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warsofasoiaf · 4 years ago

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Its been awhile since you've done any character analysis on Fallout New Vegas, but would you be willing to go into one for some of the minor characters? I'm actually curios of your opinion on Silus the captured centurion and his motivations.

I’m more than happy to, although this won’t be about Silus so much as it will be about the quest Silus Treatment. It’s one of my favorite quests in the game, since it does a great deal just with dialogue and some creative use with the engine to create an engaging quest that showcases some of the failures of the NCR and the Legion. Given that the central theme is about picking a faction, warts and all, having a quest that puts the two main faction of New Vegas on full display is an absolutely good idea. The game is too old for spoilers, but it’s a long analysis so I’ll put a cut in.

Silus Treatment starts off simple enough, going to Camp McCarran, in the old McCarran International Airport, now the regional command post of Colonel Hsu. McCarran is not in a great spot when you first get there; there are periodic Fiend attacks, tensions in Freeside are causing havoc for NCR civilians, the overstretched NCR supply lines are making it difficult even for their central point of operations, and there’s a strong possibility that they’ve been infiltrated. It’s all Colonel Hsu can do to keep order and function in the base. Perfect protagonist fodder, in other words, for a nice quest hub.

It’s a tough needle to thread in any RPG to build a quest hub where there’s stuff for a character to do. If everyone is incapable of solving even the most basic of problems, it gives a great deal of quests for the player to do but it makes the quest-givers look incompetent, especially if the quest-givers are supposed to be capable figures in their own right. Conversely, if the NPC’s are competent, then the quests would be solved and that would close out on content for the player. There’s plenty of ways to settle this, and the devs do an adequate job here. The war effort means prioritization, and Hsu is dealing with being torn from both angles. He can’t just hunt down the Fiends, because he needs to organize patrols and deal with NCR settlers in the area. He can’t just pacify Freeside because it will engender hostility with House and so he’s delaying the order from his butcher superiors like Moore to go in with fire and sword. He doesn’t have a solution to the Kings but he’s trying to find one, which as far as writing goes is a good solution. Hsu is a decent man but overworked. He’s hoping that he can develop a solution in time before Cassandra Moore decides to pull rank and go on the warpath against all who oppose the NCR, which leaves a convenient spot for the player.

It’s this person that gives us our introduction to the Silus Treatment questline. Hsu has a valuable prize: Silus, a captured Legion centurion! Typically centurions always commit suicide rather than be captured to deny any useful intelligence to the enemy, so to capture a centurion alive should be quite a find. But it’s not going so well. Lt Carrie Boyd, in charge of base security, can’t get Silus to talk. Again, perfect quest writing to get the PC involved in the plot. Normally such a sensitive operation would never be given to an unknown civilian contractor, even for a bureaucratic mess like the NCR. Frontier desperation, hitting a wall via official channels, and the fact that the character is the protagonist in a sprawling open world help it pass ludonarrative muster.

Boyd is a real piece of work, she’s openly sadistic hiding beneath of veneer of civility. She considers the humane treatment of POW’s as an impediment, and so looks for ways around it. Notably, while she wants information from Silus to deliver to her superiors, she’ll settle for just having Silus beaten so bloody that he can’t speak anymore, calling it “entertainment.” This is a person who simply should not be in charge of interrogating a prisoner, she is neither humane nor effective at her job, but here she is by virtue simply of being the chief MP on base.

Not that Silus, the prisoner and the other side of this duo, is better. He openly revels in the barbaric practices of the Legion’s slavery system, even trying to ensure that the slaves can never achieve some level of comfort by tightening the collars and making it difficult for them to feel at ease while eating or drinking. Even if Silus is mostly saying those things simply to get a rise out of Lieutenant Boyd, he knows what the Legion is up to and enjoys it. Silus is arrogant to an extreme degree, he is filled with confidence that he can outlast any interrogation by the feeble NCR without giving up any intelligence, that he could easily escape NCR confinement and that he is so valuable to the Legion that following Caesar’s order would be a waste. Good fodder then, for the protagonist to bring him down to size.

Silus Treatment as a quest is relatively simple. Boyd signs off on the Courier beating the ever-living tar out of Silus and then steps out for a smoke, letting the player do whatever he or she wants to the prisoner. Silus, sneering, dismisses the Courier as just another piece of NCR trash, and it’s up to the player with how to succeed. Violence is always an option, you can beat Silus, and eventually gets something useful, that the base itself will be the target of Legion destruction. Silus admits that his fantasy of escape was always a fantasy, he was dead to Caesar just as surely as he as if he had committed suicide before capture.

Yet if the Courier has points in Speech or Intelligence, he can completely upend Boyd’s methods and actually deliver a worthwhile interrogation. The first technique, with speech, uses an interrogation technique known as Pride-and-ego-down, where the interrogator routinely belittles and demeans the prisoner, usually their technical competence or soldierly qualities, in an attempt to get the prisoner to “redeem” themselves by explaining a piece of useful intelligence that would explain the deficiency as opposed to it just being a terrible personal quality. The Courier mocks Silus as a coward (bravery being a key soldierly virtue) and he defends himself by stating his bravery and that suicide is a poor death for a soldier of his intelligence and caliber, then saying how good a soldier he is for a “self-appointed megalomaniacal dictator.” Silus then spills that Caesar held his unit for three days because of “headaches,” in actuality, it’s Caesar’s brain tumor. The technique works to an exceptionally high degree, not only does Silus divulge that McCarran has been infiltrated as in the violence ending, but also that the Legion is suffering a crisis of command due to Caesar’s illness. The Courier gets a lot of useful intelligence out of Silus and doesn’t compromise the humane treatment of prisoners in the process. If it actually caused some self-reflection in Boyd, that’d be a complete win, but I suppose we can’t have everything.

My favorite option is the intelligence option, because the Courier goes full-on PSYOPS, posing as a Legion assassin sent to kill Silus for his failure to commit suicide on Caesar’s order. Silus denies it at first, but as the Courier continues to sell the performance, Silus begins to express real terror at the thought that the Courier is actually a frumentarius sent to kill Silus before he divulges anything to the NCR. The Courier fully sells the deal using Latin phrases as the language of Caesar’s elites. The Courier can quote Cicero, “legum servi sumus” - we are all slaves to the law, in what is perhaps a perfect example of Caesar’s philosophy of totalitarian obedience. The full quote "Legum servi sumus ut liberi esse possimus” - we are slaves to the law so that we might be free, means little in Caesar’s totalitarian state where all are subject to his whims and contingency plans for Caesar’s incapacity aren’t even considered. Of course, the Roman Republic was hardly a free state, but Caesar really takes the cake with his dictatorship. If Caesar’s dictum holds true: “Corruptio optimi pessima” - the corruption of the greatest is the worst outcome. how much worse is it when Caesar himself is corrupted? But totalitarians rarely raise the possibility that they themselves are corrupt, because the good of the dictator is the good of the state. After all, L'etat c'est moi is the dictum of any dictator, not just a Sun King.

