regina and Madeleine's death happening within the walls of the palace, he was wrought with nausea, pondering who else had succumbed to this senseless atrocity. He wanted to believe Bastien's words that it was possible, Riley and Nikolas were safe, yet, the Auvernal army was able to breach the guard and protection of the palace. They had successfully taken out two of the most powerful women in Cordonia, the Queen and Prince was sure to be a bullseye in this sick game of wit and intellegence.

It was exactly one year ago yesterday, when against his better judgement, his new bride was beckoned by Queen Isabella, to visit with her in Auvernal, while they were in Texas. In a rather hostile move, Isabella, without hesitation, put on a troublesome display of the military might of her country, in what could only be construed as intimidation.

In a rather bold move, she tested Riley's ability to literally withstand the heat, a test he wasn't surprised she accomplished flawlessly. Would Liam really be able to outwit his opponent without his queen by his side? If Bradshaw was the man Isabella described him as during that trip, obviously weak and vulnerable, she could potentially be far more dangerous than he was.

When Nikolas was born three months ago, both Riley and Liam agreed their son would not be part of a marriage agreement. They both felt that what they shared and their experiences together, was far more important than any political alliance. A healthy relationship built on love made the monarchy stronger in their opinion.

They both knew the reprecussions of their decision, yet never expected an all out war for it. He presumed the greatest threat to Cordonia would be an embargo on trade with one another and political alliances, that he in turn would render economic sanctions against them. Would he have changed his mind had he known this would be the fate of that conclusion? He didn't know, not yet, it would depend on the personal cost to his family and his people.

Last night, Liam was sure that he had lost everything that truly mattered to him, but, something in his heart gave him a sense of peace. He had always told himself that he didn't exist without Riley, yet, here he was, living, breathing and feeling. Liam could sense her in his soul and he was prepared to move heaven and earth to bring her and their baby home to him.

He sat down at his desk, eagerly awaiting word from the Italian officials, to give him an update on the retaliatory attack. Francesco was already working tirelessly to gather other allies together and provide security and assistance for Cordonia.

Bastien found an unbroken bottle of scotch in the cabinet and poured two tumblers of it, handing one to Liam. They eyed one another, both in understanding of the calamity that would be ensuing, knowing it had to be done.

Bastien raised his glass to the King, gesturing for one last toast, in light of the situation.

Liam swirled the contents of his glass before tapping that of his head guard's.

"To my King and Queen, long may they reign"

Liam nodded in kind to Bastien, then downed the liquid, "To My Queen...".

*******

Leo dropped to his knees, clutching the hole that burned in his stomach, with a mixture of shock and remorse scrolling across his face.

"You were saying?", Bradshaw asked, before Leo fell face first to the floor, his head bouncing from the surface.

Bradshaw casually placed the gun back into the safe, pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped the moisture and soot from the palm of his hand.

He strolled over to Leo, dropped to one knee and lifted his lifeless head up by the back of his hair. "Leo, Leo, Leo....it appears we both have something in common....we never miss our targets". He mused, thinking about Marguerite and her lost baby, that neither he, nor,  Leo wanted anything to do with. He releases Leo's head and it thuds to the ground.

The King's informant ushers into the room with fervor, asking permission to speak about grave information.

"Your Majesty....intelligence from Rome has informed me of an impending attack on our city by the Italian's in retalliation of Cordonia".

"How much time do we have?".

"Just under an hour, sir".

Bradshaw furrowed his brows, preparing to unleash his next plan earlier than anticipated, but, it was, afterall,  his ace in the hole.

Bradshaw leads his guards, dragging a bloodied Leo behind them, leaving a crimson trail out of the dining area. They walk briskly down the corridor and to the room where he is holding Riley hostage. He directs his men to throw her brother in law on the bed next to her.

Riley is barely conscious, she has a few broken bones and extensive bruising throughout her body. She watches groggily as they enter, then lets out a blood curdling scream as she catches sight of Leo's gunshot wound. Its then that she realizes she was a hostage. Recognizing Bradshaw immediately, she makes a concerted effort to move, to run, to fight back, however, the pain is too great.

Bradshaw orders everyone out of the room, his guards, the nurses and servants. He checks the video feed and when he is sure it is ready, he sends a direct link to Liam's email; time was of the essense.

As he waits for Liam to respond, he eyes Riley, admiring her petite frame and curvacous figure, just as he had the day she was first introduced to him at Valtoria. He licks his lips, as lustful thoughts take hold of him and he trails an unwelcome finger down the length of her cheek and across her neck. She was his prisoner, completely dependant on him and he wanted nothing more than to hear his name screaming from her lips.

He leans down, licking her face and across her tightly closed lips, feeling greatly aroused by her whimpers and powerlessness. He runs a hand across her flattened stomach, only covered by the thin white gown the nurse changed her into.

He grabs her cheeks with one hand and squeezes harshly until she can no longer keep her mouth closed; he immediately thrust his unwanted tongue into her own as she tries to pull away. His mouth catches her every groan with the deepest pleasure and he inhales her barely escaped breaths.

"Get the fuck off my wife!", an irate and panicked Liam yells as Bradshaw pauses his assualt.

He looks behind him at the laptop, set up for this particular moment, seeing the ire and disgust on Liam's face. Bradshaw curls his lips into an evil grin, this was more satisfying than he had anticipated.

"Riley! Love...can you hear me...I'm right hear...I'm right here", his voice cracking with relief at her survival.

Bradshaw lets out a small laugh, "And she is right here.....I assume you will be calling off your minions....or is it boom boom for...your love".

"Liam....I love you", Riley forces the words out of her lips with a horrendous sob.

"Sweetheart, oh god, I love you too....is Nikolas with you, is he alright?".

Bradshaw interrupted, rolling his eyes, "Oh please, spare me of the sickening declarations of love.....are you calling off the Italians or what Liam?".

Liam motioned for Bastien, giving him directions to contact the Prime Minister at once to halt their sssault immediately.

"What do you want Bradshaw?", he asked, while Bastien made his call.

"You know what I want."

"A political alliance and a marriage contract between our children...do I still have a child, Your Majesty?".

"You do....not that you'll benefit much from him".

Liam let out a shaky breath, closing his, thanking God for the knowledge that his son and wife were still living.

"I'll ask again, what do you want then?

"Surrender Cordonia to me".

"No Liam, don't!", Riley yelled out, before Bradshaw turned, smacking her harshly in the face.

