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Psst, love your fics! 👉🏻 I want more of a clingy and jealous Isaac (miss my man) maybe this time because Pickle decided to adopt a pet! Or any character if you want..

Adorable <3 Glad you like my work, best wishes to both of you (and all my love to the cat)!

Holding On (To You)

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Isaac sat on the couch with a scowl, his eyes flickering from the lit-up TV screen playing some vintage horror film you had wanted to watch, to the little ball of fur curled up on your lap. It was purring melodiously. She was in his spot. 

You did not notice Isaac’s displeased glance at your new arrival, too engrossed in the plot of the movie. You did not think that he could possibly be jealous, watching your fingers thread through the pitch-black fur of the little cat you had brought home not a week ago, remembering a time they would glide through his black hair instead. 

He knew he was being petty. It was a cat, for god’s sake! But he had never had to share your love with someone before, and although he knew it was an infinite resource, he could not help the bitter taste of jealousy from ruining his mood. 

“No, no— don’t go in there,” you whispered, groaning a moment later as the naive protagonist did just that. “I hate this trope. Why can’t they make the characters smart for once?” 

“Suppose the writer wanted to make them more realistic,” Isaac noted drily, anticipating the jumpscare. The movie had failed to capture his interest, but as you seemed to like it, he had resigned himself to the tedious watch while simply enjoying the downtime he could spend with you. 

Cuddling up to you had been the plan, but just as he had wanted to pull you close, tuck you against his side so your head would rest comfortably on his shoulder and he could inhale your scent and feel your warmth, she had come into the living room. Her little paws had thumped softly against the floor and she had let out a low purr that had sounded almost like an accusation at the two of you getting comfortable without her — and in a moment she had hoped onto the couch, curled up on your lap and crumpled all his plans for having you all to himself. 

He was jealous of a cat. The thought felt as ridiculous as it sounded. 

Your hand shot out to grab his arm. Isaac had half a second to wonder why you were holding onto him before the protagonist screamed and a dramatic soundtrack came on. You jumped, startling the curled-up ball of fur that had been napping comfortably. 

The cat got up with a disgruntled meow, seemingly displeased. You expected her to retreat to the other side of the couch to continue her nap, but instead, she put a tiny black paw on Isaac’s leg looking at him as if testing if she was allowed. 

You bit your lip, following the scene with rapt attention. Isaac looked at the cat. She stared back for a moment longer before tiring of caution and settling down on his lap instead. 

“I feel like I’m going to start competing for her attention with you soon,” you chuckled, listening to her soft purrs. The scene before you made your heart swell with warmth; it was so sweetly domestic to have the person who meant the world to you and the little animal that had stolen your heart in a matter of minutes right there beside you. Your love for them both was immeasurable and seeing them like this made you feel like the luckiest person in the world. Maybe you were. 

Isaac looked down at her, hesitatingly reaching out a hand to stroke his fingers through her soft fur. “I feel like I’m competing with her for yours,” he said. You would have thought he was joking were it not for the longing you could hear in his voice. 

“You what?” you asked, unable to suppress a chuckle as you turned to face him fully. “You’re not saying you’re jealous, are you?” 

The protagonist screamed again, but the movie could no longer hold your attention as you watched Isaac’s lips twist into a playful pout. “What if I am?” he asked, side-eyeing you. 

“Isaac!” you laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Seriously?”

He sighed, unable to suppress a fond smile as he heard you laugh. “Maybe a little bit,” he admitted, stroking the underside of the cat’s chin and feeling her melt into his touch. His gaze softened. “I’m not used to sharing you, that’s all.”

You hummed, shifting so you could lean against his side and rest your head on his shoulder. Isaac tilted his, feeling your hair tickle his cheek. “When I found her on the street,” you began, gently petting her head, “I could only think— it reminded me so much of—”

“You were never a stray,” he murmured. “Down on your luck, sure. Taken advantage of, without a doubt. But you were never a helpless pet I picked up off the street. You were caught between a rock and a hard place, and I did what I could to help you — helping myself selfishly as well.”

“The similarities are there regardless,” you said. “And when I saw her, all I could think about was that I can make hersituation better now. I can pick her up and take her in and make sure she is warm and fed and— and safe. All thanks to you.”

He scoffed. “I thought we agreed to leave that part behind us.”

“I owe you my life,” you said. “That’s not something I can easily forget.”

Isaac shifted, making you raise your head to look at him. “And I owe you mine,” he reiterated, his eyes shining with an emotion you could not quite place. “So I’d say our debts are settled, Pickle.”

You narrowed your eyes, looking at him skeptically but choosing not to argue. “What I mean to say is there is no reason for you to be jealous,” you said. “You’re my favorite human, nothing will change that. And I love you all the same, if not more.”

“More?” he asked challengingly, seizing the opportunity you presented to shift the conversation to a lighter subject. “How come?”

You smirked. “Well,” you said, “what if I told you Void on your lap made you look incredibly kissable?”

“Hm,” Isaac mused, “I’d ask you to lean in and prove it.”

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!!!!!

Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call

↳ Over half a decade removed from that dreadful night, Simon Marston reflects on the holiday season.  ↳ 863 words ↳ Well. I couldn’t not write something about them for Christmas. This fic has song lyrics woven into it, from the eponymous song Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call by the Bleachers. Song lyrics are italicized, as they’re meant to be Simon’s thoughts.

Outside, snow began to fall.

Flakes of white drifted in sparse flurries, starch against the midnight black. Beyond them, thousands of lights illuminated the cityscape – yellows, reds, greens, blues. They draped themselves along rooftops, strung into trees, decorating the air between street lamps. 

Simon couldn't see anyone about. Not that he expected too – the wee hours of Christmas crept up on him differently than everyone else. Most people were asleep, surrounded by those they loved, awaiting the dawn to continue celebrating. Perhaps a few kids were restless in their excitement, but he could remember those days well enough; it was more pathetic for a 27-year-old man to be doing the same.

Everybody's gone. It's just you and your anger, he mused humorlessly. 

Of course, that wasn’t true. His boyfriend was in the other room, already asleep: not an hour ago, the floor he sunk to was danced upon by a swarm of his friends. Glitter from dresses and festive wrappers darkened against the wood floor. New memories of a Christmas Eve party, already fading. 

He stood up and gathered the trash, making his way through the living room. The lowlight of his own tree made it difficult. Or maybe that was the booze. He ought not to be doing this slightly drunk, he figured, but he also didn’t want to leave it. He was still so restless. 

Adrenaline from the party still pumping through him, he tried to push out the other stressor. 