Of course, fitting New Vegas, you can side with Silus, and facilitate his escape. There, you feign beating him to unconsciousness and slip him a silenced pistol, then Silus makes good his escape, killing the guard sent to bring him back to his cell and sneaking out. Of all the endings, this one isn’t as satisfying. Some of it, of course, is that you never interact or see Silus again, so there’s never any reward to the quest except for the knowledge that the base is infiltrated, which in the pro-Legion side of the quest I Put a Spell on You allows you to complete Curtis’s sabotage operation (and a far better Legion quest, in my opinion, with the NCR quest side being even better given the multiple outcomes), but also it’s not referenced again with Caesar. What would Caesar’s reaction be to the Courier springing Silus? He is quite fond of reciting a litany of the Courier’s accomplishments in Act 2 at Fortification Hill.

If I could improve Silus Treatment, I think I would have made it so the violent path wouldn’t have produced enough valuable intel, and the player needs to do some more detective work to actually get to I Put a Spell on You, or even being mislead by Curtis and becoming the unwitting patsy of the Legion. But overall, I think it was an incredible quest and a testament to the writing in the game.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#fallout: new vegas

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fulcrum-agent · 3 years ago

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010. Heady [FFXIVwrite2021]

His voice comes over the Linkpearl unexpectedly.

"A-Aquila......Father is here...I don't know what to do; he's standing right outside Calcifer.....what do I do?" He says in a slightly panicked tone.

"You stay the fuck in the lab and let me deal with him," she replies immediately.

She's given a timid reply, "Ok...."

"Once some ground rules are out, I'll let you know," she explains to him. "But he gets to find out all the ways he will die if he messes with you."

His voice pitches upward a little as he asks, "A-are you bringing Leth? Rolno? Locke? any kind of backup?"

"Locke's still recovering, Rolno's about to get laid, and Leth got shanked earlier," she explains calmly. "Besides, I don't NEED back up now, thanks to Merrick."

Sounding more than just a little concerned, he murmurs, "Alright..."

Their father takes a sip from the cup in front of him as she arrives. Upon seeing him, she draws her blade, assuming the same stance that the former Blade who owned it used.

"...what are you doing here?" she asks coldly.

The man, without looking up, speaks - his cold, nearly monotone, and emotionless voice carries over the wind.

"Is that any way to address your Father? Daughter of mine, I taught you better."

He finally stands up and brushes himself off, and faces her fully, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His eyes looked down at the sword, then back to her; a slightly raised eyebrow was the only indication that he had acknowledged the weapon.

"You PROGRAMMED me - you didn't teach," she corrects him harshly, not taking well to him using that particular phrase. "Not that such'll save you anymore. One of your little projects saw to that."

The man tilts his head. "Oh?"

"Yeah. C-04-01B. Merrick. Somehow, you managed to make him even more monstrous than yourself," she retorts sharply, blade still ready to strike. "Again. Why. Are. YOU. Here."

Her father seems lost in thought for a moment.

"Interesting, I was sure I destroyed him when he malfunctioned.....I suppose he must have found an escape and has since degraded since his creation," He did not seem too concerned with the escaped Clone. "It took me quite a while to find you and Liocyon; I've come to bring you home....seeing as you failed to even do that."

"Spoilers: We're not going, and you've lost the power to make us," she immediately slings at him, still debating on just attacking him. "It was NEVER in the plan to go back, especially after finding out why Lio left."

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he replies, "These antics of yours are growing tiresome, my child."

"You created them at the end of the day," she points out. "I'm pretty sure you were entirely aware of how trying to enslave me was gonna work out."

She's given what passes for an incredulous look by her father as he echoes, "Enslave? is that what you think I was doing?"

This finally breaks from her calm tone of voice.

"Septimus is DEAD because of what you did!" she shouts at him, giving him a gaze that likely has made some random primal rollover disturbed in their sleep. "YOU should be the dead one."

He gave the barest hint of emotion at the mention of Septimus's name; his eyes seemed to soften just slightly.

"What happened to your brother....was a tragedy," He said in a slightly softer tone, "Believe me when I say....that I grieved with the rest of you."

"If that's fucking so, why did you even programme me to kill our family!" she shouts; for the moment, the last vestiges of the conditioning can't fight past her seething rage. "I nearly killed LIO because of your bullshit!"

The almost emotionless state returns the response, "Better to die at the hands of a family member than one of these barbarians."

"If not for these 'savages', Merrick would have succeeded. You're only dealing with me because they rescued me," she retorts hotly, clearly provoked by his words. "If not for them, Lio would be dead. Because that's Merrick's goal - to replace my brother."

This actually gives her father pause before he brushes the information off again.

"That clone is delusional; I never made him for that purpose, for replacing Lio."

"Intent or not, that's what's going on, Father," she counters, the last word sounding like pure venom. "You've created one hell of a mess. He's MURDERED dozens of people - 'savage' and Garlean alike."

Her father furrows his brow as he flatly states, "A pity but hardly my problem or my concern."

"Oh?" she slowly lowers Talekeeper, assuming her...perceived lack of a stance. "Actually, it is. And you're going to fix it."

She's given what passes for a quizzical look as he states, "There is nothing to fix."

"Yeah. There is. Put on that damned monocle and LOOK," she orders him. "There's something only you can repair. It's the only reason you're not dead."

Without bothering to do as asked, he questions, "And what is that?"

"I have an aetherpool. Two pre-teen kids worth of aether. Enough to use aether," she explains to him, like he's five, "but not enough to dispatch your monster."

He makes a motion for her to continue, seeming undisturbed by this news, and she sighs a little.

"I...need you to finish what he attempted. So that I can eliminate the threat he poses to Liocyon," she explains, voice returning to that sort of mimicry of his own. "But don't think I won't stab you, somewhere non-fatal, if you do ANYTHING to Lio."

The man quirks his brow. "You want me to...expand your limited aetherpool?"

She nods at Cicero, "Yup."

"If this conversation had happened a few years ago, I would say it's impossible...." he ruminates before stating, "as it stands, I think I have knowledge and capability to do as you ask; there is one hiccup, though."

Her eyes narrow at him.

"Hiccup? The fact your lab in the Capital can't be accessed?" she asks him.

The man's lips form a thin smile as he gives what might be a mock-praise, "What a smart girl you are."

She smirks a little at that.

"Smart enough to know how to get all your equipment out," she almost teases him.

"Not only my lab equipment but my research notes..." he emphasises, "unless you have a team willing to infiltrate Empire territory and access my lab."

"Pfft. We HAVE your notes already. Tana grabbed every tomestone that wasn't nailed down when she left," she explains to him. "What we don't have, currently, is any of your equipment or anything close enough to it. All that shit here is Sharlayan."

He shrugs and continues, "If you can bring me my equipment, I can work on your little request...I have a condition, though."

She rolls her eyes faintly. "Because, of course, you do."

"I want to see Liocyon."

"And I have conditions on that," she retorts immediately, voice razor-sharp. "You do ANYTHING harmful to him; I will make you regret it. Slowly."

"To the pain."

With a faint sigh and a small wave of his hand, he agrees, "Your theatrics are noted. I assume he is inside that......establishment."

She nods once.