"DAMN IT BRADSHAW!". Liam screamed in anger and frustration, feeling completely helpless.

"I give you your wife back, tell you where your son is, and all you have to do is surrender your reign and country to me".

There was no question what Liam's answer would be, however, it wasn't that simple, "I can't...not without consent from the council....this isn't something I can control alone and I presume half the fucking council is dead".

Bradshaw shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips, "Then I have no choice but to force your hand further".

"What do you mean?", Liam asked, knowing he did not want to know the answer to his question.

Bradshaw, still positioned next to Riley, reached over, gracing one of his hands up her thigh and the other cupping her breast over her gown. Riley began to cry out, begging him to stop.

Liam stood from his desk, watching the exchange, "I'LL DO IT....I'LL DO IT.....JUST LET HER GO!!!".

Bradshaw ignored Liam and Riley's cries, immensly gratified by his complete control over them...he was the puppetmaster.

Liam had both hands clutching his hair, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shaking, "You fucking peckerhead, so help me, I'm going to rip your throat out".

Bradshaw tugged on Riley's panties and he groped himself through his pants, slowly pulling down his zipper.

With Liam still screaming in the background, Riley turned her head, unable to look at her husband as Bradshaw prepared to defile her.

She stared at Leo, whose head was only a few inches from hers, his eyes starting to flicker open. She let out a fearful gasp, as her legs started to slowly part and Leo could see the trouble in her brown eyes.

Inhaling deeply against the pain he was wracked with, he bolted up, grabbing Bradshaw around the neck with such force, the King thought it would pop off his shoulders.

Bradshaw hit Leo in his wound, while trying to tear the powerful grip he had around his neck.

Leo took his other hand, placing it on the jaw of the man before him, and twisted as hard as he could., until he got the desired snap he wanted.

[radiodreadzone]

Witness and Counselor

WC: 5599

TW: Death and Violence mentions

It had been...a long time since I’d heard from Thee-I-Dare.

I tried not to let the thoughts in the back of my mind tell me that it was my fault that it was that way. That he had found my choice lacking. That my reaction to things had been...unnecessary and unwanted. It warred in me, how anxious I was to hear back about something regarding what he’d said. When had I ended up so dependent? That wasn’t...something that I wanted to be. Ever. Hadn’t we already been cautioned on that enough about them? And yet...There were still questions I had, now that I’d had time to think about everything.

Thinking...Right. As always...that was what had done me in. 

Too much time to myself meant that the doubt started to creep in like an old house left to settle. Termites in the wood. Resolve cracking like a bad foundation in the face of sudden doubts and questions left to rise in an echo chamber.

I told him I was angry. That hadn’t been a lie. The sharp sting of all that he’d told me had burned like salt in an open wound. The days had stretched. The sting had lessened. Kyle, Muse, and Kirby frequently cast me curious looks in the boxcar or on missions. I knew as well as they did that I’d...gotten quieter. Some nights it was easier to hide. But as time went on it’d just been harder. Harder to pretend that I was alright.

I began spending more and more time in Hoadly alone. Splitting off from the boxcar before any of my friends arrived. Trying to avoid them if only for the sake of allowing myself time with my thoughts. A quiet, crueler part of me whispered it was unfair of me to subject them to my worries and fears. I’d talked a little with them sometimes but...There were some things I just couldn’t...wouldn’t explain to them.

Kyle...he adored Thee-I-Dare. I doubt that anything I would have said about my situation would have changed that. Or at least..I hoped not. I wouldn’t want to be the one who set him on a path of gnawing uncertainty like I was. This was not a road I wanted anyone to share. Muse and Kirby...well. Both of them had made their feelings clear on Thee-I-Dare. A deep seated distrust, and even hatred. I didn’t...I didn’t know what to think of him some days, but I did know that I wanted to hope for the best. Hope that he was true to his word. I wanted my trust in him to remain steady and sure. Yet something still sat heavy in my chest regardless.

I recognized it for what it was about the time that I felt the low swing of hopelessness. Grief. Or a form of it anyway. I was no stranger to it, but this old friend had come wearing a new guise and I hadn’t seen it until that moment. A realization that things were...not going to be as I had hoped. That there were obstacles and things beyond my reckoning in my way. But what did that mean for me? What did that mean for the things I was going to do?

The answer didn’t come in the silent nights. It didn’t come in the long, drawn out days where I struggled to stay awake and pretend everything was normal. It was...an impossible choice. But I knew that I would still...have to try. I would have to do something. I just...I didn’t know what. Not yet.

In the void left behind by the familiar faces I knew, I supplemented them with the advice and camaraderie of strangers. I ran missions that went later into the night, when the early blush of dawn began to creep fingers across the sky. Kids I’d never seen before came along beside me, and some of them became familiar and dear as those I already knew. It was to two, Juniper and Mur, I tended to gravitate towards on those late nights.

Juniper had theories. Lots of them. Mur...he had ideas. It was a very familiar dynamic. But in a way that Kyle was not, Mur was thoughtful and a little more suspicious. Curious and brazen in his wording, he was more tempered than what I was used to in my former teammates. It was one reason why I talked to him a little about what I’d experienced, and about why the absence of the Voice I’d pledged to follow bothered me so deeply.

It helped. At least...until the brazen kicked in.

---

“Hey! You need to go talk to Sparrow! She misses you!” I’d looked up at the sound of Mur shouting my name in the boxcar, only to find him standing arms crossed in a stubborn stance in front of the mirror.

My heart stopped. “Mur! NO!” I yelled, trying to drown him out mid-word. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. That wasn’t how Lights worked. At least...I didn’t think it was.

“You have a lot to answer for, Thee-I-Dare!” Mur finished, just as I managed to get my hands on him and drag him from the circle.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I yelled at him.

He was grinning down at me. “Getting you results!” 

“I told you that I didn’t need anyone asking about me!” The panic seizing my chest made my breath come in pants. The words were a struggle to get out.

Mur’s expression faltered, taking me in. “Wait...you were serious?” At my frantic nod he cringed. “Oh...God. I’m so sorry, Sparrow I-... Look. As soon as I get a Light I’ll send him another. ‘Hey, just kidding!’ y’know?”

I put my face in my hands, taking a deep shuddering breath as I tried to calm down. “Yeah. Sure, Em.” The words were weak and broken. 