Simon picked up a half-finished bottle of champagne, left on the coffee table, surrounded by similarly unfinished drinks. The yellow liquid inside glimmered in the light, the waterline-rings left by it rimmed with gold. The sight was an old friend. 

Enough years had passed for Simon to not feel the crippling loneliness anymore, not handicapped by the depression winter brought. The one-two punch of November birthdays and December celebrations was, once, too much to handle. But years built like trauma, and what was once fresh became distant scars. 

Simon glanced at the bottle in his hand and had enough sense to put it down. That could be left for himself to clean in a better mind. A small reminder that those days were behind him. 

‘Cause even if he was stronger now it wasn’t any easier. And God, it was still so hard. 

And leave it to Andrew to slit him back open. 

Oh, golden boy, don't act like you were kind. 

His phone lay heavy in his pocket. Whatever olive branch of a message he swung was pointless. His twin flame was still trying to cauterize the wound.

I would rather burn forever. 

Simon collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. They were suddenly very sore. It wasn’t uncommon nowadays, often along with headaches. It had annoyed him since he stopped wearing his glasses.

The bleariness wasn’t usual, though. When he drew his hands away from his face, they couldn’t seem to refocus – only the light from the tree permeated his vision clearly. Simon looked at it. 

The iridescent lights burst along the tree, stretching in blurred dollops. Each ornament faded to the background, but somehow the star managed to keep its shape, atop the tree in all its shining glory. In spite of everything, in spite of Simon, it remains unblemished. 

Reminded him of someone else he knew.

Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home. And at your best, you were magic we were sold. 

He sat up, his vision returning to him in slow blinks. His hands made it to the edge of the couch as he box-breathed – four seconds drawing breath, four seconds holding, four seconds releasing…

It was a trick one of his buddies taught him, who used it to maintain calm when shooting. Simon used it to steady himself in other ways.  

But you should know that I died slow, he found himself thinking. Still angry, still alone. And the toughest part is that we both know: what happened to you, why you're out on your own.

Because surely he was not that stupid. Surely the Christmas star, shining in all his visage, was that witless to not reason why his brother had left. No, he knew. But whether he was petty or vindictive or simply cruel, all the possibilities in Simon’s alcohol-addled head mixed to stir anger, that rage he always thought was gone until resparked. 

He sat box-breathing for a few more minutes. Still angry, still alone. But one of these he could fix.

When he felt secure enough, Simon moved from the couch down the hall, trailing into the bedroom. His partner, simply a lump under the duvet, groaned at the sliver of light which bled through the cracked door. He smiled at that, and a certain hurt drained away. 

After brushing his teeth and washing his face, he climbed into his side of the bed. It was cold to the touch, and he shivered. 

Leaning over, he plugged his phone into a charger, the screen illuminated. Temporarily blinded by the blue light, he made out a single notification. 

The text, sent an hour ago. Merry Christmas. 

He let the screen turn black, only thinking ‘please don't call.’

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Wonder how often Isaac forgot about his own birthday. Imagine him sitting down at his desk in the morning, working through the day until he noted the date, then glancing up only to find that it was already after midnight. Doesn't matter though, there's nobody there to celebrate with him.

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Wonder how often Isaac forgot about his own birthday. Imagine him sitting down at his desk in the morning, working through the day until he noted the date, then glancing up only to find that it was already after midnight. Doesn't matter though, there's nobody there to celebrate with him.

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Alex farewell audio: I’m ready to scream into the void again

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.✦ LET ME CARE .✦

Isaac x Pickle

(Inspired by part 8 in his series)

“Why are you still here? Is it the lifestyle? Is it the safety of knowing you’re well off?” His tone was sharp and condescending, like he couldn’t believe I was here because I wanted to be.

In annoyance, I dropped my papers on his desk and slammed both hands down. The movement caused items on the table to rattle, yet Isaac stayed still. He trained his eyes on the scattered pile I’d created on his mahogany table and then back at me.

Isaac was a mystery to me. He never reacted to anything. Yet, I knew something must change that, and it was his turn to be uncomfortable.

I paused, shifting my gaze to his bemused eyes.

“No, it’s never been about that for me. It's always been for you, Isaac.”

His brows knit together as I continued, “When have I asked for anything more than what I’ve been given? You’re an investigator for heaven's sake—why can’t you see that everything I do is because of how much I care about you?”

Everything tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. I’d been careful, using words that might scare him and cause him to draw back, but now my irritation made my feelings finally come to light.

He wasn’t just my boss anymore. He couldn’t deny the tension between us since the garden kiss. He wanted to ignore it, but I didn’t.

Knowing this, there was less conversation, less eye contact, and less of everything personal. We had started back at square one because of an “emotional reaction to grief,” in his words.

I was tired of pretending we didn’t have a connection and that I would silently go back to being a professional employee for him. I was shocked he thought it was possible because, after a few months of working for Isaac, we’d never been professional since the beginning. There was always a thread that tied us together somehow, and we didn’t let go of it. Instead, we tugged it closer until there was nothing but a tangle of confused feelings left between us.

My thoughts could’ve gone on forever until his sharp voice brought me back to reality.

“You’re being selfish. Don’t say things you don’t mean, especially to me.” Isaac fiddled with the pen in his fingers as he spoke.

My mind reeled at his reply.

“You think, after everything, I’d lie about my feelings? That I’m being selfish for wanting to care?” I replied sternly, trying not to be hurt by his words.

Isaac rubbed his temple, shaking his head.

“No, I just think you’re being irrational about this. I know we’ve been closer than I anticipated, and that’s my fault for not keeping this strictly professional.”

Every sentence out of his mouth was another wrench in my heart. How could he brush things off so easily? It was as if emotions were something to keep tucked away like another book in his library.

Sighing, I stepped back from his desk and forced a smile.

“If you wanted professionalism, then you shouldn’t have brought a stray into your house.”

Isaac grimaced at the term he used before.

“That isn’t—” His chair scraped the floor as he rose, gaze set on me. “Your past doesn’t affect the work you do here.”

“You’re right, but that doesn’t mean how I’ve grown to feel about you ruins that. At least I had the guts to say the truth.” I fired back, the self-preservation I had coming into this slowly fading. The frustration was evident between the two of us, and I suddenly felt regret.

Who was I to demand anything of him? To think he’d let down his walls for me, his housekeeper, was idiotic.

Recollecting myself, I stood up straighter. “I apologize for my outburst. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. Please excuse me.”

