#like maybe it’s just because i am the reigning expert on knee strains because apparently my kneecaps just bugger off sometimes

[fingertipsmp3]

Also while we’re here, here are some new reasons I think my stepdad is an alien:

—Has apparently never experienced insomnia, ever, in his life

—Has also seemingly never been injured in any meaningful way and therefore doesn’t know what to do for a knee sprain. He’s almost 60

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JENN! You’ve been accepted for the role of CORIOLANUS. Admin Rosey: We read two beautiful, amazing applications for our beloved Princeling -- but ultimately, Jenn, your plots and your voice for Cyrus were so impactful and vivid. He’s winsome, charming and built for tragedy. You were able to elaborate on the different machenisms that make him what he is wihile leaving room for him to grow into his own person, to carve out a place within Verona that is unique to him and him alone. We’re ready for this particular strain of ruin! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Jenn

Age | 21+

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | After getting back into the groove of things, I’d say that I’m most active on weekdays! I try to get in a reply at least a few times a week if I have any and if I’m not particularly busy.  

Timezone | GMT+8

How did you find the rp? |  I’m already in it!

Current/Past RP Accounts | Everyone’s favourite Uncle Cristian <3

In Character

Character | Cyrus Dante Sloane // Coriolanus

THE PRINCELING         darling boy with the wind in your hair

A LIGHT SPILLING IN LIKE A FLOOD OF DIVINITY         and the sun in your eyes, don’t you know?

WHO GLADY WAGES WAR ON ALL THOSE WHO WILL DEFY HIM         everything you want is just past your fingertips

What drew you to this character? | We’d love to hear what about this character’s bio caught your attention! Make this as long or as short as you desire!

Cyrus, oh my darling boy. I took one look at his newly posted bio and realised I had overlooked him, to my eternal error. What a champ!!

When it comes to Cyrus, my favorite part is dissecting his development from boy to man and as a result, it’s going to be a running theme all throughout my app. There is so much I want to pour into that space but I will try to be concise.

I can’t tell you what I love most about him without first giving Vivianne some credit. His life is fraught with uncertainties but he thrives in spite of it and that, I think, speaks volumes about his character and how much he’s like his mother. He’s resilient, resourceful and privileged but starved of the things he really needs like love and affection. I imagine that Vivianne’s nurturing in the first decade of his life was pivotal and that it carried on as phantom lessons that he would often replay in his mind when he was in Cape Town in lieu of actually having her there. But you see, the thing about the human mind is that memories get distorted each time it’s “replayed” and he’s done it so many times that I think he’s started to warp and mimic the worst and best parts of Vivianne. Sort of like how Volumnia manages to influence Coriolanus in the original, Vivianne does it too to Cyrus but from afar and unknowingly.

Let me compare Cyrus to all that’s precious in this world. He’s all the golden hues of sunlight, ringing laughter in a home, a shining beacon wherever he goes. He was a boy whose skin was made of gold leaf, paper thin and easily bruised but now as a man it’s turned solid. He’s impenetrable save for the small crack over his beating heart and therein lies the problem he’s never been able to solve ( and the part I’m MOST eager to explore ). I love irony that as a boy who had relied on his mother for all that was good in his life, he’s cultivated such a burning resentment toward Vivianne. He wants to make her rue the day she abandoned him and that makes her his one undeniable weak spot. After so many years, she still has that effect on him and quite like his canon counterpart, it makes him sort of emotionally stunted to a degree.

So, I see him like a child daring enough to commit all sorts of sins against his mother in the name of retribution. I see him using her as a shield against Cosimo, against the mob, against himself. I see him pushing her as she will undoubtedly push back. It layers him with the kind of duality I never got to enact with Cristian and Howard that sort of evolved Cristian’s character into something he never thought he’d be. In my mind, that had been Cristian’s turning point and we all know how it ended.

There’s so many things that could keep Cyrus on the same trajectory what with his vendetta against Vivianne and all that she stands for. But there’s also so many other things that could deviate him from it. I want to help pull back all the layers as his story unfolds and I think any player would love to be able to take him on that journey of self discovery.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

THE ULTIMATE GOAL

His ultimate goal is very clear to me. He always gets what he wants and Cyrus wants to upend all of Vivianne’s plans, whatever they may be and by extension, Cosimo’s. His mother’s kingdom must fall all around her knees. For this, I want to see Cyrus get closer to the Capulet’s enemies and possibly join them when he’s poised for success. Whether or not he believes in their cause, it would be a blow to his mother either way, especially a blow she might not expect or be ready for when they call for his head.

As he accomplishes his objectives, I’d like him to also get a taste of how his mother has lived without him all these years. I believe he’ll come to find that it bears some resemblance with his life in South Africa — successful but also disconnected from the people they want to be. So, why did she have to let him go? He could have made her proud if she had let him stay. He’s vicious and cruel when it comes to her just as he thinks she is when it comes to him. And I believe he’s willing to pull out all the stops to achieve this ultimate goal. And to get there, he’ll need some help…

THE COMPANY

Whatever his plans are, he won’t be able to do them alone. I’d love for him to build a relationship with Juliana, it would be interesting if he does. And especially since she’s more of his mother’s child than he is, I want to see how that plays out in terms of Cyrus dealing with meeting her again after all those years abroad. What’s he going to say to her? What’s he going to do to her? Eventually, I want him to find a way to ensure that he has some sort of influence over her and eventually some sway over the course of actions that the Capulets might or might not take. Though, of course things might not always be so simple.

Other than Juliana, I imagine a big key in making headway within the Capulet ranks is through Cassian. The man is astute and an expert strategist and that’s the advantage Cyrus sees in keeping his company, in playing the teacher’s pet. I want to see Cyrus trick Cassian into facilitating his ambition but like all heroes in their tragedies, a foil makes things interesting. Cassian has been playing this game of cat and mouse longer than Cyrus has and is likely a better player in the long con. And while he might get the better of Cyrus in the long run, Cassian isn’t the man who has the ear of a Cape Town kingpin.

THE KINGPIN

“The dealings with the Capulets, with his mother, had grown sour with the war that waged in the place that he had been born and molded. Who else would they send to smooth such inconveniences over than the man who had the whole of South Africa beneath his feet?” There’s a reason why Cyrus is an emissary despite only just returning to Verona. It’s unlikely that Cosimo would put his trust in Vivianne’s son, who is essentially a stranger to him, without seeing any advantage in the arrangement. So, I had this idea. I’d like to position Cyrus as an emissary for the mob in Cape Town, as the go-between them and the Capulets. I imagine it’s likely that Cosimo wants something from them to aid his cause in the war of Verona and Cyrus, because of his convenient relationship to his Underboss, is the best candidate to get the job done. I’m open to almost any sort of plot for this but my main concern for his development here is that he begins to parallel Vivianne’s journey in the underworld more apparently.

THE RIGHT-HAND WOMAN

Their weapon of choice is easy enough to acquire but what makes their smiles and laughter so razor is that when they smile and laugh, it isn’t just a grin and a sound. It’s in their expressions, the way their faces twitch, the way their eyes flood with joy so infectious others want to share in it, bathe in it. Revel in it. They make you gasp for air and before you know it, you’re suffocating and thanking them for it. Theirs is a friendship I have do doubt will wreak all sorts of havoc in Verona. They are the monsters your mother never warned you about because surely the heaven sent will do no harm. In time, I want the devastation that Cyrus and Brigette reign in Verona to generate an irreversible consequence. Thus, making sure they learn that even sunshine can turn into wildfires.

LA MAMMA

Things Cyrus will never tell his mother; things he maybe should have; maybe the time may never come when he does: “When you hung up the phone, the dial tone echoes the goodbye you never said. Instead, the last thing I hear is that “It’s all for your own good,” and “Because I said so.” I missed you for a long time so what good did it do me when I had nothing but your ghost to tell me you never loved me. That you never wanted me. That I was a mistake. Whether you like it or not, you made me who I am. And I have become heartless. Where were you when I was still kind? Am I supposed to be grateful to have survived like this?”