Great. Now not only was he not speaking to me, but now he would probably figure I’d been talking shit about the quiet to others. 

‘She misses you!’

I flinched away from the thought. Too close. Far too close to the truth there. This was...not what I needed right now. I would have to figure out something to do. Something to say. Damage control.

“Sparrow, I’m sorry.” Mur tried again. I waved him off.

“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it. I’m...gonna go. I’ll catch you in a few days, okay?” I called over my shoulder, vanishing into the night. Vanishing into a mission. I just...had to be careful not to vanish all together…

The dim rays of the filtering dawn found me standing in front of a mirror, Light in place on the altar. I apologized for the hasty words someone else had sent on my behalf. I didn’t need them to fight my battles for me. To summon him. I was patient and could wait. He was already limited. He was already doing the best he could. He had so many who were reaching out to him. What use was one more voice raised to bother him? I could cope.

There was plenty to do in Redacre in the meantime, and armed with that knowledge and a steeled determination to wait, to not draw further attention to myself, I returned to my solitude in Hoadly.

---

It’s fine. 

Given a few weeks, I started to fool even myself. Took the time to tamp it all down. To turn my gaze to other things. The mystery of Colm. The broken symbol. The strange Hunter. The Unknown Caller. There was plenty to tide me over. New aspects and facets to turn over carefully in my mind as I explored the depths of the Maze and diligently collected signs and evidence of CHORUS’ stranger, darker handiwork.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself, even as I took the time to try very hard...not to think. About any of it. It was easier that way. My focus was simply...in the moment. On the things I could do now. The path in the Maze and the places I’d been, my senses sharp for the sound of footsteps nearby, and the delicate sound of tumblers clicking in the lock. A gentle ‘click’, and I was pushing the door carefully open into the room filled with lockers. My eyes were peeled for any signs of Lucids as a bloody red light clicked on and off overhead like a forgotten alarm.

A laptop I’d spied through a window was perched, forgotten, on the top of one of the long sets of lockers. A quick vault onto the worn metal, and a quick snap of my phone’s camera, and the missing person’s report on the screen was recorded for later. I slid back to the ground, rising from a crouch. Absently, I reached up and carefully shut the laptop, considering the picture I’d just taken, and taking a moment to flick through the rest as I started to stride off again.

He took me by surprise.

YOU ARE NEVER A BOTHER TO ME.

My heart thundered in my chest and I took a half step back, startled. “Jesus.” I hissed, drawing in a ragged, steadying breath. He was here. Never a bother, he’d said. I clenched my jaw. So he had heard that. Grand. Now...now what? Uncertainty rose, cloying, in my chest. “Hi…” the words sounded meek, and I did my best to add more strength to my voice to no avail. “Been a bit.” The hush of my own voice pressed in on me, and I wanted to kick myself for my own obvious hesitations.

You’re fine. You’re supposed to be fine!

IT HAS. ALWAYS TOO LONG.

I wondered if that should comfort me, that he seemed to dislike the absences as much as I had. But I also could barely think past my own unease, the nerves. I knew the things I wanted to say. To confront him about...but…

I resisted the urge to scrub at my face, deciding to tamp that all down, as I was best at, and speak instead as I walked. Alternative forms of distraction. “Yeah...you’re spread a little thinner these days.” What was I even saying? I could barely form a thought, as I tried to find...somewhere to go. My concentration fragmenting as I pushed through the Nerve Center and down into one of the String Relays. 

JUST SLOW. WE MUST MEET, CONFER. ONE BY ONE. TEDIOUS.

Right. He still didn’t have full reign. Couldn’t speak freely to those who called to him unless they beckoned. “Right. Limited by...the Lights.” A Sleeper stood at an instrument console, bringing me up short. I paused, considering quietly before giving a shake of my head and moving to turn around and head back in the direction of the ladder. I had no idea where to go. Where I could just...stand to speak to him that would be safe. The surface above me seemed suddenly so very far away, and I felt...cornered. It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling. One that I wasn’t used to in Thee-I-Dare’s presence.

I hated it very much.

YES. HOW ARE YOU, SPARROW?

Silence greeted him in reply, my hesitation ringing clear. 

Say something! My brain screamed at me.

Tact flew out the window in the face of earnestness. “I’m not...sure how to answer that. Not unless you want a really loaded answer.” I wanted to take the words back, even as I let them out. But it was too late now. “You left me with a lot to think about, last time.” I finished, standing in the midst of Nerve Center. The loud ring of the disc above did little for my fraying nerves.

I AM JUST ONE WEARY OLD VOICE. YOU NEED NOT LISTEN TO SUCH.

The drawn out hiss and rasp of the disc above me set my teeth on edge and I fled down into Ingestion, back in the direction of String Supply. I may not have needed to listen to him, but...he was a friend. I sought out his advice as often as my friends. Perhaps that was a dangerous reliance but...His words carried weight. Too late for me to realize that I’d landed myself potentially neck deep in the danger of the Voices they all warned us of.

Little fool.

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what he expected me to say. By the time I found my words, they were halted and stumbling. “Maybe not...but…” they broke off on a sigh as he stirred forth, the words rising again behind my eyes, within my head.

I AM SORRY IF I SEEMED CALLOUS.

The apology surprised me, and my head came up at it, blinking into the length of the hallway. I’d thought they were above that sort of thing. All of them. Even him. Admitting they were...wrong, even if it was just in the way they carried themselves. “It…” I took a deep and steadying breath, letting it out once again. The words were finally sorting themselves in my head as I carefully stepped up the stairs in String Supply.

“It was more than you being callous, though...It...Look, I understand that you want to help keep us realistic about the things going on here...But if you’re gonna do that? I’m going to keep you honest too.” I valued the fact that he wanted to keep me on the same page. That he kept me from getting carried away on a falsified idea of my own mind’s creation. But if he was going to lie to me like I lied to myself...I wouldn’t be able to stand for it. The exchange was moot.

I thought back to everything over the last few weeks, the things I’d turned over in my head that had hedged into doubts, into uncertainties. Would it be wrong to call him out on them? What would it mean or say to him about me, that I was keeping a sharp eye out for these sorts of things? It was too late now to back down, though. I’d already said I would keep him honest. I might as well bury the knife, even if it was in my own chest. “I’m pretty sure that...some of the things you said...have been saying lately…” I went on in a slow, careful measure. “I’m not sure...if you’re going against your own word or if you’re just bleeding all over the place with your ideologies.”