Before I could reach the doorknob, a larger hand softly covered it, and Isaac’s frame appeared beside me. I stared down at his hand over my own.

Even after pushing me away, I never had the thought of leaving. Not once. However, I wasn’t delusional enough to keep fighting for someone unprepared.

“Please, Isaac—”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he interrupted, closing his eyes as if it pained him to tell me upfront.

“I’m glad you’re selfish about me. I haven’t had anyone care for a long time.”

I lifted my head. “And it seems like I’ll have to get used to it.” He admitted, the corners of his lips slightly turning up.

I suppressed the sudden smile forming on my lips, nodding in acknowledgment. Isaac’s eyes lingered on my face before letting go of the doorknob, his footsteps retreating.

At that moment, I realized this was him trying. It may not be a grand gesture by any means, but for him, it was a step forward.

“Weren’t you going to bed?”

“Yes, of course, I was—” I said, swiftly collecting the papers I had thrown onto his desk moments ago.

Isaac’s professionalism had seeped back in, reading another case file from his laptop. Still a complete workaholic, I thought, turning to leave.

He wished me goodnight, and I closed the door to his office.

Making my way up the stairs to my room, I turned my head and softly muttered a resolution, a silent confession to the man behind the mahogany door below.

“I promise, Isaac, you’ll never have to forget how it feels to be loved again.”

┈ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦┈

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do you believe talents are something you are born with rather than develop ??? Even if one develops their talent will it stand to the person who was or seemed naturally gifted????

Ex: if a person is naturally good at maths can the other person overtake them by sheer hardwork???

Yes, I think talents are developed. Even the “naturally gifted” person had to start somewhere.

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how do you stay so consistent with your work without getting burnout/procrastinating and still maintaining the level of your writting doesn't it get monotonous??? Any tips on how to be consistent with your work without overwhelming ones self

Sometimes it does get monotonous -- not the writing, but what is being written. I feel like I only have so many ideas about the Sakuverse characters, and although requests bring a sort of gust of fresh air into my writing because I am forced to think about a specific scenario and build a scene from there, I wonder if perhaps the way I write and the way my mind interprets these requests might get a bit repetitive.

It takes me about two hours to write a one shot; from having a (vague) idea about what to write to having the full thing proofread and edited and ready to post. I used to have the time to spare back when I was finishing school -- especially after I had finished it and was doing some other stuff while waiting for university to start -- so I wrote a lot and put it all in a queue to post daily fics for about a month while I used that time to finish my Asirel novella.

Long story short, writing, in a way, is an art of habit. Again, I used to write about one fic a day back when I was in school, because I had the time. And I believe I've said before that I sat down and just did it -- no matter if I felt motivated or not. That's the art of it, in my opinion. Just to do it, even if you don't feel like it; more often than not, at least that's the case for me, the motivation will come during the process.

As for tips, that really depends on how you write and how your creative process works. I recommend creating a writing playlist (if you can stand listening to music while writing) and only putting it on when you sit down to write. Also, try changing the font to Comic Sans? It sounds ridiculous, but I've found it to further creativity.

What I think is the most practical advice is just do it, even if you don't feel like it. If you wait forever for the muse to strike you'll never get it done. I know starting is the hardest part, and overcoming that initial fear of staring at a blank document is the true mastery of the craft.

These are big words for someone who hasn't done a lot of writing recently, part of that is because I feel a little burnt out. The Asirel novela truly took everything out of me, and although I feel the need to slowly start writing again (for context: the novella was done by the end of autumn), I also have to admit that I currently really don't have the time for it. And I could make the time, but I'm also weary of pushing myself too hard this time around.

It will probably be a long time before I could get close to anything resembling my previous publishing schedule of daily fics, and hey, that's totally alright as well.

Despite what I said about writing even if you don't feel like it, it shouldn't feel like a chore. It's a hobby and a form of art -- and if you really don't want to do it then you shouldn't push yourself out of a sense of obligation.

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Hear me out. Xanthus, love and Nathaniel (the first baby they adopted) on a vacation at the beach and the take a bunch of pictures . Like imagine Bahamas and the clear blue water and like love is like jsut sitting in the water like less than an inch and Nathan's on their lap or somethubg cute

just a cute little idea ot something🤷‍♀️

Very cute idea. I can see them splashing each other with water while giggling.

If anyone wants to write this go ahead! I’m sorry, but I really can’t write anything involving, like, children and parenting and so on. It’s just really not my thing. Sorry! Hope you understand.

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isaac and pickle had a fight and now they have to kiss and make-up (and make-out if possible)

Overbearing

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

“Funny of you to bring him up, considering it wasn’t me who interrupted the meeting!” 

Isaac rolled his eyes, huffing in exasperation at your furious expression. “Listen, ultimately, I call the shots here,” he said drily, his eyes widening as he saw the moment your patience snapped. 

“Do you?” you snapped, restraining your anger enough to set the papers in your hands down and not tear them into a million little shreds like they desperately longed to. 

You wanted to vent your anger, release some of the frustration that had been brimming in your chest and gradually morphed into annoyance until finally tipping over to anger as Isaac, overbearing and nosy, could not let you manage the single client who had ever asked for your services specifically. It made you feel like an incompetent apprentice and not a partner. You told him as much. 

His stare hardened. “You think I’m overbearing?” he asked, picking up his cup of coffee. It was the coffee you had made him this morning, long since cooled. You pressed it into his hands with a kiss and demanded that he eat some of the cookies you had baked. 

If anyone was overbearing, it was you. He was cautious. 

“I said I could handle it, Isaac!” you said forcefully, gripping the edge of the kitchen table. Your fingers twitched, longing to wrap around the delicate paper and tear it to shreds. You were furious, glaring daggers at Isaac as he leaned against the kitchen aisle with his arms crossed, glaring back.  

“I don’t care,” he snapped, eyebrows furrowing as he sat the mug back down. 

You opened your mouth to reply, now properly pissed off. He held up a hand, and you growled. 

“Whatever you think you can handle, I’ve said before that there are people out there who will try to get to me through you. Do you understand that? I can’t just let you— let you waltz around, meeting new clients on your own when they could be capable of anything!” he said, pushing himself away from the counter to walk towards you, setting his hands on the table — on top of the papers you had wanted to obliterate — and leaned closer to you. “You mean too much to me. I can’t risk anything happening to you.”

Your anger dimmed, switching back to frustration. You understood where he was coming from, knew his concerns were warranted, but that did not mean you liked being reminded of your inadequacy — at least in his eyes — to take care of yourself. 