Just. Kill me with Viv plots.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | At first I was gonna say yes but after completing my app I just can’t bear to kill him off. He deserves so much more. He deserves the world. But still… I’m gonna have to say come what may.

In Depth

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!):

How many years did it take to build this place? Cyrus wonders as he walks past the tall, dark arches made of steely wood that seem to have witnessed all that has happened in Verona; seen all its tribulations and turmoil and subsumed its spilled ichor. He’s almost sure that if he looks closely enough, he’d see the city’s bloody history written in its grain. The furnishing of the library is immaculately chosen, fit precisely to house a most noble family and its liege. At first glance, he sees an enormous collection of books lining every wall and alcove. The shelves are full and the spines of the books vary in colours from light to dark. He touches them, fingering the well-used titles before picking out a select few on the different subjects he’s studying. At a second, more considering glance, he sees the culmination of an extraordinary legacy. A legacy built on the very bones of Verona.

And for him to stand within a place like this, being who he is and what he represents, will be the beginning of his legacy.

Cyrus is once again new to the city and while not many know his face, some do. So, he finds an alcove away from the busier side of the floor where he might be afforded a little more privacy as informed by his absent host. He knows little about his host but he does know that he’s a man who has had the misfortune to be plagued with a tragedy — a death of a loved one. The very same event that’s brought Cyrus back home at the behest of Cosimo Capulet.

His wrist watch beeps and it has just struck twelve. Cyrus is early, he knows that. Much earlier than scheduled. So, he makes himself comfortable and opens the books he’s decided to borrow. Some time passes before a voice beckons him out of his reverie.

“Cyrus Sloane… Are you ready to begin?”

What is your favorite place in Verona?

Having grown up traversing and discovering the avenues of Cape Town looking for something to help him make sense of his snowglobe-shaken world, the streets had become a sort of solace to Cyrus Sloane. Often, it served as a distraction from his loneliness but mostly because what he saw had been as foreign as he. Like calls to like, does it not? So, Cyrus is inclined to answer the man with his winning smile “The streets,” knowing full well that it wouldn’t be a typical answer. He spent his childhood running down Verona’s cobblestone roads but now the lanes and alleys have become the foundation of a concrete wilderness to him, and he sees an opportunity to begin a new exploration.

But to say that anything was his favourite is to say that he has some attachment to it to an extent. There was nothing he wanted to like about the city, nowhere that called to him nor told him of any story he hasn’t already heard before. It is like all the travel pamphlets say; Verona is a city of love but to him, love in this city has become synonymous with lies, with deceit and betrayal. The implication racks him with bile but he lifts his light eyes away from focusing too hard on a spot on the mahogany table and instead meets the even darker hues of his interviewer. The man looks mildly perplexed at him.

Cyrus is accustomed to elaborating everything at this point, what with the denizens of this idyllic town’s constant waiting for him to speak more, do more, inspire more. Thus, blithely he provides a supplement to his answer, “What? Haven’t you been? It’s your city too, is it not? You’ll get all you need from it if you know where to look, what to ask and, especially, who to listen to. Particularly for the best gossip—” He stopped there despite having more to say. He can’t help thinking to himself if the man knew his mother. His mother and Everett Craven. The gossips say Everett is one of her finest works for the mob. Cyrus doesn’t remember much of it, but he does remember what it had cost.

With a shrug, Cyrus cuts away the underlying acerbity and replaces it with cool composure, akin to the business-like exterior the other man has on. It’s one of the few times where looking too naive, too untested might serve him ill. If Cyrus had a glass of alcohol right now, he’d surely decide it’s time to down it in one gulp. Fluidly, he wills himself to be an agreeable conversationalist. “But really, you’ll find that my favourite place in Verona is where I can get the best deals. And right now, it’s here with you.”

What does your typical day look like?

A half suppressed laugh almost makes its way past his slightly chapped lips. It’s an odd thought that his days are anything typical. Cyrus pours his winsome nature into his casting glance directed at the books arranged on the table and into the way he lifts one corner of a hardcover as he turns the title to his new acquaintance. “You have a good collection here.” He lets it drop back into its place with a soft thud atop the short pile of art, history and mathematics texts splayed in front of the sharp-suit interviewer.

“Signore, I’m quite certain you already know this by now but I’ll say it for my full vindication if you like.” He sits back with relaxed shoulders and leans into the surprisingly comfortable wooden backrest. “I’m a student here. You can imagine what my typical day looks like.” A small jerk of his head sends the other man’s gaze to the books on the table to further drive his point home. “I wake up. I get to class. I go home. Maybe hit up a club or party at night. I hear The Lamberti Tower is fun when the sun goes down. Maybe I’ll see you there some time. You know, typical student life—well, maybe not so typical considering…”

“Really? And what about Cosimo Capulet? I hear you report to him now. I’m sure someone with your standing will have a direct line to the man. There might be something here for you if you can open that line to me.” There it is. Cyrus’ mouth quirks up in a half smile. And everything in him tells him to lie, lie, lie. Not because he is afraid of any repercussions, but because a good businessman knows when he has the upper hand. And his upper hand lies with not revealing everything he knows.

With an amused sigh Cyrus continues with a cant of his head. “I want to say Tuesdays and Thursdays but you’ll understand when I say: how would I know?” There is little leniency in his voice when he says that. “He calls me in at his whims and whenever he feels like having someone to order around. If you want to get to him… I’ll work something out for you if you really need it to be done.”

Cyrus has an idea of how much his new associate is relying on his accessibility to Cosimo. But he could reach Don Capulet as easily as it was for a child to cross the road alone—if he isn’t careful, he’d be run over. No, the real power lies with the company and he’s determined to keep them for his grand designs. Rosaline. Orsino. Juliet. Edgar. Volumnia. They are the keys to the kingdom. Lucky for him, mother dearest will be there to lend a hand every step of the way. He’ll make sure of it this time.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

The other man’s forwardness emboldens him to let his mask crack a sliver. “This is beginning to feel like a confessional, Lawrence. Has the church gotten its claws in so deep?” The Sacrament of Penance performed for a sinner by an equally unworthy priest, so it seems. At twenty years old, it’s hard to fathom that he’d have a biggest mistake to talk about. The way his assessor asks this… It feels as if his whole life should pivot around the fact of this big mistake.

Then… Is it the fact that he’d been born? It isn’t as if he’s had a choice in that. No, it was his mother’s mistake to fall pregnant. It’s her sin to bear, not mine, he reminds himself.

Then… Is it his return to Verona? The land that bore him, made him and then cast him out as if he’d always been an unwanted stray. No, again it isn’t his mistake to bear.

He knows his own wrongs.

He knows that at twenty years old his one grievance to confess is that he is just as much his mother’s son as he’d never admit. He could be as calculative and as clinical as she is ( and as equally and reluctantly vulnerable ). Right now, it is obvious he’d even inherited her wry wit. The man sitting across him had not the time to joke but smile he did nonetheless, saying to Cyrus “We’ve all got our crosses to shoulder, don’t we? I just want to make sure I’m not about to take on a liability. Besides, I’m curious. Tell me… What’s the worst that Vivianne Sloane’s son is capable of, hmm?”

That’s all he is isn’t he? Reduced to being just Vivianne Sloane’s son in this country. It makes him see red, taste the vitriol on his tongue, feel the raging sea beneath his skin trying to carve its way out. He doesn’t let it. With all that he’s amounted to, he’ll never escape her. He’s learned to live with that. He doesn’t let the anger seep into the blues of his eyes. He’s seen it in the mirror and what had been reflected was the image of a boy, the scared child within, the boy who was taught to fight and forced to be starved of the love he had craved. If he lets the anger tint his features, he knows that the man before him will see the pain beneath, clear glimpses of his soul drowning in this persona he’d created to fit this world of indifference. No, he’s too proud to let that happen. Too proud to admit that he was the mistake Vivianne Sloane had tried sweeping under the fucking rug all the way to South Africa. No, he would make her fucking own it.