"Yeah, but Calficer's more likely to kill you than let you in," she somewhat smugly points out. "I can go get him, though."

He makes a motion, "By all means."

She decides to prove a point before such. Without warning, she blinks into the Lifestream only to reappear with her sword right across Cicero's neck, edge gently touching such - enough to leave an extremely thin red mark but not enough to cut deeply.

"Just remember my conditions, "Father," she states before blinking again, displacing back to where she was before turning to get Lio. Talekeeper stays out.

Her father seems unphased by the threat "Noted."

She enters the House of Mystery, looking to her pacing brother immediately. "He's aware of the conditions."

Her twin turns paler shade. "He's not g-gone?"

"Nope. We've a little arrangement. He's allowed to speak to you, so long as he doesn't do anything shitty," she explains to her twin. "If he does ANYTHING harmful, I'm corps-a-corps'ing his dick."

He takes a deep breath, his body trembling slightly.

"Alright..." he says weakly. "Ok...just....stay with me, please."

She nods at Lio, grinning. "He can't stop me anymore," she reminds Lio, "so I'll be right beside you unless I have to suddenly castrate him."

Her reflection nods before looking to the door. "Alright then..."

Aquila Aurelius returns with Lio in tow, the rapier still out and perhaps at the ready. Her lack of stance is maddening to anyone who knows how to sword fight.

After they exit the house, her brother stands behind her. "H-hello F-Father...." *He says weakly, his eyes looking towards the ground.*

Cicero Aurelius would calmly watch his daughter and son exit the building, a small smile turning the corner of his lip* "Liocyon....you've changed quite a bit since I last saw you, have you finally embraced science?"

She mutters, "...wears the coat better than you ever did..."

Her twin looks over at her before looking back to his father, trying to explain himself, "I have...it was...it was required, someone needed it..."

Their father looks over to her for a moment before looking back to Lio and nodding.

"Good, good..." He takes a few steps forward as he speaks, "You look so much like your mother....she wanted to be here, you know.."

She glares at him at the mention of their mother, despite the accuracy. "Then why isn't she?" she retorts sharply.

Their father gives her a look as he answers, "It is unsafe for us outside of the safehouse."

Her twin takes a step forward as he eagerly asks, "Mother is here? what about the others?"

She moves her blade between her reflection and their father.

"Ah ah ah," she notes to their father. "And who the fuck's fault is it that she's not safe?"

"The fool that sits on the throne now," the man said simply. "He turned our country into a damn cult."

This causes her blade to focus on their father again, pointed aimed right at his throat as she retorts, "Nah. YOU made it, so none of us are safe outside the estate."

Shaking his head, the man intones, "Everything I did was to make it safe for you and Liocyon."

Her brother gently places his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to calm her, softly murmuring, "Aquila.."

Reluctantly, she drops the sword away from their father's throat, though Talekeeper remains out.

"I don't think experimenting on your own kids and turning them into monsters is really for the best," she points out with a huff.

"Perhaps one day you will understand what I was trying to do,"

their father sighs, "In any case, fine....bring me my equipment, and I will expand your aetherpool...after that, perhaps we can sit down and discuss things as adults?"

Her twin looks between her and their father, moving closer to his sister.

She shakes her head at her brother a little bit.

"...he wasn't supposed to know that, but...fine," she concedes, looking at their father before adding, "...but the conditions stand, even then."

For his part, the man makes a mock 'oops' face as he flippantly states, "My mistake, but fine."

"...I have a shorter blade that I can use," she points out. "Won't kill you, but it'll hurt."

Their father waves his hand as he mocks, "Yes, yes, you're threats are noted...I will take my leave; contact me as soon as you have my equipment."

She nods once, Talekeeper remaining out until he's well and gone.

"Yeah, sure. Say hi to mum for us," she quips.

The man looks back at Lio. "It was.....good to see you again, son."

Her reflection nods as he murmurs, "Father..."

In a flat tone, as he turns, their father states, "Aquila."

"Father."

((Adapted from an RP with Liocyon.))

#ffxivwrite2021

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astudyinfreewill · 5 years ago

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So this excerpt that Maggie tweeted appears to be a quote from Cicero’s Laelius, also known as De Amicitia (On Friendship), and it means as if another self / just like another self.

I went to look up the Latin passage because I wanted to see how this worked within the paragraph, and after quickly translating it in my head, I thought it had some interesting potential for discussion.

The larger passage it comes from is as follows:

digni autem sunt amicitia, quibus in ipsis inest causa cur diligantur. rarum genus! et quidem omnia praeclara, rara, nec quicquam difficilius quam reperire quod sit omni ex parte in suo genere perfectum. sed plerique neque in rebus humanis quicquam bonum norunt nisi quod fructuosum sit, et amicos tamquam pecudes eos potissimum diligunt, ex quibus sperant se maximum fructum esse capturos.[80] ita pulcherrima illa et maxime naturali carent amicitia per se et propter se expetita,nec ipsi sibi exemplo sunt, haec vis amicitiae et qualis et quanta sit. ipse enim se quisque diligit, non ut aliquam a se ipse mercedem exigat caritatis suae, sed quod per se quisque sibi carus est; quod nisi idem in amicitiam transferetur, verus amicus numquam reperietur: est enim is qui est tamquam alter idem. (Cic. Lael. 21, 79-80).

And this is the translation (I didn’t feel like re-doing it all from scratch myself and making it pretty, because I was possessed by the feral urge to make this post, so I am using the one from this excellent website) -- emphasis mine:

Now they are worthy of friendship who have within their own souls the reason for their being loved. A rare class indeed! And really everything splendid is rare, and nothing is harder to find than something which in all respects is a perfect specimen of its kind. But the majority of men recognize nothing whatever in human experience as good unless it brings some profit and they regard their friends as they do their cattle, valuing most highly those which give hope of the largest gain. [80] Thus do they fail to attain that loveliest, most spontaneous friendship, which is desirable in and for itself; and they do not learn from their own experience what the power of such friendship is and are ignorant of its nature and extent. For everyone loves himself, not with a view of acquiring some profit himself from his self-love, but because he is dear to himself on his own account; and unless this same feeling were transferred to friendship, the real friend would never be found; for he is, as it were, another self.

While Cicero’s work is, as you can tell, a philosophical discussion about the value of disinterested/unselfish friendship, somehow I don’t think that’s quite what’s being discussed in the excerpt. There are a few other angles that could come into play here:

dream doubles: it’s pretty clear from the excerpt that Adam is visiting Ronan in one of his dreams, most likely by scrying/astral projecting (that is, unless Adam’s somehow figured out how to disappear in real life). So Adam could be taking the quote of context to explain how he’s there, not really physically but through a projection of his essence, “another self”

Lindenmere: Maggie replied to the original tweet saying that the excerpt might make more sense if you’ve read the Opal story. The first thing that came to my mind was Ronan struggling to make the new Cabeswater, because he wants to make it perfect, like the old Cabeswater but better, and Adam reassuring him that “it won’t be what you imagined, but it will be just as good”. So Lindenmere could be seen as Cabeswater’s “other self”. This also has additional meaning for each of them, because Ronan manifests Lindenmere as he manifested Cabeswater, and therefore they are a reflection of his soul (another self?); and though Adam’s special connection to Cabeswater was caused by his sacrifice to awaken the ley line, it’s possible that Lindenmere, being a manifestation of the same entity, taking energy from the same line, being Cabeswater’s other self, remembers him and might be responsive to him, making it easier for him to scry into it (and Ronan’s dreamspace). Currently, I believe this is the most likely option.