There was a lengthy pause as I hefted myself onto the rafters above, the white painted beams that overlooked the Throat became the place that I settled down, straddling the wood. Always perching somewhere high, little bird. I shoved the wry words away into the back of my head. 

His extended silence kicked my nerves into gear again and I rubbed a hand down my face, muffling my words. “I was mad about it before but now I’m just...tired,” It was as much of a confessional as I would ever give. It was so dangerously, perilously close to the truth of everything I felt over the last month. “And not sure what to do with this. I don’t know where it stands with you.” I trailed off my mumbling, looking out at the yawning chasm far below. I shivered involuntarily and drew my jacket tighter around me.

YOUR VOICE FADES, SPARROW.

I blinked, hit with a simultaneous bout of relief and embarrassment. He’d missed it. All of that. Not for the first time, I wondered how his senses worked in relation to mine. Or was it...in conjunction? I didn’t know. Regardless, the apology from me came swiftly. “I’m...muttering to myself.” It was as much of a casual brush off as I could give it. A reprieve granted to me from the universe. “I think the day took a toll. I’ll speak up.” His time was limited as it was, I didn’t need him to deal with me mumbling on top of it all as well, even if it had saved me this time.

I AM YOUR WITNESS, COUNSELOR.

I couldn’t help the small, tired smile at the descriptions.

WHERE HAVE I SPOKEN FALSELY?

The smile faded and I let out a long breath. “Well…There’s a couple of things I can think of.” I trailed off, letting my thoughts gather as I let my eyes fall down to the ground below. Things he’d said. Things he’d done. The way I’d been told he was acting by others in the Club. He’d called himself a mirror to us and our emotions...but sometimes there was something off even in those reflections. It made me cringe a little to think I had caught him lying. To prove that the liar was what he was and always would be...But I also needed to let him know that he wouldn’t be able to slip this sort of thing by me. That I would be watching, and paying attention.

“Well, the first thing that I know of is...you...A long time ago I asked you a hard question about you not wanting to die?” An old conversation. He thought that we were better off without him and his kind and yet… “And then...you pull martyrdom onto the table and you’re starting to sound a lot like Die-For-You, now.” He’d asked something of Krystal. She hadn’t been able to hide it from me. She’d taken me aside and told me point blank. 

“Thee-I-Dare asked me to talk to In-Her-Teeth. To tell her that if she helps him against SAO, that he’ll give himself up. That she can have him.”

He would die. 

I flinched back from the thought, feeling the very idea begin to choke up my throat. 

Not now. You need to…Just talk, Sparrow. Think about this later.

I took a shaky breath, my voice thicker but finally unsticking from my throat. The next was...important. “And then, you tell us all the time that you don’t judge...and yet you have condemned an entire group of people. That sounds a lot like judging, to me.” He’d condemned the Lucids. Normally...I wouldn’t have argued. I’d seen them. Had no love for them myself. But now, with that niggling thought in the back of my head that my own dad could be one of them, enscripted amongst the ranks...The stakes had gotten so very very high. I couldn’t wish him harm. I loved him too much. I’d already lost too much from my dwindling family.

DOES ONE SIT IN JUDGMENT OF A TIGER?

I exhaled a harsh breath, steeling myself as the words burned across my mind. Firm though they were, I didn’t think he intended to be unkind. Merely stating...the truth. He’d told me he could lie about it. But that he wouldn’t. I could only hope that promise continued to now.

WHAT THE LUCIDS ARE NOW...THEY WILL NOT HESITATE.

Something fierce sparked up in my chest. Anger. Anger at him and this...this entire situation. He made them sound like cold blooded killers. Shuffled them all neatly into a box of one particular idea and tendency. “They’re people!” I snapped, the bite in my tone surprising me.

WHEN MY MAKERS PULL THE STRINGS...THEY ARE WEAPONS.

The fire in my chest banked. It was tempered, but it hadn’t disappeared. I sat back, jaw setting. So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?

“Is that what we’re all supposed to be? Is that why it sounds like killing being brought to Redacre is supposed to be the most interesting way to ‘shake things up’?” I thought back to Seed-The-Grudge being allowed on the table, to The-Measure-Cuts being interested to see what she brought to Redacre. The rest of her siblings being alright with that. The Hunter prowling in the dark unchecked...I felt disgust twist deep in my chest along with that burning swell. The Maestro wanted human weapons. Did the other Voices want the same thing? That I was supposed to be alright with killing my own father or watching him die was...very telling. “Is that what’s expected?” The echo of my own voice bounced back to me from the Throat and the walls around me. A sleeper passing below paused.

Too loud. Take it down a notch, kid.

I took a shaky breath. Let it out. Counted to three. 

“‘Cause I can’t do that. I’ll find every other way first.” Stubborn. So damn stubborn. But...it was all I had right now. What could I say to a god? A Voice? An ancient thing that had likely debated this sort of thing with wiser men and women time and again through centuries…

I tried not to think too hard about that.

I TOLD YOU. YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN.

The fire guttered, extinguished. I slumped on the beam. Again. Again telling me to run. To get out of here. No soldier. No fighter. Just a scared little bird yelling on her branch about her morality with no place here, even as she tried to protect those she loved.

“I don’t think running is really an option either. What am I going to do outside of Redacre by myself? Where would I go? Who would I have? If I even made it out at all?”

A fourteen year old kid in the mountains of Virginia, alone and without anything or anyone to her name. Where the hell was I supposed to go from there? How was I expected to survive that? I didn’t even have the guarantee of a Voice in my head at that point. Just me. Against the world. It was too daunting to begin to consider. I drew my knees up to my chest, wrapping arms tightly around them.

SPARROW…

I felt it like a tired sigh, and I hunched deeper into my tight posture. Clenching my eyes shut against what I was sure would be another lecture did little when the words burned themselves across the back of my eyelids.

MANY TRUE GREAT STORIES BEGIN THUS. ALONE. NOTHING TO YOUR NAME...EXCEPT CHOICE.

I cringed back from the idea. “So you’d paint it as heroics.” I was the furthest thing from that. A hero. I was a kid. I was barely passing algebra. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing, and I was talking to a Voice in my head. By all accounts, I was insane. There was nothing admirable or great about this story. I was just as likely to become a milk carton kid as the next teen in our scrappy Club. Voice in my head or otherwise.