“It would be highly arrogant of me to say that I don’t make mistakes. So, I will say this: It is in my interests to— lets say, tie my own success to yours. But I can’t do it without knowing what’s in it for me. Convince me that this isn’t going to be my biggest mistake, why don’t you?” Through sheer willpower, this man will do something of worth for him. “Because if you fail to utilise my employment effectively, we’ll both be sinking in the same boat. I wouldn’t want either of us to waste such precious time.” And speaking of time, Cyrus had to go soon. He has an appointment that he doesn’t want to miss.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Between the time he was shipped off to South Africa and now? He couldn’t even count, couldn’t even remember.

Everything had been difficult at first but with each task he had found that he could accomplish it all on his own with little more than a smile and a few charming, reassuring words. He picked it up from a man he no longer thinks of kindly, who should have been there when his mother wasn’t. But this thing that he’s doing now though, requires more than words. It’s as much of an interview for his new friend as it is for himself. From all the questions he’s gotten, what he gleans is that the Montagues are desperate for a foothold in Capulet ranks. And Cyrus, the princeling of Verona, the prodigal son, the product of negligence, is their way in and he’s willing to consider playing the part. He wonders, at this juncture, if his mother could be proud of him, of how far he’s come and how far he’s willing to go to achieve something he desires and he desires nothing more than seeing her humbled the way she had humbled him. To bring low a formidable woman such as she, a woman so feared she’s been dubbed a scourge of Verona, will be his most difficult task yet. But it’s not been asked of him by anyone. Except himself.

“Difficulty is subjective I believe.” Getting a plane ticket back to Italy months ago had been a feat. Meeting his mother after years and years of her elusion had been painful and exhausting. Agreeing to meet Lawrence Vernon and subsequently denounce all that the name Sloane stands for, his one link to his past, present and future, had to have been a difficult decision to make. But Cyrus surprised himself when he had found it easy to come here, to a known Montague property dressed in nothing but the slickest Italian fashion and Gucci loafers. And with the gun he’d been strapped with by Cosimo Capulet himself. “But I suppose if you really want an answer… I’m afraid I haven’t been asked to do many of the difficult things you’re probably thinking about.” Kill, torture, maim. “Though I don’t see why you might think I won’t rise up to the occasion. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

A grand finale, that’s what he thinks of it. This so called war plunges Verona’s economy into instability, it’s a wonder how the city hasn’t yet sunk like Atlantis. Granted that the sunken city was probably ill-favoured by the gods but what difference does Verona have to boast? The Three Witches look down from their pedestals and act as judge, jury and executioner. One day, when they decide to leave the city, Verona will surely share the same fate as Atlantis. Sink the stones rather than let new gods take their place. Such is the will and the way. “It’s unfortunate is what it is. Gang violence, drive by shootings, kidnappings and torture. It’s as if Verona has regressed fifty years.”

Sometimes, it’s difficult to believe that these are the times he’s living in. But just as in Cape Town, he’s used to the sight of people painting the streets red under the moonlight. “But hey, you know… If it’s bound to happen, who says war can’t be profitable, right? And that’s what you’re cashing on isn’t, Vernon? That our little arrangement will help make this war worthwhile for you.” For all that you’ve lost. Approval is now apparent in the way the lines around his mouth curves slightly, the way his chin juts out in a righteous fashion. “You’re a smart man, you know it’s all a marketing strategy. Provoke the other team and pretend you’re the heroes when you bring out your guns to protect the people from getting caught in the crossfire. Do you believe there’s honour in that?” To an extent, yes, Cyrus thinks so. Respect only comes from the money or your blood.

He can clearly imagine it. He sees it in his mind’s eye. The chaos and bloodshed — it’s all just cards on the table and he’s willing to play. Even if he lacked the fortune of receiving those Aces, he’ll find someone who has them and maneuver them into laying it out on the table. He wants this war to happen. He wants to be there for its unholy conclusion because when this war ends, and it will, he will be there on the victor’s side.

And just then, his watch begins to beep. It’s 3PM and it’s time for him to go. His contact is already waiting.

So, he begins to respectfully excuse himself as he shoves a history textbook into his bag. With all that he’s seen and learned since coming home, it’s still difficult to reconcile his reality with the memories he has of Verona of when he was a young boy.

Back then, he only knew of gardens of white lilies and black dahlias but as he grew up, he began to understand that even beautiful flowers could grow in ruins. Perhaps that is this war’s saving grace. That the blood and bodies buried in the soil will only make the earth more fertile for new shoots to grow. To make way for a new generation of Veronans, of true kings. He thanks his host for his time as he stands, reaching out a hand.“Our conversation has been…enlightening to say the least. Convince me and I’m all in for this war. I’ll help you end it.” Just the way he wants — with their problems on a spike.

Extras:

These are just drabbles I wanted to write out to illustrate the disparities between young Cyrus and grown up Cyrus. I’d like to make them canon if I can but as usual I’m definitely open to making changes with the input of the other players whose characters are involved! <3

Head / Mind

Cosimo never quite knew the boy, a boy who had an aptitude for solving problems and crossword puzzles. All he had heard was that the boy’s mother was ambitious. He never knew that that same ambition flowed through the boy’s veins.

Cosimo met the man when he was quite grown up, when he had built a name of his own in a country they had sent him to be forgotten. But the man was persistent, he’d never be forgotten so comfortably.

Upon reconnecting, Cosimo now remembers a young boy who he had seen playing with his daughter once at kindergarten. And all too easily, he remembers the boy building castles with the girl, building what may have been the tallest tower in the land. They cried and laughed as the stones of that Lego castle came tumbling down.

Now, he meets the boy-king who understands that they were no more playing in classrooms, a man who had gone to a different land and learned to dispatch kings and gods with no more than a few well chosen words in a few well placed ears.

Heart / Personality

Vivianne loved a boy once, a boy who had a soft face, who had naught but sunshine poured from his lips like water into a bowl. And like water into a bowl, he poured his soul into the things he loved doing in the afternoon. Papier mâché animals and oil pastel drawings. The boy had been happy until he turned around one day and realised he had no one to share that happiness with.

She doesn’t know what to tell him other than he is better off without her.

That boy had never believed her, not once. Not when she let him down by not bringing him home. Not when she never said anything about wishing things could be different. Not even when the day came he realised he loved her a little less.

Not once, until he starts to tell himself that he was indeed better off without her.

Vivianne knows a man now, at least she thinks she does. The man is an older, more cynical version of that boy she once knew. With his face still soft but his eyes now hard and cold as sapphires, he still pours out a part of his soul into his work. Though no more into things he loves doing but the things he must. The man has no more happiness to share for it has dried up when he left it under the blistering sun.

Spirit / Aspiration

More than ten years ago, Everett knew a boy who had enjoyed playing in the rain, running as far and as fast as his little feet could take him. He knew a boy who had enjoyed counting the stars and giggled when he lost count. The child who had said, “One day, I want to become a star. That way, I can always find you no matter where you or mamma go.”

Now, Everett only knows a man who no longer has space for anything that doesn’t move him forward. He knows a man who has no time for stargazing because all his nights have turned cloudy and heavy clouds take too long to dissipate.

He remembers a boy who had been promised the world, who grew up into a man who collects broken promises instead. The man is now an emissary to a cause he never thought he would be a part of but he makes the most out of it. Everett knows this because he knows the look of a man who has had to learn lessons without prior warning.

Everett knows a man who has had the stars in his eyes plucked out, though not by his hand. Does he think it might as well have been?

The man certainly does.

Soul / Cyrus

A boy once knew himself. He knew the man he would become. Like an astronaut that man would sail among the stars even if the distance between them would be cold and unforgiving. He knew he had a fire inside him and he had a darkness inside him, too. So, there was nothing to be afraid of in outer space because he saw it inside himself first.  

But the boy could tell something weighed him upon the earth so that he could not fly. Something that clipped his wings, rendering his unable to visit the place in the heavens that he had dreamt of, that he was made of. So, he sought ways to snip away the strings of hopelessness and the tethers of a self-induced guilt that told him he didn’t try hard enough. The boy had found the best way to rid himself of that heaviness was to force it into someone else. Strike by strike.

And the boy flew away.