But there’s another level of it that intrigues me, and really, one that I think is true regardless of whether it’s what the characters are referencing. If you look at the passage I bolded, you’ll see that it compares disinterested friendship and sincere affection to loving oneself: we all love/care for ourselves in some way, at least a little bit, even if it’s just survival instinct, and we can’t have any ulterior motives in loving ourselves, because we have nothing material to gain -- only acceptance and happiness. It’s that concept of being “dear to someone on our own account”. And that, ultimately, is how Adam and Ronan feel about each other. Now I personally think -- watch me be clowned, but I’d bet on it -- that Ronan is going to struggle a lot with the dangers his dreaming poses to Adam (both in itself and because people are hunting him down) and I can see him trying to distance himself to keep Adam safe. So it’s not a stretch to imagine Adam showing up in Ronan’s dreams and Ronan telling him that it’s dangerous, that he shouldn’t worry about Ronan, that he needs to look after himself, and Adam replying that that’s ridiculous, because he cares about Ronan as if Ronan was Adam’s own self. And mayhaps I’m emo about that, because it really is the truth, whether or not it’s what the quote means here.

So, until November 5 rolls around and we find out for sure... have fun picking your favourite interpretation (or heck, all three of them - I know I am), and if you have any other ideas, let me know what you think!

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reyofsunlight666 · 5 years ago

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A Family Gathering (New Fanfic!)

Hi everyone! Feel like reading about Tamriel’s most notorious group of killers behaving like Christmassy dorks and learning how to be a family? Scroll no further!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073770

For life with Tamriel’s most notorious Family, Quickclaw reflects, settling into the Dark Brotherhood has come relatively effortlessly. Sure, there are the surprises that anyone would have in joining a new group; Festus Krex snoring louder than Alduin's Shouts, Lis the frost spider not understanding the size difference between itself and an ordinary spider and still trying to crawl into Quickclaw's mouth, Babette snatching away the sauce Quickclaw was about to pour on her dinner with a shriek about having mislabelled the paralysis poison.

Well. Perhaps it hasn't been so conflict-free.

Nonetheless, it is certainly less difficult than Quickclaw might have expected. Part of that could be that she has been kept busy. Between Astrid's and Nazir's jobs, as well as Cicero suddenly joining them, Quickclaw has had little interaction with the entire Sanctuary at once.

But it is almost the end of Evening Star. According to Astrid, the Sanctuary mishmashes every tradition of its members together into an enormous New Life-Saturalia-Baranth Do-Xulomaht celebration. All celebrate together and contribute to the festivities.

Quickclaw has never celebrated the new year with anyone before. A life of self-sufficiency dedicated to the claw-dance and scraping out survival tends to do that. It is the first time she has been invited to festivities like this.

Ridiculously for a mercenary, the thought makes her nervous.

Astrid enters the dining area and wrinkles her nose at the smell. She’s used to blood, of course, but the sheer...quantity in the air is usually only present when Arnbjorn’s torn through a whole group of targets. And it’s usually never near her food.

‘What is all this?’

Babette’s face appears from around the corner. ‘Preparations.’

Astrid comes closer. On the table are a row of small and large bottles, all filled with blood. It’s been neatly done, Astrid notes, the lack of dribbles or drops attesting to Babette’s skill in handling potions that might eat through wood or human skin.

‘Dear sister, I thought you were helping to source our meal for the New Life festivities.’

Babette grins widely, the gesture revealing her sharp fangs. ‘Oh, I am. There will be enough to last me all through the feast, and well into the night.’

‘Is there anything for those of us not blessed with your gifts?’

‘Oh, of course! Veezara?’

At the call, the Argonian enters the room, bearing an enormous plate. From what Astrid can tell with its head chopped off, it looks about the size of a slaughterfish. Its flesh looks raw, but dotted with...

‘Are those nightshade leaves?’

The Argonian brightens. ‘Indeed! In Black Marsh, we are proud of our spices and herbs. We consume the nightshade plant come Xulomaht to represent those gone before us, and because it produces a most magnificently bitter flavour.’

There is a silence.

‘Veezara?’ says Babette, finally. ‘You do know why nightshade symbolises those gone before?’

‘It is a Tamriel-wide symbol, is it not?’ he says. ‘After all, the farmers of Skyrim seem to live on the potato, and that is in the family of nightshade. Is it not a preparation for the Sovngarde they seem to love so much?’

Astrid looks from vampire to lizard. ‘Has Quickclaw prepared anything yet?’

‘Indeed!’ Quickclaw emerges, with armfuls of still more, smaller bottles. ‘This one has appropriated plentiful skooma. You Nords may be content with mere mead, but Quickclaw believes in a more refined celebration.’

Astrid looks at the Khajiit. ‘The last time I saw your people on skooma, they were competing over who could get a dagger furthest into somewhere I never wanted to see.’

‘You see?’ Quickclaw says. ‘Now that is how one rings in the new year.’

Nazir pads through the forest beside Astrid and Arnbjorn for the first time. He shared a kill with Astrid during the memorable job of the hagraven turned priestess of Mara, but that was six years ago. Since most jobs the Dark Brotherhood gets are solo operations, Nazir tends to venture out of the Sanctuary alone.

He's remembering those times with longing.

Of course, Astrid and Arnbjorn are perfectly competent assassins to be on duty with; there's not a snapped twig or startled deer between them. It's more the looks they give each other, the grin Astrid gives Arnbjorn as she spins her dagger showily in one hand, the hungry look Arnbjorn gives Astrid as he slowly shows all his teeth.

Is this why, when they do get a dual-assassin contract these days, those two always insist on going out together? Nazir doesn't want to know.

He tries to focus on the task at hand. They're out to source decorations for the Sanctuary, and judging by the trip he'd taken into Falkreath, Saturalia decorations in this hold tend to consist of fir wreaths nailed to doors and candles in jars hanging from eaves.

Bits of branches are all well and good, but Nazir is certain they can find a way to make it truly a celebration. Nazir certainly intends to construct the demons that represent the year gone past that are so popular back in Hammerfell. He just thinks the demons lack a certain...grounding in real-world anatomy.

He taps Arnbjorn on the shoulder. Noiselessly, the werewolf turns. Arnbjorn may be the most prone to brute force of them all, but even he is too experienced in combat to respond to something unexpected by giving away his position.

'What is it?' he says in a low voice.

'I have some proposals for modification,' Nazir says. 'Certainly, we can stick to tradition, but I think our Family should start making traditions of our own.'

At that, Arnbjorn's eyes gleam. 'Are you suggesting...'

Nazir nods, his grin widening. His blades will taste blood tonight, he is certain of it.