“That breaks every choice that I made to start, here” I rubbed tiredly at my eyes. “Do you know why I joined the Club, long ago? It was to find out what happened to my dad...and then, my motivations are...completely thrown to the wayside when I hear that I can’t fix this. I have to find a way. I have to try.” I felt my voice beginning to break, and paused, swallowing the knot in my throat. “People make choices every day. It’s what we do. Who’s to say they can’t undo the choices they’ve already made? We’re not static.” We’re not gods. We can change.

I had to believe I could fix this. Had to believe I could save him. What did I have if I didn’t? Where did I go? What did I do otherwise?

NOT HEROICS. WHAT DO I ALWAYS SAY?

I was silent, and though we both knew the answer, it came regardless.

SURVIVAL.

 I clenched my jaw, eyes sliding shut and huddled deeper into my dad’s large coat. “Survival at the cost of others?” I asked, the words were soft but the accusation was there, bleeding into the tones.

IN YOUR VISION...WHAT IS VICTORY?

“Victory here?” He’d caught my by surprise. I blinked into the dim light of the Maze, thinking. The answers I came up with were...remarkably childish. “Probably the most naive version of it.” I responded, feeling foolish. Feeling terribly, terribly young. “Things work out. We break the doom harp...No one has to die…” In some pretty, golden universe, somewhere. Maybe that would happen. Not here. Not in Redacre. I refused to let my eyes do more than sting as I sat feeling like an idiot for my answer.

THE INSTRUMENT? LONG BEFORE IT…THEY STILL WON. TIME AND AGAIN. DEEP DOWN, MOST OF YOUR PARENTS...THEY DO NOT WANT OUT. NOT TRULY.

I listened, thoughts flashing. One stuck out sharply in my head. The laptop in the boxcar, our stolen evidence and logged conversations. The discussion between the Dead Skeptic and Bells. “‘It takes a particular kind of person to come to Redacre.’” I recited miserably, my voice low and barely even audible to my own ears.

YOU SPOKE TOO SOFTLY THERE…

I didn’t deign to repeat myself, already feeling like I’d kicked myself enough.

BUT...YES. SO ONE MUST ASK ONESELF...CAN WE SAVE THOSE WHO WANT IT NOT?

I lifted my head from the cradle of my knees, brows furrowing as I focused on the deep cavern below.

SHOULD WE?

Choice. Choice again. Even as much as it felt like a test, the words poured out without a thought. “What if it interferes with...Is what’s going on here interfering with their free will?”

I clipped the words short, rubbing my hands against my face. The caste system. The Sleepers and the Lucids. One may have been in the dark, hooded and unknowing, beckoned by the Song but the Lucids. The Lucids knew. They acted at the behest of what they thought they understood. What they thought was right. Like Muse, they had picked their Voice. Made their own decision. “...Well in some cases.” I tapered off and shook my head, abandoning the argument on a sigh. “God...I’m answering my own questions.”

But what did that mean? Did that mean that I had to sit back and let it happen anyway? Just because...just because this was the way it was…did that mean it was the way it had to be? I’d told him, hadn’t I, that humans weren’t static. That we could change our minds. Make new choices. “Does it...It can’t hurt to still try?” The words were quiet, wavering, and so full of uncertain hope. It felt like a fragile thing to ask there, in the darkness. These words offered to a tired Voice who had already cautioned me for the path that I’d picked, felt like they had a chance to break me on the answer. I buried my head back against my knees, waiting for him to speak again.

OUR RITUAL TIME IS TOO BRIEF, BUT...FIRST. SPARROW. YOU ARE RIGHT.

I looked up, looking for eyes to meet that weren’t there. Such a human reaction I never seemed to beat around the Voices.

TO TRY IS A CHOICE. YOURS, IT SEEMS.

I couldn’t get a sense for his tone. Couldn’t tell if he was unhappy with my decisions. These choices that I continued to make. I thought back to everything I’d said. The sting of my own naivety. The uncertainty. I was making my choices regardless. I closed my eyes again. Why does it feel like the fool’s errand, then?

I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken it aloud.

BECAUSE, SPARROW...YOU ARE GROWING UP.

I laughed, and it wasn’t a thing of humor. It was pained and broken. Frustrated and tired. “Well. This sucks!”

YES.

I sat there in the silence between us for a moment. Taking another moment to have a deep breath and try and gather myself again. Not to rally, but to center. “But, I knew when I joined the Club that I’d have to fight...tooth and nail if that’s what it took. This place doesn’t give easy victories. It always has a price. But I know what I want to do. I know where my lines are drawn.” The words were more for me than for him. A reassurance. An understanding of what I was here to do and what I understood would come of it. The things I would give up, and the things that I wouldn’t.

I WOULD OFFER THIS. IT MAY HURT.

Foreboding curled in my chest. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. It gave me time to brace. Gave me time to...to lie. To myself.

YOU SPOKE OF MARTYRDOM.

“I mentioned it…” The words rolled weakly off my tongue.

I THINK ONLY OF FREEING YOUR KIND…

“...right.” 

WHAT IF, EVEN NOW...YOU WOULD BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT ME?

What if he was gone, too? I buried my face back in my arms. It did little to block out his words. 

WHAT IF YOU SAVED THEM ALL?

Don’t cry, Sparrow. Don’t you dare fucking cry. Not now. Please not now. Not in front of him.

Hold it together.

Save them all. More heroics. More sacrifices. More loss. God. Why was it always...so much more loss. I shied back from that thought. I opened my mouth and let myself speak. “I get what you’re implying. I know you’ve...mentioned it to others. A lot of people have freaked out about it but…” I trailed off, not letting in that I had been one of them. That I had heard the words Krystal had told me and froze, dumbstruck. Had grieved at the very idea, had felt like a fool for how dangerously...attached I had gotten. For how much I had come to care in a place that was ready to take everything from you. 

“There’s some things that I already know…” I garbed myself with the truth. The easiest way to lie to myself. Reasoning. The way it was. The way it would be. Even as desperately as I had fought that before. In this moment...I couldn’t bring myself to challenge him. He gave me a choice. Didn’t he deserve to have his? “It was quiet in my head before I came to Redacre. If it’s quiet again when I leave? That’s just things going back to normal.”

No more Voices. That’s what he wanted. A silent world without the ‘gods’. Without their influence and sway taking over our lives. I’d stepped as much into a nightmare as into a strange fantasy novel. There were perks. There were...friends. But it all came with a cost. It all came with grief.