A man forgets parts of himself and he knows himself well enough to say that he has changed. He has learned that to exist without needing anyone’s approval is a most powerful freedom and living this way will bring the stars to him instead of the other way round.

And the man knows he will exercise that power until the world runs out of light.

[thebargainingchip]

Blood Colors: Chapter 4

Masterlist

Pairing: Roan x Reader

Warnings: A child - the horror

Previous Chapter

Chapter 1

"The slight panic sets in when the guard leaves. You hadn't needed help bathing and getting dressed since you were fully potty trained. You tried looking around the room to see if you could find something to bar the door with but the chair would fit under the handle. The next thought flared up, maybe they can help pick out clothes, not that you had a wide selection, or give you what you needed if you only finished bathing before they arrived but of course there was no way to fill the tub from within your quatres. You were still frantically trying to think of an excuse when the door burst open only for young girls to file in with a small but not to friendly nod in your direction they walked over to the huge bath and started pouring the warm water to fill it. You were completely doomed now, the amount of stress the ordeal gave you was considerably more than your nerves to succeed at your task here Redak. The young women disappeared again and a few minutes later they were back, how were you supposed to stop any of it. You took a deep breath when they left again and thought over the words you would say, even going as far as to translate it in case the meaning was lost on them. "Ai gaf nou sisen in. (I don't need help)" You repeated quietly over and over until one of the women stayed behind. She must have been your age if not younger, a pretty face but clearly defiant eyes that maybe was only there because of you. The door closed and you stood suddenly startled.

"Ai gaf sisen in. (I need help)" You said determination in your voice but as the woman raised an eyebrow at you, you realised something you said was wrong. "Wait no! I don't-that's not what I- I can do it myself." Your words jumbled together.

"Ai nou chich op gonasleng. (I don't speak English)." She turned away from you glaring at the table as she set the clothes in her arms down on it. "Ban we yo bakkova. (Take off your clothes)" You were so caught off guard by the affair that your usual casual flirtatious reply was lost to you. You took a deep breath.

"Ai gaf nou sisen in." You repeated what you meant to say earlier.

"Haihefa biyo yu gaf sis au. (The King said you need help)" She turned to you with determination in her stare that dared you to challenge her.

Frustrated and not having the time think up a reply in the foreign tongue. "Look, I can bathe myself, I don't need your help." You said.

"Ai nou get em in yu. (I don't understand you)" She said with a roll of her eyes. "Ban we yo bakkova."

"I am not taking off anything."

"I don't understand that." The servant replied clearly frustrated and angry but the words made you pause. "I am not leaving. Take of that." She turned away from you again to pick up the bottles from the side of the tub and throw it in. Her accent was thick and unmissable. "You will be late, not me." She added finally

You huffed and pulled off the layers of clothing until you were let in your underwear.

"Yu laik son wima op ona rein. (You are wasting my time)" She declared as you hesitated.

"Twis raun. (Turn around)" You ordered determined to keep some modesty, she did as asked and you silently slipped off the last part and walked over to the tub despite the cold biting at every part of your exposed skin. Wearily watching the girl you slipped into the bath and drew your knees in close, the water now milky with whatever she had added to it. She turned around to face you and sat behind you at the edge of the tub, you watched her carefully still weary.

"My tagon (name) is Izabel." She said noting your uneasiness. "You are Jus Gona."

"I prefer (y/n)" You answered not really caring what she called but more to keep the conversation going as you faced forward. You could hear her scoop water, listening carefully for anything suspicious. You almost jumped when she poured the warm water over your hair wetting it.

Next, you felt a comb run through it, for now, the conversation was lost. Despite the circumstance, the bath was heavenly especially when you had gone the whole journey without one. Izabel didn't wait for you to wash yourself, apparently content with the fact that you had sat there the entire time stood and offered you a towel. You took it and she turned around apparently respecting your wishes. Once you had covered yourself appropriately she motioned for you to join you where she set out the clothes, it wasn't too complicated, simple thick hide pants with a jacket over, the clasps being the most detailed and intricate. She busied herself around the room while leaving you there, you took as the signal to get dressed and did so quickly. When you were dressed she pulled out a chair at the desk in the corner and you obliged when she waited for you.

Your hair had almost dried by then as she combed through it one last time and started putting in a few braids, you could feel her pulling the top half back into two braids and pinning it down and then braiding a lock of hair down past your shoulder. She ran her fingers once through the long hair till where it feel in your lower back.

"Odon." She announced and left without further instruction or word.

Your fingers skimmed the braids, there was no mirror to examine them so you trusted your hands. to braids along the side of your head and the one you could see more than half of hanging down your shoulder, you were pretty sure you didn't look too ridiculous.

Echo came to fetch you, eyes briefly skimming over your appearance just as the warm inner fur lining was beginning to thaw almost four days worth of frozen muscles. Only as you followed her brisk pace through the halls did the stiffness of the strain start to settle in. The young warrior said nothing, not even something insulting to you for the whole walk to the dining room. The king and his uncle were waiting for you when you arrived, immediately going for the open space across from his uncle, next to Roan at the head of the table. Roan looked at you relaxed, the antithesis of what he had been in Polis, you guessed it was because of the stress he was under. Everyone exchanged looks but no one said a word even as Roan's chair scraped across the floor when he sat and the two of you followed. You had barely made yourself comfortable when food was set out in front of the three of you.

"How are you finding our capital, Jus Gona?" The use of your popularised nickname made you realise that Thoff, wasn't as uninterested in you as he had let on during your first meeting earlier. You decided to let the name slide. You were at a loss, do you give your honest opinion and answer that it was cold or just fine or do you sugar coat it. Your time was quickly running out as you thought what Clarke would say.

"Foreign." You decided, for a moment the two men looked a little stunned. "The weather and the furnishing all contribute to a regal air, I haven't experienced before." Your explanation seems to make Roan relax and a polite stare settle on his uncles face. You don't for a second believe the friendliness that the unfamiliar man showed you but you know by Roan's reaction that your answer was acceptable.

"Had you not come from Polis where you stayed with my nephew?" He questioned further.

"Yes but Polis doesn't match the sophistication." Maybe the praise was a little excessive but his uncle didn't seem to care match, you wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't listening at all.

When Roan dug into his soup, silence settled over the room, stiff and tense as the two of you followed suit. Roan didn't seem to have anything to say as he concentrated on his meal.

"(y/n) I would like you to join in the council meeting starting tomorrow and that way you can get acquainted with the customs of Azgeda." Caught a little off guard by his request you nodded and continued with your meal.

It seemed the practice of knocking was practically foreign in Azgeda as a guard burst through the door. "Haihefa," he bowed low despite his apparent urgency, "Counsellor Larken has challenged one of the guards in one on one combat, he has threatened anyone who has tried come near him.

"Is he drunk again?" Roan's uncle asked before he can reply, the soldier nodded, uncertain if he should answer. Roan stood with a sigh, his seat scarping across the floor but Thoff was on his feet just as quick. "You sit, I will tend to the matter and take my main course in my chamber, tomorrow we have important things to discuss." Despite the apparent disrespectfulness, Roan doesn't stop his uncle as he leaves only hesitates and sits down as the doors close and the room grows quiet. Only Echo is in the room now.

"I'm not an expert in the minutia of a monarchical society but I'm pretty sure it's not a good thing if he tells you what to do and you let him." You say silently, more to try and provoke Roan and gain some information on his uncle, knowing he'd let the audacity of your statement slide.

"My uncle holds much more power than I originally thought when I returned, he has been turning the ears of the counsellors since my mother died and I am not the most popular in our family with the past Nia subjected me too." He explains.

"Do you trust him?" You question.

"Do you?" The question was simple enough, declaring that the nature of the man's intentions was obvious. That was all you wanted to hear.

"I need to make sure, my throne is mine and that the council is loyal to me. I will not be enlisting any of my uncle's suggestions no matter if he offers to save the planet. I cannot be remembered as the king who reigned only by the will of a puppeteer, it is exactly the reason my father ruled." Roan hadn't said much about his father since they time you've known him and new you could easily draw the conclusion to his statement. The two of you finished the first course in silence, it was much less tense now.