And Arnbjorn steps away from Nazir, towards Astrid. 'Dearest. I think the game is set to be played.'

By the stones of Sithis, that was not what Nazir intended.

'Indeed?' says Astrid, drawing her dagger from its sheath. 'And how shall we play?'

'First to stop the heart.' Arnbjorn's face seems longer now than it was a few seconds ago, his eyes gaining a distinctly yellowish cast.

Astrid raises an eyebrow. 'I notice you haven't specified a prize.'

Now Nazir is truly wishing he'd volunteered to be on the food team, like anyone else in the Sanctuary who was remotely sensible. Whatever game they have going on, he suspects it only just begins by the time they disembowel someone.

Arnbjorn draws closer still to her. 'O my Mistress, aren't you in charge of that?'

Nazir clears his throat, loudly. 'Were we not out here to complete a task?'

Astrid begins to speak, but is interrupted by Arnbjorn whirling suddenly and scenting the air. 'Hunter downwind.'

'How far?' says Astrid throatily.

In answer, Arnbjorn tears free of his clothing, fur sprouting all across his body as he lopes into the trees.

Astrid looks back at Nazir. 'Dear friend, I will have reason to thank you for this night.' Then she's off into the trees too with knife in hand.

With screams of agony coming from the next grove over and more knowledge of his sister and brother than he ever wanted, Nazir lets out a well-deserved groan.

Quickclaw is out of the Sanctuary with the Dark Elf, sourcing meats and vegetables for the great feast. Occasionally, they deign to visit Whiterun’s general stores, taverns and food markets. However, most of their spoils have come from using their skills to sneak into the houses of the unsuspecting. Their cart is almost full.

She is uneasy.

For reasons of unobtrusiveness, and to give Quickclaw a legal reason to enter Whiterun, the elf is posing as one of the more old-fashioned Dunmer, claiming allegiance with House Telvanni. While she cannot claim Quickclaw is her slave, not without bringing the Jarl’s men down on them, it is clear who is mistress and who is servant in their disguise.

Quickclaw has not had much contact with the elf since she joined the Dark Brotherhood. Part of that is by circumstance. She has spoken to Nazir and Astrid for jobs, Babette for potions, Arnbjorn to maintain her weapons and armour, but there has been little practical reason to speak with the elf. Yet Quickclaw has not yet sought the elf's advice on a job, nor sought to take meals together. When the Sanctuary comes together in conversation, Quickclaw avoids directly speaking with the elf.

She knows the blue-skins scattered in the eruption of Red Mountain, and their numbers and power are a fraction of what they were. She knows Helseth Hlaalu has long since outlawed the old ways. Yet in a place where her people are forced to squat in ignominy outside every settlement, in streets where children stare and adults do not bother to disguise their hatred, as she walks beside a Dark Elf who sweeps along in robes weighty with tradition while she dresses in threadbare rags, rage and fear coil within her.

After a long day of thieving and bartering, and as the sky darkens, the elf suggests renting a room in the Bannered Mare and returning home the next morning. When they finally settle into the room and the elf has cast Muffle over the door, she says, 'It's good we came to Whiterun together. I have not had much chance to speak with you since you joined us.'

'This one supposes not.' Quickclaw flashes a glance towards her. 'Sister,' she adds as an afterthought.

The elf sends a spark to the candle wick, letting the room dance with its light. 'Have I done something to offend? You must know I wish you no harm; in fact, I was delighted to have new blood in the Sanctuary.'

'Of course not,' Quickclaw manages. Quickclaw looks again at the elf sitting there, thinking of the dark blue hands like hers that whipped people like her, the red eyes like hers that saw people like her as nothing but mongrels.

The elf looks directly into Quickclaw's eyes. 'Is it our peoples' history?'

A hiss escapes Quickclaw before she can say anything. When she looks down, she finds she has involuntarily extended her claws. The elf still has not looked away.

'My people,' says the elf precisely, 'have committed heinous acts beyond my powers of description. It is one thing to send others to the Void. It is quite another to blot out their lives with suffering, deny them their very homes and choices.'

'This one looks for no smooth apologies, nor pretty tears,' Quickclaw hisses, and the candlelight gutters across the ceiling.

The elf stops, and bites her lip. 'I did not intend to dismiss your people's suffering with a few words.'

'Even under Astrid's reign, the blue-skin would not live had she intended it,' Quickclaw says.

'Nor would I expect to,' says the elf. 'If there is anything a Dunmer understands, it is a devotion to one's kin.'

Surprise floods Quickclaw. 'So what was it that the Dark Elf was expecting?'

Gabriella pulls an arrow from her quiver and turns it over in her hands. 'Nothing. I do not wish you to wipe my tears for me, nor do I wish any special exemption from the circumstances of our births. I only wish that we might have a word when we break bread, or share a kill or two. I have no doubt I am ignorant in a thousand ways of the richness of your heritage. But we share a heritage now, do we not?'

'This Family is precious, yes,' Quickclaw says, 'but it does not change Quickclaw's blood.'

'Nor mine,' says Gabriella, 'though I have wished the Dread Father might work some miracle.'

That pricks Quickclaw with surprise again. 'What does the Dunmer mean?'

Gabriella gives her a long, wry look. 'Here I am in a foreign land, with the blood of thirty-three upon my hands and a Family of almost every province, and you ask why I may not be fond of my place of birth.'

She laughs at that. 'So this is no good little blue-skin who listens to their ancestors' every whisper?'

'Not those of my birth,' Gabriella says. 'But as for my sisters and brothers in Sithis? I treasure their lineage and wisdom infinitely.'

A mixture of emotions churn within Quickclaw like stew within a pot. At last, she picks out her words. 'Quickclaw was fortunate to find the Family when she did. This one has no way to hide her nature, and this one would not want to should she have the means. To be Khajiit is to have the very moons' strength within one, and to be tricksy enough to survive a thousand years of injustice.'

She pause for breath, and Gabriella waits for her to continue.

'Yet in a land where cold can burn like heat and the Nord spits on any who have more talents than their brainless blocks of muscle, this one is happy to be strange within strangeness.'

'To be strange within strangeness.' Gabriella grins at her. 'Now those are fine words for a Family.'

'Fine words for a festival,' Quickclaw answers, 'dear sister.'

Festus Krex returns from the last job of the year to find a fir wreath framing the skull on the door. It looks strangely cosy, and he can't say he dislikes the effect.

'What is the music of night?' says the door.

'Silence, my Brother,' Festus replies automatically. At this stage, if the Penitus Oculatus themselves are behind that damned door, he'll take them. He has more than earned his bed after wrangling that orc.

Giggles burst from behind the door. Festus blinks. One can sometimes hear the odd noise from outside the door, he knows that, but for it to be this audible they must be right up against the door.

'What's going on?' he grunts.

'Do you not remember the password, old-timer?' Babette's clear, mischievous tones are unmistakeable.

'Who are you calling old-timer, dead girl?' he says.

Gabriella's laughter is most audible this time. 'The festive password?'

'The festive password,' Festus says. 'The password of festivities. The password I remember in its entirety.'