“Isaac,” you began, holding his gaze, “you can’t keep treating me as if I don’t know—”

“I know, I know,” he said, waving a hand before running it through his jet-black hair. The strands were tousled, speaking volumes about his own frustration. 

“It’s been over a year, Isaac.”

“I know, okay!” he snapped, clearing his throat a moment later. He lowered his gaze, staring pointedly at the tiled floor of the kitchen. He hated losing the grip on his emotions, hated this burning need to protect and control and know. It was like an ache under his skin, crawling up his spine until he could feel himself vibrate with nervous energy when you were alone with a stranger. 

All the possibilities of what could happen, infinite strings of ‘what-ifs’ twisting his mind until it was in knots, and he could do nothing but close his eyes and try to breathe through the dizziness that would fog his brain and take a sip of his coffee to stave off the numbness spreading through him before he inevitable caved, shuffling to the office and interrupting the meeting to make sure you were alright, to make sure it was fine. 

The fact that you were no longer new in the scene, had earned your place by his side through hard work and your competence, did nothing to ease his worries.

He loved you; how could he be expected not to worry?

“I’m trying,” he admitted quietly. You were right. It had been over a year, and you deserved more than be his partner in name. It was just so damn hard to entertain the thought that you could ever end up in harm's way by the nature of the work he had paved your path in. “I know I can be a lot— overbearing—”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I’m sorry I said that,” you said, stepping around the table to stand properly in front of him. “You’re not, you— just sometimes I get frustrated when you think I’m incapable of handling myself.”

“I worry,” he said, offering you both his hands, palms up. “You’re important to me. I want you to be safe.”

Taking his hands, you tugged him towards you gently. Isaac stumbled, letting out a noise of surprise that turned muffled by your lips against his. You kissed him sweetly, releasing his hands to cup his cheeks instead. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as if he were afraid you would slip through his fingers any moment. 

Isaac always held you with such desperation and looked at you so reverently. Sometimes, you wondered if he was only waiting for you to disappear right before him, gone in a blink that would bring his world crashing down around him. ‘I need you here,’ he had told you many times. You wondered how acute this need was, if he would crush into dust and fall apart completely if you should disappear from his hold. 

“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, brushing your thumb over his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “But I need my freedom as well, Isaac. I can’t live like a bird in a cage.”

“I know,” he whispered, tugging you against his chest and burying his face against your shoulder, breathing in your scent.“I’m trying.”

You could feel his heart beating a little too fast in his ribcage. “That’s all I ask, love,” you said, tilting your head to press a kiss against his jaw. “That’s all I ask.”

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Isaac Masterlist

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

All the Loose Ends

Fastidious Valour; Part II

Breaking Apart

Strictly Business

Secretary (nsfw); Part II (nsfw)

Birthday Gift (nsfw)

Never Falter

You're a Villain (nsfw)

Inexperienced (nsfw)

Time Stands Still

Bittersweet; Part II (nsfw)

Bad Relation

Cold; Part II

Take Care

Starry Night

May Your Heart Be Free

Jealousy

Sunlight

Memento Mori

Sacred Scars

In Pieces

Mine (nsfw)

I'm Not Open To New Ideas

Enjoy The Silence

Dripping (nsfw)

Drowning Lessons (nsfw)

Remnants Of The Past

Overbearing

Holding On (To You)

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Are you taking requests again since you've finished the novella or are you focusing on school or your job rn, I know novembers busy for a lot of us

Hi! I suppose I'm taking requests, though when I'll be writing them is a different issue. I am quite busy with university currently (and I don't see that letting up anytime soon) but I'll do my best.

There are a few requests that have been sitting in my inbox since late September (sorry about that!). I'll get to them eventually, give me a bit of time.

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do you think Tara smoked? if she did, do you think she liked the smell of Fresno's flames? do you think it calmed her, like the cigarettes do? could she tell between the smoke in her lungs and the kind permeating her skin, unknowing as she tried to save people from the wreckage until she was ash all the same? was there a small comfort in them? the last few minutes she was alive?

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'Tis done.

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Encore — The Beginning

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // finis

Asirel walked into Atlantis, passing through the golden door and sparing Bashir only a glance before he sat down in his cushioned chair. Three of the five were empty, but they would not be for long. He placed a red folder on the coffee table beside him.

He had ideas, and he would turn them into reality with time. 

The highest priority now was the mythics, and — Kennedy be damned — he would make sure knowledge of their existence subtly spread through the entire Collective, seeping past the diamond barrier of the secrets kept in the inner circle. 

“Where have you left the correspondent?” Bashir asked, her tone light to counterbalance the dark maw of silence they were stuck in. 

Asirel looked at her, three missed calls from Vic and one he had returned first thing in the morning heavy on his mind. 

“Am I my colleague’s keeper?” he asked tonelessly, watching her flinch at the coldness in his voice. She would find out soon enough. It was not for him to tell.  

Bashir knew something had changed. Asirel looked sterner, colder, sure of himself and his place in the world, knowing his reason and leaving no room for doubt or second-guessing once he made up his mind. The silver ring on his finger no longer felt like foreign metal. 

It was his — no longer his father’s ring or his father’s position he succeeded. No, it was his.

There was a quiet knock on the golden door. Bashir tensed, reaching for her gun. 

“Relax,” Asirel said. 

The door opened slowly, revealing a head of deep red hair that made the woman hesitatingly stepping inside look like an indispensable part of the building. 

Bashir frowned, lowering her gun. “Livia?” she asked, confused to find the receptionist on the first floor. “What’s—?” she cut off when she saw the silver on her ring finger.

“Miss Ransmayr.” Asirel motioned for her to take a seat. “Welcome to the inner circle of the Collective. You know us, introductions are superfluous. Now” — he said, opening his folder — “I have a few thoughts about how we run the world.”

So his work began.

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Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iv — The Walk

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: character death

The night came down like a quiet blessing, bringing the bleak autumn day to a close. You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, flexing your fingers to stave off the chill numbing them. It was cold, pleasantly so.

The leaves rustled in the wind, dancing on the ground before you as you walked down the lone road through the secluded area of the park. It was beautiful, the low moonlight illuminating the trees with a faint hue of blue. You wondered what Vic would tell you tonight. 

He had stayed long after the funeral ended, doubtlessly making sure Isaac was alright and keeping Rhoades from drinking himself into a stupor. No matter how insistent he was to continue working, you resolved to keep a closer eye on him from now on. Vic would have had the same thought already. Telling him was superfluous, but you made a mental note to bring it up anyway.