"Give us some privacy, Echo." Roan suddenly called, you didn't have to look at the women to know that it would have looked on her face like she had been struck. She left without protest, as always obeying her king to no end.

"One of my guards said that the help I sent you was only greeted with your stubbornness." You supposed if there was any time to be embarrassed it should have been now but it seemed you lacked the politeness to blush or look away. "You can trust the people I assign to you, I will not let anyone so compromisingly near you that I know has ill intent." You guessed his statement was to help you instal some of your trust him but those stores already been used up.

"That wasn't the problem." You point out before taking another bite of your food. Roan paused in his actions and looked you over with a scrutinizing gaze that you knew saw everything.

"I doubt you have anything to be ashamed about so it must be that you feel weak when someone wants to help you." You were ready for his statement but pointing it out like that made it seem foolish, for the first time in an eternity you actually blushed ashamed of the none too good trait. If Roan noticed he didn't say anything. "I see now why you and Clarke, you are equally stubborn." Roan declared taking a bite of his food. "Try not to bit off the heads of my servants, they are under orders."

"Elodi, bak op hir (get back here)." You heard Echo's voice as the door swung open, it had you both turning towards the entrance as a little girl stumbled into the room barely four, maybe five. She paused when her eyes immediately fell on Roan, who outstretched his arms to her, you had to do a double take to make sure you weren't seeing things. Her little face contorted as she burst into tears and rushed forward into Roan's waiting arms.

"Wait... what?" You couldn't help but ask as Roan cradled the little girl close to his body. Echo stood in the door a grimace on her face and next to another woman burst through the door immediately falling to her knees in front of the king.

"Moba, ai haihefa, ai don nou ai op em ron we. (I am sorry, my King, I didn't see her run off)"

"En's Ogud, Galia, Ai na hosh duan em. (It's alright, Galia, I will put her to bed)" Roan said, his eyes and voice soft. You didn't know what to make of the situation. The women, Galia nodded and left and Echo swallowed as Roan stood seemingly a little scared of what he would say that she had let a five-year-old get past her defences.

"Wait for me in my room." Roan said curtly, not sounding disrespectful but dismissive of the situation. The little girl's arms space Roan shoulder's her head turned and resting on his shoulder as he left. Your mind kicked into motion, whoever she was Roan seemed to have much affection for her if he let her get this close to him. You wondered if Roan had been married, or maybe if he was married. Finishing your food a little stunned and completely distracted as you were left alone in the dining hall.

It was only as you stood that you realised that you had no idea where his room was. You exited about to enlist the help of Echo but you swear the little devil had disappeared in total spite. You wondered the halls until you found a guard and asked him to lead you to Roan's chambers. The hallways of the palace were now much darker, a little early in the old building as it cast shadows in corners, easy enough for anyone to hide in, but you weren't stupid. You were armed even if it wasn't directly visible. The guard led you to a room with the largest set of doors you had seen to be used on such a personal living space and even held the door for you to enter.

Roan's room was almost like yours scarcely decorated, you could tell he didn't own much, much like you, the only thing you could make out to be his was a jacket slung over the back of the chair and armour, sitting on top of the chest at the foot of the bed. If this had been his mother's room before there were no signs of it. You were sure the late Queen would have some painted scenery or a tapestry depicting a gruesome scene maybe even deer heads lining the wall. You didn't know how long the whole affair what take with Roan so you settled on these at the edge of the bed, your muscles relaxing as soon as they didn't have to work so hard. Whatever Roan still wanted to discuss with you was important enough that it couldn't wait until morning but it was the least of your curiosity. You were surprised by the fact that there were no guards by the door but you supposed Azgeda thought a King who couldn't defend himself was weak.

Your eyes have almost started to slip shut when the doors creaked open and Roan strode in, you stood a little startled but still tired. "I am assigning a guard to you, to ensure your safety, he will show you sights of the city and castle tomorrow." He wasn't asking, but just to make sure you firmly knew he wasn't asking he turned to you and emphasised, "And before you say anything, I take the promise I made to the Commander and Clarke very seriously." There was no hesitation in his gaze and you didn't expect to find any. Clarke would have wanted you to be safe and careful, you remind yourself and then kept quiet. A little surprise at your absence of stubbornness a hollow silence followed.

"The girl..." You trailed off, curiosity overtaking your thoughts again.

"My sister, Elodi, the youngest of my siblings. Drink?" You nodded, it was a good way to keep out the cold. The frown on your face when Roan turned back had him raising an eyebrow at your confusion.

"I thought you were an only child." You stated in explanation, he paced to where you stood.

"I'm the eldest son of Nia, not the only." You took the goblet from his hand and took a quick sip.

"Are there any more?"

"Yes, I have a brother, he is a scholar, much to my mother's disappointment. I have another sister we don't really talk and I suspect she left when she heard I was coming. I use to have another sister, she was killed by the Splita. But there might be more, my mother had a history of long lovers." He explained.

"So they're half-siblings?" You asked.

"Some are, mostly the youngest, my late sister and I were a year apart and Tasha, the one who I don't speak with, she is from my father's lineage." He answered. "My mother tired easily of men and although my father was King he was no exception. Elodi was born before I was banished, much more hardened than when I was younger Nia never spent time with Elodi. She almost died one winter, if it wasn't for me. For Azgeda it's not good to have such an attached child and my mother was trying to right the balance but she was making it worse. I think it was part of the reason she banished me." Roan explained, despite the information his face never gave the emotion on much of his relationship with his family. Always guarded you supposed, you certainly couldn't really complain.

There was a pregnant silence as the two of you finished your drinks not making eye contact.

"What about you, any siblings?" It was a bit forced.

"Oh I don't really-" You paused at Roan's expectant look wanting to say you don't really have to share but realised he had answered now it was your turn. "People on the Ark aren't allowed to have siblings, but I was one of the few exceptions. I don't know my parents but chose to sacrifice themselves so that they could bring both me and my brother into the world." You paused, memories of the Ark flooding back. "I knew my brother well even though we were split since birth. A family had asked to take in my brother since they couldn't conceive their own child. Chancellor Kane volunteered to raise me but he wasn't a good person back then so I spent most of my time with the Griffins and my brother."

"Where's your brother now?" Roan asked.

"Not here anymore but he wasn't cut out for this." You said almost observantly. "If you don't mind, Haihefa, I am tired." You stood and gave one last glance at Roan then left.

It's almost pure bliss, the warmth of the sheets as you stir from your sleep, to stretch, it doesn't seem that morning had even begun to touch the sky, you notice as you turn to the window. Something glints in the corner of your eye as it moves, it's enough to set you on edge when you can't make sense of the dark corner. Your muscles strain against your movements as you pull the dagger from underneath the pillow.he movement you execute is quick and agile and before the intruder can react you have a knife to his throat. When a chuckle rumbles through the intruder's throat, you pull the curtains back with your free hand to let the moonlight filter into the room . The man sits with his hands slightly raised in surrender but an amused look on his face for the most part. "Who are you?" you press the cold blade further into his skin.

"Haihefa sent me." He says simply , you glare at him for a moment longer before you pull away and run a hand through your hair. " Yu laik meizen gon skaikru . Tel ai, laik yu otaim pri akluad? (Your pretty for Skaikru. Tell me, are you always somewhat naked?)"

"If you don't get out in five seconds, I will murder you."  Maybe you were being a little dramatic but was the guy expecting you to be all rainbows and sunshine when he had just plucked you from the warmth of sleep in such a rude manner

When you exit the room, dressed in your own clothes, the man is leaning against the wall across from the door to your room. "You have some balls." You stop to watch him carefully .

"That's what Azgeda are known for, Jus Gona ." You asses him, he's caring a blade on his hip and two knives in his boots, the Azgeda scars on his temples indicate that he is a warrior and the quality of his blade suggests his high ranking or the fact that he is a good warrior at best .

"Yu na don stedaunon (You could have been dead), staining the carpets, how do you think that would have made Skaikru look ?"

" Ai nou (I'm not)." He shrugs his shoulders and follows as you start walking away, " Haihefa biyo ai beda shoun raun yu. (The King said I should show you around)."