More laughter spills from inside the Sanctuary. He racks his brain.

'Ah, yes! The music of night is Should auld acquaintance be forgot. Like that old Nord song.'

At that, the door swings open. Gabriella is already down the stairs, but Babette waits for him. 'Happy New Life!'

'I'd forgotten,' he says. 'When you get to my age, you're just grateful to make it from one day to the next.'

'Oh, you're too young for that kind of talk,' she says as they walk into Astrid's study. 'Why, this will be my three hundred and forty-seventh year, and I feel fresher by the day.'

Just at the exit to the study and into the main meeting area, Festus is suddenly hit in the face by...something soft? 'Hey!'

Babette laughs again. He focuses on the swinging object. It resembles those demonic effigies he saw pictures of in The Imperial Pocket Guide to Hammerfell, with its curling horns taken from a ram and the red skin fashioned from paper. Yet its eyes seem more realistic than their usual painted counterparts, and he could swear saliva glistens from its tongue.

'Very funny,' he says, pushing past it into the room.

He levitated the dining tables from their usual place to beside the pool the other day, so he isn't surprised to see them. What is surprising is the amount of decorations that surround them. Holly branches festoon the tables. Fir wreaths, candles in jars and effigies containing body parts surround the tables, hanging from the cave's high ceilings and placed into the little nooks and crannies in the walls. Lis the frost spider is out of her pit, peaceably gnawing on what looks like a whole roasted cow. Even the Night Mother's coffin has been taken from its usual spot and wrapped in holly branches. Surely the clown would consider that an insult to the Unholy Matron, yet -

Wait.

'By the heart of Lorkhan,' Festus bursts out. 'Whose idea was it to give the clown a harp?'

'It was Cicero's own idea!' The clown beams, and plucks all the strings in rapid succession. 'Cicero thought, what is a New Life celebration without a bard? And Cicero remembered that a long time ago, he learned some harp music as part of a disguise! Cicero knows many tunes, yes he does.'

Festus meets Astrid's eyes, standing just behind the clown. Astrid rolls her eyes, but places a finger over her lips.

'Food's up!' Babette reappears from the dining area, bearing an enormous roast fowl. Behind her, Arnbjorn carries roast leeks, carrots and potatoes in one hand, with a large ham in the other. Gabriella bears bottles of wine, mead and blood, while Quickclaw brings up the rear with plenty of skooma.

'Don't forget the fish!' Veezara rushes in behind them, bearing a slaughterfish covered in nightshade leaves. Festus can't see how that's getting eaten, though if it keeps the lizard happy...

At least there is plenty of other food. Cicero strikes up a melody as the others take their seats around the table. Festus pushes in his chair, looking around at the rest of the Family through the candlelight.

'It's been a year I'll be grateful for,' says Astrid, settling into the head of the table. 'Our fortunes are only looking up.'

'We received twice the jobs we had last year,' says Nazir.

'And almost twice the gold,' adds Babette. 'A civil war makes people even more eager to end old grudges.'

Gabriella spears her fork into a roast potato. 'Don't forget our newest Family member.'

'How could we?' Veezara claps Quickclaw on the shoulder. Quickclaw grins.

The harp music stops. 'And me! And me! Don't forget Cicero!'

'How could we,' Arnbjorn mutters.

'Of course,' Astrid says. 'Two new Family members and more prosperity than we've had in a long time. I propose a toast.'

'To Sithis?' Cicero suggests. The others look at each other, but clink glasses and echo the toast.

'To the new year,' adds Nazir.

'And to family,' says Quickclaw.

'To family!' they all echo. They clink glasses as one, far from anyone else, and yet together.

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canniballistics · 8 years ago

Text

quick thinking

fandom: masquerada: songs and shadows pair: cicero/kalden words: 2215 ao3 version here. this definitely is what should have happened during the game. definitely. kissing as a disguise definitely definitely should have happened.

It was not, he supposed, one of the strangest situations he'd ever been in. Surely there had been more instances, varied and colorful, over the last few years; the fact that he could only remember some as little more than their consequences lent credence to that belief. Certainly, there were few things as odd as creeping around the sewers in disguise, with a Mariner in tow, but having ended up in the gutter on more than one occasion, Cicero couldn't help but feel that this couldn't rank too highly on that list.

His companion was an odd sort; why he was so desperate to find his brother, despite not having spoken with him for years, was perhaps even stranger than their situation. Despite their differences in ideology, he and Cyrus had still spoken, and often. It only stopped when—

Hm. That was not a helpful train of thought. He shook his head to clear it, and very nearly walked straight into the Mariner's back. A large hand shot out to help steady him as he stumbled; Cicero took it by instinct, and rather than continuing to ruminate on his brother, found himself instead marvelling at the difference between their two hands. He had seen the proof of it when the ladder had broken beneath the man's bulk, and was reminded again whenever they stood shoulder to shoulder — head to shoulder: Kalden Azrus was an absolute mountain of a man. Cicero couldn't stop his mind wandering, the quiet, dark parts wondering—

"Inspettore?" The voice was soft, but puzzled, snapping Cicero out of his thoughts and the strange turns they were taking. He looked up into dark eyes, which glanced back down to where their hands were still clasped. "Is everything alright?"

"Ages," Cicero muttered, drawing his hand back quickly. "I'm sorry, I was..distracted." He laughed, and was glad that it didn't sound nearly as forced as it was. "You're quite different from Razitof. I have to wonder just what your parents fed you, growing up. Must've eaten all your spinach, and Razitof's share as well, hm?"

It was far from the response he thought he would get as the Mariner straightened up, his expression seeming to shutter as he turned away. "No," was all he said, before turning back to the mouth of the alley they occupied.

Far from put out, Cicero instead felt...what? Curiosity, surely, at that reaction. Perhaps also a touch of regret? He hadn't thought to reach a sore spot so soon, and with what he'd thought to be a harmless jest. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it just as quickly. Chances were high that anything he said to excuse himself would only exacerbate the issue; instead, he crept up next to the man, checking to make sure their way was clear. He let a hand settle on Kalden's bare forearm, blinking in surprise upon realizing there was a tattoo there. Interesting. He didn't really seem the type. Hidden depths, Cicero had to remind himself. People are not so simple as to be one-dimensional; everyone has hidden depths, and Kalden is no different.

Once he was sure he had his attention, Cicero offered a small smile. "I...apologize, for any misstep I might have made. It was not my intent to offend, in whatever way I did; I'll be sure to take more care with my words, in the future." And then, without waiting for a response, he darted out of the alley. "Come. The coast is clear, for now."

It was gratifying, then, that Kalden followed him without word or question. They made their way across what must surely have been a trading square, dodging between abandoned stalls and tables. Cicero hesitated for only a moment before swiping an apple from a forgotten bushel; he rubbed it against his borrowed sleeve before taking a bite, and only noticed after that Kalden was watching him, an eyebrow raised.

"What is it, Mariner?"

"You cannot be certain where that shirt has been," Kalden said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And I believe that may have been someone's produce to sell. Should an Inspettore really be stealing from the people?"