Walking cleared your head. The colder it was outside, the better. Not because it was more pleasant — walking in the rain was a different feeling entirely than taking a stroll on the warm summer night — but because it organized your mind, slicing through the thoughts and emotions bouncing in your skull with a sharp knife.

The cold made you feel glad when you walked back home, entering the mansion you had to yourself and curling up in front of the fire Julian would have lit for you, wishing him a good night and promising to eat the dinner he had set out before basking in the warmth and the comfort it brought. 

The heat would melt away the chill, turning you warm and cozy in a way that was next to impossible to replicate in any other way inside the endless, hollowness of your home. 

It made you feel human in the rawest way, going home to appreciate the warmth that was there. Going home to seek shelter behind the walls that kept out the chill the world shrouded you in.

A bench came into view, leaves cracking under your shoes as you walked towards it. You sat down with a sigh, leaning back against the stiff wood with a wince as it dug into your back. The discomfort was a small price to pay for the view of the city and its bright lights, stretching out in front of you like a beautiful work of art on canvas. 

You shivered as a harsh gust of wind whipped past, wrapping your coat tighter around you. 

Vic was not late, you were early. A few minutes early — maybe fifteen. 

You could no longer stand to stare at the papers on your desk. It felt like the walls of your study were closing in on you, the faint longing for chamomile tea making your heart ache from past mistakes. 

I know people are willing to betray for it.

The whirlwind of your thoughts had made you want to pace, tear apart every wretched document, and disappear forever into oblivion to catch a break from it all. 

You decided to take a walk instead. So you were early, inhaling the cold night air and allowing it to soothe away some of your restlessness. 

The warden was expecting a call. You had put it off all day, again too preoccupied with the Trimedian to turn your attention to Stockton. You wondered faintly if you should attend Tara’s funeral, or if Warden would seize the opportunity to shoot you on the spot. Maybe James would before the widower even had a chance to blink. 

You wondered if that was worth the end, just to show your acquaintance — your friend — the last honors. Because that’s what Tara had been, even with all the animosity between you. That’s what you had lost that day, yesterday, when the markets crashed and a vampire was ready to tear out your heart — a friend. 

And then Dove followed, and you had lost another. 

Bashir had called. You had not picked up, too much occurring between betrayals, and threats, and murders to switch your mind into gear and think about the Collective and world politics. You would call her back. She was a night owl anyway, toiling away behind her bright white desk when Dove had long since gone to bed. 

Except Dove was dead. 

She never came home that day. Never returned to her study. Never got the chance to light a cigarette in the fading twilight, and lean out of the window to observe the leaves rustling in the breeze, the smoke between her fingers drifting upwards. 

No, she was dead. And so was Tara. And both their funerals lay ahead of you and you did not know if you could endure them both without breaking apart completely. 

After Warden had left last night, it was Bashir who had told you about Kennedy — Robert Kennedy — successfully filling the market void by buying the ashen remains of Michelle’s real estate business. He had stabilized the branch in a way Quetza was currently unable to. 

She had asked about the future of the hotel chain now that Tara was gone, and you had told her it was safe, voice choked and back aching. She had asked about Stockton, and you could not answer her. 

The power dynamics of the city were shifting, especially with Kennedy’s new involvement. The gangs would regroup, continuing to wage war with each other perhaps more ruthlessly than before. You supposed it could not get much worse than planting a bomb in a meeting that was supposed to bring about a truce. 

Murdering Tara was as bad as it would get. 

Warden would make sure of that as well, the wrath in him fueling his work. He would keep the gangs and the city balanced, not wanting to risk losing his son in the turmoil as well. You only hoped he would not freeze over his heart to prepare for what he thought was the inevitable impact of a life in freefall — the death of all he loved.

You should call your family. 

The thought was sudden, startling you out of the peaceful reverie that had settled over you as you gazed at the scenery unseeing, grim musings taking up all your attention. 

You knew you should. Hearing their voices, talking to them even of the most banal things, and appreciating them while they were here was better than mourning them while they were still alive. 

The heartbreak you would feel at losing them — inevitably — would be better than this quiet, gray detachment. It would not hurt less once they were gone, and the guilt burning in your chest at having wasted the years you could have still been part of their lives would turn into acid regret, coursing through you with the grief of lost time. 

You would be mourning a husk, a person that had not existed for a very long time because you had lost touch. You did not know them anymore. That would hurt most of all.

You should call them if only to tell them you loved them, and promptly hang up again. 

Did they know? 

You hoped they did. 

It was better to keep this distance between you. It was safer for them. But the funeral had stirred something in you. Rhoades’ words had made you taste ash. You did everything right. No, you could not believe that. 

You would keep your distance, not daring to give your enemies any more ammunition against you in these volatile times, but you did not want to keep them guessing. 

You would call them, as soon as you got home. 

You would bid goodnight to Julian, thanking him profusely for all that he had done for you once again, sink into the cushions of the sofa to soak up the warmth emanating from the fireplace, pick up the telephone, and call them. Two minutes. Five minutes. It would not matter. 

You would call, remind them of your love, and hang up. Bashir could wait another few minutes once you got home. 

Once you got home.

The leaves next to you rustled. 

The corner of your mouth twisted upwards in a smile, but you did not take your eyes off the city lights before you. There was a light sheen of fog rolling in with the night, turning the lights hazy. You thought it made the whole picture all the more beautiful. You opened your mouth, a greeting on your lips. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You froze. 

That was not Vic’s voice. 

Lazarus sat down beside you, heaving a deep sigh as he breathed in the fresh air. “I can hear the spike in your heart rate, you know,” he said, amusement in his voice. His sharp smile only made your heart beat faster. “Suppose I’m not the one you wanted to see. Is that fear I smell on you?”

“What do you want?” you asked, keeping your voice even. 

He adjusted his collar, following the leaves sinking to the ground with a calm pleasure in his eyes that reminded you that he was immortal, and he had all the time the world had to offer. 

“I can smell lies, too, you know,” he said, once the leaves reached the ground, lying still. The wind ruffled his hair. It made the leaves skitter. With the brown strands falling into his face, Lazarus looked soft in a way that clashed with the sharp canine teeth he exposed.

His dark eyes settled on you. It felt like a reckoning, the closing of business that had been left unfinished. 

“I could smell your bluff from a mile away.”

You clenched your fists, feeling suddenly weightless. “Could you?” you asked, grappling to say something. The light at the end of the tunnel was getting further away. The well had deepened. “It did not seem like it to me.”

How would you get out of this one, you wondered. 