“I’ve...I’ve had to deal with losing people that are important to me before. And it hurts. But...you can live with it.” I thought back to my brother. I thought back to my dad who was still hadn’t come home. “ You don’t want it. But you can do it. I don’t demand that price of anybody though. I don’t ask anybody to give their life for mine. For anyone’s.”

I just...I don’t want anyone else to die.

My eyes burned. I squeezed them shut and buried my face back in the crook of my arms.

YOU MAY BE THE BEST OF US, CHILD. TELLING THE OLD WORLD IT IS WRONG.

There was comfort in the words, though I felt little of it in the face of my own sorrows. I was merely silent in response. I had nothing else to offer in that moment, and didn’t trust myself to speak further. 

HAVE A CARE NOW, MY SPARROW. YOUNG TRUTH SPEAKERS END UP DEAD.

The chill that slid up my spine had nothing to do with the cool air of the Maze. The shiver morphed into a thread of steel. “They’ll have to catch me first.” I said firmly. The words were braver than I felt. But I also knew that I was never the kind to go without a fight, even if I was afraid.

I WILL HELP YOU AS LONG AS I CAN.

It felt like the final nail in the coffin. An admission that he wouldn’t be around. Not always. I didn’t let myself dwell. Instead I let my words slip back and away from something too emotional. Back to something safer and friendly, ringing false to my own ears, even as the tone was all wrong for the cheer the words should have held.

“You know that any help that you give so far has been...appreciated. You’re one of the best backers this Club has.”

There was so much I could have said instead. Wanted to say. 

I’m sorry.

I hate this.

Please, I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to lose someone else I care about.

But I bit them all back. Held my tongue. It would be better this way....wouldn’t it? I had survived this before. Just...now I knew it was coming. Now I knew to brace myself. The world was rarely so kind as to issue a warning for grief. Shouldn’t that have made it easier? Shouldn’t I be thankful?

SURVIVE. A VOICE LIKE YOURS...MUST.

I managed to squeeze out a small, choked “Goodnight.” And then he was gone.

I took a wavering breath and felt the tears begin to track down my face. I balled up tight on the rafters and let myself have that moment. Let myself grieve for the things not said. For the things to come.

Around me, the Maze hummed the song of the Instrument, and the night carried on.

[rinaldoescobar]

we always got the fight in us

rating: t word count: 3356 summary: Thomas is ever-polite and hardworking, and if he get shot he doesn't hide the injury until it gets infected. Thomas is also a fool.

Thomas, when he was younger, tended to hang on the outskirts and gather snippets of information. Blackmail, gossip he could trade for a snack or some coin. Dirty secrets that he kept for himself. Thomas, with messy hair and bright eyes, slid under the radar and kept his quiet vigil and pulled in secrets like a fishing net. It was no surprise that when he displayed the skill for it Daud made use of his talents in scouting, in a quiet blade sunk into someone's throat.

Working for the Crown, it was only a matter of time before Thomas uncovered a plot. It was only a matter of quick thinking that allowed him an in to thoroughly investigate it, too.

Thomas dressed himself like a gang member and slowly, over the course of a month, insinuated himself into the group. He learned names and connections and wrote them all down in a leather-bound journal. The small rebel group, composed of a slaughterhouse owner, a Gristol-born aristocrat, three Morleyan tradesmen and at least half of a street gang met in the basement of a pub three times a month. They talked about their plans and got drunk. They cursed out their teenage Empress and the remaining dregs of plague.

It all-- uncomfortable clothes, detestable company, hatred bubbling in his heart and fear of discovery in his belly-- led him to this night. The Outsider himself couldn't have stirred up a better night than this one for causing trouble; the air was thicker and hotter than usual, and muggy from the marine layer rolling in from the ocean. The room buzzed with palpable tension and Thomas couldn't bring himself to mingle the way he had in the past. He sticked to the outskirts with a glass tumbler of whiskey and took periodic sips to dissuade conversation. The others in the tiny, musty room panted like excited hounds. They pushed and shoved each other, jostled, spilled sour-tasting whiskey on their clothes and the floor, and the more uncouth of them talked about what they planned to spend their next evening doing. Thomas stayed in the corner, by an audiograph innocently sitting on a low bar table. A blank card sat inside. Thomas, for all his caution, rightly guessed that by the time he placed it in the ones who truly cared about the cause were too drunk to notice and those who were there only for the drink and excitement didn't carry weapons or the grit needed to confront him. This was supposed to be a celebration, of course. Why anyone would celebrate before their cause had been achieved was beyond Thomas.

Still, the revelry did a fine job at concealing his actions, so he thanked the Void and kept on. It only took a half hour before one of the ringleaders tapped a spoon too loudly against his glass and demanded a toast, and at that point Thomas clicked the audiograph machine on.

Thomas shifted himself as if he were interested-- it hid the audiograph machine from view and offered him a clearer line of sight to the speaker. He stood. Thomas idly thought about cutting off the obscenely hanging flaps of his jowls and cast the thought away as unnecessary and more than that, entirely immature. He sipped his whiskey and listened.

The audiograph kept recording and the speaker, the slaughterhouse owner with his small, piggish eyes and scarred face, remained none the wiser.

*

“--hey, what are you up to?”

Thomas stared. Heat pierced his spine and he stiffened, turned to face the voice. The man, large-jawed and at least five inches taller, glared down at him.

It was like a string broke. Thomas plucked the audiograph card from the machine and stuffed it in his pocket, then bolted for the stairs, shoving past knots of hazy-drunk gang members who cursed at him and ineffectively grasped at his clothes. A gunshot split the air. More, and bullets embedded themselves into the wood at his feet and sides, the majority flying wide. Thomas' side ached like he'd been punched, and he kept running until he could swing up into a fire escape and lose the spreading wave of insurgents below his feet. The audiograph stayed tucked safely against his side.

His Whaler's uniform hid blood. The drab colors and tough fabric kept him looking distant, untouchable, a shadow pulled from the Void and twisted into savage human shapes. This, though, was plain fabric and blood bloomed at his side all too visibly. Thomas couldn't stay crouched on a fire escape forever; Everett was expected, and he'd bleed out if he stayed here. He took off the secondhand vest without a second thought and settled into a neat cross-legged sit, drawing out his hidden blade and beginning to cut and tear it into strips. It wouldn't be too useful-- a staunch, mainly, just to halt the insistent flow of blood that showed on his coarse shirt. It was better than nothing. Better than leaving a blood trail.