"Pah," Cicero dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. "The whole area's been all but abandoned! I'm merely saving this poor apple from a horrible fate, of rotting away and never fulfilling its potential as a food." He paused, thinking. "Though, you may have a point about the shirt."

It earned him a low chuckle, and Cicero had to look away quickly, busy himself with taking another large bite of apple. That was...an interesting sound. Fascinating, really, how it seemed to rumble deep in Kalden's broad chest before eventually tumbling from his lips. Cicero found himself wanting to hear it again.

They were working, however. This was neither the time, nor the place. Nor the borrowed outfits, despite how suited Kalden was to his.

"Anyway," Cicero coughed, once he'd finished chewing. "I believe we'll be heading that way," and he gestured to a nearby street. "We should—"

He was interrupted by a clattering on the other side of the plaza, and the two of them darted around the closest corner. Cursing echoed after them, as well as unfamiliar voices.

"Would you shut up!"

"Sorry, sorry! Someone scattered some damn bottles, nearly twisted my ankle!"

"Well, maybe if you weren't so clumsy—"

"Hey, who're you calling clumsy?!"

"Will the both of you shut up! Or did you forget we're looking for someone?!" The other two voices quieted immediately. "Alfons and Edvard didn't just lose their clothes, someone had to have taken them. We have to find and stop whoever that is!"

"Right!" "Of course! Sorry!"

Damn. It only made sense that they'd be found out; such a ruse couldn't possibly last. Cicero had hoped they'd had more time, however, and he glanced around as his mind raced. They were in a small, shaded alley, whose only outlet would deliver them straight into their pursuers' hands. That was not an option, not so quickly, but if he and Kalden were to stay put, they would surely be discovered. They needed to hide in plain sight, to have their stalkers turn their gazes of their own accord. His mind turned back to the five years he'd spent adrift, and of the fastest way he knew to disappear.

"Ages. Mariner, this way."

Cicero grabbed Kalden's arm, dragging him further into shadow. Far enough that the colors of their clothes were muddled by the darkness, hopefully indistinguishable between the Maskrunners' uniforms and a Contadani's day to day. The footsteps of their pursuers were getting louder; they must have left a trail, where they cleared debris from their path. Cicero looked up at Kalden, who was frowning toward the mouth of the alley.

"Should we not simply fight?" he muttered, before looking down at Cicero. "It sounds as though there are only the three; I'm sure—"

"Not without calling attention to the skirmish," Cicero interrupted. He winced as a basket went rolling past their alley. "And I'm afraid that is time we do not have to waste." They were getting closer. He needed to act, and quickly. He grabbed Kalden's hands, settling them on his waist, before hooking his own at the back of Kalden's neck. Tried very, very hard not to think about how thoroughly those large hands spanned his waist. "Forgive me," he murmured, before pulling him down for a kiss.

It was, admittedly, not the best plan. Hell, it was barely a plan at all. When he thought about all the various ways this could backfire, it very nearly made Cicero laugh; the Maskrunners would simply need to come into the alley, or Kalden could shove him away. He would be well within his right to, if he did, and so all Cicero could now was wait, and hope. Hope that the party seeking them would be so embarrassed by public affection so to turn away, hope that Kalden would trust him to let this work.

And somewhere deep in his chest, hope that this did not completely unravel what thin ties they had been already begun weaving.

Kalden froze against him nearly immediately. It was hardly unexpected. Cicero was well aware of how they would be treated if they were discovered, and a pang of guilt struck through him at how this might damage Kalden's reputation. His own was run so ragged and tarnished already that the thought of one more stain didn't bother him in the least; Kalden, however, was far from a disgraced exile. He might have a life, a family — the thought of upending whatever quiet life Kalden had made for himself twisted in Cicero's gut.

It was too late for regrets, however. Not a second later, a pair of shadows appeared at the end of the alley. Cicero could barely see them past Kalden's shoulder, found himself praying that their posing was convincing enough. The figures stood there for a moment, assessing — Cicero couldn't tell if they were watching the two of them, or if they were looking at something else — before thankfully, blessedly moving on.

"Nothin' down there, Liv."

"Yeah, maybe they escaped into one of these buildings? That one's got a smashed window, they could've climbed in there!"

"Then what are you two waiting for? Go on!"

The figures at the end of the alley were joined by a third, and Cicero could hear a quiet, derisive "don't they know what's going on right now?" before the three of them moved, past the alley and away.

Cicero let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, sagging into Kalden and leaning his head against his shoulder as relief washed through him. They hadn't been found out, not yet; it was this thought that kept his arms around Kalden's shoulder, to keep up the appearance of intimacy between them. There was no way to tell whether or not their pursuers would come back, or if someone else was following after them. The safest thing to do was to keep up pretenses, for at least a moment longer.

"Cicero—" Kalden's voice was tense, a deep, low whisper against his ear that sent a shudder down Cicero's spine. Ages. Who allowed this? At least he was keeping his voice down, quiet enough that only Cicero could hear. "What are we doing?"

He laughed against Kalden's neck, almost giddy at the fact this new ruse had succeeded. "At the moment? Keeping up appearances, in case those three return." Truly, I can't believe this worked, he thought, and bit his lip to keep from giving it voice. Best not to let Kalden know how unsure he'd been about all this, that he hadn't been remotely close to positive the deception would succeed.

Kalden only sighed deeply. "And before?"

Cicero watched for a moment more, before stepping back from Kalden. It was a strange shift, nearly unbalancing him; he hadn't realized he'd been standing on the tips of his toes to make himself tall enough. "I learned...a while ago, that most people are not fans of public displays of affection. To see a loving couple doting, or embracing — most turn their eyes away, so as not to stare. It makes people uncomfortable, so they unconsciously stop themselves from seeing it."

"And you figured that this would protect our anonymity?" There was a strange quality to Kalden's voice, something that Cicero couldn't quite place. "What if we had been discovered?"

His hands had curled into fists, Cicero realized. He took a deep breath. "Then we would have summarily dispatched them, and whatever reputation you may have here in the Citte would be safe." Cicero chewed at the inside of his lip, just for a second, before looking at him. "I am sorry. It was the quickest way I could think of to keep their eyes off of us. And if things had taken a turn for the worse, I assure you, the blame would fall squarely on my own shoulders. I would not allow it any other way."

Kalden was quiet for a moment, watching him. His hands, at least, had unfurled as he'd been speaking. "You are an…interesting man, Cicero."

A quiet chuckle, and Cicero nodded. "Thank you. It's far from the worst I've been called, and you would be well within your right to call me worse; I'll gratefully accept interesting, from you."

He turned then, creeping up to the mouth of the alley and peering around the corner. There was no sign of the people who had been chasing them, having apparently climbed into one of the buildings adjacent to theirs and kept moving. It was a stroke of luck, and not one that he intended to waste.

"Let's go, Mariner," he murmured, gesturing back at him. "We've got work to do, after all."

Again, Cicero found himself surprised when Kalden followed after him. Surprised, but also relieved. No doubt the man wanted to find his brother, and that was the reason; still, it was something of a comfort to know he hadn't yet cost himself an ally. Whether or not the partnership would last remained to be seen.