"I am aware." You throw over your shoulder as you make your way down the steps of the palace to the outside.  You needed new clothes suitable for the weather, here so that you could stop having to dress layer upon layer of your own clothes each day and start being able to move around without looking like a bloody penguin .

"Yo vaut azgeda gon the stegeda na sis au yu? Skaikru? (You think the people of the village will help you?)" You stop on the steps leading up to the massive front doors of the palace and turn around to look up at him. "Ai laik Oren, I am part of the King's personal guard. Come, I'll show you Azgeda life." He strides past you taking the lead, you consider it for a moment, deciding to go for it even though you don't trust him. You follow him through the busy market not listening as he rambles on about the sights, the people and the culture. Instead, you watch the people who observe you as they talk to others, checking behind you for any stalkers and note the faces, what they're carrying, they're built. You almost walk into Oren as he stops, he's already turned to you, watching you now. "Din du tel yu, yu don non-wich in? (Did someone ever tell you, you're a little paranoid?)"

" Nou thau sad op em chopa kom graun. (Not without picking up his teeth from the ground.)" Oren pauses for a moment at how casually you relay the sentence to him, the meaning not lost in translation and turns around to duck through the door of the store that you are standing outside of . He ignores you as you pause in front of the entrance glancing inside as if something will jump out and try to scare you, though he doubts you're the jumpy type and makes a note try you one day... when you're unarmed, of course.

He approaches the shopkeeper while you 'browse' the store watching them. You notice the shopkeeper glancing your way, her mouth pulled into a thin line but Oren quickly catches her attention as he interacts with her. You can't make out what he's saying to her as he speaks softly to her, but you can see his body language. He's submissive but the way he stands tells you he's trying to charm her. She glances at you one last time, shamelessly looking you up and down before she nods and heads into the back of the store. Oren comes to stand next to you as your fingers skim over the different coloured rocks put out on display on old moulded doilies. He smiles at you, which is just visible with the wrinkles in the corner's of his eyes as his beard covers his mouth, you roll your eyes. The woman returns, clothes bundled in her arms, she hands them to you taking caution to not get too close, or let your hands touch, she doesn't even care when you notice this, simply turns around to stand at the counter again. Oren is waiting patiently as you walk up to the counter and places an amount of money on the wooden table, you don't know how much you're is putting down but the way the woman's eyes flash up to meet yours, your figure it's not good so you place five more down . Oren grabs you by the shoulder and steers you out the shop, speaking while he pushes you forward. "Wow, Jus Gona , you just bought that woman all her meals for the winter." When you shrug off his hand, he continues: "See, this is why you need me." He calls a patrolling guard over and takes the clothes from your arms and places them in his after a short order the guard walks off to take them back to the palace.

Somewhere along the line, Oren had stopped talking when he noticed you weren't interested, you  simply paced the streets now . It's much more empty, barely anyone outside, you turn to Oren to warn him when men step out from the small alleyways between the buildings . Both stop and watch the situation unfold. You note the scars on these men, they look sloppy and homemade, it must be some form of a gang. " Os sonop, lukot (Good Morning, Friends)." Oren says joyfully but two men quickly surround him and push him past the other men to the outside of the circle, he fights them, hand going for his sword .

"Nou teik disha tofon, Natrona. (Don't make this harder, Traitor)." The one man spat, Oren stood ready but didn't draw his sword as he looked past them at you. You don't touch the weapon at your side, you know they're looking for a reason to attack.

"Ai biyo disha gonasleng den bilaik yu get in (I am going to say this in English so you understand) This is our land, gada (girl), there is no place for the likes of you here." He spat on the ground at your boots. Your stare doesn't falter, nor does your expression change from its placid tone, you simply wait for the events to unfold, for your day to get more interesting. The crowd around the leader cheers him on in some sort of a mantra and he paces in front of you, a smile on his face. "Chit dula yu biyo nau? (What do you have to say now?)" He questions coming to stand in front of you, with no regards to your personal space what-so-ever. You hear the person that steps up behind you and listens as a blade slides from a leather sheath but it is simply a knife, the grind against its sheath quick. He jabs at your back, you feel the hit but simply struggle with balance for a mere second before you turn around to face the man. Th grin on his face fades into a stunned look as he glances from you to the blade in his hand and back up again. "Em nou drein au. (She doesn't bleed)" Someone in the crowd whispers.

"Yu gaf in sis au? (Do you need help?)" You ask the quite literal backstabber, almost sounding sincere, everyone freezes, the men and women around you whisper but no one dares move.

"Yu laik kripa. (You are a demon)"

"Ai sen in heard bilaik fou (I've heard that before), I don't really like it." You point out.

"What is happening here?" The king's voice travels through the streets, he is atop his horse, the crowd parting to let him through. "I was being welcomed by the citizens of Radek."  You say when no one answers, the people start disappearing through the streets but for a moment the leader lingers, he bows dramatically to the king but keeps his glare on you before he turns and walks away . "I want a word with you when I get back." Roan is gone before you can even begin to say something in return. Great.

Next Chapter

[gldngrl7]

Karamel Fic: Permission to Flourish (6/11)

Title: Permission to Flourish

Author: gldngrl7

Date Started: February 12, 2017

Rating: T for Teen (I know!  I can’t believe it either!)

  Author’s Notes:  

·         This story is the sequel to Bulletproof. Please read that one-shot before diving into this one.

·         You have no way of knowing this unless I tell you – but I AM NOT A DOCTOR!!  Having said that, I do my research and then hope I’m right on the medical stuff.

·         Comments are welcomed, flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

  Chapter 6/11

 It took some time for Mike to gain control of his rapid breathing and racing heart.  Conflict raged righteous fire inside of him.  He had wanted her to leave, to go back to the life he’d wanted her to have, but at the same time he wanted to see her again.  Six years with only his memories for company had done nothing to chill the heat he felt for her, or the primal pull to be in her presence. Her departure was like being gutted, and still being conscious enough to watch, but powerless to stop it.

 He paced the hallway outside the cafeteria, plotting his next move.  Or rather, wondering what his next move should be.  His hands shook and an uncharacteristic sweat had broken out on his brow.  He wanted to go after her, search the skies for her – all the way back to National City if he had to.

 But to say…what?

 To lay his heart on the line again?  To rollback all the effort he’d put into getting back on his emotional feet these last six years?  He’d found his self-confidence, his place in this world, and his calling – could he really place that on a chopping block based on the slim hope that he could ever be more to her than the one that got away.

 And maybe that’s all this was, really.  Kara didn’t like to lose, everyone knew that, and though it hadn’t been his intent at the time, his departure must have seemed to her like taking a hit.  He wasn’t sure he could risk losing the ground he’d worked so hard to gain, in the hopes that it might close the gaping wound in his chest.  The injury as it stood now, he could live with, he was certain of that, but to open the opportunity to have salt poured into it was a gamble he was unsure he was willing to take.

 So he decided that chasing her down wasn’t going to be on his agenda today.

 Besides, there was still a little girl in surgery to worry about, and a distressed mother that needed someone to hold her hand and get her a cup of coffee.

 Mike headed back into the cafeteria, to the disappointed, overheard groans of more than one lunch-goer.  He picked up another coffee for himself and one for Belinda, and grabbed her a cellophane wrapped sandwich as well.  He didn’t think she’d be able to eat right now, but he wanted to encourage her to keep her strength up.

 Back in the surgical waiting room, he found her making phone calls on her cell, making plans for Amelia’s grandparents to fly in from Coast City as soon as they could pack some bags and get to the airport.  Regardless of how the surgery went, Belinda was going to need her parents.

 Mike handed her the coffee and the sandwich with a silent nod, unwilling to interrupt her phone call, and stepped away to offer her some privacy.  On the other side of the large room there was a bay of floor-to-ceiling windows which is where Mike retreated to stare outside at the sunny day, so contrary to the storm clouds gathering inside his chest.  Part of him searched for a streak or red and blue across the cloudless sky.