“Putting on an act keeps things interesting,” he said, licking his teeth. “You never stood a chance either way. And you, my dear,” he said, hand shooting out to grab your jaw. He turned your head to face him fully.

You did not have time to draw back, flinching when you were in his grasp already. Your hands shot out instinctively, ready to pry his fingers off and claw at his wrist. 

“Don’t,” he commanded, his voice floating on a cloud of calmness and control that left no choice in you but to obey. 

Your movements stilled, a low groan of annoyance and anger tearing out of your throat. Now you knew what Asirel had talked about. Compulsion. It did not feel pleasant to have your control ripped away from you. 

“As I was saying,” Lazarus continued, eyes drifting over your features before settling on your neck. The collar of your coat was in the way, but he licked his lips regardless. “You have begun getting on my nerves, and I’ve decided to do something about that. Can’t have you all up in my business now, can I?”

You gave a humorless chuckle, despite the fear he could taste. You looked him dead in the eye, defiance meeting quiet amusement and anticipation in his dark ones. He tilted his head curiously as he felt you work your jaw, loosening his grip as he realized you were trying to talk. 

“Get in line,” you bit out. 

The thought that all of this was hopeless hit you full force. You could not get out. It was over. Even if you cheated death here — and the dark eyes burning into you promised that to be impossible — you could not run from the inevitable forever. 

“Impatience is my vice,” he said. “It was actually quite interesting to watch your life unravel. I didn’t think you had it in you to shoot Ackroyd, although I should have known you would go to every extent for your fondness of Asirel. And Vic, of course.”

You remembered suddenly that you had forgotten his umbrella. It stood in your foyer, long since dried. You wondered if someone would bother to return it after this. You wondered if he would ask for it back. 

“The whole business in Stockton was unfortunate. She was so close to a breakthrough with the gang, from what I hear — I forget which one. The city is terribly confusing. Well, it does not matter. The Trimedian are off limits, you should have known that. You should have stuck to crashing markets and immoral weapon exports instead of chiseling away at Samuel Kennedy. He’s the main act. You were in over your head from the start.”

His concentration dropped, and you found that you could finally swat his hand away, freeing your jaw. He let you, laughing — a deep, ugly sound laced with venom and contempt — while staring at you as if you were a particularly entertaining puzzle. 

You wiped the skin his fingers had touched with the back of your hand. “Well, I did not expect vampires when I first set out to investigate,” you said. 

You were faintly aware that you were staling, but what were a few more moments when it would all end soon enough? The truth was, you were scared. No matter how much the theory of your death was a familiar musing you had gone over time and time again, the practice of it — truly, irreversibly dying — felt like another thing entirely. And you were scared. So very scared of the end.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” he quoted, trailing off to leave the line unfinished. Then he asked, “What does death look like to you?” 

You startled, fingers clamping down on the wood of the bench beneath you. The overwhelming urge to flee, to run, run, run before it was too late took hold of you completely. You felt your knee jerk, a new high of adrenaline crashing over you. 

Damn it all, you thought wildly. What did it matter? Making a run for it would be better than sitting here like a sacrificial lamb. Death was next to you. 

I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.

What else was there to do but run for your life in a suicide frenzy? 

You made to push yourself to stand, ready to dart towards the city lights. It was futile, you knew that as soon as your muscles contracted. It was useless.

Lazarus’ hand shot out, gripping your shoulder and halting your movements. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, before pulling you back onto the bench roughly. Your back hit the wood, and a sharp pain ran down your spine as you gasped breathlessly. 

No, the game was over. 

“How rude of you,” he said, a smile betraying his amusement as he watched your face contort in pain. If you had remembered to bring Vic’s umbrella, you thought you may have had a good shot at beating him to death with it. “Don’t be surprised now. You knew this was coming. Answer the question, before I make you.”

The cold air had turned freezing. You were sure your being early had morphed into Vic being late. You hoped he was alright.

“I suppose it looks like you,” you said. 

There was a bitter acceptance in admitting that this was your last encounter. This was where the threads of fate had spun you to be. This was the end of everything for you, and if you had shared the late Mr. Cain’s enthusiasm for stoicism, you would have recognized the acceptance of your fate to be one of the pillars of a life dedicated to duty — Amor Fati. 

His pleased hum filtered through the night, nearly hidden beneath the rustling sound of the leaves fluttering through the air. “I look forward to sinking my teeth into your neck. I’d say I’ve never had blue blood before, but that would be a lie,” he grinned at the memory. “This will only hurt a little.”

“The scenery is beautiful,” you said, keeping your eyes on the skyline. “I should have appreciated it more often.”

The city lights glinted in the night like diamonds or broken glass. The fog had gently thickened, dousing the view in peaceful calmness. The bright dots morphed together and you realized that the lights were as sharp as they had always been — cutting through the darkness with delicate precision, creating the illusion of warmth as you sat miles away from them, listening to the leaves and feeling cold — but they were turned soft by the tears in your eyes.

The moon was a constant, hanging in the sky with the promise of eternity. 

“You should have,” Lazarus said, finality creeping into his voice. “It’s too late now.” He did not like to wait.

You looked at the lights, eyes narrowing as if seeing something long forgotten in the distance. Not forgotten, pushed out of mind, buried under all the chaos that had unfolded in the last few days. You blinked away the tears. 

“Can you give me another twelve hours?” you breathed, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. 

He frowned. “Borrowed time?” He looked at you, impatience and pity in his expression. “What would you want with that?”

“I’m expected at a wedding,” you said quietly, fiddling with the silver ring on your finger. Your hands were shaking. 

The thought of Julian standing in front of the chapel — his dark suit pressed to perfection, a red rose over his heart — as he checked his watch repeatedly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, heart breaking with every passing second because you weren’t showing up and you had promised, lodged itself like a wedge between your ribcage, breaking it open until what remained of your heart seeped out, dripping onto the leaf-covered ground. 

Your wordless pleas hung heavy in the air, drifting towards the moon and into the void above. They were met with quiet, chilling silence. 

You knew his answer before Lazarus even drew in a breath to speak. “They’ll have to manage without you from now on,” he said. 

After all that Julian had done for you — and you could not fulfill the only request he had ever voiced. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the helplessness settling over you. Memento mori. It had only been a matter of time. You could not help the heaviness in your chest. 

You could have done so much more with twelve hours. You could have done more with only a single one. Tie up the loose ends, leave with no unfinished business. Everything you had failed to do weighed you down, filling you with deep regret. 

Death did not wait for you to finish up your plans. It did not wait for you to make the call, or pay the visit, or say goodbye. 