For now, at least, it was enough. They had a job to do, after all.

#masquerada: songs and shadows #cicero gavar #kalden azrus #masquerada #marinspettore #there's gonna be a lot more of this from me #just you wait #kieran writes

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lordprofdrnovesha · 7 years ago

Text

“I can’t do that. It’d be . . . weird,” said Horatio.

“Why? Explain,” said Cicero.

“What do you think? I mean, I’m not some aloof spectator who just observes and watches from afar, like, just watching - watching and judging and commenting and telling their story. Yeah, their story.How fucking creepy is that? Like I was undercover and gathering details. Like I was pretending to be friends with everyone and then harvesting that, like, all their trust, to sell out, sell it. Like they were a farm. Y’know? Come on man. That sounds pretty weird to me.”

They both paused. They both allowed enough time to pass to let the heat fade. Cicero, with his hooked nose and sharp eyebrows, caught himself staring and poised to bark. He looked away an inch, relented his posture a degree. Horatio swung his head around, palms open and searching, lolling for a reply, a proper reply or a follow-up. Four seconds. Five seconds. He turned to Cicero. Cicero ignored this and maintained his statuesque pose. How else to convince Horatio? He’d only respond to-

“Like, there’s a thing. You can, you can base your stories on experiences, make it semi-autobiographical. I’unno - change the names, mix it up. Gender-swap. Set it in a different country. I mean, unless it’s important. But then what really carries is the story, right? The characters, the feelings, the relationships, the relationships you build and see develop and fuck up and all those connections. That’s the story, sure, yeah, but . . . how much can you change? How much do I make up? I mean, I’ll know which parts are made-up and which parts I’m just reporting. And the difference’ll be there. It’ll be obvious. Because those parts will be so much better, so much more human than the shit I gavel in, the magicked, fanciful trope-y nonsense I put in to stretch out. Y’know? It’d be like mud. No, it’d be like sewage and those few moments, those skits, those snippets of truth like goldfishing in- I mean, gold-panning - goldpan- no, like, panning for gold in streams of sewage. Rivers of sewage.”

“Alright, I get it, calm down.”

“Calm?” He jerked. “Ca- y- right. Okay. Just -”

A moment passed.

“It’s just that,” Horatio began, “I’m really struggling here and I’m just putting out ideas and I thought you could help.” Fuck. Past tense. “I mean, I was thinking you could help.” That didn’t help. You’re too aggressive, Horatio. You’re in his face. Loot at the snarl he’s hiding. His face is creasing. He’s regretting being here. He’s being nice to you. Drop your hands.

He lowered his hands, laying them to rest on his knees. His fingers arched out and slowly clutched his kneecap. Seeing how tense this made him seem, he let go and put one hand through his hair and one in his pocket.

Defuse, dewind, rewind, think again.

“Like, what would you do? All your stuff is stuff in your head.” Don’t say ��all you do’.

“Erm, yeah. Course it is. So’s yours? I don’t understand.”

“I mean, like, all your lyrics, or, chiefly, like, you mainly, you tend to talk about how you’re feeling or what you’re thinking and they’re like long extended monologues but to a beat.”

“I suppose, yeah. That’s kinda it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t draw from experiences. I mention plenty of shit I been through. Good times and bad. Talk about getting fucked over, and honestly, fucking people over. Talking about shit I seen, shit I been, shit when where why who what. It’s just being honest. It’s all about thinking out loud. You know that old thing - saying what everyone’s thinking but ain’t got the heart to say.” Cicero leaned back a little. His eyes narrowed. He put his finger to his lips, adopting a deliberately thoughtful face and let the second of silence usher forth his conclusion: “Maybe that’s it. Maybe . . . you ain’t got . . . maybe your heart’s not in it.”

“Heart not- How do you- What do you mean my heart’s not in it?”

“Nah, listen. I mean as in you’re worrying about what to write when really you should be focused on that you’re not. Like, sure, you got a river of shit you gotta deal with. Then deal with it. Fuck man, this is what you used to tell me. It’s like you’re full of shit. I can’t believe I’m having to be telling you this.”

“Yeah, well, either I was bullshitting you or I forgot what I was,” he said and then said, “talking about.”

“Hmm. Well either way, I’ll just repeat it back to you. And repeat it and repeat it until you get it.”

Horatio scoffed. “What if I never get it?”

“Then, well, . . . I . . .”

“I’m kidding. Sorry, I’m being soppy. Look man, I appreciate it. It ain’t something you can just fix. I get it. I get that.”

Cicero accepted this. He nodded to himself and kept nodding to a silent beat. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“About? The stories?”

“Yeah. You changed your mind?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll write the sewage. It’ll be fine. A few specks of gold. It’ll be . . it’ll be like island-hopping, connect-the-dots, like a platformer. I don’t know. I’ll write what I can.”

“I think you should just shit it out. Vomit it and neaten it up later.”

“I know, I know. Write drunk, edit sober. Problem is, retching and spewing too long gets to be a real bitch on your insides.”

“Then take it at your own pace, man. Whatever works for you. Hell, maybe writing novels ain’t for you.”

Horatio gave him a quizzical look.

“I mean, maybe this ain’t your art. Sure, writing, cool, that’s your thing. But you could write other stuff. Movies, TV, erm-”

“Plays.”

“Yeah, sure. If you want. Why don’t you try that? You might even find out you’re better at that than this.”

“That is something. Something to consider.”

“I mean, honestly, like, I only realised this a few months ago but, I realised I don’t like novels because most of it, nothing happens. Like, I skip to the dialogue. I can’t help it. I just skip to that and then, like, that’ll get me through all the prose and exposition. Not exposition, I mean, like, y’know, in solitude, whatever the characters’ thinking and whatnot. That’s kinda what music is I guess. It’s someone talking to you. It’s someone telling you a story. Or they’re just having a rant or whatever and . . . yeah, so, maybe try that. I mean, all your stories are pretty dialogue-heavy anyway. You’re clearly more interested in people and what they say and what they do to each other. Write a sitcom.”

“Jesus Christ. What kind of hack do you think I am?”

“Look man, that’s on you. I’m only giving you ideas. It’s your problem what you do with it. I don’t know, make it all dark and sophisticated and about God and Death and how everything’s fucking useless. That’s what you want, innit?”

Horatio gave in. He smiled. “Sure. Maybe. I’ll try.”

Cicero, satisfied, began to get up, phone already out. “I’m gonna put something in the oven. D’you want anything?”

“Nah, I’m fine, man.”

“Cool. Actually, what if you just wrote this?”

“This . . .”

“Yeah. This conversation. Write that and see if that gets your creative juices flowing. Maybe that’ll help you pop your cherry.”

“Huh. I’unno, maybe, maybe I could just write stories from years ago. It’d be so long ago it wouldn’t matter how anyone feels.”

“Yeah, sure, I mean. If that’s what you can do, go for it. Until you actually have the heart to say what you see. Sure.”

He left.

The room resumed its natural quiet. The light seemed to fade brighter and dimmer. He stared into the middle distance. He thought about it.

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