 He pulled out his cell phone and dropped into one of the chairs next to the window.  Flipping through his phone’s address book, he settled on the contact cleverly named ‘Asshat’ and pressed the call button.  It rang four times before a gruff voice answered.

 “Wayne,” he grunted. Not even a hello.  But as usual, Mike Matthews didn’t rank when it came to getting the common courtesies.

 “I’m sorry,” Mike said, without a hint of sincerity.  “Am I interrupting you whaling on some poor hapless fool who was forced, by circumstances, into a life of crime?”

 “No one’s forced into a life of crime, Matthews,” the gruff voice retorted.  “We all make our choices.  We should be held accountable for them.”  Clearly, this was a debate they had taken part in before.

 “Says the guy who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth,” Mike retorted.

 “Didn’t you grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth?” Wayne rebounded sharply.

 “I’ve since reformed.”

 “Prisons are full of men who’ve said those exact words.”

 “Cut the crap, Wayne. What did you think you were doing?” he accused.

 “I take it from your tone that things didn’t go well.”

 “You think?” he snapped.

 “My mistake then.”  Mike could practically hear Wayne’s smug, nonchalant shrug.  “I thought you’d be ready to hear her out.  I guess I was I wrong.”

 “Your mistake?!” Mike chuckles darkly, incredulously.  “Are you kidding me right now?  I made Clark promise to never tell her about me. Promise!  Do you know how hard it is to get that guy to make a promise?  It practically takes an Act of Congress.  And then you come along and ruin all of that.  You get that I didn’t run away from National City for me, right?  I did that for her.  It was all for her, and now it’s all for nothing.”

 “I get it, Matthews. You did it all for her.  Blah, blah, blah. It wasn’t working, okay?  You need a new plan.”

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “It means I looked into that girl’s eyes, dumb shit, and do you know what I saw?  It wasn’t a heartless, vapid bitch I was expecting to see after Clark told me what happened.  It was a heartbroken little girl who knows she made the worst mistake of her life.  I got to hear her side of things, kid, and I thought you should have the chance to hear it too, before you finished planning out what promises to be an unnaturally long and apparently loveless life.  You’re welcome.”

 Mike dropped his head into one hand, propped up on his knee, his other hand pressing his phone to his face. “You’re a dead man,” he told Wayne, his voice without heat.  “I don’t know how yet, but I will find a way.  I’m sure I can make it look like an accident.  Big underground cavern like that must have its fair share of sharp and slippery surfaces.”

 “Alfred keeps it tidy,” Wayne quipped.  “Did you at least hear her out before you broke what was left of her heart?”

 “I heard her,” he answered defensively.  But had he? Had he really heard everything she’d been saying, or had be closed himself off from her words and, more importantly, their deeper meaning?  “A little warning would have been nice.  A head’s up.”

 “Where’s the fun in that?” This time Wayne chuckled and the sound grated like a rusty pipe, as though his laugh muscles didn’t get a regular workout.

 “It wasn’t great timing,” he sighed.  “Or…I guess it was…in a way.”

 “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

 Mike told Bruce about the accident and how he’d just been about to reveal himself as Valor in order to save Amelia, when Supergirl arrived as though heaven-sent.

 “I know what Clark would have said about revealing yourself,” Wayne said.

 “I wasn’t going to let her die,” Mike insisted.

 “No, of course not.  You wouldn’t be who you are if you did that. But it would have meant an end to your life as Mike Matthews.  You would have had to disappear for a while, change your name, and you probably never would have been able to teach again.  And I hear the Fortress of Solitude gets pretty cold this…well…every time of year.  So again…you’re welcome.”

 “I’m grateful that she was here, for Amelia’s sake, but the drama of it all…that didn’t exactly put me in a frame of mind to hear her out properly.”

 “Well the good news is, you know where she lives.  And if you don’t, I can find out for you.  I have people who do that.”

 “You have Alfred.” Mike deadpanned.

 “He does that.”

 “Why am I not surprised?” Mike snorted.  “I think we all know who the real hero is at the Wayne Manor.”

 “Oh, I have no delusions on that score.”  

 There was a moment of silent and rare camaraderie over the line before Mike spoke again.  “Look Bruce, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t involve Kara in your schemes to take the mickey out of me.  I don’t care about the rest of it…just not Kara, okay?”

 “I didn’t do it to take the mickey out of you, Matthews,” Wayne said.

 “Then why did you?”

 Silence reigned on the line, only this time it lacked the comfort that existed before.  This time Mike could hear the stress of it, as though time itself was straining against its own fabric.  Bruce sighed long and deep, ending the quiet before speaking. “Because I loved a woman once, Matthews. She died and I couldn’t save her. I’d give anything for the chance you have now—the chance to put it back together.  You’re an idiot if you don’t take it.”

 Guiltily, Mike squeezed his eyes shut so tight they crinkled around the edges.  He hadn’t known about Bruce’s loss.  Of course more than once, he’d idly wondered why a man his age with endless funds and resources, wasn’t able to find a woman to marry him and have his children.   The fact that he was kind of a cantankerous asshat couldn’t be the only reason why he was still single.  Plenty of women out there that would happily put up with Bruce’s unintentional douchebaggery and expert level crankiness for a shot at a black American Express Card and a private Gulfstream in the hangar.

 Suddenly, so many things about Bruce made sense.

 “You’re thinking that suddenly so many things about me make sense, aren’t you?”

 Mike perked up, his gray eyes blinking as though he were staring into a blinding light.  “Yep.”

 “Look, kid, I know you’ve never given a single fart for what I think, but for once in your life listen to the advice of your betters—“

 “I think you mean elders,” Mike wisecracked.

 Bruce sighed, this time the sound of someone forced to suffer a fool.  “Just...for once in your sorry life, don’t be blockheaded.  Not about this.  Take some time to think about it.  If you believe…truly believe…that you can move on and be with someone else, then by all means…live that life.  But if you can’t…if you accept you can’t…then you know what you have to do.  You think you’ve been building something all these years, Matthews, but the truth is…you’ve just been playing for time.  One way or another, you need to start living again.”  Mike opened his mouth to say something, but Bruce steamrolled right over him, as was his way.  “Because when I looked into her eyes I realized something – you’ve both just been waiting to find a way back to each other. It would be helpful if you would stop being such a dickwad about it.”

 He could always count on Bruce to pull no punches. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “But right now, Amelia has to be my priority, at least until she’s out of the woods.”

 “I’m sure that girl of yours would have it no other way.”

 “She’s not my gi—“

 “Yeah, whatever,” Bruce blew him off.  “Look I’ve got to wrap this up—I’ve probably lost a hundred million dollars in the time it took to have this conversation. This global conglomerate doesn’t run itself, you know.  Hey, Matthews?”

 “Yes?”

 “I’m really sorry to hear about your student. I hope everything works out.”

 “I hope so too.  Thanks.”

 The other end of the line went silent without a hint of white noise, and Mike knew that Bruce had hung up.  Bruce’s advice hadn’t been without merit, but Mike didn’t have time to chew on it since a second later he saw Belinda stand up in response to a surgeon entering the room and honing in on her.  Mike was on his feet and by her side in a flurry of movement, to hear what the woman in dark blue scrubs had to say.

 Her skin was the color of dark chocolate and she had cheekbones that could cut glass, but her dark brown eyes exuded a warmth, which seemed reserved for Belinda, perhaps because they were acquainted with one another.  Mike’s instincts said that the doctor was usually more reserved and professional with patient families, kept herself at a distance, but was taking pains to put Belinda at ease.

 “Belinda, you daughter had an intracranial hemorrhage of the vertebral artery, which we were able to repair surgically with a craniotomy.  Because your daughter suffered a traumatic brain injury we need to keep an eye on her Intracranial Pressure, so we’re going to maintain her intubation and keep her in a medically induced coma for the time being.  This should give her brain time to recover.  In the meantime, we’re treating her with corticosteroids to control the swelling in her brain, proton pump inhibitors, ACE inhibitors, as well as intravenous Fosphenytoin to prevent convulsions.  The next 48 hours are critical, but there’s a lot to be hopeful for,” she said.