How easy that was to forget sometimes, that the future was uncertain. That after the walk might never exist — that youwould never make it home one day.

You wiped your eyes. “What cruel words coming from an immortal raised from the dead,” you said. 

“Every life is a tragedy in five acts,” Lazarus said, baring his teeth. “And the curtains are closing on yours.”

[literary-motif]

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iii — The Price

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: mourning/grief

You avoided funerals like the plague. It was only out of a sense of deep-seated sympathy — and guilt so crushing it made you bolt upright at night, drenched in sweat and pleading for forgiveness to the empty air around you — that you attended the one in Mr. Rhoades's backyard. 

(Tara’s was not for another two days, but you doubted Warden would appreciate you showing up.)

Asirel stood beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of your heads. It kept the downpour from drenching you in a matter of seconds as it looked like the heavens had opened up, intending to flood the earth once more. The sound of the rain plummeting around you accompanied the quiet gasps and sobs. They brushed over the rift in your heart, making it ache. 

Mr. Rhoades did not seem to care about the rain. He was dripping, swaying before the empty grave and nearly toppling over if Vic had not put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. The river of his tears mixed with the rain, rolling over his face before falling to the earth. 

You saw little Isaac standing only a few paces behind his grandfather. His eyes were wild, darting around the trees, flinching at every noise as he kept his distance from the grave his parents would be buried in. The blue orchids beside it buckled and snapped under the force of the rain.

It was only natural after what the little boy had gone through in this very garden. It was an act of bravery that spoke for Isaac’s character — or the persuasion skills of his grandfather — that the child attended the funeral at all.

This experience — trauma, you corrected — would leave a scar. You were sure of it.

“Poor boy,” Asirel muttered. His hold on the umbrella tightened as the wind picked up, but he kept his voice light. Both of you watched the coffins being lowered into the ground. The rain was nearly loud enough to drown out Mr. Rhoades’ quiet sobs. Nearly.

“Yes,” you said, suppressing a wince at the coldness seeping into the muscles of your back. The chill clinging to your bones reawakened the pain you had kept under wrap for the better part of the day. “I wonder what will become of him one day. If he is anything like his grandfather, it would be best not to let him stray too far.”

Asirled hummed, filing the thought away for a later time. (It would resurface years from now when Mr. Rhoades lay on his deathbed and Asirel needed a new private investigator.) “Memento mori, I suppose,” he said.

You could not help a sad smile. “Right next to Amor Fati,” you replied, glancing at Asirel, who was already looking at you. “Stoicism was your father’s favorite philosophy. We had long discussions about Marcus Aurelius when time permitted.”

Murder. Arsenic poisoning. 

“I have found it easier to remember the fact that you yourself must die,” he said, watching Isaac as he carefully took a step closer to the grave. Perhaps he, too, saw white roses covered with black earth. “Than it is to accept the certainty that those around you must.”

Asirel had no problem picturing his own death. He would look at his cards, realize that he had no chance at winning this impossible game, and fold. That would be the last of it. Once his time was up, he knew there was nothing more he could do about the unfinished plans and half-baked ideas in his mind. He would have given all he had to offer, ready to retire and clear the stage for another play. 

But when he pictured the death of his mother, or — god forbid — his little sister, his mind broke.

The wind picked up, harshly whipping around you. The chill made you groan softly, your hand reaching up to hold onto Asirel’s arm and keep yourself steady against the tide of burning sharpness that traveled up and down your spine. 

He looked at your hand briefly, noting the tight grip you had on him and the firm press of your lips, and decided not to comment. 

“It’s all about who dies first, in the end,” you bit out despite the pain, continuing the conversation. “It’s a race to the finish line nobody wants to win. At least the first one there gets spared the pain of loss.”

The pain of loss. He was intimately familiar with it. 

It felt like a gray branch of thorns winding itself across his chest, squeezing tightly while it cut him open. It made him bleed, pulling the breath from his lungs until he could only tear open his mouth in a silent scream. Instead of his voice, a broken sob would crawl up his throat, his lungs laden with lead while his mouth felt stuffed with a mass of fog, clouding him, settling in his chest, and chilling him from the inside while the thorns tore at his skin ruthlessly.

Normally, the pain was different. Normally, he was not sure if he could call it pain at all.

It was like a black cloud looming over him, lowering its blinding white tendrils of apathy until they wrapped around his throat. They choked him until there was nothing left in his chest but a deep, hollow well. 

It hurt, but the pain was distant. Somehow he thought that was worse. 

At least with the cutting sorrow, there was something there. However faint, it was a tangible agony in his chest. But instead — when he felt like this — he was just empty. 

Not even the burning despair at this nothingness was enough to break through the haze around his heart. Nothing was enough to stuff the well in his chest, and the effort it took to haul one pebble stone after another into this hole and wait for it to fill and bury his sorrow and pain, offered insufficient revenue. 

No, he had been long since caught in the well, the water reaching up to his throat. He listened to his own emotions reverberate on its humid edges, feeling them dulled and tainted, unless there was an unexpected feeling sharp enough to shake him — a pain piercing through him that made him forget about the void and the ache, and the never-ending pebble stones. 

“Sometimes that’s all I could ask for,” Asirel said cryptically, staring into the distance. 

He watched Mr. Rhoades approach and felt your hand drop from his arm. The man was soaking wet, but Vic’s umbrella was sheltering him now. His friend held it above his head protectively, not minding to get caught in the rain himself as he walked beside him. 

Mr. Rhoades came to stand before you, his eyes bloodshot and hazy as they moved over your features, hardly recognizing you. His gaze flickered to Asirel briefly, an afterthought that someone else was there. Rhoades looked wretched. 

Isaac sneaked up beside him, hoovering at his grandfather’s side. The little boy was shaking, either from fear or the cold, you did not know. 

Asirel thought he was keeping his sobs locked away in his chest, trembling from the force it took to keep his grief bottled up. He felt a pang of sympathy for the orphan — the word alone tearing apart his heart. 

Morley had sold his secrets. She was responsible for doing this, but he had provided her with the opportunity. This was as much his fault as it was yours for putting Mr. Rhoades on the Kennedy case. He felt blood on his hands and longed to step into the rain so it might wash him clean again, cleanse him of the guilt and sorrow he felt bubbling in his chest. 

“You were right,” Mr. Rhoades said, his voice rough and empty. He looked at you with dead eyes, soulless as they already glimpsed into the future and the rest of his miserable existence. 

Alone. Hated. Lost. 