Thomas wrapped the strips around himself and, when he went to stand, nearly cried out in pain. Hot agony split his side at odds with the dull pulsing pain he'd dealt with while applying his rudimentary bandage. The thought of his painstakingly gathered information going stale because he'd allowed the targets to escape in a moment of pain spurred him into clutching the railing and hauling himself up.

The journey back to the Tower was nearly a half-hour's walk. Thomas briefly wanted to cry. He had a report to write, a Spymaster and a captain to tip off-- weakness comes later. More than ever he wished for a Transversal. Left reliant on his own two feet, he eventually steeled himself to walk to the Tower.

*

“Where is your mother, boy?” The Overseer affected concern and his hand rested heavily on Thomas' shoulder. Thomas clutched a dirty coin in his filthy hand and stared at the cobble, willed himself not to shake. Only the hounds smell fear, his friend's voice rang; she was smaller than him and with wild curly hair, one eye. The remaining eye was bright and mean. They don't know if you don't let them.

“She's at the butcher's shop, sir. She gave me ten coin to buy some herbs at Wittle's Apocathery.” The lie came out easily enough. The Overseer patted his shoulder.

“Of course. Make sure you get back to her safely. Gangs are always on the prowl for defenseless little boys to make into their indentured mudlarks.”

Thomas did shake at that. The Overseer patted him again and shoved him, not unkindly, towards the apocathery. ”Run along, now.”

Thomas did not run. He walked, slightly faster than he would have liked, and when he finally looked at the coin he stole it had been clutched so fervently that red indents lined his palm.

*

Daud melted from the shadows. Thomas sat up in his bunk and dropped his legs over the side, wanting to call out but feeling his throat seize up entirely. Keenan was below him, asleep. Malia was reading a book, coiled up around a pillow in her bunk the last time he checked.

Daud moved too slowly like a man wading through honey. His gait fell smooth and steady with none of the limp that his final battle with Corvo should have left him with, his skin lined with age and strain and the silvery grooved lines of his many scars. Thomas watched, mounting confusion dulling the complaining ache of his side. His eyes narrowed. Daud was here?

I have to warn Corvo, was his first thought, and a sharp sting of guilt pierced his chest and spread throughout in the manner of blood climbing fabric. And then, I have to do something.

He slid off of the bunk and his feet met the cold stone beneath with a whisper of calloused skin. Daud didn't even look at him, still moving toward the door to the security closet. Every breath was a new challenge. Pain, a constant companion he's become reacquainted with, and sickening hesitation closed around his chest like a vise. He had no weapon. No Void powers. Daud had both, and no open wounds besides.

Thomas refused to let common sense come in the way of his action. A more sensible him-- reliable, dependable Thomas-- would be aghast. As it was, he lunged forward and pinned Daud to the wall. His elbows hit the stone, his hands fisted in Daud's coat to keep him still-- surprisingly, Daud didn't go for his weapon. Thomas met his eyes. He looked away, as if stung, and instead focused on Daud's collar.

“Thomas,” Daud said, voice hazy and far away despite his face being a mere few inches from Thomas' bowed head. He sounded surprised, disappointed, like he expected better.

“Master,” Thomas responded, and pressed his hands on Daud's shoulders further against the wall-- whether in a feeble attempt to keep him there or a humiliating grasp at support he didn't try to discern. Daud's lips twisted into a disappointed frown. His hand snaked up from his side-- Thomas could swear he felt the rufflings of fabric-- and closed, tight, around his throat. He barely had to push and Thomas collapsed, knees buckling under his own weight. His side screamed. Thomas, himself, bawled out a pathetic, breathless crying noise. Red swept over his vision, followed by black.

Daud moved on and Thomas surrendered to the dark.

*

Assassins. Mercenaries, mostly, Thomas was told. Pirates. Highwaymen, too, and those who found killing as easy as drawing a breath. Still more claimed that the descending blades and attached men were spun from shadows and the Void. Thomas, in his stained shirt cleaned in the Wrenhaven's flow and with the itchy raised burns from River Krust acid, found himself hard-pressed to believe that one.

But still, as he slipped smaller pearls that wouldn't be missed into his pocket, he wondered if the stories of men dissolving into ash were true.

*

The part of him that wasn't rocking pitiably on the ground was ashamed of the part of him that was. He wanted to cry; he probably was crying, terrible salty tears mingling with the blood on his face and dripping into his mouth. The awful, grinding tune screeched in his ears and seized him from the inside like it was tearing his guts out through his throat. His nose was bleeding. Thomas wrapped his head in his arms and hunched down. He'd meant to come and find Misha, who had disappeared. His Bond, severed. Daud sent Thomas.

The Abbey had music. The man who cranked the handle to the damned machine hummed in satisfaction and went to tightening it, punching new indentations, and Thomas only unfolded once he was sure the terrible noise wouldn't start again; then, he fled. Using the Void was like tugging a pulled muscle, a sharp pain of overwork and resistance but he kept going until he reached the yard in front of the Abbey and ducked into the sewer area, familiar as it could be.

Thomas barely kept from screaming, and dragged himself deeper into the outflow pipe. To a cache, where he promptly ripped his mask off, downed a vial of Sokolov's elixir. It settled thick and slimy in his stomach. His belly revolted. He retched, collapsed onto his elbows, and in the next minute saw the vibrant red fluid pour from his throat-- it didn't sting, it did its job that well at least-- and splatter onto the stone. It swam, reds mixing with cobble-brown and brackish water, his head spinning worse than when he Transversed too many times in a row. Thomas passed out next to a puddle of his own vomit, and silently resolved to never hear that grinding music again.

*

It's the morning after the Fugue Feast, and Thomas was not alone in his bunk. Malia laid next to him. The sharp tang of whiskey sat on his tongue and he guessed, rightly, that it was on hers too; but there was no evidence of anything more than neighborly under the thin blanket and her hair was mussed only from sleep, her skin broken only by knives and scrapes.

“People like us,” she said, and Thomas nearly fell off the bunk when her voice broke the hazy silence, “we're nothing. We're no one.”

His hand rested on her side. He dug his fingers into the skin there, past fabric, and hoped that it snapped her out of whatever hungover maudlin slump she'd fallen into. “I save the Empress' life one night and wash her sheets the next.”