 Much of what the doctor said may have made sense to Amelia’s mother, but it all sounded terrifying to Mike.  “There is?” he queried.

 “Yes.  Her vitals remained stable throughout surgery and continue to do so.  She’s responding to the treatment, and though unconscious, her reflexes and involuntary reactions remain intact.  Unfortunately, we can’t get an accurate GCS score until after we pull her from the coma.  We’ll have a better idea of a long term prognosis at that time.”

 “And when will that be?” he wondered.

 “I can’t be sure,” she answered, honestly.  “Let’s just get through the next 48 hours and then we’ll reassess.  At any rate, she’ll be in the ICU for a few days at least, that way when she wakes up we’ll be able to monitor her for a potential re-bleed.  She’s being moved to the ICU right now…you should be able to see her in an hour or so.  I know you know the drill, Belinda, just remember that it looks worse than it actually is.”

 “Thank you, Dr. Dagmar.”

 “They’ll page me if there are any changes,” she nodded at both Belinda and Mike before turning to walk away.

 Belinda let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for hours.  Not the kind of breath that fuels the lungs and body, but the kind of breath that sustains the soul.  She swayed on her feet as though releasing the air had caused her to deflate like a balloon.  Mike reached out to steady her, anchoring her body against his, before walking her back to the sofa.

 “She made it through the surgery,” Belinda said, her voice shaking.  “I prayed that if she could just make it through surgery, I’d take whatever came after that.  So…the next step is to get her through the next 48 hours.”

 “What can I do?” he asked, taking her hand again.

 “I-I don’t know,” she stammered, flustered by his offer.  She hadn’t expected him to do more than stick around to make sure Amelia made it through surgery.

 “If it’s okay, I’d like to stay with you until she’s settled in her room.  Are they going to let you stay the night?”

 “Yes,” she nodded.  “I’m a NICU nurse,” she indicated her pink scrubs as an explanation. “They’ll let me stay as a courtesy. And because children always heal better when they’re surrounded by loved ones.”

 “That’s good.  I’ll be expected in class tomorrow, but I’ll be back as soon as school’s out.  Maybe I can sit with her then…give you a break?”

 “That would be great, Mike.  I know she would really appreciate it.  I’m certain she’ll know that you’re there.  Somehow.  Anyway, I’m going to make a few more calls and see if I can get my parents a room at the hotel across the street.  I think that will be easier than having to go back to our apartment.”

 After about half an hour they relocated to the ICU waiting room; a smaller and cozier place close enough to Amelia’s room to see nurses come in and out.  He called Erica and gave her the update, completely confident that the word would spread to all and sundry like a row of houses on fire.  Like a true friend that Erica was, she showed up at the hospital, long after dinner time, to bring him a stack of things from his desk.

 “Yesterday’s homework,” she told him.  “And today’s Social Studies worksheets.”  

 “If you really loved me, you would have graded them for me.”

 She side-eyed him before handing him the black bag in her hands.  “And your laptop,” she held the bag aloft.

 “Bless you,” he changed his tune.  With his laptop and the free hospital Wi-Fi he could keep himself busy for hours.  He had a backdoor password through the firewall of the Philadelphia 911 dispatch. From his laptop he could monitor events unfolding all over the city and determine whether his presence was needed at a moment’s notice.

 “How is she really?” Erica asked, concern etched deeply on her face.  She looked as though she had aged a decade in the last few hours.

 “Same,” he replied, with a shrug.  “I’m afraid we’re in a no-news-is-goods-news situation for the next few days.  If nothing changes, that’s progress, since they’re intentionally keeping her in a coma. When they decide it’s time to wake her up…that’s when we’ll really know.  What were they saying at school?”

 “The kids are worried about her.  We spent the last hour of school making a get-well-soon card for her,” she evaded.

 “I wasn’t talking about the kids,” he countered.

 She placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Accidents happen, Mike, and sometimes they’re bad.”

 “It’s my first year,” he pointed out.

 “And you’re a rookie.  No one is blaming you and as long as her mother doesn’t decide to come after you, no one else is going to either.  I was there, remember.  I told them everything.  If anything, it was my fault for distracting you.”

 “Don’t do that to yourself too, Erica.  We weren’t doing anything we don’t usually do.”

 “They might take down the jungle gym, though. Kids aren’t going to like that. “

 “Whatever keeps them safe,” Mike agreed.  “I’ll find other ways to keep them occupied. Hey, do you think they’ll let us play paintball?” he joked.

 Erica laughed, the first one since the accident. “Not on your life.”

 “Well, I’ll figure something out.”  They chatted for a few more minutes before she left, returning to her home and her waiting husband.  She urged him to get some rest because his kids would offer no quarter in the morning.

 After two hours of grading papers and frustratingly human speeds he made a decision and packed this things.  He needed to do something.  He needed to fly, to feel the wind against his face and hear the sound of it whistling through his cape.  It was hard idling in a place like this without being aware that there were other people out there in need of help.  He left a message with the ICU nurse on duty, to let Belinda know that he would see her tomorrow afternoon as promised, but that he needed to get home.

 Mike grabbed his things to take them out to the car and passed through the main lobby on his way out, just as news of a refinery explosion on the banks of the Schuylkill River came across the crawl, interrupting the regularly scheduled program.

 Perfect.  Just what he needed.

 Something went horribly wrong at the refinery, a worn pipe in the Cat-cracker led to a catastrophic failure creating an explosive gas cloud,  which was then sparked by a worker banging a wrench against the pipe at an inopportune moment.  The worker and three of his colleagues were dead in an instant, engulfed by a fireball that led to a secondary explosion throughout the Cracker.

 Plenty of fuel on hand to feed the fire, without intervention the blaze could conceivably rage for days.  Valor assessed the situation from a bird’s eye view.  Clark had trained him to evacuate first, and deal with the threat after everyone was clear, which was exactly the tack he chose. A Nomex-suited worker in a hard hat, his face covered in soot, waved frantically at him from atop a cooling tower. The base of the tower was ablaze, which would inevitable cause the tower to lose structural integrity and collapse.

 He landed beside the man, slipping one arm around his waist, while he guided the frightened man’s arm over his shoulder. “Hang on,” he instructed, raising his voice over the sound of the fire and the scream of rending metal.

 The muster point wasn’t hard to find.  A safe distance from the fire, where those who got out at the first sign of danger gathered to take roll and determine who was missing. Valor was assaulted by frantic voices telling him of colleagues still missing in the facility and where they were assigned to work, giving him an idea of where to locate them.  Where the workers’ instructions didn’t help, his super hearing did.  He honed in on heartbeats, easier to hear in their adrenaline soaked state.

 Valor moved in a blur of red, almost faster than the human eye could comprehend, tearing away the twisted detritus blocking the exit door of a control room to release the seven workers trapped inside. He instructed them to the muster point and moved on to the Delayed Coking Unit, where three men were huddled together on a stairwell, the bottom 100 feet of which was blown away by the initial explosion.  He would have to put out the fire quickly before it reached the Coking Unit, or the entire place would go up in a fireball, the resulting gas cloud driving people in a four mile radius out of their homes for weeks, or even months to come.

 Thankfully, those three men were the last of the missing and he finally was free to neutralize the threat.  He used his arctic breath to chill the Coking Unit to buy himself some time while he froze chunks of the Schuylkill River to put out the fire.  Heat from fire melted the frozen sheets creating a rain that doused the fire bit by bit. He went back to the river four times until the flames were low enough to take care of the rest with his freeze breath. To be certain of the safety of the surrounding neighborhood, Valor flew in ever-expanding circles over the refinery at hypersonic speeds until the smoke and fumes dissipated enough to reach non-toxic levels.

 His final task was the most sobering; cooling the smoldering shell of the Cracker enough so that the HazMat crew could retrieve the remains of the four dead workers.  Assuming there was anything left to retrieve.

 Their thanks were profuse and he stuck around for a few moments because Clark had taught him that sometimes people needed to show their gratitude.  Sticking around to shake their hands and learn their names was something he did for them – not for himself.  

 Especially on a day like today.

 TBC