He would bear the weight of many sleepless nights, wishing he were dead but refusing to turn the gun on himself, lest she— Allie — won and Isaac would be left with nobody at all. 

“You were right to keep them away. You did everything right,” he said.

He was talking about your family. You tensed. The many times he had urged you to reach out to them again, warning you that you would regret it once they were gone flashed through your mind. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, knowing your words were insufficient to obstruct the drowning tide of sorrow overtaking him. And I’m sorry you believe that. “I am truly sorry, Rhoades.”

Asirel’s eyes were on Vic, watching as the older man held out his hand to little Isaac, waiting patiently as he worked up the courage to take it. Without saying a word, Vic shrugged off his coat, draping it over the child’s shoulders and pulling it over his head slightly to shield him from the rain. “All good?” he asked gently.

Isaac shook his head, his eyes suddenly filling with tears as the pressure in his chest rose to a crescendo. He buried himself deeper in the coat, trying to disappear within it. A choked sob escaped him, making Vic wince. 

“Yeah, alright,” he whispered, gaze snapping up as he handed you the umbrella, revealing a turmoil of emotions in his eyes — anger, protectiveness, and bitter, burning sadness. 

You took hold of the handle without taking your gaze off of Rhoades, half-stepping into the downpour yourself to keep him shielded. Asirel followed your step forward, assuring you both stayed dry. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Vic said, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, grounding him while he led the little boy back towards the house. 

Under his hand, he could feel Isaac shaking, broken sobs now tumbling freely from his lips. At least he wasn’t alone. For a short while, at least, he had a chest to bury his face in and strong arms that would hold him together. 

“I’ll get you nice and warm, yeah?” Vic said, his voice hardly audible over the plummeting rain. “Come with me, little one. You’re safe with me.”

“I have not made progress with the Trimedian,” Mr. Rhoades said, snapping Asirel’s attention away from the retreating backs of Vic and Isaac. His tone was flat. “I have new leads now. I will follow them thoroughly.”

“Take a break,” you said, trying to cut the business talk short. 

He was a mess. You could see it in his eyes, they were dulled despite the anguish in his expression, dark circles under them betraying his restlessness. His hands trembled the way they only did when he was buckling under the pressure. Hewould down a tumbler of whiskey as soon as your back was turned, you knew, wanting to ease the weight grinding him into dust. 

“There is no benefit in working yourself into the ground,” you said. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Isaac.”

“I will.” His voice cracked, and he wiped furiously at the fresh wave of tears with the back of his hand. “But I did not sacrifice them to get thrown out of the loop. I can manage this. I can manage everything. I need to continue my work. It is all that matters now — this and Isaac.” 

He choked on a sob, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he ducked his head, half-heartedly attempting to hide his sorrow. 

“The price I paid for this case was too high for me to abandon it,” he rasped, clearing his throat and pulling himself together enough for the facade of control to slip back over his face. “Our meeting in two days is on as scheduled. I’ll have new information for you then.”

“Rhoades—” you tried. 

“Please,” he begged, and with the pain you saw in his gaze, you found it hard to deny him anything. “If my work should not be up to your standard—”

You shook your head as if to disperse the ridiculous notion. 

“If it should no longer be,” he insisted, “I expect you to retire me. Throw me into permanent oblivion, let the damnatiomemoriae take me, and call it a prolonged vacation. I don’t care. But don’t you dare cut me off sooner!”

His eyes burned with fierce determination despite the tears still streaming down his face. His black suit stuck to his body, his hair drenched as wet strands clung to his forehead. His appearance did not warrant the surge of admiration overtakingyou. 

You could not imagine the heaviness in his chest, nor the pain in his heart at the loss he had suffered. The price he paid for secrecy. You were in awe that he wanted to continue, that he could not abandon his sense of duty and responsibility even as his life lay shattered and buried in the garden. 

Still, you cursed the path you had set out on that led to this.  

“Of course,” you said. “Whatever you need.”

He nodded. His gaze dropped to the ground, and you knew he was in the throes of grief again. “Two days,” he breathed, heaving a sigh. He turned, walking towards the house. “Goodbye.”  

You did not follow, closing the umbrella and stepping closer to Asirel again. You would have to return it to Vic at your next meeting. 

The garden was empty now, only you and the dead left. The rain crashing down painted the ground in a shimmer of silver. You took a last look at the headstones — memento mori — and turned to face Asirel. 

He was caught in a reverie, battling with a thought that would not leave his mind. “Do you think it was my fault?” he asked quietly. Had you been further away from him, it would have been impossible for you to hear him over the sound of the rain. 

You frowned. “What?” 

“Morley— who knows what she noticed,” he said. “She could have gone through the papers, pieced together something to tell Lazarus. Tell him enough to make it clear Rhoades was the informant. Tell him enough to—” He cut off. Make it my fault. 

“No,” you said decisively, “Even if Lazarus sent the organization to retrieve the tape and he got the information from Morley. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for putting Rhoades on the Kennedy case in the first place.”

“You could not have known it would lead here,” he said.

“And you could not have known Morley would betray you,” you countered, reaching up slowly to place your hand on his. The silver rings on your fingers clinked together. “The chain of events is unforeseeable, and we can always blame ourselves in hindsight, but the truth is that we simply could not have known. Remember what I told you about information? People will kill for it ruthlessly. Both to get it and to keep it hidden.”

“I know that,” he said, wrenching his hand away from you. He took a step back, leaving you standing in the rain. “And I know people are willing to betray for it as well.”

Droplets of water rained down on you, soaking you. The thought of opening Vic’s umbrella to stay dry did not cross your mind. You looked at Asirel, standing before you with his jaw clenched, and wondered if you had ever felt as alone as you felt now. 

“You learn fast,” you found yourself saying, voice strained. You thought he did not need you anymore. 

Fresh earth covered two coffins a few paces behind you. White roses were buried with them, left to rot and fall away into nothing beneath the wet earth.  

“Do you want to change the world?” you asked him. “You can, with the Collective.”

Asirel frowned, seeing your black VW pull up to the driveway from the corner of his eye. He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut it. 

“A piece of advice,” you said, raising your hand to let the driver know you would be there in just a minute. “Remember that old systems are resistant to change. Seize every opportunity to steer things in the direction you want, never push them, or they will topple over and you lose control. Do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt, and if the cards are shit” — you said, staring at him intently to make sure he caught the meaning of your words — “and the secret stack you have hidden under the table is not enough to help you win, you bide your time and wait for the next round. Time might not always be on your side, but it is a powerful resource. You play the long game, after all.”