No such luck. He groaned, signaling his own awareness. She sighed. “We're not people, Everett. You're lucky; they didn't scrub you from records because you weren't there in the first place.”

Her voice dropped raspy and soft. “I saw the casket they made for me. Drowning.”

She must still be a little drunk. Thomas decided to solve the question of how she got into his bunk later. “At least I had a funeral.”

She yawned. Thomas hoped that she fell back to sleep quickly. The body heat wasn't entirely unwanted, in all honesty; her voice was a soft cadence rushing over his thoughts. He'd seen younger recruits sleeping against each other on night watch, and took great pleasure in alerting the captain on duty to go wake them up, and they were pursuing the same basic human closeness that Thomas normally denied himself, and denied others from himself.

Malia yawned again and settled her forehead on his shoulder. He shifted his hand from her side to between her shoulder blades. “I'll shoot the ocean when you die.”

“I'm thankful, Malia,” he said, and he was.

*

Thomas woke in a place he had a none-too-comfortable acquaintanceship with; the infirmary. His side was properly bandaged and his mouth felt dry and tacky, the unpleasant fuzz of sleep toxin coating his tongue. Aches hummed for his attention but they weren't the rising and demanding screams from earlier. Assured that this wasn't another fever dream, Thomas raised his hands to scrub at his eyes and sighed at nothing in particular. Evidently having heard his stirring a white-black-gray-blue mass of fabric bundled itself into the room. Thomas rubbed his eyes again and resigned himself to a severe chiding when the fabric began to speak.

“That was exceedingly irresponsible of you, Everett. You know that you won't be asked questions if you come here for treatment.”

The fuzzy shape soon consolidated itself behind a smooth and firm voice. Thomas rubbed his eyes again and finished picking out the sharp features of one of Sokolov's former students, a physician by name of Joan. She laid the backside her hand flat against Thomas' forehead, still talking in a voice entirely too close to a scold.

“You could have died. Keenan told me you were hitting the wall and then you collapsed, mumbling total gibberish. That's signs of a high fever and possible hallucinations, Everett.” She paused and then said, almost absentmindedly, “You're a guard who tangled with the Hatters, by the way.”

As all of the Empress' spies, when injured he received suitable alibis while laid up in the infirmary. It wasn't something he was proud of or enjoyed. A necessary evil and not much more.

“And Jameson Curnow is here to talk to you.” Joan finished and finally patted his cheek, rather roughly. He nodded. “I'll give you a minute and send him in.”

Just like that, she left in a swirl of fabric leaving Thomas suitably chastised and rather confused with the influx of information on his strained and weary mind. Still, he'd caught enough to start steeling himself for either exuberant platitudes or a professional dressing-down-- all depending on which guise Jameson was wearing today. Thomas groaned and tried to sit up. His side ached dully with the movement, and he reluctantly decided against it.

Jameson pushed inside a minute or two later, dressed in courtly clothes that they both knew he hated. He wore a jacket in robin's-egg blue and dark grey slacks, the overall effect making him look older than he was. Thomas sat up in the cot and fought against his own aches until he could lean against the wall.

“So,” he began. Thomas sighed. Undaunted, Jameson forged on. “You had a little accident.”

“Don't tell Corvo,” is what Thomas settled on, resigned and ashamed. In all honesty he hadn't expected it to get that bad. Sokolov and Piero's solution, as effective as it was at curbing the plague, managed to pinpoint that and no longer mended his general aches; or so it seemed. His gulp of elixir didn't help. His old habits didn't serve him anymore, which he should have found helpful but instead it just made an empty part of him ache.

Jameson sat nearly beside Thomas on the chair placed suspiciously close to Thomas' bedside. “I won't. But he needs to know somehow that you're out of commission--”

Thomas curled his lip to show his teeth, unfairly grumpy when Jameson only meant well. “Your word, Jameson.”

“You have my word.” Jameson raised both hands harmlessly and smiled, a dazzling affair of sparkling, slitted eyes and white teeth. Thomas halfway resented him for being so chipper while Thomas felt like he'd crawled to the Void's doorstop and been unceremoniously booted from the stoop. “I'll leave you to recover, but once you can move under your own power Lord Attano and I have a mission for you.”

Thomas nodded. “And when should I be recovered by?” Most other people would see it as a jab; Jameson, who had experience working with Thomas under his belt, understood.

“You have a week. Two days here as you're treated.” Jameson swept hair out of his eyes and stood, stretching his fingers out, clenching them into fists. “Best wishes, Everett. I do hope you survive Joan better than you survived the bullet.”

Jameson left the room chased by a good-natured curse.

*

Daud wanted him here. Thomas longed for his mask. It was a true test of his skill, slipping undetected into the grounds, but finding a job was easy enough. Thomas was one of Daud's favored scouts and lieutenants for a reason, after all. He lived on merit and black magic. For now-- a brief stretch of time he'll spend in reconnaissance and familiarizing himself with the many crannies and bolt-holes of Dunwall Tower-- he would have to live solely on merit.

Dunwall Tower, however clean and bright the Empress kept it, could not escape the shadow of plague. Thomas saw it in the haggard faces down in the kitchens, the tired sloped shoulders of the Royal Guard. He trimmed hedges and folded laundry, stole correspondence and forged requisition letters. Once he was pulled from the hall to the kitchen to deliver dinner to Sullivan, the Interrogator. The mute looked at him with piggish and beady eyes. Something in Thomas' heart flipped, clenched, and he hurried from the room.

After that moment, hatred started to burn hot and low in his belly and for days he did nothing but stoke it. For what seemed to be the longest time, fury defined his life. The charm pressed against his breast fuzzed people's memories of him, but whatever cracked and blackened the pearly spokes of bone twisted him somehow, too. Overseers eyed him strangely but sure enough their eyes then skimmed over him, curiosity misdirected. The Bond ached.

Thomas did not want to be consumed by irrational anger. He prided himself on stability, reliability-- crumbling now? No. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

*

“Good to have you back, Everett.” Corvo looked up from his ledger. Jameson must have told him, the damn sneak. Thomas bowed, brief and at his chest. None of it mattered. His side was healed; his mind, though strained and frazzled, cooled at the prospect of something to set itself towards. No buzz of magic flowed through his veins, no facsimile of a Mark crowning the back of his hand like a bruise. It was just him, now. Just him and his damned loyalty.

“It's good to be back, sir.”